Page 251 of Burn of the Everflame

DIEM

“I’m not wearing that.”

“But it’s so beautiful!”

“It is.”

“And so queenlike.” Eleanor fluffed the gown’s skirts where it lay on my bed in the royal suite. “That’s what everyone needs right now, a reminder that we are united under one Queen. A strong Queen.”

Her words hurt more than she knew.

She nudged me closer to the dress. Reluctantly, I grazed my fingers over the shimmering golden bodice, scattered with gemstones in warm hues of honey, currant, and marmalade. A breeze wafted in from the archways to the terrace and billowed the curtains, sending the midday sun flooding into my bedchamber. As it drenched the gown in light, sparkling flecks glittered across the room.

I yanked my hand back. “Please tell me this dress isn’t made with real gold.” Eleanor beamed and nodded proudly, and my stomach turned. “People are sleeping outside in tents. I can’t wear a dress that costs enough to build houses for them all.”

“We offered to build them houses, remember? They all said no. They prefer the tents.”

“They don’t prefer the tents. They want the war to end so they can return to the homes they already have.”

“It’s almost over. Once we find that mortal—Vance, was it? It’ll be easy to stop him now that Ophiucae is dead.”

I gave her my back before she could see my reaction, and my eyes locked with my brother’s, seated across the room with Lily. We’d barely spoken since returning from Sophos days ago. He was furious at me for pardoning Henri for his role in our father’s death.

Even if Teller had seen the full truth of what happened, the way Henri was forced to choose between our father’s life and his own, I doubted it would win his mercy. It hadn’t won mine, when I first saw it. Only after reliving the memory a thousand times had my rage cooled enough to admit that Vance was the murderer to blame. He had doomed my father to die that day, with or without Henri’s participation.

I still hadn’t forgiven Henri—I never would. But I’d made my peace that his death would not bring justice for my father, it would only rob another child of theirs.

“Are we sure Ophiucae is dead?” Teller asked.

“Taran said he saw the whole thing,” Lily chimed in. “Completely decapitated. Descended can’t heal from that.”

Eleanor nodded, but Teller’s stare stayed locked with mine. His question was for me, not them.

Since returning from Sophos, I’d learned that Taran had lingered in the shadows that day, his loyal heart deciding that if he could not stop me or Luther from sacrificing our lives, he could at least bear witness so he could tell our story—and tell it he did, to every person who would listen.

My decision not to reveal that Ophiucae was a Kindred backfired, like so many of my secrets had, when everyone assumed Luther’s attack had been a death blow. The morning after our return, I awoke to thunderous cheering and the cracking wood of barrels of ale being pried open. The unity of my army was restored as they shared celebratory drinks as equals. Even members of the Twenty Houses who’d once plotted my downfall were nodding in respect as I passed, believing Luther and I had slayed their fiercest villain.

Henri knew Ophiucae was no mere Descended, but he had returned to Mortal City, and he’d wisely kept out of sight since. Luther and Teller had held their tongues, awaiting my lead. When I said nothing, I saw the gears turning in their minds: Maybe it’s true. Maybe Diem’s sword was all it took to kill a Kindred, and Ophiucae really is dead.

Two days after our return, Sorae and I led a group to the Forgotten Lands to rescue the children Ophiucae had kidnapped. I spent the entire trip on edge, ready to call a retreat the moment I felt his aura, but there was no sign of Ophiucae and his gryvern, nor Vance and his men, nor the mindless Meros Descended. We encountered a handful of rebel guards, who quickly fled, and the women Vance had ordered to care for the children. Within an hour of our arrival, we had everyone loaded on wagons and headed back to Lumnos.

In fact, there was no sign of Vance or Ophiucae anywhere in Emarion. No more attacks on the realms, no sign of their ships on the sea. I sent a letter by hawk to Sophos, asking Ophiucae to meet; no answer came.

Speculation grew that the war was nearly over. The terrorists have gone into hiding, people whispered excitedly. They lost their Descended protector. The Queen’s army will crush them now.

After a few days, even Luther and Teller’s concern began to ease. Talk shifted from war to “what next?”—including moving forward with today’s mating ceremony for Taran and Zalaric. Everyone had turned their eyes toward the future.

Everyone but me.

“Just put the dress on,” Eleanor urged. “If you try it and hate it, then . . . um . . . I’m sure we can find something else.” Her eyes slid to my wardrobe, her smile tightening in a way that said there was no something else.

The problem wasn’t how the dress looked. It was the most exquisite dress I’d ever laid eyes on. Though crafted with gold, it looked more like it was made of fire. Tiny, colorful beads depicted a pair of birds wrapped strategically around the sheer bodice. Their bodies grew into large, wing-like pauldrons crafted of gleaming metallic feathers, with a cape of shimmering organza floating in a long train behind. One bird’s tailfeathers fluttered into structural curls over a flowing tulle skirt of bright oranges and reds, dipped in blackened dye at the hem.

What held me back was what the dress represented: a phoenix rising from the ashes to join its mate. It was the perfect symbol for a mating ceremony, especially for two people who had overcome so much pain to find love. Poignant and joyful, a storybook happy ending.

And, as Eleanor had said, it sent a message of strength. The phoenix was a creature that could not be destroyed, only reborn, each time burning hotter than before.

My thumb brushed against Sorrow’s Edge, now returned to its scabbard and hanging off my hip. Its whispers seemed to warn of a curse unbroken. A fate unfinished.