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“You cannot meld again, Lyra,” Darkwin said. “Or unmeld. Not if Fadey keeps finding you.”
“At least not until we know more,” Emi interjected. “No one knows a deledan rite better than Elisabet.”
Lyra brightened. “She might understand what happened.”
“Then let us hope your men found the soul queen with haste,” Gammal said. Her eyes were clear again, and she wore a sad smile. “For I do not think your enemies will wait much longer.”
—
We stood at the impasse of pathways that flowed into Dravenmoor.
Gammal reached for Lyra after we finished watering the horses. The old seer pressed a kiss to Lyra’s brow. “You have a fate to meet, elskan. From the first inkling of a daughter from the god-queen’s blood, I have felt you will change these lands.”
“Destroy them,” she whispered.
“Destruction does not always mean the end. From the ashes, do new blooms not grow stronger? I do not know what the Norns have in store for you, but trust your heart, elskan. Fight for all you have won, for all those who stand with you here.”
I sat atop a horse and took in the sight.
Unfettered Folk, Jorvans, a Myrdan royal, and Dravens. We all stood together, and we all desired to let the Wanderer King rest. Men like Fadey and Damir were the cruel hearts who misinterpreted the lore of restoring the first king’s bones.
Such power was never meant for one soul; it was too fierce, too corruptible. Like the god-queen tried to show her greedy husband, the gods’ gifts were meant to strengthen every land.
I did not know how Lyra would be the one to restore the power of the Wanderer without the bones, but I knew enough to understand that lore and fables were never direct. Lessons were learned through their tales, and only after did one truly find the meaning behind the words.
“This is where we part.” Gammal held Lyra’s face. “But I pray to the gods that we meet again.”
Jordis and Sindri bid farewell to the Unfettered who would stay behind. My nephew smiled with a bit of shyness when some of the men made him vow he would not become a pompous, spoiled prince.
Lyra settled in front of me, unbothered by the horrid, pulpy veins on my flesh; the tension in my muscles; or the red of my eyes. In truth, she held me a little tighter than before.
Those who remained with the seemódir raised their fists, shouted farewells, and stayed on the edge until the long line of our growing army faded around the sharp path down the Night Ledges.
—
“Roark, you’re burning.” Lyra pulled back on the horse and turned to inspect my head.
I feel him, I gestured with a shudder. Trying to get out.
“Dammit.” Lyra kicked her leg over the horse. “Scoot forward. I fear you’re about to fall off.”
I didn’t argue as we maneuvered into new positions on the charge, Lyra holding one of her slender arms around my waist and me slumped over the neck of the mare.
The gnawing at my flesh from something within me was maddening. I could hardly keep focused as we descended the switchbacks. When we emerged from the pass, the bodies of Stav Guard remained where we’d battled them, gray and sunken in the faces.
We left them again.
One palm fell to Lyra’s thigh. I spoke to her there. Lyra. I need you to know that you have always brightened the night inside me. You made my dark existence worth living.
She covered my hand, squeezing my fingers. “Don’t. You’re talking of endings, Roark. You told me our bond shattered endings. There are no endings, not with us.”
I lifted her palm and pressed a kiss to each fingertip.
No true endings. But we could be separated. Like Nivek and Jordis. Like my mother and father. Soul bond or not, if the gates of Salur called, there would be no stopping them.
“Hold.” Brynn led the caravan, but she held up a fist when the two fara wolves raised their hackles. Oakbriar lifted a notched arrow and aimed for the darkness. “Make your name known.”
Silence.
