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Her mouth dropped open, expression falling. “The fae. He seeks answers to…faerytales.”
Mother Calla gave her a knowing grin. “I told you it would be a challenge.”
Emylia’s face wrinkled with disgust. “It’s a challenge because the fae aren’t real. A channel is a seeker of truth. How can I act as his seer when the subject is one of myth?”
Mother Calla’s mirth slipped from her face. “It is not a temple acolyte’s job to judge what is and isn’t real. If you are to become a Priestess of Zaras, you must open yourself to new possibilities. You cannot reject a patron based on your preconceived prejudice. You must be willing to seek before you judge, regardless of the subject.”
Emylia stiffened, then bowed at the waist. “Forgive me,” she said in a rush. “It was wrong for me to judge. Of course I’ll channel for this patron.”
“You will,” Mother Calla said, then closed the distance between them. Placing her finger under Emylia’s chin, she urged her to straighten from her bow. The older woman’s eyes crinkled with clear fondness. “You’re as bold as your mother, and just as stubborn. I believe in you, the same way I believed in her. You’ll do her memory proud.”
The image stilled. Teryn was about to ask what that memory had to do with Cora, when the fog returned and swept the room away completely. In its place, a new location formed, darkening the edges of Teryn’s vision until it formed a cobblestone street bathed in shadow and moonlight. Both sides of the street were lined with narrow townhomes and clustered storefronts.
Teryn caught a glimpse of a hooded figure strolling up to one of the buildings before the image shifted again. The figure was now approaching the door of an inn. Teryn saw Emylia’s telltale black curls peeking out from under her hood as the acolyte entered the building. The fog swept the image away once more and formed a small candlelit room. Like the temple bedroom, the room shifted whenever Teryn tried to focus on details, but he was able to make out a narrow cot and a small desk.
Emylia entered the room, tossing back her hood as a young man closed the door behind them. Teryn assessed the man’s fair skin, his pale eyes, his shoulder-length black hair. He looked young—perhaps a year younger than Teryn—but there was no denying his resemblance to Morkai. But unlike the duke, this man wasn’t impeccably dressed. Instead, he wore plain brown trousers and a cream linen tunic.
The man faced Emylia, frowning as his eyes landed on her face. “You’rea Priestess of Zaras? You look…young.”
She scoffed. “Is that how you greet people in Syrus?”
His expression hardened. “I requested a priestess.”
“Well, you got an acolyte. Shall I leave, or are you going to be a gentleman and introduce yourself?”
He ran a hand over his face, then crossed his arms. “Desmond.”
Teryn frowned. He’d expected the man to introduce himself as Morkai, based on their striking similarities. Was this truly a younger version of the sorcerer as he’d first assumed, or a close relative? Was Desmond the sorcerer’s true name? He glanced at the real Emylia to ask but found her lower lip trembling. A sheen of tears coated her eyes, and her expression sagged with longing.
“Is Desmond your surname?” The Emylia of memory stole his attention back to the scene playing out before him. She arched a brow at the man. “Or are we already on a first-name basis?”
“Desmond is the only name you need to know.”
Her jaw shifted side to side. “Fine. Acolyte Emylia.”
Desmond’s only reply was to extend a hand toward the chair at the desk. “Take a seat and we can get started.”
Emylia strode past him, burning him with a sneer on her way. With exaggerated moves, she pulled out the chair and planted herself onto it. Meanwhile, Desmond took a seat at the edge of the bed, elbows perched on his knees. One of his legs began to shake as he watched her. His steely expression cracked, revealing something softer. More anxious perhaps.
Emylia shrugged off her cloak and let it fall over the back of her chair. The candlelight glinted off a crystal she wore around her neck. It was wrapped in gold wire and strung from a chain. Even in the shadowed haze of the memory, Teryn knew this was the very same crystal his ethera was tethered to now.
Removing the chain from around her neck, Emylia set the crystal on the desk and cupped her palms around it.
Desmond’s leg stopped shaking as his gaze landed on her hands. “What is that?”
“It helps me channel. It belonged to my mother when she was alive. She was a Priestess of Zaras.”
His expression softened further. “Your mother died?”
“My birth killed her,” she said stiffly. “Now, what is it you want to know?”
Desmond took a deep breath. “How do I get to the realm of the fae?”
Emylia rolled her eyes, a disbelieving smirk tugging a corner of her lips. Then, with a resigned sigh, she closed her eyes and settled into her seat, her body growing more and more relaxed as she breathed deeply. After several long moments, she spoke, her voice deep and even. “Show me the realm of the fae.”
“That’s not what I asked.”
“I know,” she said, tone calm. “Before I can ask how to get there, I must first see that it exists.”
