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“Your mother was the one I’d rather not have outlived. Fates, I hadn’t seen her in years when I heard the news. I was in the middle of a sale when I found out she was dead. Killed the male who was supposed to be brokering the deal, just for mentioning her death so off-handed, like it was common gossip. He didn’t see it coming…no, he didn’t see it coming at all…Nothing’s been the same since.” His eyes snap into focus. “It’ll never be the same. You’ll never be the same.”
Disgust roils in my gut at the thought of my father murdering a male in cold blood just for the misfortune of bearing bad news to the wrong person. But even at the thought of Asha’s death, my hands heat.
Who will happen to be in the wrong place at the wrong time on the day my wife draws her last breath? Who will find themselves in the path of the Flame? Will it be the healers serving her on her deathbed? Onlookers stopping to help after an accident?
“Tell you what,” says my father, tapping the bottom of his bottle against the table. “If I could have done anything to save her, I would have. Anything at all would be better than this.”
He rises, lighting a bottle of incense on the counter. It smells of myrrh and is somewhat overwhelming, but I say nothing.
Then he walks to his cabinet and pulls out a dusty bottle.
When he sets it on the table and slides it over to me, I can’t help but notice the shimmering milky material on the inside.
“Anything,” he says again, pressing the cold glass into my palm.
The liquid moonlight sloshes about in the bottle, tantalizing to look at. It’s strange, holding it in my hand. I expected it to be more difficult, convincing my father to hand this over. I at least thought he’d try to barter with me.
I could save her with this, and I feel the awe swell in my chest, that I hold the key to keeping Asha forever in the palm of my hand.
The thought is addicting, intoxicating, swirling my mind with a high I never thought attainable, a peace so deep it feels as if I couldn’t crawl my way out if I tried.
The scent of myrrh washes over me again, calming every muscle in my body.
“I truly am sorry, son,” says Solomon, just as he slips a mask over his face.
I realize too late where the feeling of peace hails from.
The incense weighs me down, muddling my mind.
I reach for my Flame, but it flickers out as I lose consciousness.
CHAPTER 38
ASHA
The riverside plain that stretches across the outskirts of Rivre is just as I remember it, if not slightly warmer. Last time we were here for the Council meeting, the air had been crisp with an evening chill, and though it’s evening now, timed out perfectly so Blaise can walk among us for whatever nefarious purpose Az has for her, there’s nothing crisp about this air.
Humidity wraps me in its blanket, as if to protect me from what’s to come. As if the climate itself intends to make us sluggish, slowing us from our inevitable end.
My poor, unused legs ache as Az pushes me across the plain.
There’s a patch of grass to our left, one with a jagged rock I remember sitting on as Az explained to me his plan. I search for Gwenyth’s blood, any evidence that remains of her slaughter, but I find none. Of course, the weather would have washed away any evidence of her in the past year.
I wonder if her corpse was ever found by passersby, if anyone bothered to give her a proper burial, or if she was left to be food for the animals.
It’s not as if I cared much for Kiran’s first wife, but I’m beginning to wonder if Gwenyth and I will die for the same fatal flaw.
For loving and trusting Az.
Blaise follows close behind us, carrying Nox’s body along with her.
As Az pushes me through the field, his hand at the base of my lower back, its placement makes me want to squirm. I restrain myself.
My ankles ache from disuse, and more than once I find them failing to mark the change in terrain, and Az has to catch me before I fall on my face.
He seems to cherish the moments when he catches me, caressing my hair and smiling down at me knowingly.
“You’ve always been so clumsy,” he says, as if it hadn’t begun when I lost my eye. “Do you remember tripping over Bezzie’s crate of pomegranates when we were young? It sent the whole pile toppling over. We were picking them off the streets for weeks after that.”
