I do not recognize the new Sinead, and yet he is the same person. His aura tastes of ripe fields under the summer sun, with a dangerous note. Even his perfume has not changed, and yet I can barely reconcile the shameless dilettante of before with the tense nobleman now walking by my side.
Perhaps the fault is mine as well.
The persona Sinead picked on earth was a means to an end, the best tool a man without support could use to achieve the impossible. Now, that person is gone, replaced by a prince fighting a dynastic war for survival. He walks with confidence and fights like a lion. He does not quip. He does not provoke. He is an aloof dancer and expert negotiator, obtaining what he needs with a few terse words.
It annoys me. I am, in truth, no longer furious. A week-long, cathartic drunken bender dulled the edge of my anger. I have not forgiven him and will no longer grant him a trust that extends to friendship, but that is no reason to stop being entertaining! Ugh.
“This way, please,” our guide finally says in a smooth tenor, his smile tailored to express the most non-committal amount of polite benevolence.
We walk through mahogany doors into a reception room, long windows letting Voidmoore’s light in. The Dalton’s Fury floats in the distance. Its predatory shape appears that much more ominous under the purple radiance of the Watcher, present even during the day cycle. Not that the fae would notice. I blink. Was it a coincidence, or does Sinead hold the ambassador’s favor to display my ship so? It feels too much like an intimidation tactic.
“The ambassador will be with you shortly,” our guide says, then he leaves, closing the doors behind him.
Sinead silently points at one of the five seats currently occupying the middle of the room, around a low table currently empty of amenities, including drinks. All business then. I sink in my designated chair and inspect my surroundings. The Summer Court’s embassy favors warm tones and lighter woods. Some of the furniture shines a varnished gold, and the actual light comes from golden globes hanging around the place like ripe apples from the garden of the Hesperides, which Hercules burglarized. Despite the warm interior, I have never felt a stronger mask from any location I have been to. The silent guardians and carefully camouflaged defensive spells make it clear that we are here at the court’s sufferance, and that a rescinded hospitality would come with a hefty price.
Sinead does not speak and neither do I. My attendance is merely a show, a symbol that I shall act as his second in the coming conflict. Neither I nor Revas’ bodyguard need to speak.
A minute later, the ambassador comes in, her presence announced by a careful flash of aura. The door opens.
The fact that Likaean nobles do not age and their flawless aura control conspire to hide their true nature. The ambassador has donned the appearance of a pleasant middle-aged woman, demure and polite in every respect, respectable yet non-threatening. Even her dress lacks the flamboyance some of her staff members have adopted. By comparison, the next person to enter the room does not hide.
If Sinead is a dancer, Revas is a knight. When Sinead is elegant, clean-shaven, and aloof, Revas adopted the bearing of a young king up to the trimmed beard. He wears golden mail under a tabard that could double as a court apparel, and perhaps it has.
I have to admit that he is extraordinarily handsome.
Revas walks with confidence to his own chair and sits without waiting with the poise of a king. I notice that we did not stand up to welcome him, a small slight, and that he did not wait for us to do so.
Revas’ second is also a woman. Her hair and skin are scarlet and when our eyes meet, she smiles a forest of needles at me. She wears armor of black scales, the links clicking with every step, prowling like a panther with the confidence of one who has killed much and knows she will kill again. Revas walked into this talk with a naked blade. By comparison, I am at least wearing a tunic. The woman smirks.
We will kill each other soon. This is what her smile conveys, and so I return it, because I can taste her essence and know she is strong.
“Welcome, welcome!” the ambassador says with more levity than this gathering demands. “Ah, it is such a pleasure for me to receive two of the royal princes in my humble abode, this twig of the everlasting Palace of Summer. For the first time, Voidmoore shall see the first step of a succession challenge. The entire staff is honored by your presence. My name is Erilis. I shall be your host and, with your agreement, the arbiter of this most noble, exciting, and sacred of contests. Before we begin, would you like to say a few words to each other? I know you haven’t met in quite a while.”
“I would love to!” Revas declares with an affable smile.
His voice is a deep rumble, a baritone as warm as a July evening by the sea, with cool sweet wine and a light breeze chasing away the warmth of daylight. It rings with majesty, control, supreme belief in the self. It is the voice of a not-yet-king, but one who could be so. This man could walk into any seat of earth’s governments at dawn and lead the country by noon. He truly is a prince of the spheres.
“My dear brother, let me be the first of our siblings to congratulate you on your liberation. What an incredible tale! The spheres shake with news of your accomplishments from the deep caverns of stone to the Court of Blue’s aerie peaks. What an incredible feat of resourcefulness that was. You honor us with your deeds.”
He leans forward, a smile on his handsome face.
“And so when I was informed you wanted to ascend, I canceled all my plans to grant you this opportunity as soon as it was feasible. Let it be known that the greatest liberator in our history will not be left waiting. Ah, and another thing. I would like to offer you, here and now, access to one of my fleet messengers. One word, and I will make sure your mother comes to visit you between the first and second tasks. No questions asked, no string attached, no conditions. It is my gift to you, as a token of appreciation.”
“That would be much appreciated,” Sinead pleasantly replies.
“Then it is done!” Revas declares. I almost expect him to call for wine right now, but he does not.
“Our time is precious, brother, so I have nothing to add. Your turn!”
“I have little to add, Revas, except that it is good to be back. Ambassador, if you will?”
The woman closes her eyes and breathes. When she opens them again, there is steel and solemnity in her demeanor. Although the entire exchange is spoken in adult Likaean, the meaning courses through my essence with perfect clarity.
“The words I say are known to you both. They are meaningless, for you know the rules, and you know the truth behind them, yet they must be said all the same. For tradition. For the memory. So that we may never forget. The purpose of the challenge is to bring fresh blood to the hierarchy of the heirs. The hierarchy’s purpose is not to split the burden of the kingdom, though it serves this end as well. Iit is not to winnow the weak, though it serves its purpose also. It is to guarantee that the next sovereign shall be the best of the best, as the current one is. We are Summer. We crush those who would threaten the spheres. We radiate out like the solstice sun. And we can never fall, for we are Summer.”
“... and Summer is the season of war,” the two princes quote with finality.
With those last words, I catch glimpses of battles past, memories, perhaps, or echoes. Golden spears kill a great beast covered in fur, its breath the very essence of cold. Blood spells and hellish blades stop on metal shields. Staves push away the darkness. More significant, it happens in faraway spheres. Sinead’s court might not be the strongest everywhere, but it can go everywhere, and it will certainly, certainly make an impact.
“Now, to the trials. The first will occur here on Voidmoore tomorrow. Due to some… recent changes in the sphere’s social and political landscape…”
Everyone deliberately ignores me.
“... I had to change the parameters. All will be explained here before we start so as to prevent participants from engaging in too much preparatory work. The second trial will happen ninety cycles from now, on Autumn’s lands at the occasion of the great annual dragon hunt. Victory will belong to he who wins or, failing that, the one who lasts the longest. If there is a final round, it will occur on our own sphere with a melee, barring any decision from the King himself. You are allowed all and every personal resource you can gather, but none from the court itself, willing or not. You are not allowed to engage in any way outside of the trial.”
“We understand.”
“Then we reconvene at dawn.”
We spend the walk back in silence. We are still living in the house he first showed me the first day we came to this strange land. Despite my hold on the High Markets and its recently freed staff, Sinead considers the location as unsafe.
“You cannot contemplate the breadth of means Revas can employ to turn your ambitious minions against you. Only Old Marrow is almost incorruptible. That is why I picked him,” he had said.
I trust him to know better in these circumstances. I also expected him to comment on my unexpected and, to be honest, reckless conquest of the Thousand Leaves’ assets. He has not said anything. His silence disturbs me on a deep level. Who has taken my loquacious, smooth, and scandalous rake? Who has replaced him with this brooding courtier? I understand why he would betray me, now that I have had the time to consider his options. To a fae, rebuilding trust for three thousand circles would not be so daunting a prospect when the alternative is to lose someone forever. What I do not understand and did not expect is the effect it seems to have on him. Even as I slow down on the paved path to give a hand signal to one of our escorts, he matches speed with me. He knows where I am and what I am doing. He simply elects not to comment.
“Should we talk now or within safe walls?” I ask.
Sinead tilts his head. I watch his reaction, which is always the same. The hint of a pleasant smile, the first signs of a roguish retort will bloom on his deliciously attractive face, then die. He will snuff the flame of his amusement before it can take flight. All that is left is melancholy. It annoys me to no end. I should be the betrayed, moody, melancholic one lamenting my cruel fate from the walls of some wind-swept fortress. Sad Sinead ambles around clad in duty and sacrifice like some doomed Roman general. I cannot even insult him without feeling like I hit a puppy. Ugh.
“If you have questions, you may ask them. We should wait to start planning, however. Just in case.”
“What did you get from the meeting? I must have missed much.”
“I have made a mistake,” Sinead says.
“How do you mean?”
“I have made a mistake back on earth and he will use it against me. That is what his first comment implied. The fact that he did not protest the location means he will use it against us in this first trial. As for the offer to contact my mother, it is genuine.”
“It is?” I ask with some curiosity.
“Yes. And that means he intends to kill me. Consider his offer a mark of respect from him to me, and a chance to leave my affairs in order. He genuinely respects me for what I have done, hence his offer. Revas sees himself as a mostly benevolent person. He will still kill me, should he win the contest, possibly because my continued survival could be perceived as a failure on his part. And the last important detail is that the ambassador is angry at him.”
“By giving us a view of my ship?”
Sinead turns and nods.
“You picked up on it, good, but that is not all. The way she belittled herself as if in jest means he forced her to do something and she had no choice but to agree. This is her way of letting us know.”
“Any idea what?”
“None.”
He leans back in his chair.
“None. I am sorry, Ariane. We may face complications, but bear in mind that we will attend the hunt unless we die. So, do not die.”
“I will keep your advice under consideration.”
For the first time, it rains. The white cloud ball hovering atop Voidmoore opens up, and water floods the grimy streets, washing blood away until the next revels. Weather from a county-sized planet floating through the ether remains just as inexplicable as light or, indeed, gravity, though it all seems within what I would expect of the spheres. We walk to the embassy at a steady space, gladiators arrayed behind us. Sinead wears a green and gold armor I did not see him acquire. I have to admit it suits him very well. He also has a large bag bursting at the seams with magic. A fencer sword adorns his sides. As for me, I wear the Aurora, expecting trouble.
Both of our ships hover above with their hex lances and newly made bombards bristling out. Makyas is here as well, with a small flock of flutterlings. The mood is dark.
Stolen novel; please report.
“Can’t believe we’re going against a prince,” Nol the fly-headed one grumbles.
“We got our own,” Syma retorts, though I can taste her fear.
They are correct in being concerned. Even the rain feels heavy, and the purple radiance above cares not for our success, only that we try.
Upon our arrival, we are not directed inside. Instead, the ambassador walks out, flanked by four silent guards in shimmering armor.
We are led far away from my ‘usual haunts’, though the term might be generous for a place I only just discovered. Twisting alleys and streets succeed another until the bustle of life disappears completely. There are houses here as well, endless streets of them, but they have a more rustic feel.
Then, they become strange.
Some of the houses lack an entire wall, another is just a single bathroom covered in tiles with random furniture visible through overly large windows. Other houses seem to have shrunk on themselves. We come across a deserted marketplace through an entrance dug into a wall, only to realize the square is not just empty, there are no streets leading into it. It had been designed to be walled off.
Eventually, we reach another pit entrance.
The familiar walls form a steep chasm, this time without light at the bottom.
The ambassador stops to address us, her expression slightly regretful. Or it could be my imagination.
“The first trial is simple. The first person to reach the heart of Voidmoore and touch the pedestal paced before it wins.”
“The what now?” Syma asks.
“You may enter through here or any other path of your choosing. You will wait until the turn of this hourglass to engage the other party on the surface. That is all. Remember that this is but the first trial of three and do not let the light of summer fade. “
With this, the ambassador removes from a pocket the hourglass she mentioned and places it on the ground by our feet. She leaves without a last glance, guards in tow. We remain behind, facing the pit.
“I know nothing of a heart. I know little of the underground, Sinead, save that you recommended against exploring it.”
“And the Court of Summer deemed it wise to do so anyway,” the prince whispers.
“All I know is that the warrens beneath the ground are a labyrinth and many die trying to explore it. I also know that nobody who returned ever found anything of value. No crystals, no ore, no artifacts or forgotten lore. Just warm stone and dark dreams. Screams, sometimes.”
“Right. Right… Exploration time. We have four far-speakers recovered from the alliance. We’ll use them to keep in touch. Would they work underground?”
“They should. For a while,” Sinead replies.
“And the warrens branch, I suppose?”
“Quite a bit,” Sinead adds.
“Does the stone heal or change?”
“Not to my knowledge, or at least not fast,” Hadrano adds. “I’ve mined some of the stuff to repair the arena before I signed in as a pit fighter.”
“What is the likelihood we face Revas in battle.”
“It should not come to this if we hurry,” Sinead says. “The first trial is never designed for direct combat, since the two opponents would probably duel to the death.”
“Fine, proposal then: we split into three exploration groups. We mark the tunnels we cross with the following code…”
I carve some of the Red Cabal field marks designed to help them navigate hostile places on the pavements using rose. Safe spot for exit, no loot for dead end, and direction for where the group decided to go. It is by no means perfect, but it should help us map the place.
“It is safe to assume that something called a heart could be near the center, so we try to go deeper when we split.”
Nods all around. Sinead is strangely passive.
“The Fury should go and check the other pit. Fire on whatever setup they have on the ground. Don’t get close.”
“I’ll stay with them,” Nol says, “I don’t perform well in enclosed spaces.”
“We should mark the passages we come across with numbers,” Makyas suggests.
In the end, we split into three groups as I planned but not the way I thought. Sinead insists on staying with me, as will Makyas. The rest of our forces distribute evenly. I send the Fury to hunt down Revas’ people on the ground if there are any. I give them clear instructions not to get close.
“There are several entrances,” Nol explains, “we will start with the one we know and then search for the more remote one. Don’t expect much.”
“That is fine.”
A few more minutes to distribute additional equipment, and we are set. We move down into the pit in a single file. The cavern below rivals the arena’s grotto in terms of sheer size. None of the lights my minions brought can even reach the stalactites-covered ceiling. Their footsteps echo strangely in the darkness. No one comments.
We walk the monumental surface to find four different tunnels leading down. I simply pick one at random and with a few wishes of good luck, we separate.
Not two minutes inside our path, and Sinead stops. He takes down his bag and removes from it a lamp clad in swirling patterns of cobalt. The aura explodes out, tasting of rarefied air and magic. I consider the item and realize it is undoubtedly more complex than anything I have seen on earth with the exception of Semiramis’ ritual.
“What?” I ask.
“Although I appreciate your efforts, my dear Ariane, you can imagine that I have prepared for a certain amount of possibilities during the couple of weeks of our stay here. This Blue Court pathfinder will lock on the greatest source of magic here and show us the fastest path down. I did tell you we had several favors to call upon. This is one of them.”
“You could have mentioned it before…” I grumble, “then my followers…”
“Are not as reliable as you wish they were. You are in the Fae spheres here, Ariane. Vampires are not the unstoppable creatures of the night they are back home, and the temptations here defy your imagination. Revas knew you had acquired fresh recruits, unbound by oath, from a variety of courts. They are walking security risks despite your best intentions. It was better to share as little information as possible with them.”
“I wasted our time.”
“No, they offered a good distraction,” Sinead explains. “And they will be useful later. We are running a Marathon, not a sprint. Now, enough delay, we have to keep going.”
We move faster. The lamp lights our way with a ghostly radiance, darkening where the magic is thickest. The passage narrows and dips. I cast occasional glances at the stone and find it round and smooth, as if polished by eons of water in a place that I know for a fact rain has not touched in recent memory. Sinead’s steps are quiet. The only noise comes from his heartbeat, breath, and the frantic flapping of faerie wings. They provide a low drone that prevents me from listening carefully. The same can be said of my sense of smell. Sinead’s enticing perfume saturates the air. Ugh, that is why I prefer to hunt alone. I am running blind.
We barely ever slow down. When a side tunnel opens, I take an instant to mark our way. Sinead does not stop. He runs with determination.
The stone changes. The color turns more pinkish, like quartz. The temperature increases.
“Captain!” a voice says, breaking the silence.
It comes from the far caster. I bring it to my ears immediately.
“Nol?”
“Oh, thank the spheres. You have incoming!”
His voice cuts and goes, scrambled by interference. I still manage to catch most of his meaning thanks to the properties of Likaean.
“Big… Hostile. Pookie was hurt, we had to… Too dangerous!”
The communication ends. I ask for clarification several times and receive none. The stone surrounding us must interfere with the spell, somehow. Frustrating, though it confirms we are being pursued from our own entrance. I doubt the Fury had the time to reach another one.
“Wait,” Sinead warns.
We slow down at the edge of another pit. The prince opens his bag again and finds gloves. He jumps down, using the tiniest irregularities of the wall to place a toe, then using that fragment of a foothold as a springboard to jump lower. Sometimes, he uses his hands instead and the gloves inexplicably stick to them like frog fingers.
I use my claws to the same effect and try not to feel too inadequate at the grace he displays. I should add climbing to the list of skills I should work on. Nevertheless, we make good progress.
At the bottom of the chasm, we find our first corpse.
“What is that?” I cannot help but ask.
A fae cadaver emerges from a side wall, head bowed down and cold arms hanging limply. A male one, quite handsome with a deep gash where the heart should be. His hair has turned pallid at the root while a crystalline growth covers most of his body. He does not stink of rot, not even a little. Instead, a pungent organic smell permeates the still air.
“We have no time,” Sinead insists.
I know he is right. We follow the lamp’s lead towards another tunnel, this one so narrow the prince has to bend a little. Makyas and his flock land on my armor. I do not blame them. I blame them even less when we find more bodies in various stages of either being swallowed or being pushed out. I am not sure which is worse.
“Captain, there are too many of them, you—”
A sentence, brief and cut too short. Syma’s voice.
“Last group, can you hear me?” I ask.
“Yes, boss,” Hadrano whispers.
“Abort and return to the surface.”
A delay, then…
“Understood. We leave.”
I grit my teeth in anger. When I find those who attacked us.
“Do not think of revenge,” Sinead interrupts. “Think that they caught up with the other groups in here. They could catch us still. We must hurry.”
As frustrating as it is to run, I agree with him. Voidmoore’s innards feel dangerous enough as it is. Around us, the air grows ever wetter, warmer. The walls turn more red.
I am drawing rather unfortunate conclusions.
Despite my misgivings, we do not stop. We cannot stop. I hear it first despite the interference. A deep, booming thump.
“It is not sound,” Makyas tells me.
“What do you mean, can you not hear it as well?”
“We can hear it, but it is not sound,” the winged one replies. “It beats in your head.”
I shake my head. Sinead keeps going at a steady pace, driven by a single purpose. The darkness would be absolute without the lamp.
We climb down another pit. We must be so deep now. Water drops over our heads. A few puddles are nestled between two ridges on the ground. I look up by sheer instinct and see two pink iris glaring down, or perhaps I imagined it. I stop drawing my path on the ceiling. It feels wrong, it feels dangerous. We are tracked. We are also trespassing. The warrens turn labyrinthine. Every passage looks the exact same as the previous one. Even Sinead’s scent becomes elusive in the swampy air.
After an hour at breakneck speed, we are almost there. The heartbeats are so loud my teeth would vibrate if it were indeed sound, but it is not. Suddenly, the tunnels widen. We slow down at the edge of the most colossal cave I have ever seen. It is a hollowed out sphere in the center of Voidmoore, its surface criss-crossed with bone-colored stone bridges, and at its center is the heart.
It looks like an unholy marriage of stone and flesh centered around a single eye. A pedestal stands proudly at the bottom of the bubble, right below the crystalline organ. Our destination. Revas is nowhere in sight.
The way ahead closes. One moment, we gaze into the strange rift, the next, a night forest extends before us with a lake in the distance. Black branches extend from withered trunks, bare like the fingers of crones and just as gnarly. Something has come behind us, and it is deafeningly, blindingly, stunningly powerful.
We turn to face the newcomers. Behind us, Voidmoore’s artery has widened to form a chamber around a stone throne. I felt the shift. I knew the spheres to be more malleable than my home dimension, but this is something else. The leader of our foe has changed reality by sheer force of will. Even now, I feel the weave of space smoothe out after its momentary violation, ripples expanding out. I gaze in the face of she who has trapped us and realize what Sinead’s sin was. In retrospect, I should have expected it.
Our opponent is twice as tall as Sinead, and clad in an armor shining silver and diamond. A crescent moon blade rests in one of her hands, a round shield in the other, half white half black. Her mouth extends almost to her ears and shows fangs where the incisors should be. Ears like those of a hare extend up while curved antlers jut out from her temples. Her eyes are the same pink as that of albino rabbit, but this is no prey, no, not at all.
Warriors of both genders stand by her side from wall to wall, clutching diamond and silver weapons. For an instant, the moon behind us shines upon them until the sheen of their blades reaches a cruel intensity, then the moment fades, though the threat does not.
I recognize their appearance since I borrowed it when freeing captives in Austria. Those are Seekers of Stolen Memories.
They seem displeased.
I check again, our way is blocked by what has to be another plane. It does not feel like an illusion. In a hunch, I take a step back and feel grass under my feet.
Not an illusion.
“You are being used,” Sinead states in a voice that does not hint of fear.
WE ARE.
I wince. The words shake my mind, rumbling through my mind palace like an earthquake. I am a toddler defending a toy fort. I realize that Sinead speaks true Likaean, but he does not understand it. Not yet. Not like this one does. Her word is fact.
IT MATTERS NOT. THE SEEKERS MUST REMAIN INVIOLATE. IT MUST BE SO. REVAS WILL PAY LATER. YOU WILL PAY NOW.
Sinead licks his lips. He smells nervous now. I am nervous as well.
“At least let her go. It was my mistake, not hers.”
SHE HAS DONNED OUR GARMENTS. SHE HAS CLAIMED OUR NAME.
I gasp and take a step back. The accusations hit me like a wall. I am guilty guiltyguiltyguilty. NO.
IGNORANCE DOES NOT EXCUSE THIS SIN. YOU WILL COME WITH US.
“The trial—”
IS LOST.
Must push back. Not lost yet. Not until Revas finds his way down. Not lost yet!
Lost.
Lost.
Lost.
“I will not…” I grit between teeth. “I will not submit to another one’s mercy ever again. Never. Never.”
YOU WILL COME WITH US.
“Get out of my head,” I spit in Akkad. The language settles me, somehow. It removes me from this world and its rules. We are of the Watcher, outsiders ourselves. I bow to no one. I tell her so.
“I bow to no one. I accept no chains.”
“Ariane,” Sinead whispers.
“No. Never again,” I reply.
He nods.
“I understand.”
YOUR COURAGE AND DEFIANCE ARE NOTED.
“You’ll note Rose up your liver. Magna Arqa!”
For the first time, my essence barely expands past my form and… stops? I try to grow roots and fail, but I can move. At least, I am not collared. Makyas and Sinead are trapped though I feel their own magic struggling against the overwhelming pressure the woman releases. I push and push and take steps forward.
The woman waves her hand. The corridor disappears. We are in a clearing under a crimson moon, forest extending everywhere else. A bird ululates in the distance. I can move freely. The roots finally answer my call.
For a small moment, fate hangs in the midst of its swing. Makyas and Sinead come by my side, free.
The woman tilts her head.
I will not submit. I attack with everything I have and meet a wall of shields. They are fast, so fast here. Almost as fast as me but not quite. They do, however, know how to work together. Offensive roots are pushed, stabbed. The pain hurts me deeply, somehow. Rose hurts a warrior, slithering under her guard. She tastes like patience and murder. I dive under lines of spears, slide on roots to reposition. I am everywhere. I am surrounded. They push me back with discipline and cold purpose. A blade is deflected. Sinead has joined the fray. He is fire to my ice, grace to my savagery. We deflect and strike, causing wounds but never a killing blow. An opening.
“Heartskeeker.”
Shields block most tendrils, but others find their mark. I am stronger. They falter. The werewolf statue crawls out of the free space, grabbing a hand. A spear stabs it.
The pain is excruciating. I gasp, despite my high tolerance. Vision turns red. I allow the statue to crumple.
Makyas falls, grabbed by a soldier. He is bleeding. Sinead bleeds as well but he still covers my back. Strange curved blades bounce on the Aurora. They fail to find purchase, for now.
The warriors step back, many hurt but none dead yet. The woman has not moved. She gestures, and my fae crew leaves the nearest thicket, shackled in moonlight. Lesser warriors hold them captive. Makyas’ insensate body joins them.
“Even if you have them, I cannot accept. I can never, ever be at another’s mercy ever again,” I coldly state.
I am hurt. A quick glance inward shows that my mind palace is cracked and wounded, the statues breaking. The hedge maze has died in some segments, creating weaknesses in my defenses. When did that happen? I was not attacked mentally.
“Release us from your domain, or kill me,” I finish.
CHILD.
YOU ARE NO LONGER IN OUR DOMAIN.
I freeze, sensing the truth in her words.
“The Seekers of Stolen Memories started as the Court of the Blood Moon,” Sinead pants by my side.
“We are in their world now. We have left Voidmoore. This is a different sphere.”
“What? But…”
My protests die upon my lips. I know it cannot be easy to change worlds. Only one kind of Likaean could possibly have such power.
So, that is why the ambassador was displeased.
She was made to permit this.
I AM A SOVEREIGN.
A wave crashes into me and I kneel or risk keeling over. Sinead does not fare better. My entire essence is compressed back into my body, then more, then more, until my skin cracks and my muscles groan, deprived of what makes my existence possible. My fingertips turn to ash. It hurts. It hurts so much.
Then the pressure vanishes as the voice fades and the message it carried eases itself in the past. I was not attacked. The Queen of the Blood Moon merely mentioned a fact, and that nearly killed me.
By the Watcher, I do not want to hear her scream.
“You helped me fight her anyway, knowing what she was?” I ask Sinead. His eyes are bleeding a bit as well.
“So long as we are here, you will never fight alone. Makyas agreed even though he knew that the Seekers of Stolen Memories are the bane of mental fighters, you included.”
He sighs.
“We have lost the first trial because of my mistake. Not all is lost, however. Ariane, do you trust me?”
The court waits for my answer. I see the plea in Sinead’s pained gaze. Ugh, it is so much like him to put my back against the wall.
“Damn you, I do. But I have not forgiven you,” I finally hiss.
He nods, and stands. The queen allows him.
“A bargain to decide our punishment.”
YOU HAVE FOUGHT TO LIBERATE, AS WE HAVE SINCE EONS PAST. YOU MAY SPEAK.
“Let us retrieve stolen memories. Let us fight your fight to wash away the crime of borrowing your appearance. We will make you proud or die trying.”
YOU WOULD MATCH THE ESSENCE WITH THE FORM?
“When is a lie not a lie?”
Pressure. I gasp. Sinead does not. He stands, bloody yet unbroken.
YOU DANCE DANGEROUSLY, CHILD OF AMARYLL.
“You will let our allies go and return us so we may compete in the second ordeal.”
IF YOU PROVE YOURSELF, I SHALL. I HAVE SPOKEN. IT IS DONE.