Page 15 of From the Myths of Kings

“Hasana will want a full report of your findings at the war council tonight. Preparations for the journey to Terradrin have been completed. The information gleaned from Tezrus is the final piece of the puzzle.”

Saoirse raked a hand through her sweaty curls, her bones feeling heavy with exhaustion. “When does Hasana want to depart for the Under Kingdom?”

Reading her exhaustion, Sune gave Saoirse a grim look. “Tomorrow.”

Tomorrow. Their successful return meant the sparks had been lit, sparks that would catch fire and couldn’t be stopped once set in motion.

“Good,” she answered. “We need to reach Terradrin as quickly as possible. We cannot rest until Selussa is defeated.”

“While that may be the case starting tomorrow,” Aurelia interjected, “rest would do you some good tonight. For now, you should take time to restore your strength.”

“You both should,” Sune charged, his voice slipping back into that stern captain’s tone Saoirse knew all too well. “The war council will convene this evening, and I suggest you both take the time to refresh yourselves as much as you can.”

As anxious as Saoirse was to execute their counter-attack against Selussa, she couldn’t deny she was drained. Resigned, she parted ways with Aurelia and Sune—leaving them alone to do whatever it was they did together—and made her way to the chambers Hasana had given her when they first arrived.

Now, sitting alone in the tub of saltwater in her room, Saoirse finally allowed herself to think about Rook. She needed to unravel the conflicting emotions knotted in her heart like tangled seaweed. Would she get the chance to speak with him alone before they set off for Terradrin? Would he even want to listen to what she had to say? She wouldn’t blame him if he was still reeling from the truths that had turned their world upside down.

Against Saoirse’s will, the memory of her dream—the pleasant part before everything was drenched in Selussa’s blood and it unspooled into a nightmare—surfaced in her mind. She remembered the warmth of Rook’s touch, as real against her skin as it had been that night in her tribute’s tent. She recalled the hazy yearning in his voice, sweet as honey in her ears as he spoke her name and whispered against her skin.

She closed her eyes and tried to imagine it: Saoirse. Saoirse. Saoirse.

Water clung to her eyelashes and trickled down her throat, every sensation heightened. A ruddy flush spread from the tips of her toes to her hairline. Despite everything that had happened, the mere idea of Rook returning her affections sent her stomach fluttering with nerves like a foolish youth.

Let him go, she scolded. The last thing she needed to worry about right now was his feelings for her. She forced her eyes open and abandoned the wanton vision, sitting up so fast water splashed over the gilt rim of the tub and spattered on the floor. Desperate to rid herself of images of Rook’s lips, she rose from the tub and stepped over the side, rivulets running down her bare legs. She wrapped a linen towel around herself and twisted her wet hair over one shoulder.

She found herself pacing the length of her chamber, her hands itching to do something useful. Saoirse cast her gaze around the room, searching for a distraction. Her scant personal belongings sat in a neat pile on a chest at the foot of her bed. Saoirse hadn’t had much time to pack anything of importance when Hasana had found her that morning in the tribute’s encampment. With her mind addled by the Sea Witch’s dark power and the bone-chilling screech of the hydra in the distance, she’d brought nothing to Bezhad save for the clothes on her back and the weapons in her hands. Nevertheless, she might as well take stock of what she did have before their journey.

She knelt before the chest and surveyed the meager pile. Her tattered tribute’s clothing had been cleaned at some point, the turquoise fabric leering at her in the afternoon sun. She ran her hands over the custom-made material, memories of the Tournament flooding back to her in bitter-sweet shards that needled her heart. Isme, one of her attendants, had given her the uniform on the morning of the first trial. Her heart lurched at the thought of Isme’s familiar face. The last time Saoirse had seen her attendant had been when she’d stood with Sune and Aurelia in an antechamber within the Stone Circle, donning their silver tribute’s cloaks for the first time. Isme had hand-stitched the crest of Elorshin onto the cloaks herself using glowing threads of bioluminescent algae. No one in that small room had any idea what was to come, nor how quickly everything would unravel. Hot guilt soured in Saoirse’s stomach as she fingered the soft fabric. What had happened to Isme? Where was Vangelis, the Mer Tournament Ambassador who had walked with them every step of the way? In the mayhem of the final trial, there hadn’t been time to find all those familiar faces in the panicking crowds that fled the arena.

I should’ve tried harder to find them. To save them.

She should have done many things differently that day.

As she moved the tribute’s uniform aside, she felt something hard under the folds of fabric. A chill settled over Saoirse as she felt the unnerving thrum of the concealed object, the fine hairs on her arms rising as though a spectral presence was in the room with her. She pulled out the obsidian vial with trembling fingers. The flask of Selussa’s blood glittered in the late afternoon light.

Hel’s teeth. How had she forgotten about the vial of the Sea Witch’s blood? When she’d made the bargain with Selussa, they’d exchanged vials of their blood as a seal of their arrangement. Saoirse had kept it close during the Tournament as a reminder of her true purpose in being there. In the chaos of that final morning, she had slipped the flask into her uniform pocket.

Knowing the oily black blood originated from the Underworld made her spine tingle. Saoirse wondered if Tezrus knew more about Selussa’s backstory than he was letting on. Was she a Titan herself, or merely one of the minor divine underlings who served the god-like tyrants? Had Selussa been involved in the war between the Four Kinsmen and the Titans, or had she remained in the Underworld for the duration of the conflict? Saoirse scrutinized the vial as if the murky liquid sloshing within contained Selussa’s secrets.

The Sea Witch’s distant words echoed through her mind: Blood is more valuable than gold. It can unlock doors and seal promises. It can bring great fortune and favor, but it can be spilled so easily. If Saoirse’s own blood had been used to free Selussa from her prison in the Fretum, what could Selussa’s blood do for her? What dark magic glimmered in the leaden vial, waiting to be tapped into?

Saoirse made a mental note to ask Tezrus about it the next time she had the chance. She set the vial down and sucked in a deep breath, already longing to return to the salty embrace of the tub. But weariness lingered in her bones, and despite the determination simmering in her chest, she finally heeded the call of the canopied bed and its silken sheets. Saoirse sank into the plush mattress without bothering to finish drying her damp curls.

7

ROOK

Rook’s heart thundered in his chest as he strode down the corridor toward the great hall in a dream-like state. He turned a corner and passed through an open-air walkway lined with slats of buttery light. Elegant columns connected by open arches framed the corridor, each archway lined with alternating patterns of multi-colored marble. Rook stopped to catch his breath and leaned heavily against one of the stone columns. His abdominal wound throbbed under his gold-threaded tunic, sending pulses of pain through his body with each inhale. As much as flying that afternoon had lifted his spirits, he was feeling the effects of his exertion, every muscle in his back and abdomen tight and sore. He was out of practice to be sure, but Rook suspected Selussa’s mark was at fault. If one of the lingering symptoms of the stab wound was gradual atrophy to his wings, he was in trouble.

Rook dragged his gaze across the undulating Clay City. Ribbons of gold cut across the uneven cityscape as the sun sank low in the sky, gilding palm trees and seeping in through open windows. The flat, unending plane of the Shujaa Desert beyond the city met the darkening horizon like a stretch of ocean. The sun was halved against the skyline and the flush of sunset crept along the horizon, shot through with bolts of pink and orange. The dark whisper of night encroached with teeth-like stars that grew more opaque by the minute.

Apprehension hummed in the back of his mind. Rook had been summoned to join the war council just as Hasana had promised, but despite having all day to mull things over, he was no less uneasy about it than he’d been that morning. He dreaded the moment when his eyes would fall upon Saoirse again. He ran a hand through his hair and pushed out a long breath.

The last time he’d spoken to Saoirse formed vividly in his mind. He had just gained consciousness from the healing-induced coma Hasana had put him under. At the time, his body and emotions were equally reeling from the events of the last trial. When he’d come to, disorientation and lingering anger had clouded Rook’s mind and caused him to lash out at Saoirse. The image of hurt welling in her eyes was burned in his memory. But the worst part of her vulnerable expression hadn’t been the obvious sadness. The most gut-wrenching part had been the understanding and resignation that shone on her face. It was like she believed his frustrations were justified and his accusations well-deserved. He knew that expression: self-loathing. That same emotion tore at him daily.

No, he told himself. Do not feel sympathy for her. It’s what she deserves. Saoirse made her own decisions—misguided as they were—and she now must deal with the consequences. If she felt regret or self-loathing, it wasn’t his concern.

Rook pushed away from the column and straightened his spine. Adjusting his rumpled tunic and smoothing down his unkempt hair, he forced himself to lift his chin and proceed down the corridor with a languid, confident stride. If he couldn’t shake the anxiety that clawed at him internally, then he would at least try to look unaffected externally.

---