Page 22 of The Dark Sea Calls

Arden crossed his arms over his chest. “Only that you’ll know it when you see it.”

“Aye, you’re of no help,” Colm dismissed Arden with a wave and turned back to the other recruits. “I have no plans to sleep in the sand tonight,” Colm said, extending his wings and taking off into the sky with a single push.

The other winged recruits eyed each other before doing the same. No doubt, wondering how they would find their items in the grand expanse of the canyon without any sort of magic.

It seemed that those who had reached their magical majority were at just as much disadvantage as those who hadn’t.

Aside from the adornments that covered their wings, I hadn’t seen many of the Sídhe Sirens using their magic. A last resort instead of a crutch.

At Cruinn Castle, the Undine would use their gifts as party tricks. From the Òran Sídhe, that would sing to crowds and play with their audience's emotions. To the Weavers, who made weapons and jewelry with their spells entwined. Even the Troid Sídhe, stronger and faster than any other, would show off. I didn’t even know what sort of gifts the Sirens favored.

As the other younglings scattered, and Arden, Moira, and I remained on the ground, I searched my memory for what Arden could have taken. When I arrived at the dark sea, I had nothing on my body save for a tattered dress I had borrowed from Cormac’s grandmother.

And my blanket. The same one Rainn had given me to keep me warm in the Tarsainn dungeons. The only thing that had kept me from giving up on the lonely and treacherous journey from the Twilight Lake.

I hated that I felt my blood turn cold at the idea of losing my blanket.

I had grown attached to an enchanted scrap of fabric, even if it came from a male who aided in the Frosted Sands massacre.

Moira reached up to her throat, grasping for the coral piece she wore on a chain around her throat. A namesake charm that had been gifted by her mother on the morning of her migration—something so small that she hadn’t noticed it was missing. Moira’s cheeks flushed pink, and her eyes glittered with anger as she stared at Arden.

“My necklace,” she said through gritted teeth.

Arden met her eyes, unrepentant. He said nothing as they stared at each other in challenge.

“How am I going to find a necklace in a bloody canyon!?” Moira stomped her foot.

“Better hop to it, Moira-Cora.” Arden sniffed. “You won’t be allowed back to your room until that charm is fixed around your neck.”

“I’m going to gut you,” Moira snarled, stomping down the canyon.

I didn’t speak until Moira was a speck, rounding a prominent corner of striped rock.

“No clue?” I joked.

“Don’t make me break your legs,” Arden warned.

I eyed him, trying to gauge if he would do it, but decided I didn’t want to risk it and hurried off after Moira. Determined to find my blanket as quickly as possible.

It wasn’t hard to imagine Belisama’s Cradle as an ocean that had once joined the Dark Sea.

As part of Arden’s training, the other recruits and I often did laps of the canyon, but even then, we didn’t travel further than a couple of miles from the ornate doorways that led to the Siren Queen’s stronghold.

As I walked further into the heart of the cradle, the two looming edges grew further apart until they seemed to sit on opposite horizons. The desert inside the canyon was littered with pillars of rock, warped and curved. The light rock formations showed lines where the water had gradually dropped to a trickle over the years and then nothing, leaving behind a dry desert.

I wished Arden had allowed us to return for supplies, but I supposed thirst created a sense of desperation that would suit his needs. To encourage us to look inside of ourselves to find whatever it was he took.

I didn’t want to know if I could find the blanket using whatever innate magic Arden claimed I had. It belonged to Rainn, after all, not me. I had simply borrowed it.

I told myself I could throw it away any time I liked, but that wasn’t the case, and I didn’t want to admit that.

As time and distance from the Twilight Lake grew longer, I had to admit that I longed for the brief time I had spent with the princelings. Maybe not Cormac or Shay, but Rainn and Tor for certain.

I wanted to hate them. I truly did.

But I had seen kind Fae—with kind eyes and giving hearts—make all manner of difficult choices in the war.

I understood that the Frosted Sands was a sacrifice and that my uncle had likely done something thrice as terrible to warrant such retaliation. Still, it was harder to forgive when I had been directly affected by it.

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