Page 31 of Ties of Death

The old monk spreads his hands in a gesture that says ‘speak away,’ so Daenn continues.

“We’ve come for the Bracers of Mundil.”

The old man’s entire face pulls into a frown, exaggerated by his deep-set wrinkles. “That is a serious request indeed, one I must decline. I will not allow you to use the bracers against your enemies. I will play no part in the wars of men.”

Daenn is already shaking his head. “I don’t want them for my enemies. I want them for me.”

This surprises the monk. His bushy eyebrows shoot up. “For you?”

“My magic is death, and not a death I can control.” Daenn’s hand flexes and fists at his side. His swirl of regret and guilt sits heavy in my chest. “I married her”—he gestures to me—“in hopes that her magic would neutralize my own. But when we linked in the bonding ceremony, they mixed. And while it is now not an instant death, it is instead stronger, claiming more victims than before.”

I purse my lips at his abbreviated story, but glossing over the complicated bits—Tolomon, how it was not just the bond but me that mixed the magic—is probably for the best.

Daenn’s voice lowers. “I cannot rule if I am killing my people, but I have no one trustworthy to hand my crown to. The bracers are my only hope.”

The monk takes this in for several moments after Daenn finishes. “This is a plea I want to heed,” he finally says, “and I’m willing to do so insofar as I am able. Now that I am not outright turning you away, I must admit we don’t have both of the bracers. We only have one.”

His words ring in the air around us like a hammer against an anvil. Would one even be enough? Had we come all this way—possibly lost a gryphon, given Viggo an opening to make a bid for the throne, wasted time we could have spent looking for a way to help our comatose clansfolk—for nothing?

“Do you know where the other one is?” Daenn finally asks. His voice is measured, betraying none of the desperation I can sense from him.

The monk shrugs a shoulder. “I do. When they were first entrusted to my order, we chose to separate them, to make them more difficult for one with ill intentions to lay their hands on. But I sense your intentions are pure.” As he says that, his eyes flash with an unearthly light, and I swallow back a yelp.

Did he use magic to read the truth in our words?

“But I cannot fetch the second one for you,” he continues. “You will have to get it yourself. We sent it to our sister temple, deep in the heart of the jungle. It’s a two-week journey to the south.”

“Two weeks?” I say, my horror prompting me to speak for the first time. Two weeks to the temple. Two weeks back.Even if that is two weeks on foot, it will still be days by gryphon, especially an encumbered gryphon. It’s too long. Every day we’re gone is another day for Viggo to entrench himself in Daenn’s place.

Grim resignation settles over Daenn. He nods. “I will make the journey. I only ask, will you house Emana—”

“No,” I cut him off, rounding on him. “You’re not going without me. I’m not going to sit here on my hands for who knows how long, wondering and waiting and dreading. I’m going with you.”

“That isn’t necessary, Emi—”

“It absolutely is.”

“You would be safer here—”

I lean in and bare my teeth. “I can either ride with you, or I can set out on foot after you. Your choice.”

Either he senses my stubbornness over our link or he reads it in my face, because he nods reluctantly.

“You can stay the night,” the monk says. “Come to the kitchens and have some supper, and I’ll fetch your bracer while you do.”

He leads us there and finally gives us a name: Elium. He’s the abbot of this sanctuary. He leaves us in the kitchen with instructions for the monks there to prepare a warm supper, and they oblige swiftly. The simple fare they give us is delicious, far better than anything Daenn or I have managed, and we both have multiple servings—I have seconds, and Daenn thirds.

Abbot Elium returns as we’re finishing, and he carries an unassuming cloth bundle. “Come, I’ll show you to your room.”

The quarters he leads us to are small, smaller than anywhere I’ve ever stayed. They’re a monk’s cell, stocked with only the essentials. A bed, a small desk, and a chest for storage.Elium bids us good night and shuts the door with a quiet snick as the latch catches.

I stare at the bed in consternation. Will we even both fit on that? But I’m distracted from my thoughts as Daenn unwraps the bracer and sets the cloth on the desk.

“What are you doing?”

“Maybe one will be enough.” It’s all he says, and I know what he means. Enough to cut off his magic, to siphon it away. Maybe we won’t have to make the journey to the other temple. Still, my tender little hope at the idea is tempered by fear. The bracers are meant to be worn as a set, after all. What if putting on only one breaks him in some way?

But Daenn is already removing his own bracer, setting it aside on the table. Mundil’s bracer is as different from Daenn’s own as it could be. Daenn’s is well worn, but also well cared for, in supple black leather that protects him but is lightweight for gryphon flight.

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