Page 32 of Of Blooming Embers
I leaned forward, my voice low. “Something is caged in amber at the bottom. Every full moon, the Elders siphon energy from it. I think it may be the key to why the portals are weakening during that time. The Order always had more trouble fending off Void creatures beyond the veil in the Weald during lunation.”
Neoma, Rhaegar, and Breena all sat straighter, giving one another knowing looks. Marek crossed his arms tightly over his wide chest.
With one eyebrow cocked, Seryn added, “Melina has Elders Guust and Strom imprisoned down there as well. Constantly wiping their minds clean for Ancients know how long.”
“Damn. We knew they were holed up in Surrelia, but this is worse than we feared,” Neoma hissed.
“Two fewer Elders to deal with, I’d say,” Marek muttered.
His grandmother swatted his biceps with the back of her hand. “If we can’t get to them all, Ascension will be damn near impossible.”
Seryn’s shoulders slumped inward as she looked around the room uneasily. “Ascension? Wouldn’t it be better to dismantle them completely?”
For a moment, Neoma’s mouth was caught between her teeth before she continued, “Ascensionmustoccur. Not only does our history confirm this, but our prophecies as well.”
Marek grumbled a curse under his breath, his scar pulsing at his temple.
Ignoring him, Neoma sat back, clasping her hands on the table. “The very fabric of our world depends on balance being maintained.” Seryn’s mouth slackened, and she ran a finger over her chin while Neoma went on, “Without honorable leaders, ember is a festering blight on the human realm. We’ll tear ourselves apart as we once did. Well before the land claims us.”
Movement caught my eye when a short, curvy woman with dark blonde, wavy hair whispered into one of the musicians’ ears.
She seemed familiar somehow.
The man nodded enthusiastically and leaned back to shout something behind him at his fellow performers. Lilting notes swayed over a spirited melody. A weighted hush fell over the room.
Seryn flicked her attention over her shoulder, eyes widening as she caught sight of the female. Her hand gripped my wrist. “I know her. She … she was in the Winnowing,” she whispered.
I squinted at the female as she ran her hands over the bodice of her dark kirtle, her chest rising on a deep inhale. The memory skittered through my awareness. The Druik with the purple aura during the final trial. She had been one of the last competitors, and Seryn’s ember had drained her after the woman had attacked Kaden.
Marek’s elbows thumped atop the table as he leaned in. “You know the half-borne?”
Neoma shot him a glare.
“What?” he muttered. “That’s what they’re called when they have mixed embers.”
Neoma ignored her grandson. “Her name is Caelora Aundyne.” The older woman’s eyes softened. “Her Haadran mother passed on long ago, and luckily, the girl found her way here. She never knew her father, but he hails from Pyria Island.”
“Fire and water. Huh, well I’ll be damned. Never met her or a half-borne before.” A look of curiosity spread over Breena’s face.
“She keeps to herself mostly,” Neoma added. “I’m surprised to see her out, but I recall her fondness for music as a child. It was the only way to make her less fidgety when she first arrived.”
Rhaegar grinned as the melody swelled, and his pint plunked against the wood. “Have you heard of the Hollowed Stars prophecy?”
“Ancients, not another bloody foretelling,” Seryn muttered.
I set my glass down, swallowing. “Go on.”
He adored storytelling, especially when he’d had an ale or five. “The Korax believe the era is finally upon us—to take our stand. We’ve prepared over the last few decades. It’s been said that the Fates themselves gifted the founders of the cause a divination, and it has guided us over the turns. Listen.” He nudged his chin toward the musicians.
My pulse hummed just under the skin of my jaw as rich, dulcet tones spilled from Caelora, her voice ringing over our heads. Although the words bounced merrily over the fiddled notes, they were ominously morose.
Behold the call of the end,
When lo, the Aetherbind’s seams do bend.
As withered roots the earth doth take,
The battle ’gainst the curse shall break.
