Page 132 of The Cruel Dawn
Zephar had already resented me: Orewid Rolse just gave him a direction, and the powerful imagery of fiery crossed swords to symbolize his hatred. Will he choose to hide his Mera markings, the ones he’s so proud of, beneath those branded swords?
“Zephar also knew about Jadon and me,” I say as we reach the now-abandoned great hall. “So I confessed to him. That’s been fueling his animosity, too. To think that loving him was easy, once upon a time.
“Maybe I couldn’t remember that I loved Zephar because deep in my heart, I knew that he didn’t love me. I don’t know what I could’ve done to prevent this. I should’ve paid more attention…”
“This isn’t your fault, Kai,” Elyn says. “Don’t justify his hatred and violence becausehecan’t get over you choosing someone else—”
“This is more than jealousy,” I say, tears streaming down my cheeks.
“You’re right,” she says. “This is pure…”
“Hatred.”
Elyn pales, but white flames flare in her eyes. “They truly believe that they rule the Aetherium. Fortunately, there are more of us than them.”
I swipe at my wet face with my trembling hands. “I’ve totally fucked up Vallendor.”
…
Sentinels still guard the Glass of Infinite Realms.
As Elyn and I made our way up to the aerie, we’d passed those other sentinels as well as the stewards and senators who’d survived Jadon’s infection. They continue cleaning, disinfecting, and placing wards around the abbey’s corridors and meeting spaces, its living quarters and jails. They are not surrendering. They are fighting to remain.
Vallendor hasn’t been completely abandonedyet.I haven’t been left here aloneyet.
Agon the Kindness isn’t working in the aerie, though. The space feels too still without his rustling robes and the sound of pages turning in those big books.
No powders and plants, books or bowls crowd the worktables. No forgotten sprigs or scraps of paper have been left on the floor. No lingering smells of crushed herbs; the fire that had consumed Celedan Docci no longer burns. TheLibrum Esotericais gone: I see no sparkle of its presence. In fact, a third of the books that had been collected no longer sit on these shelves.
My heart kicks in my chest at the sight of this absence of study and craft.
The Abbey itself is being stripped away, book by book.
“I need a stronger sword,” I say now, my eyes lingering on the empty bookshelves.
“I’ll search for Agon,” Elyn says, “and you go down to see Usese. He’s still the abbey’s blacksmith and armorer, and he’ll do what he can to help us prepare. We’ll meet back here.”
I hear only one hammer striking an anvil when, in the past, I’ve heard thirty. The air in the forge is stagnant. No cloying, acrid smoke stings my eyes. The room feels too fresh to be a home of iron and steel. And though the furnace glows orange and blue, nothing is melting in those flames. This place is almost as still and cold as the aerie.
This silence is my doing, and the inactivity here will only spread.
Usese Ebrithin is the size of most Yeaden—muscled and wide, and tall but not as tall as the Mera. He’s more of a bull than a horse. He keeps his black hair short so that it won’t catch fire or get caught in his tools. His smock is as long as a dinner table; tailors must have used half a field of cotton to make his black tunic. When he sees me, the creases in the armorer’s face deepen. His wide smile shows off teeth studded with jewels and metal.
“The Lady of the Verdant Realm!” Usese shouts. “The Grand Defender of Vallendor! It took your realm teetering on the brink of destruction for you to finally pay me a visit!”
I hug him; he’s as solid as his anvil. “I’d wanted to come sooner but…”
“The living are toppling here like weak brick walls.” He turns back to the single new war hammer taking shape on his anvil.
“I have a question for you,” I say. “Do linionium-made weapons exist here on Vallendor?”
He snorts. “Certainly not. You think you got trouble now? Imagine what would happen if a linionium-made greatsword fell into the wrong hands.” He glances at me. “Why do you ask, Lady?”
“I need a new blade.” I pull Fury from my sagging scabbard and present it to him. “She’s powerless against the new otherworldly that I’m now fighting.”
Usese takes the sword, peers at the black blade etched with moths, and runs his finger along its edge. “Who forged this?”
I swallow, then say, “Jadon Rrivae Wake, and it was a gift. I accepted her, of course, unaware at the time that he was the son of both Syrus Wake and Danar Rrivae. Up until recently, Fury has proven to be a mighty blade. Now, though, she bounces off enemies that she used to slay without effort.”
