Page 44 of The Cruel Dawn
“Proceed, Kaivara,” Agon whispers.
I swallow to steady myself and shuffle forward. Gouts of magical fire burn my skin. Before I can speak, I’m standing in a small courtyard where the ground resembles a carpet of golden ants. The sky shifts, too, but the ants above me are ruby-colored. Moths of gold and red surround me—I’m not alone here. A low hum vibrates through my head. It feels…good. In front of me, the prismatic light from the looking glass has dimmed, leaving behind a speck of light that still swirls in the top left corner of the mirror.
I reach for that speck of light, and a mystery squirms through my core, like worms in dirt after the rain. I close my eyes—I feel woozy, like I’m moments from vomiting. Bright light shimmers past my closed eyelids, and the heat feels like Lumis himself is climbing over me. My skin grows so hot that I may melt and die here. But I feel no pain, thankfully.
The moths have left me here—they are far too delicate for this type of heat. So I’m alone, and I want to scream, but I clamp my mouth shut because opening it will only let that heat in. I turn my head, keeping my lips closed, and I feel something pull at me and pull at me until—
12
I stand in a courtyard of trees and shrubs full of fat green leaves and multi-hued flowers bursting with life. There’s so much color and perfume here that my head aches. The perfectly round cobblestones beneath my boots remind me of fresh-baked loaves of bread, and the sky above me shines with the light of the daystar. White-brightness and black shadow and every shade in between the two pulse… The golds, blues, and glimmer come from Supreme—Linione is the first child of the Aetherium, and so it is closest to the Creator.
The path before me leads in just one direction, and so I follow it through a grove of trees and a twisted brook of perfect water.
Up ahead sits a simple white house—similar to Malik Sindire’s dwelling with those smooth walls and glass windows. But this house’s broad entryway is flanked by white kastat rose bushes.
I’m surprised there are no guards, but those who’d do this place and the gods who convene here harm would’ve been destroyed the moment they stepped into the Glass of Infinite Realms.
The thick wood door stands ajar—a modest one compared to the abbey’s thick metal and jeweled gate protected by the Raqiel. The door slowly swings open without my help. My next steps don’t lead to a sitting room, but to a garden filled with multicolored kastat rosebushes. In the middle of this garden is a round table that has no ending, no beginning, no head or foot. Five beings representing their orders sit in high-backed wood chairs with red-cushioned backrests.
One man stands. He wears a fire-embroidered red-and-black robe with flared shoulders and matching pleated trousers.
I can’t see the markings of the realms he’s destroyed beneath his garb of Mera nobility, but I know that I have nowhere near as many as he does. Idohave his golden eyes, his high cheekbones, and his broad shoulders. His brown skin—I have that, too. Yes, I have so much of him, but I don’t have his love.
My feet stay planted where I stand, but my knees want to buckle. My stomach plunges to my ankles, but my solid anger keeps me upright, rigid. A quarter of an age has passed since the last time I saw him. He attended my sentencing, and he couldn’t even look me in the eyes as the Raqiel guards marched me to the Glass of Infinite Realms. He didn’t hug me goodbye on that day, nor has he visited me in the twenty-five seasons I’ve been confined on Vallendor. He hasn’t sent me a gift, a letter, or well-regards from across the Aetherium.
I’ve imagined this reunion with my father countless times—as a child and up until I stepped to the Glass of Infinite Realms moments ago. In this recurring fantasy, we’d run to each other, and he’d call me “daughter,” and he’d pick me up and swing me around, and then we’d walk hand-in-hand into eternal happiness. He’d say,I’ll never leave you again, and I’d say,I forgive you.
Right now, though, it’s obvious that neither of us are following my script, because neither of us moves.
All I can do is stare at the tall, broad man whose realm-wide shoulders would reach past the highest apples on Vallendor’s tallest tree, whose palms are the size of silver platters and his neck thicker than a sequoia. All the material required for his outfit can clothe four men. That he fits in that chair is a trick or magic.
“Kaivara,” High Lord Izariel Megidrail says, his voice strong and warm and filled with terrible thunder.
My shoulders immediately straighten, and my chin lifts even as it quivers. “Yes?”
He pushes away from the round table and says, “Cado.”Come.He doesn’t wait for my response and walks toward a gate behind the table, assuming that I will obey him.
My feet practically take root in the coarse green grass.
“I won’t say it again,” he says without looking back.
The lavender, green, black, and silver eyes of the four seated Council members stay on me. The heat of their gazes makes me sweat.
High Lord Khari Kynarv wears a long-sleeve white tunic and the black-and-gray cloak of the Yeaden, the order charged with building abbeys across the Aetherium and crafting weapons and armor for the gods. He blinks at me with his coal-black eyes and then gapes at High Lord Reder Cote of the Dindt, the order of explorers and seekers who search for new realms, observe life there, and return with knowledge. Cote’s green eyes watch my father stalk to the gate. Silver-eyed High Lady Juchi Eneq of the Eserime nods at me and lifts an eyebrow. It’s only respect for my father that keeps her from asking me about my journey since she last saw me.
“It would be in your best interest to…” Lavender-eyed High Lady Dava Hilew of the Onama is speaking to me, and she cocks her head toward the gate. She took this position after Elyn’s father, Saerahil, spoke the word to Supreme.
Once upon a time, each person seated here loved me.
High Lord Izariel Megidrail stands beside a small pond that reflects the coppers and blues of Linione’s sky. Even with him smaller now and no longer the height of the tallest tree in Vallendor, I still only come to his chin as I stand before him. Without thinking, I drop to one knee and bow my head. “Lord Megidrail.”
“Our family is highborn,” he says. “We trace our lineage to the first Mera of the original five races. Do you remember anything about the High Orders, child?”
“I remembereverythingabout the orders, Father,” I say, peeved.
Father nods. “Then you know that these orders and those that came after are governed by the Council, nobles who represent their orders and can ascend no higher in their godhood. Only Supreme is higher.”
I stare at the flecks of movement beneath the pond’s surface and listen to my fear. Sounds like rushing blood, crunching gravel and whistling wind. Why is he saying this?
