Page 58 of The Cruel Dawn
I’m no longer on my knees in Maford behind Farmer Gery’s barn. No—I’m now kneeling beside the stream in the Misty Garden, that liminal space between the Temple of Celestial and the Sanctum.
Did Spryte take my frantic desire to return to this garden, a place of peace and beauty, and instantly transport me there? If so, I need to work on controlling my—Ouch!
The arm that Danar Rrivae grabbed is now throbbing. All of me hurts. I bend to scoop water from that crystal stream and—
Shit.
My reflection…
My arm…
Crackles of lightning zigzag beneath my skin…
Maelstrom.
15
They’re gone.
Those are the only words that my mind can form.
They’re gone.
He killed them, right in front of me. He killed them, and didn’t care who he’d be taking from their families, from this town, from this realm… Me. And even though I am immortal, even though I will never know what a human feels as she dies, these deaths feel like…parts of my lungs have been tied off. Like…my vision has dimmed—not by a lot, but enough that I notice. Like…I’ve left blood trailing behind me once again, but this time, I’m incapable of cleaning up the mess and must now accept the ugly.
My face stings as though Danar Rrivae had slapped me dozens of times and bit my cheeks afterward. I’m too stunned to even cry, and I stand there, in that field, shaking… Vibrating. My eyes cloud with tears. The air around me rolls with steam. My hands ball into fists but unclench because I don’t have anyone left to fight.
What has Danar Rrivae gone to do? Find some other mortals to terrorize? Is this his plan? Target someone who I care about just a tiny bit more than the rest? Will Danar Rrivae use anyone vulnerable as leverage to get what he wants from me?
I let my head droop, sorrow washing over me like an icy river. I cry into my shoulder—poor Jamart, poor Lively—until I’m lightheaded. My tears fill the sky above me with thunderheads, damp and dangerous. I stay still and try to take deep breaths—but not moving hasn’t saved those I love. Moving and doing hasn’t helped, either.
Shit.
I dry my face with my cloak and push out a long, hard breath.
I know what I must do. I’ve known all along, but he leaves me no choice. I must kill Danar Rrivae.
…
The moths that Spryte with me stay a little longer—they must sense my sadness and know that I’ve been suffering from vertigo as well as the ongoing effects of Miasma. Twenty paces away from the raggedy gates of Caburh, I wave my hand and thank them for their care. Looking at Caburh makes me forget my nausea. This place…it’s not Gasho with its mud-brick homes and alabaster-smooth walls, palm dates and fancy baths with domed ceilings. No, Caburh, located southwest of Gasho, remains a riverside industrial trading hub founded by the Renrians ages ago.
The nightstar shines down on a town that stinks of smoke and funk from the tannery and forge. The stench of death has also seeped deep into the soil, into the banks of the Duskmoor River that winds through the town.
Even late at night, this hub of mercantilism, language and culture, travel and recreation buzzes with the languages of a dozen different provinces.
My boots clack against stones worn smooth by others who have walked this town. Back in the day, you could buy spells from women wearing green cloaks, sacred relics bartered alongside spices, onions, and salted fish.
I wrap my cloak tighter around my shoulders to try and blend in—and blending inispossible here. The streets teem with people from faraway lands, their skin tones representing every realm across Vallendor. They wear vibrant-hued clothes, and the languages flowing around me are a blend of words, grunts, and clicks. But they have one thing in common: everyone glows a deep shade of amber. Some will drop dead from Miasma before I leave this place.
So much has changed since I last walked through this town.
Fire was consuming the tailor’s shop over there. A man’s severed head had bobbed in the fountain across the street. The massive battawhale, Tazara, king of the night-dwelling creatures, had hovered over the town square while smaller battabies had fought fire-spitting cursuflies.
But for once, I’m not here to fight or to purchase leather or to exact revenge on anyone. I’ve come for a fancy storybook-encyclopedia—that’s it.
As I head to the Broken Hammer Inn, I sense countless pairs of eyes following me. There’s curiosity, yes, but also recognition—and fear. The watchers know who I am. Some even know that I’m not one to fuck with because they remember what I did during my last visit here. They remember that I fought both Gileon Wake’s army and the attacking cursuflies. They remember that I sped away on horseback alongside Jadon Wake, following his brother Gileon and Olivia, who still possessed my stolen amulet. Those who remember stop their hammering and hawking to scowl at me.
“The abomination is back.”
