Page 8 of A Queen Of Broken Realms
I swallow as though drinking down those words to store them like a precious spell against future darkness. When the heat in his eyes subsides, Ashen pulls away and takes my hand once more, leading me in his wake.
We reach a landing, and the space opens to a wide patio embraced by the veiled sky and the cliffs jutting up around the high retaining walls. Silver stone arches flow at regular intervals ahead of us like whale bones, a frame for the most beautiful display of art I’ve ever seen.
A garden of sculptures and blooms.
Like anything in the Shadow Realm, it has a haunted quality about it. Lush, deep green leaves that seem a bit too dark flow alongside the walls and beneath the feet of the subjects of the sculptures. Some are made of stone, some are metal. Copper, polished to keep the green patina from dulling their shine. Brass, buffed until it glows despite the dim light. Some are even terracotta, more blocky than their kin, their style ancient and symmetrical.
The statues are laid out along a winding path that’s framed by unlit lanterns. Orchids hang suspended from the arches like stars. Massive dahlias light the shadows with colorful blooms. Unfamiliar crimson flowers as large as my fist peek from the shadows, beckoning me to pluck their velvet petals. The twisted branches of low, ornamental trees reach out toward the path as though calling us closer with their long fingers. And in the center of the entrance to the garden, a trickling fountain of black stone, the water flowing from the shoulders of a kneeling man, his head bent. I can almost feel the weight of regret and sorrow and loneliness pressing on his back.
“Ashen…” I whisper, letting go of his hand to take a step on the curved path. “You did this?”
It takes him a long moment before he answers. “Yes.”
I reach out to the fountain figure, the water of his wings rolling across my fingers. “How long have you spent creating this place?”
“I don’t know exactly. A very long time,” Ashen says as he takes a step toward me, laying a lighter in my palm. He nods toward the first statue and its lantern. It feels like he’s giving me a key to his soul. “Go ahead.”
I look at the cool metal in my hand for a long moment before I curl my fingers around it. I start down the path. I light the lantern next to a terracotta soldier, a man dressed for battle, his armor like layers of fish scales. His almond eyes and long beard give the impression of ancient wisdom, like an apothecary or a warlock. I tstay long enough to ake in the details and then walk to the next figure. It’s limestone, worn and repaired in places where the rain must have battered her figure over centuries of time. Her hands are folded in front of her stomach, her head is turned to the side but it’s that of a lioness.
“A witch. A shapeshifter,” I whisper, skimming my fingers down the line of her arm. I look back at Ashen and he nods. I light her lantern and move toward the next figure.
Each sculpture grows more detailed, the techniques more refined, the materials and tooling more precise. There’s a bronze statue like the Capitoline Wolf, but rather than Romulus and Remus suckling from her engorged teats, there are three half-wolf, half-human young crouched beneath her lithe body. Werewolves. And later, a stone image of a man with long fangs in his gaping mouth, his hand outstretched to the viewer in a desperate plea for mercy. I light his little lantern and pause to wonder which one of my sisters turned him into a vampire.
I keep making my way deeper into the garden, lighting a fire for each soul captured along the way. Ashen follows me like a shadow until I near a marble statue, the detail so stunning and lifelike that it crushes the breath right out of my chest. It’s as though Ashen has been refining this sculpture for centuries, never fully satisfied with the minute details.
I know why.
Because he felt like it could never capture the depth of his grief.
I press my lips together. I try to keep the tears trapped against my eyelashes, but they can’t be contained. One by one, they crest the dam to fall across my skin.
This sculpture is a woman in white marble, a veil obscuring her downturned face. Even though I can’t see her eyes, I know exactly where she’s looking. She’s gazing at a beautiful baby, his head nestled in the crook of her elbow, his chunky leg draped over her arm. The baby’s tiny hand reaches up toward her, never able to touch his mother’s face.
It’s Davina. And the child she and Ashen almost had.
My fingertips are so cold against my lips. It’s such a beautiful regret. A stunning sorrow. A loss Ashen couldn’t possibly have fathomed in that moment when his sword felt too heavy with the weight of two souls in his hand.
This demon who captures more of my heart with every moment that passes, he’s spent centuries of time punishing himself for something beyond his control.
There’s only one lantern at this statue. I light it. And then I bend down and gather broken twigs and crisp, dead leaves. I place them in a mound on the baby’s rippling blanket and light a second flame. I run my hand over the infant’s cool head, trying so hard to imagine the wisp of hair and the scent of milk and the soft skin that could have warmed Ashen’s palm. I place a kiss to the baby’s forehead and then move away, tears still stinging in my eyes.
There are more statues, some becoming a little more abstract the closer we get to the end of the path. The style and materials become more modern. Some even include objects scavenged in the Living Realm, like a werewolf draped in a torn leather jacket, or a witch who holds a delicate ampule in her carved hand. I light each lantern, and then round a curve in the path to the last statue. I feel that ripple of Ashen’s anxiety beneath my skin and I press my hand to the scepter on my chest.
This statue isalive.
There’s no lantern. It doesn’t need one. The gold leaf within the glass sculpture catches even the dimmest light, illuminating the work from within. Metallic seams of color infuse the glass, from bright crimson to teal to fuchsia to deep, shimmering purple. She looks like she’s dancing on a bed of wind orchids, raised on the ball of one foot with her hand pitched behind her for balance. But her other hand lifts a glass sword, striking out toward an unseen opponent. Her face is covered by a golden mask.
I know exactly who she is.
“It’s me,” I whisper, touching the smooth line of my arm in glass.
That current of Ashen’s anxiety hums beneath my skin. “Yes.”
“You’re nervous to show me. Did you think I wouldn’t like it?”
Ashen pauses for a long moment. I look at him over my shoulder. His gaze is caught on the statue, his eyes following the lines of his art. “I thought you would think it strange.”
“Strange?..”
