Page 132 of Kissed By the Gods
I clench my hands against my sides, nails biting into my palms. “When will he give it?” I ask through clenched teeth.
The Elder doesn’t even look at me as he scans his notes.
“When all the players are in place to hear it.”
I take deep breaths, trying to leash the panic clawing its way up my throat. Because I know exactly what Ryot—and Princess Rissa, who demanded to go with him—would have seen in Selencia. The question is, what is the Synod going to do about it?
But if there’s one thing, I’ve learned about the Elder these last few months, it’s that he doesn’t have a sense of urgency. He won’t be rushed.
“How long will we break from Veil training?”
The Elder raises his nose to the air, like he’s sniffing for snow or rain. “Spring should be upon us in another two or three weeks. And then I’m sure the attacks will resume, as they do each year. As to when we resume your Veil training …” He trails off. “Let’s wait and see how your recovery goes.”
Which is Elder-speak for “you’re barely holding it together, and I’d rather not scrape your soul off the Veil’s floor today.”
Since Solmire, the rest of my training—blades, close-quarters combat, survival drills, even aerial maneuvers—has been sparse at best, scattered between long stretches in the Veil. The Elder’s more concerned I’ll vanish into the Veil and never return.
I force myself upright, every movement a quiet war against the pounding in my skull. The headache is vicious—though by now, it’s as familiar to me as my own shadow.
I’m barely steady on my feet when someone crashes into our clearing, their footfalls sharp and deliberate, brimming with fury.
I squint into the gathering dusk, trying to make out the figure weaving through the trees, but the dim light and dense forest blur their edges. I take a step closer to the Elder. Sigurd and Vaeloria stir uneasily, ears twitching, feathers ruffling, both unsettled by the storm of fury bleeding into our quiet clearing. They drift to our side, drawn not by command but instinct.
I’m stunned when it’s Ryot who emerges from the cover of the trees.Sweet Serephelle. Even angry, he’s appealing in a way that makes my knees wobble. His wounds from Solmire are long gone, and the lighter burdens of winter have treated him exceptionally well. His skin is tanned from weeks of scouting. His tunic stretches over broad shoulders, his leather trousers mold to his legs. Strength rolls beneath the fabric with every furious step.
I cross my arms tightly over my chest. I will not be swayed by cheekbones and biceps. Not this time.
“What are you—” I start to ask, but he cuts me off, slamming a heavy book down onto the Elder’s makeshift stone desk with enough force to echo through the trees.
I gasp and lunge forward, snatching up the book.
“What in the hells are you doing?” I shriek, cradling the book protectively. “You can’t treat books like this—do you have any idea how old this is? Look! You’ve torn the spine!” I hold it up for inspection, horrified.
But Ryot doesn’t even glance at me. His gaze is locked on the Elder, eyes blazing.
“Did you know?” he whispers, but it might as well have been a shout for the way it carries.
My mouth falls open. I don’t know which is more shocking—his treatment of the book or the fact that he’s yelling at the Elder. Either offense could get him whipped.
The Elder doesn’t move, but Sigurd surges forward a step, wings flexing, ears pinned, every muscle taut with warning. TheElder raises one hand, calm and deliberate. The great beast halts but doesn’t retreat. He snorts, low and threatening, eyes fixed on Ryot.
“Know what, Ryot?” I ask, looking down at the tome, trying to piece together whatever madness has sent him into this spiral. There’s no title. The cover is bare. The pages are brittle, crinkling beneath my touch like they might dissolve into dust. Gods above. This volume is ancient. It never should have been pulled from the shelves.
“Of course you know! You train her every godsdamn day.” Ryot is fuming. I’ve never seen him like this.
Sigurd snorts a warning.
“Know what, Ryot?”
He swings around on me. “That you leave your body behind when you enter the Veil. That your body is left out here,” he gestures around, hands in the air, circling wildly, “completely vulnerable to man or beast while your soul is traipsing around in the godsdamn Veil.”
I squint my eyes at him. He’s gone mad.
“No, it doesn’t,” I counter. That can’t be true—not with the way Vaeloria and I were covered with ash from Solmire. I turn to the Elder for confirmation. “Vaeloria and I—we both go into the Veil. Don’t we?”
The Elder nods his head, but there’s a question in his eyes as he stares at the book I’ve clutched to my chest. “Where did you get that?”
He’s speaking to Ryot. The cold gnaws at my cheeks as I tighten my grip on the book, the battered leather stiff against my frozen fingers. Breath curls from Ryot’s mouth in angry plumes. Even Sigurd’s breath hangs heavy in the air. He can sense the wrongness between us.
