Page 51 of Kissed By the Gods
“In exchange,” Archon Lyathin adds sharply, “you will begin your training without resistance. You will take your place among the Altor, as the gods intended.”
“I’ll be the Altor to go to Selencia in the winter,” I say.
“Impossible,” he argues. “You won’t have your faravar yet. You’ll be in essential training. You’re already behind.”
I weigh the words, turning them over in my mind to make sure they’re sound.
In my silence, Ryot steps forward. “I’ll go.” Every head turns to him. “I’ll go to Selencia this winter and report back on the conditions.”
Archon Lyathin gives a nod. “That’s acceptable to me. Leina?”
I keep my gaze steady—not on Lyathin, not on the king or Rissa—but on Ryot. Doubt gnaws at the edges of my mind. Is this a mistake? Am I trusting the wrong hands with what little hope we have?
But I nod.
“I agree.”
“A master and ward choose one another, bound not by blood, but by will. Once bonded, they are castmates for life—however long or short that life may be.”
The Annals of the Winged, a canon text in the Synod Reckoning Hall
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
I stormdown the corridor that leads to warriors’ quarters for the Stormriven Vanguard.
According to Nyrica, it’s the strongest of the four Vanguards, but Nyrica is not the man I’m hoping to find, because Nyrica—the jerk—turned me down when I asked him to be my master last night.
As he’s the kind of man who doesn’t believe in false kindness, he also told me why everyone I ask to be my master has rejected me like a walking curse.
“Most Altor die young, love. No matter how hard their master pushes them; no matter how well they’re trained; no matter how dedicated to the vanguard—Altor die in battle, and most of them die young.” He’d shrugged, aiming for nonchalance, but I could see the pain and grief—and guilt—he’d tried so hard to hide behind his easy smile. Then he’d pointed to the scar on my temple and said, “No one wants the death of Thayana’s marked one on their hands. Being noticed by the gods is not a good thing, love. If Thayana wants you to succeed, then Kheris wants you dead.”
He didn’t have to explain further. If one goddess has chosen me, then another has marked me as an enemy. And the Altor—the gods’ soldiers, the gods’ weapons—know better than anyone what happens to those caught between divine forces.
It’s not a blessing. It’s a death sentence.
“Added to that … how to put this delicately? You’re far too pretty for these guys. You’d be a distraction.” He’d winked and then grinned wolfishly at Thalric. “Not for me, mind. I get distracted around here on the daily. I don’t want to piss off the gods when you die.”
Then he’d slammed his tankard on the table, slapped me on the shoulder, declared he had to piss, and sauntered away.
So Nyrica is out, which is truly awful because he would’ve been the perfect master. Friendly, funny. Doesn’t hate me. Not attracted to me. Thalric is out because he already has Leif, and they’re not allowed to take two, even though Leif is less than a year from advancement. Caius has young Kiernan. I can’t even ask Faelon because he’s only recently advanced to sentinel, which isn’t a high enough rank to take a ward.
I’ve spent a week pacing these halls, searching, waiting, coming up empty. Finding a master is supposed to be like courtship—two people recognize something in each other and decide to move forward. So far, no one I want wants me back.
Ryot was the first to turn me down, and he’s avoided me ever since.
I turn down another winding corridor, rubbing my sore temple as I go. My scar from Thayana’s kiss still throbs a week later, though it has finally stopped spiderwebbing outward. The mark now reaches above and below my right eye.
Elowen frets over my temple, but so far nothing has provided any relief. I haven’t told her about my constant headaches. The only mercy this week is that my sleep has been blessedly quiet. I haven’t had one single dream since my interaction withThayana. I hope they’re gone forever, that all my dreams had been leading up to that moment. Now that it’s passed, maybe I can finally find rest.
I stop athisdoor. I raise my hand to knock, but pause. I can’t help but wonder what his childhood was like, and who he left behind for this life. While I’m standing there, the door swings open.
And then I’m staring into the stormy blue eyes of Skywarden Ryot of Stormriven. Ryot, dressed in his chainmail of Adamas, sword strapped to his back, a pack slung over his shoulder.
He’s leaving. The coward.
