Fates

12

A barely discernible buzzing floats through the air. Corinthe watches the fireflies in the purple twilight: thousands flicker over the river, mingling with the reflection of the stars on the water.

Sometimes, when she stares long enough, she can’t tell which is which.

Corinthe takes a step closer to the water’s edge. It is forbidden to touch the Messengers. But why? She thinks of the stranger who visited Pyralis once. “Don’t stop asking questions,” he had told her—and now she can’t stop. The question seems to burn a path through her mind, like the hot trails of the shooting stars that blaze across the sky. Why why why? And why do none of the other Fates wonder the same thing?

A strange hunger grows inside her. Hunger. A word she doesn’t even know yet. Why why why? Why can’t I touch the light? Then, suddenly, as though in response to her unspoken question, one of the fireflies darts past her. Before she knows what she has done, her fingers have closed around it like a Venus flytrap—a plant that grows both in Pyralis Terra and in Humana.

For one second, the wings beat against her palm. She’s filled with feelings she has never known, feelings she has no words for yet. Ecstasy. Exhilaration. A sense of flying.

But then the firefly breaks free of her hand and she hears a tiny splash. A marble has fallen into the river. Bobbing along the surface, it starts to float downstream. One of the tarnished marbles. One that was not meant to stay in the river but to be rescued and sorted and delivered. This is what she is designed for, what she does. For all of eternity, she sorts the cloudy marbles from the clear—just like all the other Fates—rescuing the obscure and darkened ones, the ones that have been warped. These contain futures that may not happen on their own. They need help. That’s why she culls them and gives them to the Messengers. There is an order, a set of rules. These are not broken—have never been broken.

Corinthe leaps into the water, feeling the strong pull of the current against her legs. The marble floats closer to the edge of the waterfall. She reaches out. The marble is so close. All she has to do is grab it.

Her bare feet slip on the slick rocks of the riverbed as her fingertips brush against the smooth surface of the marble … and just then, the current sweeps it away from her.

She watches in horror as the marble disappears over the edge of the falls, into the unknown space that surrounds Pyralis Terra.

The water continues to rush around her, but Corinthe can’t move. She is struck with an icy dread. She has lost someone’s destiny.

It might have been a death, or a birth, or a meeting, or a masterpiece. Whatever the story, it is now lost forever.

Suddenly, Corinthe is ripped from the banks of the river, flung into a swirling mass of darkness. She hears screaming. Her sister Fates: are they crying out for her?

“I’m sorry!” she yells, but her voice is obscured by the raging wind.

The pain is searing. Unrecognizable. Her skin is on fire.

Voices float around her, angry and sharp.

You have disrupted the balance.

You are the first Fate to disobey …

And you will be the last.

Then: she’s on top of a building. A blaze behind her eyelids, scalding, terrible. Too much light. It’s dizzying; it makes her want to throw up. Everything is loud. And the stench. The stench is awful.

“Come,” a soft voice says, and when Corinthe looks up, she sees a beautiful dark-haired woman in a flowing white dress. The woman crouches and places an arm around Corinthe’s shoulders. Corinthe has never been touched in such a way before. She doesn’t know what to make of it—of the closeness. The woman smells unfamiliar—like river silt, and flowers, and the dust of distant galaxies.

“I’m Miranda,” the woman says, with a smile that reveals a sharp, jagged tooth. “I’ve been sent here to be your Guardian.”

Corinthe stares at her. “Why me?” she asks.

“Because, my dear, you are very, very special.” Her new Guardian takes her hand. …

“Welcome back,” a strange voice said.

Corinthe opened her eyes and the vision of Miranda—and before that, Pyralis—receded, like a tide being sucked back by the ocean, leaving only a huge, vast sense of loss inside of her. Overhead, a light fixture hung from the ceiling: iron pounded into strips and twisted to form holders for a dozen white candles.

Something heavy was draped over her body, and she struggled to push it aside.

“Slow down,” the stranger said.

Corinthe turned her head and cringed at the sudden burst of pain behind her eyes. Bright sparks danced across her vision. He wrung out a cloth and reapplied it to her head. The coolness felt so good.

The room finally stopped spinning.

The man wore a light-colored shirt, open to reveal his tan, muscular chest. Shaggy brown hair hung to his shoulders, his cap pulled low. He wore a torn goggle on one eye, and there was a large black bird perched on his shoulder, its eyes glittering as it watched her. The bird cawed softly and the man reached up and fed it something from his hand.

“Excuse the dirt. I been out on the ocean for weeks. I need a good bath and a change of clothes.” When he leaned over to press a new cool cloth to her forehead, Corinthe noticed that his uncovered eye was completely white.

“What happened?” she asked. Her voice came out raspy and she swallowed against the dryness.

“You been out for a bit. Hot as desert and kicking in your sleep. Don’t worry, I gave you something for the heatstroke.”

Corinthe closed her eyes. Her mind was still cloaked in darkness; her thoughts moved slowly, and she couldn’t remember how she’d gotten here.

The gnome. The tree. The Crossroad. Flashes of pain. Towering rocks.

A knife …

Luc!

Luc pressing her own knife against her throat

Corinthe tried to sit up, but the room spun in circles and she soon gave up.

“Whoa now, not so fast. You’re in pretty bad shape. You need to rest.” The man helped her to lie back, though he propped up her head with a pillow so she could finally get a good look at where she was.

“Who are you?” Her voice cracked and she ran her tongue over the sharp peaks of her dried lips. As if sensing her needs, the man handed her a small glass he took from a cart next to the bed.

“Water,” he said.

She took the glass, and after the first sips of cold water ran over her tongue, Corinthe couldn’t drink fast enough. She emptied the glass in two long gulps, and she extended it for a refill.

“The name’s Rhys,” he said as she drank greedily. “This is Mags.” The bird on his shoulder cawed and spread her wings so that feathers framed the man’s head. “Show-off,” he muttered at the bird.

Though obviously some kind of cave, the room was well lit, outfitted with dozens of flickering candles. The bed she lay in was comfortably soft and set into a carved-out spot in the wall, as though a portion of the cave had been deliberately hollowed to accommodate it.

Thick rugs with bright patterns covered the dirt floor. Painted onto one of the rough walls was the image of a comet streaking across the sky. Colors exploded across the wall; a trail of bright orange and yellow flames streaked toward the ground.

Corinthe felt a sick feeling building in her chest. She looked away quickly, again struggling to sit up. But her arms refused to support her weight. The pillow under her head felt so soft, so inviting. It had to be the hornets’ venom, working even faster than the gnome had predicted. The weakness terrified her—it was as though her body was turning against her.

An exhaustion unlike anything she’d ever experienced made her limbs feel like lead. It was hard not to give in to the pull of the enormous bed and simply close her eyes.

Was this what humans felt like when they needed to sleep?

“How did I get here?” Corinthe asked.

“We brought you here,” a familiar voice said.

Surprise gave Corinthe new strength. She forced herself to sit up and turned around. In one corner was a stone fireplace; Luc stood in front of it, backlit by the glow. It took Corinthe a minute to decipher the expression on his face.

Hatred. It had to be. The fierceness of his eyes, the way his arms were crossed, the set of his jaw.

For a second, Corinthe couldn’t speak. “Why didn’t you kill me?” she blurted out finally. Corinthe remembered, now, how she had all but dared him to kill her. Why hadn’t he? She would have, in his place.

But immediately, a tiny flicker of doubt tickled inside her chest. Would she have? She had already failed to do so.

She forced the doubt from her mind. It was a mistake—nothing else.

“I’m not a killer,” Luc said. He crossed the room and stood next to the bed, and she found herself unconsciously shrinking away from him. It wasn’t fear, though. The harsh accusation in his eyes bothered her in a way nothing had before. He thought she was a killer. But that wasn’t true. Not really.

She thought of all the beautiful fates she had executed: the births and the last-minute redemptions, the children she had brought home after they were lost, the kisses and the reunions and the hope given to humans who despaired.

The patron saint of lost causes …

“You don’t know me,” Corinthe said, and was surprised that her voice was trembling. “Don’t pretend you do.”

Luc rolled his eyes. He didn’t hate her, perhaps. He just didn’t care about her at all. This thought knifed through her, suddenly painful.

“Look, I’m sick of your riddles. Just tell me what you’ve done to my sister.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Corinthe was growing frustrated. This fate was far different from anything she’d been tasked with. Complicated. Unclear. Things were supposed to be clear; that was the point of fate. “I didn’t even know you had a sister.” Pain shot through her temples and she pressed her hands to her head, as though she could drive back the sudden ache.

Rhys bent over her and felt her forehead. “Still warm,” he murmured. “How long has the poison been in your blood?” he asked her.

“What poison?” Luc broke in.

Corinthe ignored him. “I’m not sure,” she told Rhys. “I—I can’t remember very clearly.”

“What poison?” Luc repeated. He sounded almost angry.

“Looks like hornets’ venom.” It was Rhys who answered. “Almost certainly fatal.”

Rhys placed a hand on her back and made Corinthe inhale. Then he felt the pulse in her neck. His rough hands were surprisingly gentle. When he rolled up her sleeves to explore her wounds, she let out a weak, guttural cry. The leeches had left dark welts all over her skin. Mags cawed softly, and even Luc went pale, which unaccountably gave Corinthe some small satisfaction. She refused to show fear in front of him.

“Leeches, eh? Not my first choice. But they’ll do in a pinch. Probably bought you a little more time.”

“She’s … she’s going to die?” Luc stared disbelievingly at Corinthe.

“Might do,” Rhys said curtly. Corinthe’s stomach tightened, but at least he was telling her the truth. “All depends.” His white eye seemed to fix on her, and she felt, strangely, as though he were staring directly into her. “Strange for someone like you. You ain’t supposed to die, are you?” He had lowered his voice, so that Luc couldn’t hear.

Corinthe couldn’t answer immediately. He knew what she was? Or what she had been. She drew her hand away. “I was exiled,” she said in a whisper.

He patted her hand and leaned in close to whisper back, “Happens to the best of us.”

She wanted to ask what he meant—had Rhys been exiled, too? From where? But Luc took a step closer to the bed. She noticed that he refused to look at her directly. “Can’t you just give her one of your vials?”

“What do you care?” Corinthe asked.

Now it was Luc’s turn to ignore her. “You have to do something,” he said to Rhys. “You said you were a healer, right?”

Rhys shoved his cap back and rubbed his forehead, frowning. “I can’t stop the poison, but I might manage to slow it down,” he said. “I need to head back to the raft. Got some pinches and potions out there.”

“I’ll go,” Luc said, too quickly.

“You don’t know what to look for, boy. You stay here and watch over our guest.”

Corinthe was about to protest, but Rhys had already turned and stumped out of the cave. Mags swooped after him.

Luc still refused to look at her and an uncomfortable silence stretched between them. Luc began to pace. Corinthe leaned back on her pillows, keeping her eyes on him. She felt a small spark of admiration. Luc was a mortal. He had traveled the Crossroad and been thrust into this awful world of sun and dust, and yet he was okay.

She had never had much respect for humans. They were too weak, too easily swayed and broken. But Luc was a survivor, just like she was. She had sensed it the moment she saw him on the boat. It was what had drawn her to him when she should have been focused on her task.

It was also what made her hesitate at the Marina.

Luc stopped in front of the fire, stoking it with a charred stick leaning in the corner. Corinthe knew it was an excuse to avoid talking to her. She vowed she wouldn’t speak first. But as the silence grew heavier, Corinthe couldn’t stand the weight of it. She couldn’t help it; she needed to say something—anything—but Luc spoke first.

“You’re dying.” His back was still to her, but she heard him perfectly.

“Rhys said he could buy me some time.” Was she actually trying to reassure him? Did he need that? “The poison won’t matter if I can just get home. I can regain my strength there and—”

“And try to kill me again?” When he turned to face her, his eyes were cold. “You’ve tried twice already, but maybe the third time’s a charm?”

“I was just following orders,” Corinthe said, then immediately regretted it. Too close. It was forbidden to discuss the marbles and what they revealed. Executors would have no power if humans knew what they were, and how they worked.

“Following orders?” Luc repeated. “What the hell are you talking about?”

He crossed the room fast—too fast. He was close enough that she could reach out and touch him. He smelled like citrus and salt and a little bit like sweat—and like something else, too. Something that reminded her of Pyralis. It made her want to bury her face in his neck and inhale until she was satisfied.

She curled her hands into fists and squeezed. She was confused. Her thoughts were like vapors: swirling, impossible to hold on to. It had to be the venom working its way through her veins. A wave of nausea washed over her body and she closed her eyes, feeling frustrated and helpless. How could she perform her last task if she was this weak? It was impossible. But so was failure. Going home depended on this. Seized with fear, she fumbled around her neck, checking for the locket. Thankfully, it was still there, safely tucked under her shirt.

“It’s not my decision,” she said, turning away from him. “That’s all I meant.”

He snorted. “So, what? Little green men told you to do it?”

She turned back to him. It occurred to her that he was making fun of her—thought she was crazy. “I told you,” she said coldly. “You wouldn’t understand.”

“Please.” Luc spread his hands wide. “Explain it to me.”

She couldn’t without telling him what she was. What she did.

“I knew it,” he said shortly. “You can’t give me a reason because you don’t have a reason. You off your meds or something?” He narrowed his eyes at her. “That woman in the car—the one who died. Was that you, too?”

Corinthe said nothing. For a second, they glared at each other. Luc exhaled forcefully, a cross between a snort and a laugh.

“And now you’re trying to make me crazy, too? Kidnapping my sister? Dragging me to this—place?” He was losing it. He spun in a circle, aiming a kick at a wooden chair and sending it skittering across the room.

“I told you.” Corinthe, too, was losing it. Her chest flashed hot and cold. Anger. She’d never been this angry before. “I didn’t even know you had a sister.”

“You’re a liar!” The words were an explosion. Luc whirled around to face her. He reached for something in his back pocket—a wallet—and then fished out an old, creased photograph. He leaned forward suddenly, and for the craziest second, Corinthe thought he was going to kiss her. Instead, he slammed the photograph on the wall, just a few inches from her head. “Where is she?”

Corinthe froze. The picture showed a girl with a long tangle of black hair, green eyes, a slightly crooked smile.

And a jasmine tattoo on the inside of her right wrist.

It seemed that the room shifted around Corinthe.

“I … I do know her,” Corinthe whispered, even as an alarm was going off in her head. Wrong, all wrong. Too many coincidences.

Except there were no coincidences.

Luc’s jaw hardened. He drew back and shoved the picture down into his wallet. “I knew it.”

“No. I saw her. I tried to help her, but …” She shook her head. She remembered the blaze of hot panic that had suddenly overtaken her, the way she had hacked at the flower that enclosed the girl. “I didn’t know she was your sister.”

“Tell me where to find her.” Luc’s voice was cold again.

An idea occurred to Corinthe. It was a risk—he would know, finally and for sure, that she wasn’t a mortal. But she couldn’t stand the way he was looking at her—the hatred in his eyes. “I can show you,” she said, licking her lips, which were dry again. “Bring me that bowl of water.” She pointed to the cart Rhys had set up earlier.

Luc stared at her for several long seconds before moving to the stand next to the bed. He carefully set the bowl in front of Corinthe, then straightened up and crossed his arms. Clearly, he still thought she was—what had he said?—off her meds. Crazy. Another human word.

It didn’t matter. She would give him this gift; she would show him.

Corinthe unfastened one of the crystal earrings from her ears—miraculously, they were still in place—and used the sharp tip to pierce her pointer finger. Luc let out a small noise of protest. A tiny drop of blood welled up. She shook it out over the water, wincing even as she did. She was so weak.

Life from life; even now, she could feel her energy swirling away.

The blood writhed across the water, dispersing. As it stilled, an image coalesced: Jasmine lying in the middle of a giant flower, encased by the bright blue petals. Vines wrapped around her arms and one pierced her skin right below the tattoo. She looked paler than before, and blue veins crisscrossed her skin.

Luc exhaled. A look of intense pain passed across his face, as though he’d been hit. He sat heavily on the bed next to Corinthe, leaning closer. His shoulder pressed against hers, and for a second she focused on the feel of him so close, on his smell.

Energy—pure and white—passed suddenly through her body, just as it did when she drew it from the gardens at the rotunda.

Her pulse sped up.

She could stitch from people, too? There had never been a need to; she had always been strong enough that the trees, the oceans, and the earth below sustained her in Humana.

Luc reached out and touched the reflection. It became distorted; Jasmine’s image rippled.

“What … what the hell is happening to her?” Lucas could barely get the words out.

“She’s being turned into a Blood Nymph.”

Corinthe looked up at the sound of Rhys’s voice. She hadn’t heard him come back into the room. Neither had Luc, judging by the way he jumped. Mags sat on Rhys’s shoulder, still, uncharacteristically silent, like an onyx statue. Corinthe stared at Rhys, who held a small vial in his hand. How was he able to see—to feel—the image in the water?

“A what?” Luc asked.

“It means she’ll die soon.” Rhys was carrying a woven basket. He set it on a wooden table, and began sorting through it. “A part of her will, anyway. Her body will live. She’ll have to feed in order to survive.”

“Feed?” Luc nearly choked on the word. “What does that mean?”

Neither Corinthe nor Rhys answered. Corinthe felt a pulse go through her. Pity. She had a sudden urge to squeeze Luc’s hand. But she didn’t.

Luc stood up, nearly overturning the bowl of water. The image of Jasmine broke apart. He raked a hand through his hair. “Can I stop it? Can I save her?”

“Maybe,” Rhys said. He stood, frowning, staring at the ground. Then he said, “I’ve heard say the nectar from the Flower of Life can cure any poison known or unknown, though I’ve never had the opportunity to see it myself.”

Corinthe’s entire body went rigid and she pursed her lips—not daring to say a word. Her heart beat frantically, thumping against her chest so hard she was certain they’d hear.

Rhys placed the vial down and walked over to the fireplace, where he pulled something out of a recessed hole in the cave’s wall. He brought it back to the bed.

The book had a faded leather cover and yellow edges, held closed by a rawhide string that wrapped around it several times. Rhys carefully unwound the string and thumbed through page after page of intricate sketches of flowers and wildlife. If it had been another time, Corinthe would have asked for him to slow down so she could study them. Whoever did them was a talented artist; the flowers looked like they were growing right off the page, and Corinthe felt that if she could only handle the book herself, she might be able to draw life straight out of it. She felt desperate, thirsty for a life energy to replenish what she had lost.

Rhys’s fingers moved deftly over the illustrations, as though he was feeling their contours. “Grows only at the center of the universe. I have a picture somewhere. … Here it is. The Flower of Life.” Rhys tapped his finger on the page.

Corinthe sucked in a breath. It was true. She knew that flower, had seen it thousands of times. Seeing the great purple petals, the fernlike leaves that feathered around the stem, made her ache with longing. There was only one growing in the Great Gardens; as a Fate, she had often stared through the heavy iron gate that guarded the Gardens to wonder at its beauty.

The Flower of Life was in constant bloom, surrounded for miles by fields of lush grass in either direction. It grew in the very edge of the Great Gardens of Pyralis Terra. But as a Fate, she was forbidden to approach it.

And she knew that anyone who plucked it would die.

“This flower will cure her?” Luc sounded skeptical.

“Any poison, known or unknown,” Rhys repeated. “The nectar is the only antidote.” He pointed to the center of the flower.

Corinthe’s pulse sped up; already, she felt stronger as she began to formulate a plan in her head.

Luc.

Luc was the answer. He would bring her to Pyralis.

If she could stitch his energy—if she could draw it the way she drew it from the flowers and trees—she just might make it to Pyralis. And once they arrived at the gardens, there would be plenty of life to pull from. She could restore her former strength and finish her final task as an Executor. She could kill him and reclaim her rightful place in Pyralis at last. But she had to convince Luc that he needed to take her with him. …

Luc had returned to the bed. He pulled the book onto his lap and studied the picture of the flower intently, as if he were memorizing it. Dark hair fell over his eyes, and she had a wild urge to brush it away. He shifted a fraction of an inch closer, so their knees touched through their jeans, and she tried to ignore how good it felt to be touching him, even in this small way. Suddenly, the thought of hurting him made her feel sick.

But it was the only way.

And feelings, she knew, were a sign that she was growing weaker. They were a sign that she would die.

“I know where the flower grows,” Corinthe said. “I can take you there.”

Luc slammed the book shut. “Forget it,” he said, without looking at her.

“You’ll never find it on your own,” she said neutrally.

“How do I get there?” Luc asked Rhys, as if Corinthe hadn’t even spoken.

Rhys shook his head as he picked up his vial. “She’s right. The pathways between the worlds are confusing and treacherous. Easy to get lost if you don’t know where to go.”

“But you can tell me. You know things.”

“Some things aren’t meant to be known, boy,” Rhys said.

“More riddles!” Luc practically shouted the words, and caused Rhys to stumble. His tray tipped and the vial fell to the floor, shattering at his feet. A sweet-smelling liquid pooled on the stone floor.

“Good thing there’s more where that came from,” Rhys said softly. He put the tray down and stepped over the broken glass, back toward the door.

“Rhys. I’m sorry. It’s just—”

“Never mind, Luc.” Rhys waved his hand wearily. “Never mind.”

After Rhys exited, Luc squatted and began to pick up the pieces of glass, placing them gently in the palm of his hand. He moved slowly and sullenly, like a child who had been reprimanded. He was desperate; Corinthe could feel it. Now was her chance.

Corinthe lifted the chain around her neck and pushed the tiny button on the back of the locket. It sprang open and tinny music filled the room as the tiny ballerina pirouetted.

He turned toward her.

“The flower grows in the Great Gardens of Pyralis. My home. This key can help us to find the gateway and navigate the Crossroad. It will lead us to Pyralis.” She turned to Luc. “I can help you get there quickly.”

Luc snorted. “Help me?” He shook his head. “Why would you help me? How do I know you won’t use the flower for yourself?”

“I don’t need the flower,” Corinthe said. “Like I tried to tell you, I just need to get home. My strength will be restored once I set foot on the ground.” She could hear the pleading in her voice but she couldn’t help herself. “You heard what the Healer said. I’m dying. I’m almost out of time. And I need you because I’ll never make it alone. You need me, too. You’ll never find your way without my help. We need each other now.”

“What about your orders?” Luc asked.

Corinthe held his gaze. She needed to get to Pyralis, to regain her strength so that she could fulfill her last task, but Luc would never take her with him if he thought she’d try to kill him again. “I couldn’t hurt you right now even if I wanted to,” she said. It was not a direct answer to his question, but it was not a lie, either.

He stared at her as she closed the locket and tucked it back in her shirt. His gaze was unreadable.

Staring at him, trying to determine what he was thinking, she had a sudden memory of seeing a library for the first time: carved wooden shelves that held so many words, so many messages, encoded and unread, so many things humans felt they needed to say to one another. It was the first time she had ever felt the urge to cry.

The distance between them seemed to shrink. She could almost feel his breath on her cheek. Neither moved as the tension grew, vibrated between them. A tightness gripped her chest, making her lungs work extra hard to get air in and out.

“This doesn’t mean I trust you,” Luc said finally. He turned abruptly and stalked out of the cave, as though to prevent himself from taking back the words.

Corinthe exhaled. So. It was agreed.

Rhys cleared his throat to alert her to his presence, a small smile carved crookedly on his face. He moved deeper into the room and arranged his tray. He tipped a small vial into a glass of water. “This won’t stop the poison from doing its job,” he said as he stirred the mixture together, “but it will slow the process. Maybe give you enough time …” His voice trailed off and he handed the glass to her, his white eye unblinking.

If she didn’t know better, she’d swear Rhys knew what she planned to do.

She wanted to explain but thought better of it.

“Thank you,” she said. She swallowed the bitter contents of the glass. She hesitated, then spoke quietly. “I … don’t make the decisions of the universe. They aren’t up to me, you know.” For a moment, she felt a wave of sadness. She would never be able to explain to Luc; she had never been able to explain to anyone.

Loneliness: that was the word.

Rhys reached out and squeezed her hand.

“You have a tough journey ahead. I don’t envy you. But just remember—it is the voyage that’s the test, ain’t it?”

Corinthe nodded, even though she didn’t exactly understand what he meant.

“Take this,” he said, placing a second tiny vial into her hands. It was the same color as the liquid he had just given her.

Corinthe’s chest felt tight. “Thank you,” she said, fighting to find the words. “For everything.” Already she felt stronger. She pushed off her blankets and managed to stand up. For a second, black clouds consumed her vision, but they dissipated quickly. She smiled—and then, struck with an idea, removed the other crystal earring and pressed the pair into Rhys’s palm.

“For you,” she said. There was more she wanted to say. She wanted to ask him where he had come from, and why he’d been exiled, and whether he was some kind of Guardian for this planet, like Miranda in Humana. But thinking of Miranda made her chest ache, and she couldn’t get the words out.

He held up the earrings to the light. Mags hopped up and down on her perch, emitting several excited high-pitched shrieks.

“Beautiful.” His voice sounded wistful as the crystals scattered bright diamonds of colored lights over the walls.

“Can you … can you see, truly?” Corinthe asked.

Rhys smiled. “I see with my mind,” he said. “That’s enough.”

“Yes,” Corinthe agreed, and squeezed his callused hand.

Rhys coughed. “You’ll need these,” he said, his voice turning gruff again. He handed her a pair of worn leather boots and a thick canvas pack. “The journey over the mountains is a rough one. The nights get bitter cold, so I packed a few things you might need to get through.”

Corinthe slipped her feet into the boots and laced them up. They were a little big, but that didn’t matter. Then she shouldered the pack.

“Are you ready?” Luc stood at the mouth of the cave. His mouth was set in a line. Corinthe nodded.

She was ready.

Rhys pulled a folded piece of paper from another hole in the cave wall. He handed it to Luc. “A full day’s walk over the mountain, there is a river of darkness that runs in two directions. It’s rumored to be a gateway, though I’ve never tried to use it myself. The map should lead you straight to it, as long as you stay on the path.”

“Thank you,” Luc said. Corinthe said nothing. She had already spoken her thanks—had spoken the words and felt them insufficient.

“I hope you both find what you’re looking for,” Rhys said. “Safe journeys, my friends.”

Corinthe felt Rhys watching them, long after they had pushed out of the mouth of the cave, long after they had once again emerged into the land of blazing sun and chalky heat. She was grateful that Rhys hadn’t said anything to Luc, hadn’t told him who she was or what she must do.

Even though he knew—he must have known—that their journey could end only one way.