Sorrow's Peak (Serpent of Time Book 2) (43 page)

Her little sister.Her best friend. Gods, how she missed Mirien, how she worried for her. If Trystay went back to the castle, he would go after Mirien next. Of that she had no doubt. Would Pahjah protect her? Their mother? Neither woman lifted a finger to shield Lorelei from the inevitable, and she couldn’t imagine them doing it for Mirien either. Ygritte had reason to disconnect from both of her daughters. Lorelei reminded her of the love she lost. Mirien forced her to think about the life she didn’t want.

She needed to go back for her sister, get her out of there, but could she? The very thought of it made her feel like a fool. There was no telling what Lorelei herself was capable of, what twisted act the puppeteer god holding her strings might force her to perform. What if she hurt her sister? What if she brought nothing but death to everyone she cared about? Finn and Bren insisted they didn’t care, but Lorelei cared. She didn’t want anyone she loved getting caught in the crossfire of whatever it was she was meant to do, even if they were prepared to sacrifice their own lives for her.

No. It was better not to let anyone she cared about at all get anywhere near her, and for the briefest of moments she knew the best course of action would be to pack her things and slip out alone before someone noticed she was leaving.

She stared into her own eyes, her vision clearer than it had been in a very long time. The bursts of citrine against brilliant amber reminded her of fire, and though it should have been something she felt, its flame inside her was so small it left her feeling cold and empty and confused.

Her inner-fire was as false as the Alvarii sunlight streaming through the window, warming the air like the breath of a mid-summer afternoon wavering humidly through the trees. She could feel the heat of it, though it was untrue, and leaning toward it, away from the mirror, she crossed her hands through the brilliant, golden-white stream of it pouring through the glass. Dust motes stirred with the movement of her hand, twirling and dancing like tiny specks of light across her throbbing, blood-smeared palm. It was unbelievably bright, that light, convincing her, just as Bren promised, she wasn’t underground at all, but basking in the true light of Heidr’s all-seeing eye.

She felt like that underground city. A right farce of a savior, if ever there was one. Everything about her was false, including the strange elements from which her soul was crafted. Just a vessel, she felt empty inside, yet so full to bursting with things she couldn’t name or grasp or even begin to try and explain.

Curling and uncurling her fingers, she ignored the stinging cut across her palm and let the particles dancing through the light touch her. Odd, how quickly it struck her as she watched them pirouette and dance. Touched by that light, awareness burned through her the way the light of a torch eats away the darkness.

All along she’d been sending prayers to the wrong deity, seeking guidance from Llorveth and sometimes Madra. In the temple in Drekne, she’d tried to feel the god’s presence, attempted to call for guidance while she sat in Llorveth’s temple in Dunvarak beside her brother, but she’d felt nothing. No connection, no understanding and certainly no direction. Logren said the god would speak to her when the time was right, but what if Llorveth never spoke to her? What if the god she should have been seeking guidance from was the grandfather of the world, the creator of all things himself?

“Heidr,” she muttered, a whisper between her lips so soft she scarcely heard it spoken, “please. Help me.”

And as if in answer a sharp rap sounded at the door, quick knuckles thumping tentatively across the wood and making her jump back in dismay. She hadn’t expected an answer so soon…

She hadn’t locked the door behind her, and before she even had a chance to call out for whoever it was to go away, the handle jiggled and the portal swung forward into the room. Conflicted relief flooded her senses, comfort warming through her when she saw him standing in the frame, broad shoulders stiff, head held high as if he were bursting through to her rescue. Maybe he was. She didn’t know anymore.

“I meant what I said down there.” He held up one of the napkins, bulging with food he’d taken from the table, and when she looked up at his face she couldn’t deny how much lighter she felt just to see him grinning in that way she’d grown so fond of since she’d met him. “You really should eat something.”

She feigned exasperation, throwing up her hands and taking a step toward him. “Honestly, Finn. How can you eat?”

“Easy,” he shrugged, shuffling further into the room and turning back just long enough to close the door behind him. “I lift the food to my lips and…” Another shrug, his analogy self-explanatory and then he walked toward her with that napkin full of morsels from the table downstairs.

“You’re impossible.” She laughed a little.

“Nah, just hungry. Come on, I brought you some of those little pastries.”

Before she could offer further protest, Finn spread the napkin open on the lower-half of the bed and edged up to have a seat beside it. He patted the mattress across from him expectantly, tilting his head and leveling her completely with an irresistible grin.

She only hesitated for a moment, curling her fingers over the throbbing cuts across her palm and then making her way to the seat he’d patted. Without a word, he began nibbling one of those pastries, holding another one out for her to take. She accepted it, reluctantly, and though she probably would have just held it in her hand and never brought it to her lips, the look he gave her told her he would stand for no such thing.

She ate it slowly, flaking bits of the pastry crust between her lips and chewing with great care. It really was delicious, the flavor stimulating hunger and prompting her to take another bite and then another.

Finn stared down at the hand she still held clenched in her lap, flecks of blood drying across her fingernails catching his attention. “What’d you do to your hand?”

“Something stupid,” she muttered with a sigh.

Reaching out, he took her wrist and lifted the fisted hand to have a look. Gentle thumb brushed across her knuckles, urging the fingers to unclench. Clicking his tongue against the back of his teeth, it was a sympathetic sound that reminded her of the gentleness and care with which Pahjah always tended to her scrapes and bruises when she was a reckless little girl.

“How?”

“I told you already, it was stupid. I was angry and…” The words faded, like the foolish anger that drove her to try and tear the amulet free. “I felt really dumb, so I did something equally idiotic.”

“You’re not… Why do you feel dumb?”

“I don’t know. I just…” The words were there, tainted with shame that tilted her gaze toward the bed for fear he’d actually see just how foolish she was if he looked into her eyes. Without a thought, he reached for her chin and drew her head back up, his intense blue eyes urging her wordlessly to share her foolishness with him. “I got really angry with Rognar,” she confessed. “It was my own fault, I suppose. I let myself fall prey to Logren’s kind words about the man, but all the evidence was right in front of me all along.”

“Evidence?” That word confused him, his brow furrowing. “What are you talking about?”

“He didn’t care for his children. I mean, it was right there how little he obviously cared about my brother and his first wife. He just set them aside so easily and took up with my mother and only the gods know who else in between…”

“You don’t know that, Lorelei.”

“I don’t have to know it. I can feel it. Your people,” she started, hesitating as she tried to find the right words without sounding like a fool. She hated drawing a line of distinction between the U’lfer and herself; after all, in some small way she was one of them thanks in no small part to her promiscuous father’s inability to commit. She supposed she should thank Rognar for that, after all, she was alive, but at the moment she didn’t feel much like thanking her father for anything. “The U’lfer mate for life, beyond life as they run the hunt in Lohaloth, but Rognar didn’t care about the mate bond. He probably didn’t even care about my mother. Had he lived, he’d have set her aside just like he did with Galisa when she no longer piqued his interest.”

“You have no idea what happened between Rognar and Galisa, or with your mother, for that matter. Only Logren might know, but I doubt even he has a clue. He was just a kid.”

Lorelei ignored him, allowing the full brunt of her own emotions to swell and escape her. “And you know what really gets me? I spent my whole life fighting against the way Aelfric used us, my sister and me. We were little more than pawns in some game he played, and no matter how much I protested and begged for the right to make my own choices, I didn’t matter to him until I won him the right alliance with my hand. And then I find out he wasn’t even my father and like an idiot I let myself get drawn into this noble idea of a father who might have actually cared about me because I was his child. He was no different. I was just a game piece to Rognar too. A bargaining chip he offered over to the Heidr to save his people…”

“Is that what you really think?”

“That’s what Gwendoliir said, Finn. I know you were busy stuffing your face down there, but I wasn’t. I was paying attention. Rognar sold me out to Heidr before I was even born…”

“He didn’t sell you out,” he insisted. “Maybe he knew in his heart you were going to be this amazing heroine, the blood of his blood. Maybe the Light of Madra paid a visit to him too and told him it was what he was meant to do.”

That thought struck her, confusing her mind enough that she didn’t say anything for a long time after he spoke. Instead, she nibbled quietly on the pastry in her hand, barely even tasting it before she swallowed.

“I don’t know, Finn. All of that stuff still feels too unreal inside my mind. I mean, if what Gwendoliir said was true, and Heidr was somehow involved in the crafting of my soul it would make sense, I guess, but why can’t I just be…”

When she didn’t finish her thought, he asked, “Just be what? Normal?”

“Yes,” she nodded. “Why can’t I just have a normal life like everybody else?”

“Bah,” he withdrew his hand from her chin. “Who wants to be normal? Normal is boring.”

Her childhood was filled with grand imagination, thoughtful daydreams of a future filled with excitement and adventure. As per her daydreams, she was in the midst of an adventure so grand she wasn’t even sure she wanted it anymore. On the other hand, she didn’t want to live a quiet or submissive life she had no control over. It was all so confusing and terrifying, and every time she heard Pahjah’s voice inside her mind, reassuring her the gods gave the world nothing it couldn’t handle, she didn’t quite believe it.

“Look, Princess, for reasons we will probably never understand, your father gave you two gifts. Your wolf spirit and a tie to the All-Creator. You can look at it like a curse if you want to, but I’d say you’re pretty damn lucky to have advantages the rest of us can’t even begin to imagine.”

“Advantages like this come with so much responsibility,” she pointed out, “and expectation. There’s no instruction manual for them. I don’t even know what I’m capable of, Finn. How is that an advantage?”

After a moment’s careful thought, he shrugged his shoulders, popped the last bite of pastry into his mouth and started to chew. Mouth half-full, he said, “You’ll always have the advantage of surprise.”

She started to laugh, the absurdity of his logic a strange relief amid the chaos of the entire situation. Laughter had great power, and as it trembled through her entire body she felt lighter than she had in a long time. It was absurd, but it was true. Not knowing what she was capable of meant the possibilities were limitless; until proven false, anything could be accomplished.

Sobering with the realization, their laughter ebbed, but she was still smiling. When Finn reached over to take her hand again, uncurling her fingers and looking down at the surface wounds caused by her own temper and stupidity, he shook his head.

“Looks like it stings a bit,” he noted. “We should probably get a healer to look at it. Bandage it up, or whatever. You won’t be able to wield a proper blade if you can barely grip it, and even if you are shite with a blade for now, a shite swordsman is better than no swordsman at all.”

“Hey!” She brought her free hand up and slapped at the thick muscle of his arm, a playful swat that deepened the dimples in his cheeks as he grinned. “I am not a shite swordsman!” Laughing, she confirmed, “I’m a shite swordswoman! And only because I’ve had so little practice or opportunity. I do try, though.”

“Well then, let’s get you bandaged up and practice your moves in that garden out back. I’m sure all those stuffy Alvarii servants will absolutely love it as you’re hacking and slashing your way through their delicate plants.”

“All right,” she conceded.

“That’s my girl.”

It struck her when he said that, just how true those words were. She was his, just as he was hers. And maybe the bond between them was only superficial, the barest thread holding them together until the time was right, but that bond was the only reliable thing she had in her life.

Finn was the one thing that made sense.

“I am, you know,” she told him. “Your girl, I mean.”

“Oh, I
know
you are,” he said, pulling back his hand and lowering it onto his thigh. He winked at her before rising from the edge of the bed, repeating, “I’ve just been waiting for you to figure it out.”

“You are such an egomaniac.”

“Princess, you have no idea.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

Gwendoliir slowed enough for Brendolowyn to catch up to him, the two of them walking side by side in silence through the streets of Nua Duaan for several blocks before the mage finally worked up the courage to ask, “Is Jonolov Silver-Tongue hiding something?”

The old seer did not appear shaken, not on the surface at least, but when he turned a squinting eye in Bren’s direction the look he wore was far more telling. The King Under the City
was
hiding something, something substantial, judging from the sharp sheen of Gwendoliir’s gaze, which he just as quickly diverted back to the bustling street before them.