My chest tightens. My breathing intensifies. “What would you know about that?”
He lifts his dark glasses, revealing his eyes.
His gaze softens.
He’s never looked at me so tenderly before.
Why then, am I afraid?
“Finley, what I’m about to tell you might not be easy to hear, but it’s important that you know.”
“You know something,” I whisper, suddenly reminded that I hardly know this man. Is he using me? “You knew, and you didn’t tell me a thing. You had ample opportunity to do so. What are you playing at, Corvan Duthriss?”
Trust hangs between us by a thread, threatening to be swept away by the wind.
“Finley, I’m sorry.” He tips his head in apology. “It isn’t my intention to hurt you or keep secrets from you. Never that. But you were sent to me for a reason. My father’s behind it; he knows something that neither of us do. It’s no coincidence that you manifested magic back there. I thought Lucar Solisar might know, but he’s as ignorant as I when it comes to my father’s true intentions. He did, however, reveal a certain truth. An important one.”
“My mother,” I whisper. The sun above is so bright. The sky is so clear. The snow glitters brilliantly. But my thoughts are being suffocated by something vile and noxious.
Your mother didn’t want you, Finley. You were a mistake. She never wanted to be tied to me. But it doesn’t matter now. She’s dead.
Why have I never had room in my heart or my mind to acknowledge her existence?
To even wonder what she was like?
And now, when I try to imagine what she could have been, it feels like a very old wound, scarred over, is being ripped open.
My mind slowly starts to shatter. There are a thousand different fragments inside, like broken glass; painful memories that I’ve buried deep inside me, with the intention of never seeing them again.
I’m staring at Corvan’s face; at his tender eyes, filled with concern, but I’m far, far away.
I’m eight years old again. I’m in the great hall of Ruen Castle, sitting on the floor, and Lucar is there, and he has a cane in his hand.
My legs are covered in welts and bruises. The skin is broken in some places. I can barely walk. Gritting my teeth in pain, I look up at the man who claims to be my father.
I refuse to cry. I won’t give him the satisfaction.
“Stupid girl,” he snarls. “I told you never to go into that room.”
I say nothing. It’s pointless. He’ll just beat me harder.
“Your mother is dead, Finley. There’s nothing left of her in this castle. Do not defy me again.”
The doors burst open, and Dorava comes rushing in, hiking her skirts up as she crosses the cold stone floor. She doesn’t even spare me a glance. “Lucar, come quick. It’s an emergency.”
“What is it, Dorava?”
“Aderick… he was climbing a tree. He fell. His leg is broken.”
I watch as the color drains from the baron’s face. He whispers something under his breath, before turning to me. He raises the cane, his hand trembling, but he doesn’t strike me again. “This is all your fault,” he hisses.
Then they’re gone, leaving me alone in the cold hall. And somehow, I feel terrible guilt for something I couldn’t have possibly done.
“Corvan, what are you doing to me?” I whisper, suddenly back in my own skin; acutely aware of his gloved fingers curled around mine, at the way he looks at me, with fire in his eyes.
“I’m doing only thing I could think of,” he says at last, and there’s a tiny crack in his voice. “I interrogated your father before I ordered him to leave. He told me the truth about you. About who your mother is.”
“Is?” The ground falls away from beneath me. “Why did you say it like that?”
“Because I have reason to believe that she might still live.”
My heart clenches. My father’s cruel words echo in my mind. If she despised father, then surely she would despise me, for I am his child, after all. “So she left me, then.”
“She didn’t leave you,” Corvan retorts fiercely. “I believe she was trying to protect you by whatever means possible.”
Hope flickers in my chest, but it’s too cautious to ignite.
“Finley, your mother isn’t an ordinary mortal. You have some of that in you. Of her. That’s why I’m bringing you to the people that know about magic. The Khaturian shamans might be able to explain why you reacted the way you did to my blood.”
What if I don’t want to know about it?
I don’t even know her name.
I still don’t know my own mother’s name.
“And what will you do, Corvan, when you find out what I am?” My voice trembles. The glorious day means nothing in the face of my desperation.
“I just want you to be strong,” he says softly, squeezing my hand. “But sometimes, if you don’t feel like being strong, that’s all right too, because I’ll always protect you.”
He leans forward, and I know his intention right away. I bury my face in his shoulder as he wraps his arms around me and holds me.
He just holds me.
And after a while, he whispers in my ear. “Aralya. Your mother—that’s her name. And I’m going to do everything in my power to find her.”
35
FINLEY
Corvan drops us right into the center of the bloody village.
Just like that, we’re in the middle of Niize, the mysterious heart of the Khatur.
We stand there amongst the brightly decorated houses, on a stone and gravel path that’s been cleared of snow. The scent of woodsmoke fills my nostrils. I smell baking bread and something else; something sweet and laced with exotic spices.
The wind swirls around us. Corvan puts his arm around my waist and holds me close.
I feel his aura of protection. I feel like nothing in this world could possibly touch me.
Ever since he told me my mother’s name, I haven’t been able to speak. But now I need to be strong. I need to find the fire that’s sustained me for so long.
It comes from anger, and something else entirely.
Corvan waits. He holds me and stands perfectly still; expectant yet patient.
And after a while, a man appears.
A Khaturian.
The first thing that catches my attention is the color of his hair. It’s pale blue, the same hue as a cloudless sky. Arranged in a high topknot, it offers a startling contrast to the silvery grey of his skin. His ears are slightly pointed. His eyes are angular, with deep black sclera and amber-hued irises.
The man’s coat is made from a thick white pelt, the collar trimmed with ebony fur of which the strands are long and silken. I can’t even begin to imagine what animal it might have come from—perhaps more than one—but it looks awfully warm.
Beneath his coat, he wears a suit of pale, supple leather—almost the color of the snow. A pair of sword hilts emerges from his back, just above his waist; I catch a glimpse of wickedly curved blades hidden in pale leather sheaths.
Lithe and graceful, he walks up to us, but makes a point of avoiding eye contact with Corvan.
“Yenabe, O’Kral.” His voice is deep and resonant. He gives me a quick, appraising glance as he takes a step backwards.