Corvan.
A tear slips down his cheek, touching the corner of his mouth.
I go up on my tiptoes and kiss him.
He returns my kiss with sweetness and light, in spite of his obvious grief.
If I could take away all his pain, I would.
Our lips meet. His blood makes my mouth tingle. It’s the magic in him, reacting with mine.
“Finley,” he whispers, and the way he says my name just shatters me, because I know he needs me more than anything right now.
He kisses me back, taking control. His mouth is insistent and demanding; savage and gentle.
“Thank you,” he murmurs, holding me in his warm embrace. He’s so big and reassuring. It’s hard to imagine that he was on the verge of killing the dying emperor just moments ago.
Whatever for? I didn’t do anything special.
“For reminding me that there’s more to this life than suffering and revenge. And that I have much to do before I let this empire fall into ruin.” He gently releases me and walks toward the window. There’s a small door at one end, made from the same panelled glass as the widows. He turns the brass handle.
It opens with a creak, admitting a crisp gust of wind from outside.
Corvan walks into the small garden.
I follow.
His demeanor has changed. Grief, rage, and sorrow have disappeared, tucked behind an enigmatic mask. I can decipher him, though. I’m probably the only one that can.
He walks toward the pond and squats down beside it, peeling off his gloves and cupping his hands.
He sluices water over his face.
Then he rises to his feet and steps into the pond.
“Corvan,” I gasp, but then I remember what his father said.
There’s something in the pond.
Corvan strides forward through the knee-high water until he reaches the center of the pond. He reaches down and retrieves something.
A metal box. It’s covered in a green and white patina.
Corvan locks eyes with me. His mask is back in place; strong, resolute, determined.
Unbreakable.
His powerful strides make waves in the water as he returns to my side.
Fascinated, we both stare at the box.
“What could it possibly be?” I ask.
“An admission that my father knew he’d done wrong.” A look of wry resignation crosses Corvan’s face. “For him to keep something like this so close to him, yet buried in plain sight…”
“At least he had enough of a heart to keep it for you.”
His expression turns grim. “I always found it difficult to understand his intentions. I don’t know if he’s left me a parting gift or a curse. Let’s find out.”
He steps out of the pond, water sluicing off his leather armor and his boots. There must be an oil-coating on his armor, because the water dries almost instantaneously.
Corvan wipes away some of the pond-slime and patina, revealing a waterproof wax seal that runs all around the box. He whips out a dagger from somewhere on his body and deftly runs the tip of the blade along the seal, severing it.
He balances the box on his other hand. It’s about twice the size of his hand.
He cracks the lid.
I hold my breath.
There’s another box inside, made of waxed leather and sealed with red wax on all sides. It’s perfectly dry.
Corvan slices around the seal and opens it.
I hold my breath.
Inside are two things.
A lock of deep black hair, tied with a black ribbon.
A sealed envelope made of thick cream colored parchment, the surface textured and luxurious.
I’ve never seen paper like that before. On the back of the envelope is a crimson wax seal bearing an insignia.
Corvan lets out a deep, shuddering sigh. He sheaths his blade and gently picks up the lock of hair and holds it to his nose, inhaling deeply.
He closes his eyes. His expression becomes distant, as if he’s been transported to another dimension.
For a heartbeat, I’m taken aback. Whose hair is that? But then it hits me. From the snippets I overheard of Corvan and Valdon Duthriss’s conversation, I deduce that it must belong to his mother.
Empress Helia Duthriss.
She’s revered throughout the empire. It was widely said that she died of a terrible illness, but now we know the truth, and the truth is mind-blowing and heartbreaking.
How is it that we all grew up knowing nothing at all?
Now it makes perfect sense that Corvan’s a vampire. His mother was from a mysterious tribe high up in the mountains. From a people that have magic flowing through their veins—just as my mother does.
But he’s also half-human, and his human half had to die before he came into his true powers.
How callous of his father to leave him in the dark about all of this, forcing Corvan to figure it out himself.
Was this his way of trying to keep him under control? Was he afraid of how powerful Corvan would become if he knew the truth?
Because if he’d found out what had happened to his mother earlier, Corvan surely would have killed Valdon. By revealing these secrets on his deathbed, Valdon denied his son the opportunity to seek justice.
And he knew—that bastard knew—that Corvan would have no choice but to take control when the empire started to fall into chaos.
Now I can see why Valdon Duthriss was unopposed in Rahava for almost the entirety of his reign.
What a calculating bastard.
Corvan sheaths his dagger. He gently places the lock of hair back inside the box and picks up the envelope.
I reach out, offering to take the box.
His hands tremble as he gives it to me. His eyes are filled with sorrow—and yet he’s trusting me with this most precious memento.
He shakes his head. “For him to keep this… the bastard must’ve truly had feelings for her.”
I’m quiet. There’s nothing I can say that can possibly make things better.
I don’t know what lies inside that envelope, but I’m certain it’s going to shake Corvan’s world.
53
CORVAN
Filled with trepidation, I open the damn envelope.
Enough, already. Get it over and done with.
Part of me wants to leave it unread until after I deal with Ansar and the Talavarras and their infernal stupidity. Only the truly craven could delve into the forbidden arts of necromancy. It’s an affront to Hecoa herself and a grave insult to the dead—stealing them away from the underworld to animate their decaying corpses.
But this envelope has my mother’s sweet fragrance all over it.
Perhaps that’s why father had it sealed away and hidden underwater; so her scent would be preserved over the years. Perhaps he knew that someday, my sense of smell would grow so acute that I’d be able to detect the faintest remnant of her presence.
I almost drop to my knees.
Oh, the memories that come flooding in, hitting me with the force of the midday sunshine.
Scent is a powerful thing. I didn’t realize how powerful until now.
And the one thing that stops me from slipping into the past is her scent. As my mother’s sweet fragrance—of her favorite perfume, irises—lingers in my consciousness, another scent surrounds me, and it’s the one that’s brought me back to sanity over and over again.
It’s here. It’s now.
It’s her.
And there is nothing that affects me more powerfully than her.
She edges closer, resting her hand on my arm. Her touch grounds me, as if she’s anchoring me to the earth itself. I wouldn’t mind if she could draw forth the branch-tendrils like she did before and tie me to the damn ground.