Rahn looked at Talia on her throne, and smiled. “You do very well, my daughter.”
The scene changed again, and Talia wrestled with Rahn in a field of bones, clawing for the Star on the goddess’s finger. They fought for centuries as the world wheeled around them, and at last Talia was triumphant and claimed the Star as her own. She struck Rahn with its cold fire, and when the goddess fell dead to the ground Talia slid it onto her own hand. She felt the power surge through her, and she knew no one would ever take anything from her ever again.
Beyond the field of bones, the sea lapped upon the shore, and suddenly, she saw the shadow of someone she had once known: a boy, weighed down with chains. He looked very sad.
“Talia,” he said, coming near her. “You have to let it go.”
But she would not relinquish the Star, not even for this boy. She could do only one thing for him. “Be at peace,” she whispered, and touched the Star gently to his forehead. “Goodbye, Wen.” He smiled at her and dissolved like smoke into the air, going at last to his rest beyond the world.
And then she was wholly alone.
Chapter Thirty-Eight
TALIA. TALIA. TALIA.”
She took a breath and opened her eyes. She was crouched in the hallway outside of her room, her throat raw from screaming, her face wet with tears. She had no memory of leaving the library.
Wen knelt beside her, his face wracked with worry. “Talia,” he repeated softly. “It’s okay. You’re okay.”
She focused on breathing, in and out and in again, willing herself to regain her calm. But she couldn’t seem to stop shaking.
He folded his hand around hers, rubbed his thumb over her skin. “What’s wrong? What did you see?”
“Nothing,” she sobbed. “Nothing.” He was alive. Wen was still alive. Whatever awful future the mirror had shown her hadn’t happened yet.
He studied her, serious, alarmed. “Please, Talia. You’ve been missing three days from the Ruen-Shained. I know you went into the mirror room.”
She felt numb and weak and impossibly thirsty. She scooted back from him and leaned against the wall, hugging her knees to her chest.
“I could help you, you know,” Wen said when she still didn’t answer. “With the things you saw. With whatever it is you mean to do about them.”
She saw him falling dead to the sand, Rahn and her army striding over his body.
She saw him fade into nothing as she stood on the field of bones, an all-powerful goddess.
Alone.
She couldn’t tell Wen the truth about the Ruen-Dahr—how it chose guardians, how it had chosen him—not if she wanted to save him. He would try to stop her. Aigir’s tears, he would take his role as guardian too seriously and try to help her. And then her visions would come true.
“Talia?” His eyes pierced through her.
By all the gods who ever walked the earth, she wanted to save him. “You could still go to University,” she said, forcing her voice steady. “It isn’t too late. You deserve a chance to share your music with the world. A chance at happiness.” The words hurt, and she didn’t know why.
“Gods,” he swore softly. “You don’t understand at all, do you?”
“Understand what?”
The intensity in his gaze was hard to bear. “I could never be happy anywhere without you.”
The admission startled her so much she almost told him everything. But instead she asked him, “Did you see me in the mirror?”
He looked away.
“What did you see?”
Wen put his head in his hands. His voice came rough and ragged, and she knew what he would say before he said it: “I saw you sailing from the coast of the Ruen-Dahr in a ship with patchwork sails.”
“What happens?”
For a moment he was silent, and the world seemed to suck in a breath, waiting for his answer.
He lifted his face and his eyes were wet. “You drown. Just like my mother.”
“You said the future isn’t written yet,” she said fiercely.
“Then don’t go. Stay here. Change your fate.”
He didn’t understand—how could he? The gods themselves had woven together the threads of her fate and were pulling them tight. She was the descendant of the sea god Aigir, the only one who could even attempt to confront Rahn and free the dead. If Wen’s vision was true she would fail. But if she stayed Wen would die, and all the world with him.
There wasn’t even a choice for her to make.
Wen was still waiting for her answer.
“I’ll stay,” she promised.
She went back to the Ruen-Shained, her mother’s note burning a hole in her pocket, Wen’s knowing gaze burning a hole in her heart.
Chapter Thirty-Nine
SHE STOOD ON THE FRONT STEPS OF the Ruen-Dahr and looked out into the night, a cool wind rushing past her face. Clouds were knotting over the stars, but there was still enough moonlight to see by. It shouldn’t delay her.
Music drifted from inside the house, fiddles and drums, a flute and the faint sweet notes of a harp—Blaive’s party was just getting started.
She ought to be on her way. She’d gotten what she came for, the two items tucked safely in the leather knapsack slung across her shoulder. The rest of her supplies were waiting in the cove: books and sea charts, the compass and sextant, a knife and matches and a waterproof tarp, rope and fishing equipment, salted meat and dried fruit.
She’d been busy the last few weeks, plotting out her course through the sea, reading and rereading the myths, making all the necessary preparations. She’d cross-checked the dates of the myths with her ancestor’s account, coming to the same conclusion over and over again. Nearly nine hundred years ago, Rahn had cursed the Billow Maidens to sing their haunted melodies and gather the dead in their terrible nets. That’s why the Waves were calling her now: Talia was the only one of Endain’s bloodline left to stand against Rahn, before the goddess used the power of the Star to curse them anew.
It was the final piece of the puzzle, the last knot in the weave of her fate.
The Waves were calling, and it was time to answer, time to save her mother and Wen and the world. To save herself.
But the thought of Wen kept her standing there.
He’d only visited her once at the Ruen-Shained after she’d lied to him. He told her the date of Blaive’s party. Asked her if she would come.
Now she was here.
She’d likely never see him again, and she realized she couldn’t go without saying goodbye.
Talia shrugged out of the knapsack, tucked it safe under the stair, and slipped into the house.
He was standing alone, just outside the huge doorway to the ballroom, dressed in a gray waistcoat and jacket, his cravat neatly tied. Hundreds of candles danced in the glittering chandeliers, the scent of beeswax and roses and spiced wine drifting out into the vestibule. Couples danced in glittering pairs, and Talia was thrown back to a year ago in Eddenahr, when Eda had burst into the Emperor’s ballroom and changed everything.
“Wen?” she said softly.
He turned from the door, and she felt her heart constrict as his eyes brightened at the sight of her. “You’re here,” he said. “You came.”