She snatched her hand from his grip but didn’t speak. She didn’t know what to say.
“You’re so different from us, Neve, different in a way Solmir never could be.” He didn’t touch her again, but his eyes traced the angles of her face with such focus that it felt like he did. “Full of contradictions, full of love and anger in equal force, the two of them so tangled together, sometimes you can’t tell one from the other. You were cast in shadows long before he was ever part of your story, darkened from your endless need for control.”
Hot tears brimmed in her eyes, but Neve refused to let them fall. Refused to cry in front of a god.
“Think of this as a way to get all the control you’ve ever wanted,” Valchior murmured. His thumb skimmed her jawline, tilted up her chin. “You swallow the apocalypse and use the power of it to reshape the world. Isn’t that all you ever wanted to do, Neve? Make the world what you thought it should be?”
She didn’t move. His thumb beneath her chin held her still, kept her gaze locked on his.
“You’re stronger than him,” Valchior murmured. “Your soul can take it.”
You are good.
“Let me see him.” A whisper, a way to sidestep the answer the King wanted.
His lips pulled up into that crooked smile again. “A tragedy until the end.”
Slowly, his hand moved from her chin to her forehead. At the touch of his fingers to her brow, the illusion of his former self shattered. The pressure on her skin turned from warm flesh to rough, cold stone.
When Neve opened her eyes, Valchior’s monolithic true form was leaning back, once again a giant covered in a shroud. The spike of his crown was close enough for her to see its sharp edges, honed like blades.
“I’ll show you Solmir,” he rumbled. “And then you can tell us your decision.” A low laugh, like the earth cracking open. “You and your sister do have such tragic taste.”
The other Kings took up the laugh, until the Sanctum echoed with it, the sound of breaking rock and grinding stone and a world slowly dissolving.
Chapter Thirty-Three
Red
Eammon was there when she awoke, walking a path into the dust, back and forth across the cloister room, anxiously holding a glass of water. Some of it had slopped over the side from his constant pacing, dripping from his scarred knuckle onto the stone floor.
“There’s a perfectly serviceable table over here, you know.”
It came out a barely audible croak, but he was by her side in an instant, spilling more water when he insisted on kissing her forehead before handing her the glass. “To be honest, I didn’t notice the table.”
“Too busy taking in the rest of the scenery?” She wagged her fingers at the room—dingy white and gray, all of it dusty—lips bent into a rueful smile. Eammon’s worry had always been an all-consuming thing, especially where she was concerned.
He quirked the side of his mouth, though it fell quickly, his thoughts too churning to find any humor. His eyes flashed as he shook his head, sinking down next to her on the bed. “How do you feel?”
Red made a noncommittal noise. “About as well as one can, under the circumstances.”
Now that she was awake, heaviness settled over her again, helplessness a weight on her shoulders. She had a key to the underworld, a key to getting Neve back, and it was completely useless unless her twin decided to leave.
The key lay against her side now, pulled out of her pocket by tosses and turns of sleep, glowing golden against the sheets. Red fluttered her fingers over it, just enough to reassure herself of its presence. She almost didn’t want to touch it, now that she knew exactly what it was. Such a powerful thing, but it still couldn’t bring her what she wanted. Setting her teeth, she gingerly picked it up and placed it on the bedside table.
Worry still sparked in Eammon’s eyes, green-haloed and fixed on her. Red sighed, put her hands on his shoulders. “I promise you, I’m fine.”
“You aren’t,” he rumbled. “But there’s nothing I can do about it.”
“At least that’s true, this time.” She gave him a tired smirk. “Not just something I tell you because I want to be a martyr. Unlike someone I could mention.”
The Wolf rolled his eyes even as he tilted up her chin with his finger. “A self-martyring bastard was the term you used, I think.”
He kissed her, quick and chaste, and Red leaned her forehead against his. “Did Raffe and Kayu get another ship?”
“They were headed to the harbor, last I heard.” Eammon tucked her hair behind her ear. “We should hopefully be able to leave in the morning.”
Morning would be soon, at least—night had already fallen, blackening the windows. “I’ll probably stay up and let you sleep,” Red muttered. “I don’t much like the idea of all of us being vulnerable here with Kiri. We need to set a watch.”
“Might not be a bad idea.” Eammon scooted onto the bed until he sat next to her, leaning back against the spare headboard. “Though I don’t think I’m going to be able to sleep, either. Plenty of time for that on the ship, with miles of water between us and the mad priestesses.” He grimaced. “Maybe I can sleep the entire three days. That would be an improvement on my prior sailing experience.”
“No more boats after this.”
He nodded. “No more boats.”
Red put her head on his shoulder, frowning as she thought back over Kiri’s ravings. “Kiri called Neve the Shadow Queen and me the Golden-Veined. Isn’t that what Valdrek said the Sisters constellation was called, in some of the old languages?”
“I think so,” Eammon murmured. “But what would that mean?”
“Maybe nothing.” She burrowed farther into his shoulder, suddenly exhausted though she’d spent the last few hours asleep. “At the very least, it means this is bigger than us. This is something that was always going to happen.”
He went quiet, thoughtful. “It’s my fault, then.”
“No.” She sat up, turned, crouched over him with his waist caged by her arms. “Don’t you start that martyring shit again. I already warned you.”
A slight smile, but the worry stayed in his eyes. “You’ve become far more wolflike than I ever was.”
“And don’t forget it.” She sat back on her heels, still straddling his waist. After a moment, she picked up his hand, traced his scars with a light finger as she talked. “I think when I chose to become the Wilderwood, it… started something. Set something into motion. The roles were waiting, the pieces already set, and we just made the game begin. In that case, it’s just as much my fault as it is yours. And Neve’s, too.” She sighed. “We all made the choices that led us here. They just had further-reaching consequences than we knew.”
Silence, both of them sitting with the weight of the idea. “Well,” Eammon said finally, “I should be sorry, probably. But I’m not.”
“Sorry for what?”