Daughter of the dark sea, p.35
Daughter of the Dark Sea, page 35
How could she lose it? She’d taken it off for one night, and she’d lost it. It had to be in this room somewhere . . . maybe if she disassembled the bed itself? She’d expected relief when her wish of disposing it had been fulfilled, but instead, all-encompassing dread smothered her, squeezing her diaphragm until she bolted for the bathing chambers, spewing last night’s wine.
After rinsing her mouth, she collapsed by the bed, shakily tracing the silvery beads of her ballgown discarded on the floor. Hiding beneath the dread, a sliver of grief wrapped in ice consumed her, devouring her organs until she was a husk.
It was lonely without her powers. She felt weak. She hadn’t realised how comforting the beast had been, a second skin protecting her, nurturing her.
“Kora?”
A gentle knock rapped at her door, and Blake peered around the door curiously. His forest green eyes raked in the tossed covers, pillows, and throws, and Kora crumpled on the floor, her hands fisted in the shimmering ballgown. His stare lingered on her for a moment, assessing the same way Erick did, before melting into an unwelcomed softness.
“I see you’ve made yourself at home,” his drawl returned.
She didn’t respond, wouldn’t even look at him. She couldn’t handle this. Handle the lies. The deception.
“Be strong . . .” the voice had returned.
Steeling herself, she stood to face him. She’d dressed ready for battle today, in the hopes it would strengthen her. Covered head to toe in black leathers, buckled together, along with her favoured blades hidden in their scabbards on her back. As much as she adored her sailing jerkin, she desired full-body strength and protection.
Blake cleared his throat, noticing her defensive stance. His thumb brushed a dark satchel slung across his shoulder. Odd. He rarely used a satchel, preferring to keep everything hidden in compartments in his leathers.
“We’ve been requested for a meeting.” His demeanour was so soft, so gentle. She looked away, focusing on a fascinating speckle of gold on the stone wall.
“Kora,” he stepped forward, shutting the door behind him with a sigh, then leant against the desk beside it. “I know what you must be thinking, but please believe me.”
“What am I thinking?”
A clenched fist ran through his raven hair.
“That there's something . . . that I . . .” He couldn't even voice the words, and for the first time, she looked at him with something close to disgust.
“That you're cheating on me with Bree?” The words had been spoken. All her worries and concerns voiced into the world. He visibly flinched at them.
“I promise you, it’s not what you're thinking. She just needs someone—a friend.”
“I’m her friend! Or . . . I was.” Venom laced her words. Venom not only at him, but Bree as well.
Why was she suddenly acting like this? Had their friendship for the past ten years meant nothing to Bree all this time? Did Kora’s vow with Blake mean nothing? Even if she’d been ready to give him up, she still planned to reconcile after the war, when they knew they had a true chance.
“I couldn’t let an heiress stagger back to her chambers drunk.” Blake’s gaze sharpened, and she huffed in disbelief at his response. “She was vulnerable, those sailors would’ve made advancements. If not for her bed, then her riches.”
She scowled. He did have a point, and Otto’s stern face flashed in her mind. Him and Rashi would rain thunder down upon her crew if anything had happened to their precious eldest daughter.
“What about me?” she breathed, fisting her hands at her sides. “I was vulnerable on that deck.”
He frowned. “We both know you can take care of yourself when it comes to—”
“That’s not what I mean.”
He stilled, raising his hand before letting it fall limp to his side, as if he’d changed his mind about touching her. Blake’s fingers wrapped against the edge of the desk, his elbow knocking against the polished wax seals, and they wobbled on their heavy metal bases.
“I was giving you a choice,” she spoke through clenched teeth. “I was doing the honourable thing and letting you go. We both know I’ve been holding you back. Just for Bree to ruin it.”
The lack of commitment remark had stung so deep, it still reverberated in Kora’s mind.
Blake winced and exhaled. “You were pushing me away, not letting me go. I’m sorry I broke my promise. With this war, I can’t be in service to you anymore. And Bree doesn’t know anything, I can promise that.”
In service? Was that what they were, then? A business transaction?
“Excuse me?”
“No,” he raised his hands. “Let me finish. I’m trying to tell you, that I could have left at any time, but I didn’t. I followed you everywhere. I went along with every crazy scheme, every impulsive voyage. Even when it seemed insane, you somehow always knew where pirates would be. But I can’t anymore. As you said, everything is changing.”
“Changing so much you’d rather chase after a noble?” She laughed bitterly.
“Why are you fixating on her?” He threw his hands up. “You are my everything! I need to ensure we win this war, so we can be together! But I can’t do that whilst in your crew. And Bree is just a cover up. I’m not cheating on you. I’m just using her to divert attention from us!”
His eyes flared as the truth spilled from his lips. For a moment, she felt sorry for Bree, but it quickly surpassed as heat bubbled, erupting into a small ember in her chest. And not the fun kind.
“We are already together! At least, I thought we were. Apparently, you never thought the same. I have always been right here. But you never saw me, not really.”
He’d believed it was a service, their vow some kind of agreement, a means to an end. And parading with Bree was the final insult, both to Kora, and female-kind. Just because they were a façade, didn’t mean he had to pretend to be with someone else . . . especially her best friend. There were plenty of single officers.
And to make it worse, Bree had fallen for it. So much so, she resented Kora. Their friendship broken. Kora had allowed a male—her blind devotion to a male—tear them apart.
His mouth gaped. “What are you saying?”
She side-stepped around Blake, opening her door. “When it comes down to it, it’ll never be me that you help, only yourself. Because this,” she gestured between them, “is never going to be real.”
“Wait—”
She slammed the door in his face.
48
Somewhere on the way to the war council, Kora had gotten lost.
In her stubborn fury, she hadn’t asked Blake where the meeting was held, or how to get there. And she was sure as Umbra not returning to ask him. They needed some space, and she needed some time to think.
The Citadel was a never-ending labyrinth, with hallways leading to dead ends, and spiral staircases hidden in shadowy corners that somehow took her back to where she started. Not one servant had crossed her path, and there was no sign of any courtiers from the feast.
Life had simply vanished. Creepy.
Ready to abandon all hope, her skin flushed with sweat from running around, she spotted a large gold-paned glass door, hidden behind heavy-set green drapes. With a sigh of relief, she hurried through it, embracing rays of sun on her face, and fresh air compared to the musty smell of stone and moss.
Blinking against the sun, she realised she was still in the grounds of Mossfell Castle. Sprawling gardens laid before her, interspersed with willow and wisteria trees, and statues cut from the finest marble. Her feet moved before she could think, and she followed the light-stoned path winding throughout, her eyes darting back and forth, absorbing the lush scenery.
It was as if the gardens were breathing. They felt so . . . alive.
Endless flowers in all colours imaginable, and citrus trees adorned with fruit so large it was impossible. Not only that, but vegetation from all walks of the islands lined the pathway. Plants and foliage she knew were native to Otrovia and Aldara, and yet, here they were. A piece of every territory had been snipped and planted here, a showcase of greenery growing under the Talmon Empire's domain.
She paused before one of the marble statues towering above her on a square platform, encased in neatly trimmed shrubbery. A single sheet of fabric draped the female’s body, covering her most modest areas. Her long hair billowed, reaching the curve of her behind as one hand covered the left side of her face, poised to hide a secret. The other arm stretched out, signalling to the skies.
The longer Kora stared, the more she realised it wasn't fabric covering the female's lithe body—but a river of water, winding all the way up to her fingers. Kora quickly scanned the remaining statues dotted throughout the gardens.
Oh. My. Gods.
She stumbled back from Calypso, Goddess of Sea, pivoting to sprint to the nearest statue on the right, which was settled in its own squared-off viewing area overflowing with flowers and miniature bay trees. A dual-faced, muscled, male statue, standing on boulders stacked on top of each other, with vines of leaves wrapped around his body. His hands were cupped together, fresh yellow roses resting within them.
Kaiah, God of Earth. Also, Kaiah, Goddess of Earth, depending on who told the tales. Here, they clearly believed Kaiah was male. But nature was fickle like that. The deity of the earth had never been recorded as a set gender, because nature created all life, and therefore, was all. Some texts had even depicted them as a fawn, or a wildebeest.
Kora whirled again, her heart quickening as she navigated the stoned pathway to the next statue. Her breath was as hot as the sun beaming above, and the muscles in her legs strained. She still felt woozy from the feast, and hoped she wouldn’t vomit again all over this beautiful garden.
Gods, what had been in that wine?
Stones flicked beneath her boots as she skidded to a halt, surveying a sun-baked, scorched statue. The marble was crusted in an odd, red-and-black-toned powder.
Igniso—God of Eternal Flame. Depicted kneeling, his head was thrown back in anguish as flames engulfed him. Tiny black rocks scattered around his bulky form, and his fingers were painted red and black as they curled around the flames. The grass had faded to wheat yellow, cracking beneath her boots from dehydration.
She ran to the next statue.
Thanos, God of Death. She recognised it immediately. Her favoured god to complain to. A figure covered in a cloak, his face unrecognisable, hidden in the darkness of his hood. A simple, grey cloth covered his clasped hands, symbolising the veil between realms. A deep crack lined the middle, stretching from head to toe, as if someone had taken an axe to it. His square was barren, surrounded by plain stone. Even the nearest tree had withered, its roots curling, breaking the surface of the earth.
With a frown, she hurried along to the next one, nearing the end of the gardens, where she paused. This statue had been decimated. A pile of rubble, and old marble stone covered in dark soot, had been left to rot in the sun. She inspected the larger pieces, seeking a pattern of clouds, and her suspicions confirmed.
Haizea, Goddess of Wind.
A snapshot in time. Kora turned, surveying the greenery. The windowless walls of the castle surrounded her, enclosing the gardens from prying eyes. What were the empire doing with statues of Devani gods? And why were they here?
Footsteps approached, and she instinctively ducked behind the hedge lining the small, plain square Haizea’s crumbled statue resided in. A figure breezed past, her flowing green-and-white robes floating behind her. Her long, gossamer-brown hair tumbled down her back in waves.
Kora silently followed, using the foliage and weeping willows as cover as the female drifted towards one of the statues. Peering around the thick trunk of the tree, Kora squinted, consuming hard-to-see details of the mystery female. Leaves tangled with her hair, and when she breathed in, her senses were overwhelmed with the scent of roses . . . and something bitter underneath.
A small black awning jutted from the stone wall, shielding an unfamiliar statue from the light. It was made of black marble, not white, and Kora could barely make out the statue’s features, other than it stared down at the ground with eyes closed, hands turned out ready to accept an offering.
Giant shrubs and ferns enclosed the space, and the female knelt before the statue. She tossed her shimmering hair over her shoulder, exposing milky-white, smooth skin, and round, green eyes surrounded by thick dark lashes.
Her face was so stunning that Kora nearly stumbled from the tree. The female's looks rivalled Bree's—and that was an accomplishment in itself.
The stranger began murmuring quietly, whispering to the unknown statue, and rocking back and forth on her knees. Kora strained to capture her words, her mind full of shock to witness a member of Barron's court praying to one of the gods, even if she wasn't sure which one. There’d only ever been five. Maybe one had faded from the records along with the Devanian scholars?
She leaned forward, eager to hear the words flying from the female’s red-painted lips as she arranged multiple black bowls in a crescent circle. She raised her arms, extending her palms as she tossed her head back. A wide smile spread across her lips, as one hand whipped to her own throat, clasping before trailing down to her breast.
She fondled herself, breathily moaning as she began untying her robes, spreading her knees apart. What in the . . . Kora needed to leave. Prayer to the gods was deeply personal. Yet she couldn’t tear her gaze away.
The female flicked her robes open, exposing her supple body to the statue, and she resumed chanting, her voice a near-whisper. Kora shuffled forward—
Crack.
The female’s head whipped around, and Kora dropped to the twig-laden ground. Shit!
“Who's there?” Her voice was not beautiful. It was deadly, like an asp. A voice that commanded a room, that made soldiers quiver, that sent enemies fleeing.
It was how Kora imagined the gods would sound.
Her blood ran cold, and she crawled, keenly aware that, if she were caught, it wouldn’t end well.
Gods damn her curiosity.
To her relief, a set of glass doors were nearby Haizea's ruins, and Kora used the shadows of the trees, keeping to a low crouch, half-running, half-tripping, her stomach churning. Her heart hammered until she threw herself into the cool clutches of the castle's shadows.
49
The tension of the war council meeting hung heavy in the air.
Kora arrived late, and her cheeks still burned from the number of eyes that had turned to her when she’d stumbled into the grand chamber. Many of those eyes had lingered on her scar, whispers rolling across the crowd.
She hadn't expected an audience. Apparently, Barron didn’t do anything small.
The chamber was like an amphitheatre, with rows of circular stone seating jutting from stone walls. Moss had been sprinkled to create cushioned seating, and she wriggled awkwardly on it, feeling as though all the moisture had been drained from the atmosphere. Her leathers felt tight and constricting, and she licked her dry lips, wishing for a gust of ocean air or spray of water.
Even a trickle of rain would do.
At the bottom, in the centre of the great room, was one very large, golden diamond-shaped table. Barron sat at the head, flanked by the familiar brown and grey wave of Erick's hair, and Theron's gleaming dark head on either side. Sat with them, were the remaining seven viceroys, including Otto. His dreaded locks were swept to the top of his head, and he’d exchanged his shimmering, ballroom attire for a simple black suit.
Sunlight poured in from a gaping hole in the ceiling—no windows, just one, huge, perfectly round hole to the skies. Kora squinted. A whirling pattern had been carved into the rim of the hole, but she couldn't make it out.
Unfortunately, arriving late meant she was left with the empty seats right at the back of the chamber, so high up, and too far away from everything. She could do with Samuel's spyglass right now. She scanned the crowd, seeking a familiar head of blonde hair or longbow. Nothing.
But her gaze located Blake instantly. Like a gods-damned moth drawn to a flame. He was sat at the front and bottom, to Barron's right on the first row, and his entire demeanour was different. Gone was the drawling first mate, and instead he was as stiff as a gangplank, his eyes trained on the back of Barron's head.
And next to him . . . was Bree.
He’s got to be fucking joking.
Kora looked away. She didn't want to know if she’d imagined Bree placing her hand on Blake's knee. The ember erupted in her chest, and she sucked in moss-tainted breaths to tame her anger—her pain.
Why was she putting their friendship before her feelings? Clearly Bree wasn’t. And why was Blake sitting there? He had no business sitting on the first row of the council meeting. It was reserved for the closest advisors of the viceroys and their immediate family. Like Bree.
Unless he had sat there . . . for Bree.
Blake’s words earlier had nearly ripped Kora's heart. She was sure whatever they had was now over.
There was no water beast to soothe her, and a hollow emptiness had carved out her essence. The longer it was absent, the more a rage simmered, alighting her skin. A rage at Finlay for lying to her, at Erick for withholding secrets from her. A rage for Blake tossing her aside and seeking out Bree's affections.
Her hands shook. Despite the fire raging within her, the skin of her chest felt unnaturally cold. She missed the talisman. In her blind devotion to securing Blake’s employment, she’d disregarded the very thing strengthening her. Changing her. Evolving her.
Had she really wanted to hand it over to the Silver Sisters? Kora fidgeted on the moss dampening her leathers. Agatha never confirmed the talisman would truly suck her dry, turning her into a husk. If anything, it felt like it had stabilised her power, making it easier to channel.
But it didn’t matter now. It was gone.
