Torwin’s voice rose up in her mind.I used to think she was some kind of goddess, he’d told her in the temple room, explaining his recurring nightmare.I used to think she appeared to me because she was choosing me for some great destiny.
And then, again, in her brother’s war camp:They’re always about you.
Elorma stood behind her now. She could feel his shadow stretch across her back.
“Do you know why I recognized Willa the first time I saw her?”
Asha turned and looked up into the First Namsara’s eyes.
“Because I’d spent my life dreaming of her.”
When he smiled, it was as if two suns burned warm and bright out of his eyes. “Willa chose love in the end.” Very gently, he placed one strong hand on Asha’s shoulder. “Now it’s time for you to choose. Because, despite what you think, you do have a choice. And so does he.”
Asha thought of something her brother told her once. If Rayan hadn’t been selfish, Dax said, if he hadn’t pursued Lillian, they’d both be alive today. But saying that denied Lillian’s choice in the matter. It denied Lillian her power. And what’s more: saying that meant the only thing to be learned from their story was that death is stronger than love.
Asha didn’t believe that.
“And afterward,” Elorma said, “there’s more work to be done. Stories to be hunted down. A realm to be made whole again.”
The fire roared behind Elorma as he smiled tenderly down on Asha.
“You and I will see each other again soon, Namsara.”
The fire went out, plunging Asha into darkness.
She stood still for a long time, lost in the swirling storm of her thoughts.
Namsara.
The rare desert flower that could heal any ailment.
That’s what Asha was.
Fifty-One
Asha woke to the sound of a song swelling in the air. She lay still for several heartbeats, letting the sound melt inside her, filling her up with longing.
With the First Namsara’s words in her heart, she rose and followed the song.
Asha found the lute player in the sand, a silhouette against a sky so full of stars, it looked silver. She watched the roll of his shoulders, the dip of his head.
The sight of him held her transfixed.
He must have sensed someone watching, because the song stopped and he looked up from his strings, casting his gaze into the darkness.
“Asha? Is that you?”
Asha remained where she was.
He started to play again. A different song. Its familiar tune jolted her. It was the same unfinished song he’d been humming in the Rift. The same song he’d been trying to work out whileAsha fell asleep in his tent.
At some point, he’d finished it and he was playing it now. As he played, Asha could feel him staring into the spot where she stood.
“Greta used to say,” he said as he played, “that every one of us is born with a song buried deep in our hearts. A song all our own. And our mission in life is to find that song.”
Hissong was sharp like a knife and tender as his fingers stitching up her wounds. It dived into darkness, then soared toward the light. It was itself a kind of story—one that lured Asha out of the shadows.
Slowly, Torwin moved toward her.
