“Frighten me more than being sacrificed to a god? You have an odd scale of terror.”
It’s Ilryth’s turn to look away, to get lost in memories far deeper and more tumultuous than the one I saw on the beach. But because I saw that memory…I can suspect what might be haunting him as we discuss this process.
“The anointing has two elements, both to a singular end. The first is to mark you with the hymns of the old ones—so that you are granted passage to the Abyss and Krokan knows you are for him.”
I still hate the idea of being “marked” for any man or creature. But I just say, “All right.”
“The other is to sever your ties with this world. Leveraging the magic of the old ones—what little we still remember from our ancestors—takes a toll on the mind and body. Duke Renfal is the perfect example. You will not be able to stand before Lord Krokan with a mortal mind as you have now.”
“Yes, I understand this in principle. But I’m guessing there’s something more that you have yet to share?”
“I will see that the hymns are written across your body.” He motions to the markings on my skin, a single finger dragging against my collarbone. “But placing them on your soul is something only you can do through singing them yourself. And every word you sing will come at a cost. You will have to make space for this new power. And when you—”
“Enough. Say it plainly,” I demand. Firm. But not harsh. I know when a man is stalling.
“Every word of the hymns of the old ones that you learn will eat away at your mind—at your memories. And you must let it happen. Otherwise you will go mad from trying to keep too much mortality in your mind alongside the power of the gods.”
Plainlyis still complicated, it’d seem. But he said it straightforwardly enough at least. I take a moment and allow this information to sink in. “Do you do this when you sing? Do all sirens?”
“Our personal songs require no such cost. We’re drawing from our own magic, not trying to connect with an old god to summon theirs.”
“I see…” I hold out my forearms, lightly trailing my fingers over the markings. I always wondered how the siren’s magic works, and now I know. Small spells come from innate magic within them. But greater acts come with a price. “And this is what I must master for us to go to the Gray Passage?”
“The stronger you are with the blessings of the old ones, the more confident I will be that the wraiths and Lord Krokan’s emissaries will allow you passage. Or, should they put up a fight, that you will be able to defend yourself,” he says. I notice there’s no comment about his own safety.
“Then let’s focus on the words of the old ones instead.” I meet his eyes again so he can see my resolve. “No more of the other songs.”And no more touching… Yet, I can’t bring myself to say it.
“We can continue trying to learn the simpler songs until—”
“My family has no time,” I object. “Will I get to choose the memories I lose, at least?”
He dips his chin slightly. “I have been led to believe so.”
“Exceptional, then. Let’s not waste time with the simpler things. I’m more an all or nothing kind of woman, anyway.” I know he can hear my conviction, but Ilryth doesn’t make any motion. It seems it’s his turn to take a moment.
His face finally dissolves into a disbelieving smile. Though I can’t tell what it’s toward when he shakes his head and looks away. “I thought you might say as much.”
“Care to share your private amusement?”
“Just that you too are someone who has things you’d prefer to forget.” He glances at me from the corners of his eyes.
I shrug, trying to seem more casual than I feel. Had he heard my thoughts of Charles? If he did, he’s a good enough man not to say anything about them. “Who doesn’t? Now. Let’s try again. For real, this time.”
“I won’t be able to say complete words for you, otherwise I risk my own mind. However, I can say pieces until you can learn how to read the markings on your own.” Ilryth takes my hand, holding my arm between us. He points at the markings on my forearm. “Kul.”
“Kul,” I repeat.
His finger moves up another line, stopping on a dot, as he says, “Ta’ra.”
“Kulta’ra.” The word is hard to say. As if I’m holding a dozen marbles in my mouth. I try to shape it, but fight to.
“Remember, Victoria, don’t fight. Give in,” he says gently. All my life I’ve fought. I’ve struggled. I’ve pushed forward. But perhaps to move ahead I must release it all. “I will sing underneath you, to prevent the hymns of the ancients from sinking into my mind. You may sing with me, or above me.”
“All right.” I nod.
He closes his eyes and begins to hum.
“Kulta’ra,” I whisper. “Kulta’ra.” Again. This time there’s a shiver working its way up my spine. I can feel the tingling. But there’s no release. No tremble to rush across my skin and alleviate the tension. It just hangs there between every vertebra.
