‘I don’t understand.’
He regarded her for a long moment. ‘They must yield to the darkness of their soul. They must allow their evil nature to rule them entirely.Thatis how one survives the Decachiré.’
It was years of training that had Aya forcing down the fear that made her blood turn cold; years of training that had her focused on the pursuit of facts rather than her feelings.
‘Of course,’ the Vaguer continued, ‘Evie’s parents thought to go even further than stepping into their true essence in order to obliterate the bounds of their wells. They wanted tobecome immortal, and believed shedding their mortal bodies would do it. They used her father’s sword, but young Evie interrupted the ritual, and the practitioners believe that it was her parents’ concern for leaving their daughter – their love for her – that rendered the ritual ineffective. It was a weakness, they said, for those who are ruled entirely by their dark nature would not be swayed by emotions such as love.’
‘Their forces were thousands strong. You mean all those people gave themselves over to darkness entirely?’
‘A great deal werefollowers, not practitioners. Only those who summoned enough power to bestow powers to humans – or, in Evie’s parents’ case, seek immortality – were true practitioners. They had obliterated the bounds of their wells.Thatwas the Decachiré.’
Aya frowned. The history books in the Maraciana had never made such a distinction. ‘So the followers – what? Dabbled in darkness?’
The Vaguer shrugged. ‘Those who merely dove deeper into their wells – who pushed the boundaries but did not seek to break them – could live with the negative effects without yielding their souls entirely. Unless, of course, they were digging too deep. It’s all relative, you see. All a science. It was a dangerous line to walk – to push power to its brink. To learn how far you could go without it devouring you entirely.’
Something curled in Aya’s stomach, and the Vaguer’s eyes glinted with a hint of annoyance. ‘History books love to twist the tales, don’t they? They’d hate to confess that the Decachiré’s forces were so large not because all were true practitioners of pure evil, but because so many peoplesupportedthe practitioners’ cause. Many believed the gods should not be the only ones with limitless power; the only ones to twist the threads of fate. Buttrueknowledge andpower is full understanding. It’s why we don’t limit our studies here. If something is to be defeated, it should be understood.’
And yet it hadn’t truly been defeated, had it? Not when a second war was coming.
She turned the information over in her mind, her brow furrowed as she wrestled with what he’d told her. But the Vaguer wasn’t done, it seemed. A smirk twisted his chapped lips. ‘How fascinating you are,’ he crooned. ‘You seek to know what you are, and yet still, you don’t ask for it. Never has one sought us out and not demanded its power.’
Aya’s hands fisted on her thighs. ‘What are you talking about?’
The Vaguer leaned forward, excitement in those depthless eyes. ‘Evie’s sword.’
Shock, cold and vicious, thrummed through her.
Impossible.
Aidon had mentioned a relic, but Aya hadn’t bothered to believe it. It had seemed too far-fetched, too ridiculous to even consider. Besides, she’d been too focused on finding a source who knew something of the Decachiré, too determined to get just enough out of Aidon about the Vaguer’s studies without him suspecting her interest.
The man grinned. ‘The legends say that when Evie tried to wrestle her father’s sword from him, it passed her parents’ raw power to her, making her the most powerful Visya in the world. Powerful enough to meet the gods. The essence of that magic still lives in the blade.’
‘Does the sword … will it pass along that power?’
Could it replace what was inside of her? Could it heal the darkness in her enough to let her help in this war?
The Vaguer laughed again. ‘You ask the wrong questions. The answers you seek are about youressence. After all, that’swhat you’re looking to learn, isn’t it? What truly feeds your power? What makes up your veryself? Darkness? Or light?’
Aya swallowed, and told herself it was the desert heat that made her throat ache so.
His eyes were as dark as a moonless night as he regarded her. ‘Tell me, Aya. Would you like to meet your soul?’
65
The Vaguer waited until the moon had reached its peak before they lit the fires. Aya stood before the largest one, a circle of various members surrounding her and the old man.
‘A trial of the soul,’ he had called it. ‘A touch of the sword, and you will be connected to your true nature … that which fuels your power.’
And if yours is indeed dark? What will you do then?
Aya hadn’t had an answer for that small voice inside her mind. She had come to learn how to survive the power inside of her. If facing her soul was the way to know if she even could – she would do it, least of all to get the answers to the questions she’d been asking herself for years now.
Aya’s heart hammered, her pulse thudding in time to the cracking of firewood as a woman approached them with a long, slender object in her arms. It was wrapped in a beige blanket, and as she stopped before the man, she bowed her head, her long, dark hair sliding over her shoulders and in front of her face.
She murmured a prayer in the Old Language before handing the sword off and stepping away.
The man held the bundle toward Aya. ‘You must be the one to touch the blade.’
