The tense lines in Malakai’s face smoothed as he bent, but he didn’t exclaim when he picked up the chip of metal.
“It must have gotten dislodged.” In his palm he held the small embellishment from Angelborn that normally sat below the head, inlaid with aquamarine stones outlining the mountains.
“How did that happen?” I asked, looking from the spear to his hand.
“Think of everything that weapon has been through in recent weeks,” Cypherion reasoned. “Any one of those battles could have jostled it.” The others resumed their work, ignoring Malakai and me.
I held my palm out for him to hand over the piece. When he tilted his hand so it slipped into my own, I cursed again. He gave me a questioning look.
“It wasn’t hot for you?” I queried.
Hotwas an understatement. The metal was burning, a fire rivaling the Spirit Volcano pressing into my flesh.
“No, it wasn’t.” Malakai’s brows scrunched.
I tucked the scrap into the pocket of my leathers and held out my empty hand. Where it had laid, an uneven red circle was already fading. Malakai inspected my palm, his budding calluses brushing against my older ones.
I pulled my hand out of his, clenching my fingers into a fist. “I’m sure it’s nothing.”
But the echo of that burn pulsed even as the physical reminder faded into a memory.
Chapter Seven
Malakai
Of the twotimes I’d stood atop the Spirit Volcano, I wasn’t sure which was worse.
Was it the first time, when I’d thought I was handing over my life, only to be betrayed by my father? He’d crushed the hope within me that night, and only continued to drive it out of me over the years following.
Or was tonight the darker of the two?
Tonight, I wasn’t alone, but I was more twisted than ever.
I stood with my hand in my mother’s. No sound could be heard over the crackle of the volcano’s flame, but my heartbeat shook my entire body, roaring in my ears. Across the wide mouth of the volcano, a silhouette was barely visible through the sweetly-scented smoke. The Master of Rites, Missyneth, did not speak; she only watched us, awaiting my nod.
Exchanging a glassy-eyed glance with my mother, I bobbed my head once.
The Master of Rites raised a hand. Two more silhouettes walked to the edge, a box between them. My knees wobbled as they gently opened the lid.
I squeezed my mother’s hand tighter as the acolytes removed a long, wrapped form from the box. One held his ankles, the other his shoulders. Each moved with a reverence he didn’t deserve, but it wasn’t their job to pass judgment. A piece of me was grateful ritual demanded they do this; I wasn’t sure I could show the same respect.
I couldn’t even blink as they held the body over the fire and released him.
My mother’s sob broke my trance, and I wrapped my arm around her. Together, we watched my father’s body fall into the Spirit Volcano to meet his final judgment. What happened next, we’d never know—not until we one day joined the afterlife. That would be centuries off, though. Perhaps by then we’d each find peace with his actions.
Part of me—the part of me that had tried to hope—doubted it. There was nothing left to hope for in this bleak world.
I realized I’d been dragging my thumb across my jaw, along the scar my father left there. He may be gone forever, but I’d always have that reminder of what he did, who he truly was.
The last speck of his body disappeared into the luminescent orange abyss, and I turned.
“Let’s go,” I grunted, fighting the burning behind my eyes.
My mother inhaled shakily but followed. As we wound down the volcano and along the footpath back toward Damenal, some of that pain my father had caused soothed. Not healed but tucked in a cage. Maybe this was what closure felt like. Maybe I’d now be able to seal it away, leave it in the volcano with his doomed body and never have to face it again. Lock it and let the key melt in the flames.
At the edge of Damenal, my mother grabbed my wrist. When I turned to her, her eyes were red but dry.
“It’s time for me to go, Mali.” She brought a hand to my cheek. I wasn’t sure if she even realized she brushed a thumb over my scar.
