Ice-blue eyes flashed in her mind’s eye. Rusted red blood matting his hair, oozing from his wounds. Then, brown eyes, wide with fear. Hair mussed like a cave bear. Then Skeggagrim, a man she’d never known, neck slashed wide, eyes open and lifeless.
Your fault.Your fault. Your fault!
Silla’s eyes flew open, her breaths growing shallow. “I cannot quiet my mind.”
Harpa sighed, then bent toward Rey and whispered in his ear. He vanished from beside her, returning a moment later with a jar. Unlatching it, Harpa plucked a slender, gnarled mushroom and handed it to Silla.
“Chew this. It will ease your nerves and clear your mind for you.”
Bitterness pricked at the back of her tongue as she chewed and swallowed. But as she closed her eyes, that ice-blue gaze, the guilt and shame, melted like snow under a spring sun. At last, her mind was blissfully empty.
And then, Silla drifted downward until blackness pulled her under.
Chapter Nineteen
Silla landed on hands and knees, chin snapping forward with the force of her fall. Stunned, she held herself still for several heartbeats, picking out the details she could. Below, a gray stone floor stretched in either direction—a corridor, it seemed.
It was remarkably silent.
Pushing herself up, Silla wiped her palms on her knees and tried to get her bearings. But before she could decide what to do, the faint sound of footfalls met her ears. Her stomach fluttered in trepidation as the steps grew nearer. There was nowhere to hide—nothing but barren corridor in either direction. Should she run?
But the knowing feeling held her rooted in place. A man soon rounded the corner, and she pulled in a deep breath, holding it in place. A crown sat atop the man’s head, simple gold, free of ornamentation. His silver curls caught the light, blue eyes set into a face deeply lined with age. Silla felt she should know him, was certain he was a king, yet not King Ivar.
Sadness clung to this king; she saw it in the hunch of his shoulders—in his heavy-footed walk. The blackness in the corner of Silla’s mind rattled its cage, and she knew; grief held this man in its tight embrace.
Who was this king, and what had happened to him?
Curiously, the man did not seem to see her—he walked straight past without so much as a glance. Silla lurched after him.
“Excuse me?” shetried.
Still no reaction. Rushing forward, Silla placed a hand on his shoulder, gasping as it passed right through the king’s back.
Some can access memories, glimpses of the past. Others are visited by the spirit of an ancestor. Most see a light of some kind.Rey’s words hung in her mind.Light, she thought.Perhaps this king would lead her to the light.
Dazed, Silla trailed the man. They walked together until they reached an enormous tapestry of black and fiery oranges hung on the wall. Glancing over his shoulder, the king pulled it aside, the heel of his hand pushing hard into a stone. The whole section of wall swung inward.
“A doorway,” Silla gasped, following the king through it.
Darkness swallowed them as the door swung back into place, but it was not long before the old king cupped a thin, orange flame in his palm.Ashbringer. A smile curved Silla’s lips. This king was Galdra! Which meant…he must be an ancestor of hers.
Silla watched the old king carefully. His flame cast light upon the stone wall, and he edged along it, in search of something. At last, he put his flameless palm on a stone, pushing until it clicked softly. Silla gasped as the flooring sank in a spiral pattern, revealing a twisting, shadowy stairwell.
Silla and the king descended. The stairwell went far deeper than Silla had guessed; the air grew heavy and dank, with a strange, ancient feel to it. At last they reached the bottom, a small room opening before them.
An oily chill slid through Silla’s veins. The ancient presence was stronger here, dark intoxication unfurling within the heart of her being. Hand rising to her chest, Silla searched in vain for the comforting feel of the vial.
She surveyed the small room, examining the candles nestled into stone-carved alcoves; the hide-bound book sitting on a pedestal.
A strange sensation stirred in her blood—recognition, but not—like a dream she could not quite recall. This presence welcomed her like a friend long forgotten, invisible tendrils sliding through her in a dark, seductive caress.
The king lit the candles until the room danced with light, then stood before the book, flipping through the pages. Silla gasped as the king pulled out a white-hilted dagger and sliced deep into his palm. Dipping his fingers in the blood, the king drew a series of symbols on the wall.
“Dark One, I call to you,” he said in a low voice. Silla held her breath as they waited in silence. Nothing happened.
“Dark One, Iimploreyou.” The man’s voice cracked, his desperation tangible.
The candles flickered, the temperature plunging in an instant. Silla’s breath clouded the air. The presence grew stronger, more commanding, and a sudden wave of need snaked through Silla’s blood.
