Cassian’s eyes flickered around the amassing lump of souls flooding the River. He lifted a hand into his hair, his cheeks going numb as worry split down in his stomach.
The Mortal Land is at war.
“Mavros,” he called out before his attendant vanished. “What is the war over?” He could hear the distinct edge in his voice, feel the trembling of his fingers against his scalp.
“Land,” Mavros said, eyeing him with concern. “Two nations are disputing over land.”
“Where?” Cassian’s hand lowered from his hair, anxiety flooding his system.
“In the western hemisphere.”
Cassian’s heart dropped.
Was Finnian safe? Harmed in any way? He needed to lay eyes on him. See for himself that he was okay. While Finnian was a god and a mage, Cassian had witnessed mortals and the ardor of their greed and violence.
“Where is the young god now?” It came out as a demand, his tone frantic and curt.
“I am not sure, my lord.” Mavros stepped closer, regarding Cassian with a cautious look, as if one wrong word spoken might spook him away. “It seems he’s once again activated some sort of spell, preventing me from locating his whereabouts.”
Of course he had. The fact should not have stung Cassian’s insides, that after their time in Augustus and in the cemetery in Elmwood, the young god had no interest in being found by him.
As much as the idea pained him, he still needed to make sure Finnian was okay. He would find a way even without seeing the young god. He simply needed to ensure the lives of Finnian’s apprentices were not among the souls.
“Eleanor and Isla, the two mages,” he said. “Confirm that no souls by those names have entered the Land because of this war.”
“Right away, my lord.” Mavros nodded once and vanished.
Cassian stared down at the planks of the bridge. Finnian was fine. He had to be. He was meticulous and cunning, always five steps ahead. Surely, he had sensed the war coming and took precautionary measures to protect himself and his apprentices. Worrying was useless until Cassian learned more.
For now, he had no choice but to push Finnian from his thoughts and welcome the horde of new souls to the Land of the Dead.
Cassian strolledthrough the gates of his garden, a solace in him aching to decompress right outside the spired columns and rigid peaks of his obsidian castle.
With one hand in his pocket, his other held a glass filled to the brim with bourbon. The burn of the liquor drowned the cries stuck in his ears, of the souls falling apart, begging for another chance of life, on the bank of the River, at the threshold of the gates.
I do not wish to die.
Please.
I am not ready for death.
Let me go back.
I want to live.
I must see my husband again. Take me back. My children. Let me go. My mother. I must return. My father. They are waiting.
For hours, Cassian greeted souls at the gates until some of the Errai had returned after guiding them from the Mortal Land.
Once the gate was secure, he assisted the Errai in sorting the souls. They had taken over half to the Grove of Mourning, too scarred by their traumatic deaths to heal properly in the Fields.
Cassian had been relieved to learn no young souls by the names of Eleanor or Isla had entered his Land. He questioned whether Finnian would have turned them into ghouls upon death, but then he remembered Finnian’s words at the cemetery: he didn’t enjoy turning people into ghouls.
Something told Cassian that if his apprentices had died, Finnian would’ve respected their wishes and let them pass on.
He pinned that thought in the forefront of his mind and let it give him the assurance he needed to believe Finnian was okay—wherever he was currently hiding.
Cassian strolled through his grove of lemon trees. The sharp twang in the air filled his lungs. He took a swig of his drink and claimed a seat on the bench overlooking the thicket of black roses climbing along a trellis. The vines strangled a set of ruins.
