“Your gift,” she says. “The one that brought you all here from the Jade River…”
Again, I nod, wanting her to continue, though I see the tiniest bit of discomfort in her otherwise flawless armor.
“I had some time to think on it last night, and I keep coming back to the fact that your ability sounds like realm walking.”
I blink at the queen, certain she’s wrong.
“That would mean she’s one of Loria’s descended, no?” Nephele says.
“Yes,” Fia replies with a soft lift of her brows. “It could be lineage from your father’s side.”
Nephele huffs a nervous laugh. “That’s impossible. We would’ve known.”
The moment my sister says those words, I see worry and doubt swirling in her eyes. She couldn’t believe we were born in Malgros either, yet it’s true. Denial is her first response to news she can’t understand.
“Your father had no markings?” Fia asks. “Those in Loria’s direct bloodline gain certain witch’s marks once their powers have developed, a dark birthmark and a series of vines somewhere on their body. If you two are part of that line, your markings can still come, with time, but I would think, if my guess is correct, that your father had them.”
Nephele and I look at one another. I remember my father’s hands. The way his witch’s marks branched over his knuckles like tree roots.
“He was a reaper,” Nephele says. “He had reaper’s marks.”
Fia arches one black brow. “Perhaps. Or perhaps he was something more and couldn’t risk anyone knowing. Being known as one of Loria’s descended would’ve drastically changed your lives.” She pauses, and then says, “It could also explain your affinity for vast magick, Nephele, which might even be a driving force for Raina’s moving across time. Vast magick is, at its simplest form, the ability to project will across space and time. Realm walking was a form of that. Holding a construct from many miles away is a form of that. You two might simply have different portions of ability.”
Nephele rests her elbows on the arms of her chair and presses her fingertips to her temples, closing her eyes, as though she simply cannot handle much more.
When she lowers her hands, she looks Fia in the eyes from across the table. “Thank you for letting us know. I suppose all we can do is wait and see we end up with markings like a descended. I’ve never seen them, but I’ve read about them and heard about them through stories of a woman back home. Petra Anrova. Her birthmark was on her face. Colden let her stay at Winterhold for a time to protect her until she could manage a glamour.”
Fia’s eyes sparkle at the sound of Colden’s name. “That sounds like something he would do. Your father, or mother for that matter, could’ve glamoured any revealing makings too. We cannot forget that.”
I say nothing. I feel… numb. If this is yet another lie…
“I cannot say for certain if your father was a descended,” Fia says. “But I knew your mother well, and there was nothing in her bloodline that could grant you the ability to slip across time.” She reaches across the table and places her hand over mine. “All I’m telling you, Raina, is to be mindful with this gift. Realm walking was meant to be used by Loria’s children to help them travel between this world and her world. It might not be that. It could be some new ability no one has ever seen. But that only means something could more easily go wrong. So please. Be careful.”
I nod, finding it difficult to smile, even in thanks.
Fia leaves us with one of her guards, needing to head back to prepare for tonight’s wedding. Nephele and I explore all the areas within the Hall of Holies once more. But then my sister asks me if we can return to the library, for a third visit. I agree, of course, and she spends the next two hours reading about the history of the Grove of the Gods with inexplicable intensity.
“Did you know that each god’s name is written on a golden plaque at the foot of their tree?” she asks. “And that there are over one thousand steps built into the side of the mountain to access the grove?”
I flip through a book, my mind unfortunately elsewhere. I didn’t know, but I suppose the labeling of Thamaos’s name will only make him easier if the prince arrives on Fleurie’s wings.
As Nephele and I follow the guard back to the palace, my sister says, “Don’t let all of this bother you. Fia might be right. We could be Loria’s descended. But she could be wrong too.”
I glance up at Mount Ulra, where Loria’s bones supposedly lie with the remains of so many other gods. Wishing I could ask her.
66
THE PRINCE WITH NO NAME
The Eastland Territories
City of Quezira
Min-Thuret, Prince’s Chambers
* * *
I sit in my chambers, Bron bandaging one of three stab wounds in my back.
