To center myself, I close my eyes, uncertain what I’m going to do—heal him or try to kill him? But then the threads of his wound make themselves known, slithering out from behind swirls of crimson shadows, distracting me from my dilemma.
This can’t be right. His threads are…smoldering. Crumbling into flecks of ash and just as fragile. This is what I smelled on him earlier, but the distinct scents are clearer now. I still smell the septic yarrow—it’s overpowering—but beneath it hides the aroma of fire, of a sweltering day, of dust and earth.
This is the scent of someone’s death, but the Prince of the East is very much alive.
I look closer. The threads of his wound need to be entwined to heal, but they’re not just burning. They’re all wrong. There are two threads for every instance there should be one, coiled around one another tightly.
I’m too curious not to look at his life threads as well. They’re not burning, but they’re not golden either. And again, there are two for every one. This time, it doesn’t look like any sort of weaving. One of the strands crawls up the other, clinging like a disease. Both bear the pallid colors of decay, but there’s something more. There are hundreds of loose filaments floating around the main threads, whisper-thin as gossamer, like the dead husks of old strands.
I swear I sense another person, some presence writhing to break free, but that’s impossible. Except—it’s not.
Alexus’s threads had multiples, the residue of glimmering shadows.
Because he contained the soul of a god.
His threads still held the colors of life, and they felt precious, threads to be handled with careful hands and careful words. The prince’s threads are even more delicate, given their state. They feel like—if I try weaving them—they’ll burst into ash or completely disintegrate.
I open my eyes, a little repulsed but more than willing to try. If he dissolves into nothing, all the better.
I dance my hands and fingers around the song, aware of the ropechafing my neck all the while.“Loria, Loria, una wil shonia, tu vannum vortra, tu nomweh ilia vo drenith wen grenah.”
“I can’t repeat her words,” Nephele says. “Unless you’re fine with me speaking Old Elikesh lyrics.”
The prince casts a glance over his shoulder. “No. Let her work.”
“Loria, Loria, una wil shonia, tu vannum vortra, tu nomweh ilia vo drenith wen grenah.”
The remains of his threads quiver, and then they flutter and rise like floating embers escaping a fire. Wincing, he touches his cheek.
I can’t help but think about the fire magick he and his warriors used on Silver Hollow, the way their arrows burned villagers from the inside out. But how did they do it? He’s been to the Shadow World, but the afterlife doesn’t grant magick or teach ancient workings. What has the prince tangled himself in that he’s corrupted his entire existence for a little power?
A strange compulsion comes over me. I reach out and touch the prince’s temple. He flinches but doesn’t stop me.
An image flashes across my mind, a man in a dank cell, a tower overlooking a foamy, wild sea. He lies on a stone bed in a threadbare shift, unmoving.
The man I saw at the barrier when I touched the Eastlander’s wall. This is him.
His skin appears leached of all color and spirit. His cheeks are hollow, his muscles wasted. There is skin, and there are bones, and there’s a breath of life, but it isn’t much. Just enough to keep him a hair’s breadth from losing his soul to the Shadow World.
Gods.Losing his soul.
Recoiling, I yank my hand away from the prince and press it to my chest, remembering my father’s words. The Prince of the East is a man who somehow steals life and magick from others to grant himself immortality and power his own dark desires.
A man made of shadows, souls, and sin.
The shadows are indeed here, always, and gods know he’s filled to the brim with sin.
But he also carries a soul. One who, it seems, is an unwilling participant. One whose life and magick are being stolen. Siphoned. And if Ihad to guess, I’d say it’s the soul of a Summerlander in a dank cell overlooking the sea.
The prince looks at me and smiles with one side of his mouth, an evil glint in his eyes. “See something you didn’t like?”
My heart pounds in my ears. I’m shaken to my core. Those gossamer filaments—are those old souls he’s used up?
The prince leans closer. “I felt you. Inside me. Do you rummage around inside other people’s minds often?”
I’m breathing so hard, trying to wrap my mind around what just happened. I’ve never been able to see into someone’s soul before, but then again, I’ve never attempted it. There’s never been a need. Could I have seen Neri if I’d looked deeper when I healed Alexus? Or does this have something to do with the man on the other side? Is hetryingto communicate with me? It had felt that way in the valley.
As the prince sits there, analyzing me, I think of the dagger between my breasts. It’s an inch from my fingertips.
