I soar back and forth over the inky spill, low and high. Not even the faintest glimmer of stone shines through the surf. Could I have flown past the isle?
I’m about to ask Lorcan to quiet the skies when I spot a swirl. I hover over it, my deadened pulse ratcheting when it beginsto expand into a shimmering whirlpool. It isn’t the ocean that floods Shabbe, but a torrent of magic.
Chapter 72
Zendaya
“It’s almost over, my darling,” my mother murmurs into my mind.
I cannot see her face, nor can I see Fallon’s, but I can feel their hands. Our fingers have been welded together since Meriam portaled us off our mates’ backs with a sigil. We stand atop the heart of Shabbe, the heart of the entire world, palms bleeding, magic eddying around us, brisk like the ocean yet light as air.
Magic that we, descendants of the first queen, wrung from the Mahananda’s stone by mixing and dripping our blood onto its parched bedrock. When Kanti and the others had finally spotted us, they dove, but their bodies never landed—they swirled, lengthening, broadening until they were no more than shapeless, bloodless shadows.
Until they were no more.
What will be left of Shabbe after we’re done feeding the Mahananda the magic it was robbed of?
“A better world.”
I startle because that wasn’t Meriam’s voice. “Mahananda?”
“Yes, Daughter of the ocean?”
I don’t ask it whether it’s truly returned for I know how it loathes rhetorical queries. Instead, I say, “I will guard you better this time.”
“As will I.”
I feel its promise swathe my heart as though it had sent a little bit of magic inside me.
“You’re pure magic, my daughter.” Its words are so gentle that they heat my lids with emotion.
“Mahananda, my Serpents were poisoned?—”
“They’re safe. That toxin will never harm your kind again.”
I bite my lip as I consider asking it one more question, but it feels greedy.
“Do not confuse greed with compassion, Zendaya. Tell me what irks you.”
“Rosh stole a Crow’s magic before we reawakened you. Can you bring him back?”
“Ferry him inside my depths, and I will try.”
Another wave of gratitude dashes over me but it swiftly retracts. How will I pick Erwin out of a murder of regular crows? Hopefully, Cathal or Lorcan will know how to recognize him.
The churning suddenly ebbs, the darkness thins, and Meriam’s face appears. Fallon’s, too. Their matching pink irises glimmer just as wildly as mine must.
“You are pardoned, Meriam amPriya of Shabbe,” the Mahananda says out loud this time.
Meriam’s lids clasp as she murmurs, “Thank you.”
“Daughters, Meriam has asked me to unbind your fates, but in order to do so, I will need a unanimous accord. Fallon, Zendaya, do you accept?”
“Yes,” I say, still ravaged by guilt for having subjected them to such a spell.
“Fallon?”
“I’ll accept only if Taytah strikes a bargain with me not to go slumber in the Mahananda for at least another century,” my daughter says.
