There were five Guides there, hazy but visible through the cloth. I peeked out with one eye, moving slowly. One was holding a metal bowl in one hand, the soul knife in the leather scabbard at their belt. In their other hand, he grasped a blood-soaked, bronze feather. They dropped it into the bowl, coughed out a word that made my eardrums throb—but obviously hurt all of theirs worse, since they all winced and grunted in pain, even the one who had said it—and then there was a flash of flame and smoke as the feather burned away. The room reeked of sour rot and burning flesh.
The two Protectors were holding each other, sobbing on the floor, their wings folded over each other so I couldn’t see what was going on. “This lesson was painful for us all,” the Guide with the knife announced. His voice sounded like Prosperity, my Purity teacher. “I hope for the sake of all the others in Sanctuary, your punishment will prevent others from repeating your crime.” The other Guides stood back, but the sleeves of their robes were stained with blood, ichor, and thick, greasy smut.
Their own smut, from perpetrating this gross abuse of power. Something in my veins started to burn. It felt like small streams of lava moving through me, igniting an unquenchable fire, and draining into a vast, hidden crater of hurt that had formed during my years of witnessing and struggling against injustices like this. But filling now with something else. Something new. I clutched one hand to my chest, the other around my mouth, as I fought for control.
I was being consumed by some power I’d never had before, one that demanded I help these two poor souls, but there was nothing to fix. The Guides were leaving. And what the power really wanted to do was avenge. Wreak justice, and rain down holy fire.
Orunholyfire.
My skin prickled with painful currents, and I looked down. Underneath the surface, the deep, dark silver swirls that had been there since my return to Sanctuary ran like turbulent rivers, seeking a way out. I recognized the flavor of the power now. It was the same heady, thick mass that made up most of the Abyss. I ran my hands over my arms and felt tiny ridges rising up all over me, the texture of Rumple’s horns. Terror mixed with the rage I was feeling. What was I? What had he made me into? A forceful current surged in answer.
Not now,I pleaded with myself. Or with the power.First, protect the others.
The wordprotectdid something, flipped a switch, and suddenly, I was free of the impulse to destroy. “Thank you,” I whispered.
I didn’t want to know what might happen if the shadows inside me found a way out. I didn’t know if I’d survive it.
Or if Sanctuary would.
Chapter 19
Feather
By the time I was certain the strange dark currents inside me had settled, the Guides were long gone, probably returned to the Assembly Hall. But the two Protectors lay crumpled and moaning in agony. I didn’t know them, or at least I didn’t think we’d met. I couldn’t see their faces; all I could make out was tangled, dark hair, bent feathers, and the stained fabric of their robes.
I tiptoed close, and called out softly, “Let me help you, please.”
One of them looked up, and I staggered to a halt at the abject despair in her reddened eyes. Her robe had been torn down the front, and her neck had a long gaping wound on it that oozed ichor and blood, where her lover’s feather had been cut away. I fought the urge to vomit.
“They took it,” she muttered, her eyes unfocused. She wasn’t glowing at all, as if her inner spark had been extinguished. “They took Glory’s feather from me.”
The other woman, Glory, folded her wings tighter around her body, her shaking hands holding on to her lover’s arm, and I noted the space in her wing where her feather had been.
“If you want to help us,” Glory said, her voice rough as if she’d screamed it raw, “then you’ll unmake us.” Her dark eyes shot to me, and I saw pure rage and grief swimming in the deep brown there. “I don’t want to live with this pain.” Her gaze went to her crying ex-mate. “I won’t live without you in my soul.”
I closed my eyes, calling out for Rumple. I felt like I heard an answer, but his voice was almost as filled with agony as these two. I opened my eyes and moved closer, sitting on the floor in front of them.Singer of All Songs, help me find a way to fix this. A way to heal them.
And somehow, heal the greater wound that’s killing all of us.
I opened my mouth to speak but something else happened: a song.
It was one of the first Rumple had sung to me, when I was in the most pain, when I was a child. The words were dark poetry, images that had made no sense at the time. But singing it had made me feel less alone, even when I’d been carrying the burden of dozens of murders on my heart. Like I was singing not only to myself, but to the whole universe. Calling every soul who might hear me to answer the call.
“Ancient stories, endless rhymes.
Candles flicker, sputter, die.
Who will right the cruelest wrongs?
Could you do it, or could I?
Flicker, shimmer, fiery spark; burn and rage, sweet little heart.
Pearls are pain with robes of light,
Broken pieces, dying spark.
You are called to braver work:
