“Keep him safe and I’ll make sure of that.”
That was a stupid promise, I think as I clamber back onto the phoenix’s back, watching Roane steady himself against Ardruna. Talton is hopping on the ground beside them. They all stop and turn to look at me.
“Don’t go,” Roane says hoarsely. “You won’t find an antidote.”
“You have so little faith in me,” I say.
“I have all my faith in you,” he counters. “Healing this wound won’t save me.”
“You’re delirious. And we’ll see about that.”
“You still need to leave this world.”
“Yeah, I heard you the first time.” Clenching my jaw, I lean over Simu’s neck. “Take me to the plains and lakes. Take me where the egrets live.”
“Aline!” Roane calls out. “Be careful!”
“I will!” And we fly off in a shower of sparks and fire.
CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT
AN OLDER STORY
ADELINE
My body aches with tension as I cling to the phoenix’ back like a bug on a grass stalk, sure I’ll fall the next time he turns or dives.
Did he even understand what I’m trying to find? Does he know what egrets are?
“I know egrets,”he says in my mind, and I jerk in surprise.
“So you do understand when I speak.”
“Roane said I should obey you as I obey him,”he whispers through my thoughts.
My mouth trembles. “He did? When?”
“When we first rescued you from the griffin.”
“Why would he do that? He doesn’t want me here.”
Simu has no reply to that. He flies over the hills and I see a lake sparkling from afar. I can’t remember seeing a lake there before. This world keeps changing.
And I see egrets. There are only a few and they fly away as we approach. We land on the shore of the lake and I squint against the light reflecting on the lake’s still water.
How will I get close to them?
Wait… There is an older story at play here. Naida told me once about the daughters of Kereus who washed their clothes at the lake shore. Then they were turned into egrets, and theyin their turn were turned into metal birds. Stories are full of transformations, but the one striking thing about this story is that the birds were originally humans. That has to be why they can shed tears, unlike other birds.
I might know the stories but I don’t know how to approach these birds. How to talk to them. Much less how to make them cry for me.
“Egrets!” I yell. “Do you remember me? Stymphalians!” I start walking along the lake shore, trying to think of other names for them, names they might respond to. “Herons. Ardeas! Daughters of Kereus!”
But they either don’t hear me or don’t care about these names. The magic I wrought on them doesn’t seem to be reversible. I can’t even see them anymore. They have flown away.
Pressing my hands over my cheeks, I crouch down. This isn’t working. And that’s without even considering how I could transport those tears. In my hands? While riding a fiery bird? I left desperate to get the antidote, hoping I’d find solutions on the way, the urgency of the situation pushing me to act.
But I don’t see any solutions. I don’t have the antidote. All of it—finding the griffin, negotiating the information about the cure, coming out here—was for nothing.
