“Will you tell me the legend of the Sacred Trinity, as you learned it in Avalon?” Cyara asked. Her voice did not shake.
Neither did Percival’s as he answered, without hesitation, without fighting the compulsion in his blood— “Yes.”
He picked up the teacup again, swirling the dregs around and around. For someone whose stomach was roiling with poison, hetook several breaths before he began to speak. When he did, it was with the monotone syllables of recitation:
“The Sacred Trinity was forged in Avalon so long ago that not even the priestesses know the original creators. Tens of thousands of years. Long before your Great War. It took great power to forge the sacred objects—the power of all combined. Faerie, witch, and human. The sword will only present itself to the worthy wielder. No other will be able to pull it from the stone. The bearer of the scabbards shall be protected from injury. Not a drop of their blood may be spilled while they wear them. The chalice gives life. Drink from it once, and you are healed of any ailment. Sip from it forever, and you shall never die. It is said when they are united, the bearer will be master of death.”
Cyara did not interrupt him, though a thousand questions sprang to her mind.
She compartmentalized her anger as she began to ask them. “That part about power combined—faerie, witch, and human—why have you never mentioned it before? You were there when I was scouring the priestess’ collection of journals for any information about the Sacred Trinity.”
She expected an irreverent shrug. Instead, Percival frowned. “You did not have all three items. I did not think it was worth divulging extra information that could be of used to barter for Diana’s life later.”
Honesty. He’d answered her honestly. Cyara swallowed down a lump of emotion. “Did you mean what you said before? That you believe there is a connection between the ‘master of death’ and Veyka’s void power?” It was the question that had haunted Cyara’s every breath since they’d found that last stone in the ring of monoliths—the one that declared Veyka must die to banish the succubus forever.
Percival nodded. Whatever anger he felt about her ruse with the poison, there was none of it in his eyes now. The dark brown orbs were intent, emphatic, in a way Cyara had rarely seen except when he defended his sister. “It cannot be a coincidence that she already bears two of the sacred objects. And she even spoke of the third, the chalice. About one in Baylaur.”
Cyara recalled the conversation. The chalice where Veyka and Arran’s blood was joined during the Offering.
It cannot be that easy…The chalice was in Baylaur. True, the goldstone palace was overrun with succubus. But with her void power, Veyka could be in and out in a heartbeat. Even if it necessitated a search, surely it was worth the chance at saving her life…
Another thought dawned in her mind.
“Why do you know so much about the Sacred Trinity? We have never even heard about it in Annwyn, yet you can recite the tale word for word.”
This time, Percival did sigh. It was so heavy, so full of regret and pain and anguish that for a moment, Cyara regretted the poison. He and Diana were caught in this war as well, against their will. And nearly powerless to defend themselves.
Powerless, except for the witch blood in their veins.
“There was a time in my life when I sought out any connection to my witch heritage,” Percival admitted. He still stared intently at the tea—the tea that would kill him soon. But his words remained unrushed. “Even the brief mention of a witch’s power combining with that of the humans and the fae was enough to hold my interest.”
Cyara handed him the vial.
Only after he had swallowed it down did she ask another question. One he could answer or ignore of his own free will. “How did you and Diana come to Avalon?”
His chest moved in a soundless, joyless chuckle. “Annwyn may have cast out the witches, but in the human realm many still worship them. Every year a sacrifice is made. Men compete for the privilege, to be the one to cross the strait and present himself on Tirbyas.”
Cyara envisioned the map she’d studied of Annwyn in her youth. “Tirbyas. The Isle of the Dead?”
Percival nodded, now inspecting the empty vial rather than his teacup. “It has the same name in the human realm as it does in Annwyn.”
She did not want to ask; but she’d begun this. “What sort of sacrifice?”
Percival lifted his eyes to hers. “The sort that bears children born without fathers.”
“I see.” By habit, trained by years of comforting herself, she almost lifted the poisoned tea to her lips. She stood and dashed it into the fire. “You are twins, then?” she asked.
Percival rose, dumping the remains of his cup as well. “Born of subsequent years. Children born of such couplings are rare. Twice in as many years… it was a special circumstance. Or so the priestesses thought. Our mother did not give many details when she deposited us as babies on the lakeshore.” His voice hollowed out as he spoke. “Witches do not make good mothers.”
“I imagine not,” Cyara said softly. If she’d thought for a second he’d accept her comfort, she would have reached for him. But she had no right to even offer it, not when mere moments before she’d poisoned him. Something he was taking uncharacteristically in stride.
For several minutes, there was only the sound of the crackling fire and the soft rustle of her wings.
Percival and Diana’s origin was interesting and heartbreaking. But as far as Cyara could tell, it had no bearing onthe current struggle with the succubus, nor on the quest for the Sacred Trinity.
Finally, Percival stepped away. He retreated for the door and Cyara made no move to stop him. But when the door opened, yet did not close again, she lifted her eyes to find him staring at her.
“You could have just asked,” he said. “You wouldn’t have even needed the poison.”
