When I say nothing, a smile tugs up at one edge of her mouth and she says, “I admit that when you were so inquisitive about the fea, I expected you to be more open to all the possibilities outside of what you were taught by the La’tari.”
“You think I’m closed minded?” I nearly scoff, even as my mind trips over all I’ve learned and tried to reject since I landed on these shores.
“I’m sure there must be a reason you continue to deny any truth laid before you. And while you seem content to live in ignorance, it is not without its costs,” Awri says, her eyes wilting when they land on the form of her mate. Every defense building inside of me ebbs when I follow that gaze.
This is not the conversation I expected to have with her. I debate excusing myself and consider discarding whatever fragile semblance of a friendship still remains between us. But my feet don’t move for the door when I will myself to leave her to her sorrow. As if my body were not within my control, I find myself kneeling before her instead, her hand clasped between my own.
“You said that you didn’t blame me for this.” It’s little more than a whisper when it passes my lips.
What little hope I had in the sincerity of her claim is lost when she replies, “Maybe I’m lying to myself too.”
The thin thread binding us to each other begins to slip, threatening to unravel all that is left. I may not agree with her—what could I have possibly known that would have changed this?
“What can I do?” My entire being protests the question even as I ask. It’s too open, it offers too much. What price will the female exact from me?
But I can think of no other way to mend this, so I plead, “Tell me.”
She doesn’t hesitate in her answer, doesn’t stop to think or consider what she might say. She leans forward in her chair, a challenge in her eyes as her hand closes like a vice around my own.
“Ask,” she says simply. “What secrets of the feyn, of A’kori, of Terr, do you wish to know?”
Nothing. Everything.
What can the female tell me without shattering the last of the small panes that remain of my life? What can she say that will not rewrite thehistories of my world and all that I know?
“What would you like me to know?” I deflect, entirely unsure I want her answer.
Awri puffs out a sigh. I asked a fair question, just not the one she wanted. I’m not even sure what that question is, but I’m sure the answer will cost me more than I can afford.
I remind myself of the weight of her offer, of all their heavily guarded secrets. How many Drakai have lost their lives in search of the information she seems so eager to share with me?
Her brow pitches down to resemble the general’s glower when she replies, “Everything, Shivaria. I would have you know everything.”
Her eyes flick to the door and at once I understand her. Xeyvian offered much the same. Everything I have learned since arriving has been at my request. In the cottage they answered every question I had about the fea. Media gladly taught me about the Vatruke when I inquired.
Maybe it’s pure naivete, but I do not think they will force the shattering of my world. It is such a simple request, one they continue to make. ‘Ask.’
I’ve already sought answers from Felias and the sisters. Why is it so impossible to ask the same questions of them? I tell myself that it is because there are too many lies that I have yet to unravel. But deep down, I know that it is the threat that their truths pose to my reality that stops me.
Even after everything they’ve told me, what do I really know? The fea are the only true innocents in this war and the Vatruke hunt them, with the assistance of the Drakai.
I swallow hard, deciding on a question that will test her without risking too much. “Tell me about the power of the feyn.”
She raises her brows, tipping her head to the side, clearly surprised that I have finally given her what she wants. I expect her to balk at the question, to retract the offer, to assure me that though I may ask her anything, there are still things she is unwilling to divulge. Instead, she waves her hand at the seat across from her.
Smoothing the shimmering orange fabric of her dress resting upon her thighs she says, “Every feyn child is born with a connection toShivay,the world soul. As we grow, that connection strengthens into a bond, one thatShivayuses to produce a gift inside of us.”
“You say that like it’s alive,” I wonder at her choice of words.
“Do you not believe the soul of Terr is alive?” she asks, as if it’s the simplest question in the world.
I’m not sure she intended to wait for my reply when she immediately continues. “Each gift is uniquely our own, some more subtly different than others, and all with differing degrees of power.”
She rises from her chair, busying herself warming a kettle over the fire.
“How do you determine who is more powerful?” I ask.
“Generally, feyn who are gifted with powers of the mind are considered the most powerful. Though, that is not always the case,” she says, walking to a nearby cabinet and kneeling to rummage through it. “The power of our gifts is only as strong as our bond toShivay. A gift like Toren’s is physical in nature and could harm a tree just as easily as it could harm any feyn. Gifts like mine—illusion—and other gifts of the mind, while incredibly powerful, are only really effective if our target’s bond toShivayis weaker than our own.”
