Iryana had promised Tonhald that she would keep his wife safe. She had promised Uncle Dinhal that he would have vengeance. Had promised Vaneshta that the 18th could be a force of good in the world again. Had promised Pyetar he would be free.
She had promisedherselfthat she could do this. That she would save them.
Despite the agony of her magic being pulled so hard it felt like it would be ripped out of her, Iryana endured. The tattooing ritual felt like it took hours, each moment a struggle, a waver on the edge of death. But she kept reminding herself that Karvek had survived this. If he had done it, she could to.
Finally, the pain stopped.
She lay there, every muscle limp, throat raw. Waiting for it to begin again.
“It’s done,” the Keeper said. She sounded exhausted and disbelieving. “And you still live.”
Iryana wiped the tears from her eyes and sat up, her every muscle shaking with tremors.
The Keeper was more hunched than before, skin pale and eyes haunted. “You survived this when no others have. That the magic of Voordiza and Noshtiz allowed it…”
“I wasn’t the first,” she groaned. Karvek had to be. Or someone before both of them.
“How do you feel?”
Horrible. Wrong. Unstable. “I’m fine.”
Iryana had to drag herself to the mirror leaning against the stone wall. The Keeper tried to help her, but Iryana shook her off. She had to do it herself.
She stood, fingers shaking as she turned, baring the new tattoos that climbed over her shoulder up her neck, over her chest, down her arm.
In the glimpses she’d seen of Hadima’s water-forging tattoos, the shapes were soft and gentle. Swirling like waves and curling like shells. But the tattoos on her body were nothing like that. They were jagged and sharp, like waves during only the fiercest of storms and the edges of sharks’ teeth.
She wasn’t sure if the tattoos looked like that because she had been shaking and spasming too hard, or because that was how much the magic had to fight to bond with her. Or because there was nothing gentle about the truths she shared.
Either way, it looked right.
“The hardest part is over,” the Keeper said, lowering herself down onto the bed Iryana had laid on, placing a basket of supplies. “Let me bandage your tattoos. They look—they don’t look like they will heal easily. And then we can get started.”
Iryana nodded and sat down again, fighting the nausea. She let the woman clean her skin and wrap her in bandages. She kept her eyes closed, trying to get used to the discomfort, the wrongness, inside her.
When the Keeper was done, she helped Iryana back to her feet.
Her legs wobbled like a newborn foal, but she followed her Keeper into the inner chamber of the temple. To the well itself.
It was set up like the metal well Iryana had first been forged in, but the walls were more organic, like the cavern had existed long before becoming a temple.
Iryana walked up to the well, and it was like peeking into an underground river of magic.
She took a deep breath, knowing it would be unpleasant to call on Voordiza’s magic.
And pulled.
The Keeper dragged the temple doors open.
Iryana felt restless and shaky after working all night. She was still wearing the robe, stained with blood and ink and sweat.
“Iryana?” her sister’s voice screeched as footsteps pounded up the corridor.
Then Hadima was rushing through the open doors, face splotchy and stained with tears, and throwing her arms around Iryana.
She couldn’t stop the yelp that erupted from her throat at her sister agitating the new tattoos, but she wrapped her arms around her sister, anyway.
“You’re okay,” Hadima sobbed in relief. “You’re okay.”
