“That was the last spring to bloom over our homeland.” She smiled and grasped Valenna’s hands. “But now you are here, and you can restore Talwaith and, perhaps, the sunbird will return.”
Feeling small and wretched, Valenna pulled her hands away. “I fear I am more a blight than a remedy.”
Sybil creased her brow, heartbreaking compassion in her watery gray eyes. “Oh, child, broken magic is not inherited or inherent. It is steeped, like tea. If it is dark, then it is because of the darkness inside you. Find out what is causing that darkness and let it go. Then your pure magic will emerge.”
“But how?” Valenna asked, her voice hoarse.
“When does your magic rise?”
Valenna looked away, but Sybil squinted at her, like she was trying to read a sign that was very far away. “Ah, anger.”
Valenna blushed. She didn’t like being read like a book.
“Anger will eat away at you, and, like a rot, it will eat away at the people you love as well.”
“It’s my father’s fault,” Valenna said bitterly. “He made me a monster, and I want him to pay for it.”
Sybil paused, studying Valenna. “I was wrong,” she said. “I do see Cadmus in you. He flares up, behind your eyes.”
Valenna balked at this, but before she could reply, the door opened and Evander entered with a tray in his hands.
“Hello,” he said, drawing his eyebrows together.
Sybil’s wrinkled face fell. “You are Evandaine! One of Tiernan’s children. Yes, I recall you as a boy at Battlethwait, with Freya, on the Wildelands.”
“I don’t remember you,” Evander replied.
“Oh, this is very unwise,” Sybil said. “You two cannot be together. It is madness.”
Evander let out a short laugh. “It’s a little late to worry about that.”
Sybil shook her head. “You’ve heard the old lament, I assume?”
She launched into song without warning, her eyelids drooping.
“You sing the boughs to blossoms
On a field of barren blight.
I will not soar without you
Through the perils of the flight.
Your blood adorns the willow.
And your breath is nearly spent;
So hear me in the wailing
Of the sunbird’s last lament.”
The hair on Valenna’s arms stood on end, and an inexplicable coldness settled over her.
“It is said to be about your father, but I don’t know,” Sybil said, addressing Evander. “He died under a dragon willow.”
“And a lovely morning to you, too,” Evander muttered.
Sybil looked grim. “Wear that shirt I brought for you. Sometimes, a song is just a song, but sometimes, it is a prophecy.”
