My stomach churns, ice filling my veins. My heart hammers so hard that my head spins.
“You were dead.Ibrought you back. Some might say your existence is an abomination, but I say we rightfully defeated destiny.”
Her eyes flash with something sinister, and I nearly trip over my own feet as I take another step back. She advances on me as my chest heaves with panicked breaths. I always thought I’d been close to death and survived, not that I’d actually beendead.
“I saved you because you were meant for more than meeting your untimely end at the hands of those ridiculous fanatics. Because you deserved the chance to choose where you stand in this war of the gods. You deserved to control your own fate.”
I swallow thickly as vomit crawls up my throat. I’m barely able to catch my breath through my bounding pulse as I say, “How is that possible? No one can bring someone back from death! I had to have been—There’s no—How?”
Radika looks at the bottle where the liquid within has turned a murky black-green color. Lifting it, she nods with satisfaction and walks to the counter to cork it. It’s as if she hasn’t even heard me.
“Radika!”
With her back still to me, she says, “There are only a handful of people with the gift to bring the soul back from Lugda’s clutches.” She turns back to me, swirling the liquid around in the bottle again.
“Necromancy isforbidden,” I whisper.
“As is terraforging. And divination. And magical healing.” She gestures with her arms wide, the bottle still clutched in her hand. “Yet here we are. Our people have been killed for too long. It’s time to fight back.”
“You’re mad.” I retreat another step, shaking my head.
“Tonight,” Radika says without missing a beat. She slips the bottle into the pocket of her cloak and returns to me. “You’ll have to make a choice.” I brace myself for her to say something even more terrifying, but she only smiles at me and sweeps out of the room.
My knees quiver as I stand there, unable to move until I finally rush toward a receptacle to retch until my stomach is empty.
Radika truly brought me backfrom the deadover a year ago. I shouldn’t be here.
Given that the gods do exist, I’m sure Lugda must want my soul.
Chapter 58
I awaketo the sensation of metal cuffs around my wrists. The sear of tearing flesh as Eefa’s knife cleaves into me again and again. Flames break out along my palms and crawl up my arms as my heart threatens to burst and my lungs fight for air. Stumbling out of bed, I try to steady my breathing. I struggle to recall all the ways Alys taught me to ground myself over the years.
But how do I ground myself when the whole bloody boat is rocking? Why did I think going back to Erleya would be a good idea?
Gods, I’ve made a mistake. What if I’m captured again? What if they lock a conduit onto my wrist once more and wield my soul like Eefa said Iywan would have. They might be dead, but more monsters prowl the kingdom.
I try to push the flames back into my body, but no matter how hard I will the fire away, it remains. The small cabin grows hotter, my breathing harsher.
There seems to be only one way to stop this. Before I burn the ship down and kill us all. I don’t want any more blood on my hands. Especially not these wonderful people who left theirhomelandto ensure my safe return to Erleya. To aid me in a completely impossible task.
Still breathing harshly, I rush toward the water cask in the corner of my cabin, struggling to get it open without setting it on fire. As I yank the cover free, it drops with a loudthud. I wince but waste no more time before I plunge my arms elbow deep into the lukewarm water.
To my dismay, the water simmers, then begins to bubble and boil. More heat surges through me, becoming almost overwhelming. I yank my arms free, and tiny sparks flicker along my fingers and the backs of my hands, as though fighting to find a way out.
My powers howl within me, darkness warring with flames. Cold battling heat. Enidwen’s glee bleeds through the fortifications of my mind, light cackling filling the spaces where I’ve managed to keep her out.
Embrace it, she whispers.
“Stop.”
You cannot keep fighting.
I somehow keep my voice low, though it trembles from the effort. “Make it stop. Please.”
Drip, drip, drip.
The water from my hands drops onto the floor and my mind is thrown back into the tunnels below Paramount. To the incessant dripping that spanned the days I was tortured. I clutch my hands to my body and stumble, falling to my knees.
