Our next trial?
“We could go back,” I say. “Find a different path and avoid whatever this is.”
George’s brows lower. “No. Anya is this way. I can feel it.”
I let a flicker of magic ignite on my fingertips. “All right. Let’s meet our new friend.”
Trepidation fills my steps as we walk closer. This is no trial, at least not one like any of the others we’ve experienced so far.
The figure moves in a way that is both fluid and disjointed. Her head twitches on her neck, and her legs bow as she walks toward us. Each movement is spasmodic, as if her limbs are being jerked by an invisible string.
As we get closer, I notice the color of her skin—a muted blue—and the huge, weathered tome she balances on her forearm.
I’ve met her before. She looked different then, but the feeling is the same.
“It’s a Fate,” I whisper to George.
He narrows his eyes. “Friend or foe?”
“Neither.”
“Should I be on guard?”
“Won’t matter if you are,” I say. “She knows everything you’ve ever thought. Every action you’ve ever taken. It’s all there in her book.”
For walking toward us is Clio, the Chronicler of Lives. She stops as we get closer, cradling her book and smiling with her gently pointed teeth visible. Like her sisters, the Fate is blind, her eyes covered with black bandages that give way to a flowing veil.
“Who is she?” George asks quietly.
“One of the three Fates. No one knows where they come from. Some say they were fae of the Above, transformed when the Gardens of Ithilias fell. Others think they’ve come from outside the Vale, from a world far different than ours. They see things that once were and things that have yet to come.”
George runs a hand through his wayward hair. “Well, that’s quite the company!”
I nudge George. “Take note of her book. She can see the entirety of time itself. Every piece of history is etched into those pages.”
“They work for the Queen of the Below?”
“They don’t work for anyone, but they’ve decided to reside in the dark,” I say. “Usually if one wants to consult with them, it’s a matter of hunting them throughout the Below. If you come across one, it’s for a reason. They come bearinggifts, so they say.”
“And what a gift I bring for you today. Something very special. Very important. I have sought you out for this purpose.” Clio’s voice crosses the distance between us, a voice so soft and sweet, and all the more unnerving for coming as it does from behind her sharpened teeth.
“Why is that, Clio?” I call.
She moves quickly, all four limbs jerking as if pulled by strings held from above.
“My sisters and I have been watching you, Keldarion, High Prince of Winter, and George of the O’Connells.” A smile twitches across her mouth. “We are most impressed by your journey.”
“Thank you kindly—” George begins before shrinking back. Clio reaches for him with her pale blue hand, her long nails sharpened to points. Stitches run up the length of her skin, as if she’s barely held together.
She caresses his cheek and shivers. “A human. What a desperately delightful experience. You die so quickly; I am honored to touch your flesh.”
“The, uh, honor is all mine,” George says.
I grab her wrist and remove it from George’s face. She jerks her head toward me and hisses.
“We don’t want any gifts,” I growl. “Let us pass.”
“Terribly rude this one,” she says in her slow, sweet voice. Pulling back, she flips through the pages of her tome. “Ah, yes. It started here. The two hundred and third Hearthlight Festival.Your father had recently passed, and Sveran Ironhall asked if he could have his dagger. You told him to take a long walk off a short pier into the Great Iskvalldan Lake, for it might be the only thing vast enough to contain his ego. Or perhaps it was the time—”
