“You look pretty damn alive to me,” I say.
He sighs, his hands hanging heavily by his sides. “Admittedly, I don’t feel like the walking dead.”
“The others often mention a tingling in their limbs, especially their fingers.”
“None of that. Yet.”
“That’s a good sign,” I say.
He shakes his head. “Except I don’t want to be stuck like this.”
“Hmm.” I clench my teeth against a sudden wave of dizziness.
Osian takes my shoulder, holding me still. But he keeps me at arm’s length, and there’s a hardness in his eyes I don’t like.
“How many memories did your magic take from you this time?”
“I don’t know,” I answer in a rasp, the ache between my eyes sharpening. “I never do.”
He nods, his gaze moving over the camp like he’s suddenly remembered where we are and why. “What happened to the rebel?”
“He ran off when he spotted me. Apparently word has gotten out about my magic.”
Osian frowns but says nothing. Instead, he stalks into the rebel tent, pokes through the mess, and pockets something too quickly for me to make out what it is. My vision grows dark at the edges, and the wind begins to sound like the discordant tolling of a bell from the land of the dead. Screams fill my mind.
It’s not the first time I’ve heard them, and it only happens after I push myself too far. Sometimes, I think I really am hearing the dead. They’re angry at me for what I do.
They know the wicked truth of my magic. I can do far more than raise the dead.
My knees buckle, and I hit the ground. Dew-stained grass brushes against my face, cold compared to the heat burning through me.
Then darkness fills my vision until it’s the only thing I know.
I wake in my soft bed in Caer Draen, the familiar scent of the sea drifting through the cracks in the aged windows. The sound of seagulls fills the air, and a bell chimes in the distance. This one does not sound like doom, and the screams of the dead have quieted in my mind. I breathe in and let it all wash over me.
Home.
But then memories of the night before crash into me, shattering my brief peace. I clench my teeth, hating the way my heart twists, like a fist has suddenly squeezed the life from it. Last night I killed someone. And I resurrected Osian.
I release a shuddering breath and force my eyes open. If I’m here, that means he survived long enough to get us back to the city. I was unconscious. I wouldn’t have made it to my bed without him.
A folded note rests on my bedside table. I lift it to my eyes, angling it to catch the pale light slanting through the window.
DearestAngharad,
Welcome back. We are pleased to hear of your success in resurrecting Osian in a more permanent manner, although weunderstand what a toll this powerful magic must have taken on you.
Once you have recovered, please come see us in the study, where we will be working all day. We have much to discuss with you.
May the stars never be forgotten,
High Swynwragedd Seren and Lowri
I sigh and crumple the paper in my fist. I don’t mind being summoned, and I expected it, but I hoped the note came from Osian, not the High Swynwragedd. Their words suggest he’s still alive, but I can’t be certain.
Quickly, I wash my face and dress in a clean pair of plain brown trousers. Over them, I pull on a long tunic the color of the rolling hills, ending mid-thigh. A fitted bodice comes next, the collar threaded with fine golden swirls that catch the light when I move. I throw my Order cloak over the ensemble and clasp the front with the star emblem all Order members wear. We may have lost our stars, but they will never be forgotten.
The corridor outside my room is empty. Gray light filters through the windows, and the bell tolls twice, alerting the city that it’s nearing midday. Most Order members are busy with their assigned tasks, or out on missions that take them far from these halls. I hurry down the long stretch of carpet toward Osian’s room. The most important Order members are housed in the expansive South Wing, one of the four gilded stories. Osian and I were lucky enough to be assigned to the same floor.
