It’s amazing how quickly I find myself sitting on the bed in the safehouse in Kestis. My dream has recreated it perfectly. Everything is just as it was all those weeks ago, down to the faint sound of voices from the other room.
The difference now is Leon is beside me, watching me carefully.
“Are you alright?” he asks.
“Yes,” I say with a shiver. “It just feels weird, hearing them.” I nod to the sound drifting in through the door. “In a few minutes, they’ll all be dead.”
Leon crouches beside me, putting a hand on my arm. “They’re already gone, Ana,” he gently reminds me. “There’s nothing you can do to help them now, except by finding out what we can to stop Caledon.”
I nod, looking down to the codex in my lap. “What should I do?”
“Focus on the memory. I brought you here, but I can only help you so much. You’ll have to find the details I don’t know on your own.”
I nod, take a deep breath, and pull the codex open. Words swirl in front of me—a jumble of text I can’t read, my memory refusing to give me any specifics. I flick through the pages, passing theprophecy about myself, which I remember only too well. I frown, trying hard to keep our one clue firm in my mind.
There. More text starts to settle into place in front of me. Swirling handwriting forms a few lines that look like they were written in a hurry:
Filusia’s hand will shield the traveler’s blessing, though not from Siga’s falling tears.
“I have it,” I murmur, reading the words over and over, repeating them to Leon to make sure I won’t forget them again.
“The traveler’s blessing certainly sounds like another name for the seal, doesn’t it?” Leon points out. “The mages called it the Traveler’s Mark.”
“Yes,” I agree. “But what’s Filusia’s hand?”
“They call the crown prince the Hand of the King sometimes,” Leon says. “That would make my father?—”
“The Hand of Filusia,” I say. “And he shielded it. By hiding the seal, he was protecting it.”
“Which leaves Siga’s falling tears,” Leon says. “And if Siga is a river, my guess is her falling tears are?—”
“A waterfall,” I say, reaching the answer just before he says it. “That’s it. Somewhere along that river there’s a waterfall, and your father hid the seal nearby. It makes sense. In the legends, Ethira was at odds with Mariste, the goddess of the seas and aquari. That’s why the seal’s magic is dampened by water. Hiding it in a waterfall would make it harder to detect its power.”
Leon looks down at the codex. “I guess we should we be thanking old Atolus the seer right now.”
“Thank Caledon,” I say triumphantly. “If he hadn’t baited us with the codex, we’d never have known where to start looking for the artifact. He just handed us our lead.”
Chapter 17
Damia
The sun beats down on my neck as we climb the steps to the sanctuary. Southern Trova is miserably hot, and I wipe a bead of sweat from beneath my collar, glad that for once Barb has decided to snooze in my pocket. I reach into it now to pet her, letting the feel of her smooth, scaled head soothe me.
“You’re nervous,” Corrin murmurs, glancing down at my hand. I pull my fingers quickly back like he’s caught me doing something embarrassing.
“Not how I’d put it,” I say under my breath, eyeing the golden doors up ahead, carved with Ethira’s sickle. “I just hate these places.”
I don’t elaborate. How can I, when we’re surrounded by reverent worshippers making the climb up to the holy building with us? Today is an orison day, and it seems everyone wants their chance to have their prayer heard.
It’s why we’re here, after all.
Corrin nimbly clears the top few steps. He’s not wearing noblemen’s clothes or one of his flashy suits. Today, we’replaying the part of a discreetly well-to-do merchant couple. I’m in a dress that’s well-made but not luxurious, while he wears a plain white shirt and pants that happen to be quite nicely tailored in the back. Not that I’ve been paying much attention.
Corrin has, though. He complained about the clothes until I finally snapped and told him he’d look good in whatever rags we put him in. That at least shut him up, but he’s been smug about it ever since.
That smugness fades, however, as we enter through the golden doors and we’re hit with a wave of Temple insanity. A border of young clerics chant around us as we join the line of worshippers, leading up to two anointers seated in throne-like chairs at the front of the sanctuary. Offering bowls large enough to hold several small children are conveniently placed, encouraging people to drop gold and other valuable items into them. When the worshippers reach the front, they kneel before the priests, proffering up the pieces of parchment that carry their most desperate, heartfelt prayers.
I manage to keep the disgust off my face, but it takes every bit of focus I have. The gods are supposed to listen to your prayers wherever you say them, but Lafia told me the Temple’s made a business out of convincing peoplesomeprayers are more likely to be heard than others.
