Page 260 of Burn of the Everflame

I paused, internally reaching for the Forging magic. After Sophos, it had taken me days to work up the courage to seek Ophiucae out this way, knowing that the last two times I tried, he nearly killed me for it. When I finally did, and every time since, I’d found the same confusing result: a strange, crackling warmth.

I scratched my wrist, hating the phantom shackle that felt permanently fused to my skin. Months ago, I’d made a bonded bargain with Doriel to kill Ophiucae in exchange for their vote to pardon my mother. When I made the choice not to kill him in Sophos, the bargain broke, taking my magic as payment—but it shouldn’t have taken the Forging magic, too.

It didn’t feel the same as my missing magic, either. My godhood had been carved out of me with a scalpel and an expert hand, leaving no trace behind. I could still sense the Forging magic’s presence inside me, it simply felt . . . different. Almost as if something was standing in its way.

I opened a drawer overflowing with combs and clips encrusted with gems of every hue, grabbed one at random, then slammed the drawer closed. The wardrobe rattled, and a metal sphere tumbled from the edge of the uppermost shelf and clanged to the stone floor at my feet.

I recognized it instantly: the Orb of Answering, Doriel’s gift at my Ascension Ball. My thoughts whirled—could I use this to find Ophiucae and Vance? It was spelled to respond to three questions, and I’d only used two.

I cupped the sphere in my hands, its golden surface strangely warm against my skin. “Where is Ophiucae?”

The orb’s smooth surface gave way to a shifting design of lines and swirls that I recognized now as the Kindred’s native language. The elegant script skittered over the gold at increasing speed, though no answer appeared.

I asked again: “Where is Ophiucae?”

The design continued to morph. Still, no answer came.

Maybe there was no answer to give because he was dead. At that thought, my stomach gave a heavy flip. Was that the outcome I wanted?

“Where is Vance?” I asked instead.

The scrollwork spun on, unaffected.

“What about Vance’s army, where are they?”

No change. No answer.

I frowned. Surely they weren’t all dead.

Shouting arose from outside, Taran’s voice loudest among them, and I paused. “Where is Taran?”

The endless whorls spun on, though Taran’s yelling continued. That was answer enough: they weren’t dead any more than he was. Emotions whipped through me—frustration tinged with anger, dread with a tiny, shameful burst of relief.

I shook the orb. “Why aren’t you answering? Where is Vance’s army? Where are they headed? What are their plans?” I smacked it hard against my palm. “Come on. What happened in Umbros? Is Ophiucae even alive?”

Inside my fist, the moving scrollwork stopped.

It had been so long since I’d learned the Orb of Answering’s rules, I’d remembered too late that its spell had a key limitation. It could only give two answers: a yes or a no.

I’d just asked my third and final question: Is Ophiucae alive?

And now I had my answer.

Yes.

58

LUTHER

Iwas going to murder him.

“I’m gonna murder him,” Taran growled.

“Blessed Kindred,” Eleanor gasped, “Diem’s going to murder him.”

Alixe and I grabbed the back of Taran’s jacket and dragged him off his brother, who lay flattened beneath him in the grass.

“Careful with the suit,” Zalaric warned us. “You’ll snag the fabric.” He watched the melee with indifference, as if the revelation he’d shared to start this whole mess had been as banal as a remark on the weather. As Taran exploded into a ball of cursing, swinging violence, Zalaric also made no attempt to make it stop.