Page 309 of Burn of the Everflame

“Tell me what?” I called out loudly. I glanced back to see Doriel riding with their mate behind a pack of guards. Obaneryn pinched the bridge of his nose.

I motioned for the guards to let them through, and Doriel excitedly prodded their horse into a trot, wedging themself between me and Teller. “There’s something I’ve been meaning to tell you about your sword.”

“You mean Sorrow’s Edge?”

Doriel gaped. “It has a name?” They grabbed my arm. “What does it mean? Who named it?”

“Please don’t kill them,” Obaneryn begged. “They go a little mad when someone knows something they don’t.” Doriel’s feverish look did nothing to dispute that claim.

“The Kindred’s mother named it, I suppose,” I said. “She’s the one who made it.”

Doriel nearly squealed. I suspected it wasn’t often they discovered some historical fact they didn’t already know, especially about the Kindred.

“When we were in Sophos, you asked me about the poem on its blade,” they said. “I couldn’t remember it then because of the flameroot. I can read it to you now.”

I drew Sorrow’s Edge from its sheath and held it out, broad side facing me. Doriel reached eagerly to touch the blade, then froze when they caught my glare.

Teller craned his neck to see. “What does it say?”

Doriel leaned in, their finger hovering above each word as they spoke. “‘Balance is needed, balance is offered, balance is owed. In sacred soil, three hearts entwined must be shattered and sowed. One life taken, one life given, one life a burden bestowed.’ I suspect it’s a riddle of some kind.” They pointed to the glowing heartstone fragment. “I assume you know what this is?” They gave me a meaningful stare, and I nodded. “It doesn’t work like the other. Past Crowns tried to wake it with their blood. It doesn’t seem to respond.”

“Maybe it needs mortal blood,” Teller suggested.

Doriel lit up at the prospect of an experiment. They grabbed a dagger from their hip and reached for Teller, then found the tip of Sorrow’s Edge at the hollow of their throat.

“Touch my brother,” I warned, “and your inexplicable ability to survive will finally come to an end.”

“But it’s research,” Doriel whined. I hardened my glare, and they sheathed their dagger with a longing look at the heartstone.

Teller leaned across Doriel’s horse and sliced his thumb across the blade of Sorrow’s Edge. “Tel, stop,” I cried, yanking the sword away.

He shrugged. “What? I’m curious, too.” He held out his bleeding thumb. “Let me try.”

I wrestled with how much to admit. I already knew mortal blood would have no effect. I’d used the sword in countless battles. The only blood that ever provoked a response had been Ophiucae’s and mine.

But the words on the blade said three hearts entwined. And it was Ophiucae’s sister who’d completed the spell. What if the magic required something from Teller, too?

I started to sheathe the sword, stubbornly insisting to myself that I wouldn’t drag him into the Kindred’s mess no matter what the spell demanded, then I ground my teeth and stopped. I’d dug my heels in denial about so many things, and how much had it cost me? How much had it cost him?

I carefully wrapped my hand around the godstone blade, wincing as its whispered voices flooded my mind, and held the handle out to Teller. He took the sword and let his eyes roam over the golden etchings, then slowly, gingerly, swiped his blood across the heartstone disc.

My breath caught—as did Doriel’s, whose hand shot out and clutched my arm again.

The smoky crystal disc flared with light . . . then died back down to a dim, hazy grey.

Teller frowned. “Should something be happening?”

Doriel’s shoulders sank. “I suppose not.” They looked in surprise at their hand, still clutching my arm, and quickly snatched it back. “Well, at least we know.”

My stomach felt like a hard-wrung towel. If Teller wasn’t what the spell required . . . was someone else?

“Can you speak the Kindred’s language, as well?” I asked Doriel. “Do you know what the whispers are saying?”

“Whispers?” they asked.

“The voice you hear when you touch the sword.” Doriel cocked their head. I glanced at Teller, who raised his brows, looking lost. “Wait . . . neither of you hear the voice?”

Teller set his palm on the flat of the blade and shook his head, then offered it out to Doriel, who did the same.