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Prologue

In the time of Addis, and the season of abundance, the curse will be undone and a new age will dawn.

— AVINA EMRYS, DIVINER, 486 P.E. (POST EXODUS)

The guard moved seamlessly around him as he ascended the sprawling marble stairs, the clinking of their metal armor blending with the city’s bustling population. All around him women laughed, children cheered, men bartered and negotiated. The square was rich with the year’s harvest brought in from the fields around the city and farther, too, from the forests and seas that were his to tend and protect and guide. A cool breeze lifted the strands of his hair, tickling his neck, but he did not adjust them. Not that he couldn’t, but rather because even that small movement might shatter the sense of calm to which he clung. His magic was leashed and angry. It pressed against his skin, seeking a way out. His own people were not the ones who should suffer from his inability to maintain composure.

So, instead, Elias kept his hands clasped behind his back, aware that everyone in the square was watching. Some covert, just sharp glances while they continued with their day. Others were more blatant, pausing their conversations and tracking his every step toward the Grand Temple’s entrance in the heart of his capital city. His walking around the city was not uncommon. Even the guard, surrounding him in its fullest capacity today, was not unheard of. Elias knew the curiosity stemmed from the specific building he approached and the clothing he wore to honor the Goddess of All.

The acolyte stationed just outside the temple’s ornate doors, her head cloaked in a deep blue hooded robe, stood statue still as he reached the top of the stairs. The guard paused with him, and the man nearest Elias—who had been with Elias since he was a boy just coming into the court under the tutelage of his own father—palmed the small dagger on his left hip. It was a movement borne of habit, not out of a sudden worry over his safety.

Still, there was a long moment of silence, even the people in the square seeming to quiet. Then he let his arms drop to his sides and then over his stomach, clasping them the way considered proper by the acolytes in service to the goddess, and lowered his head in the only form of supplication he would offer to anyone in public. Kings bowed to no one but gods and their Diviners, after all.

Without a word, the acolyte opened the door, stepping into the large stone building and allowing him and his retinue to follow.

Elias ignored the ornate scrollwork that followed the flowing arches of the walls and ceiling as well as the intricate mosaics within the floor detailing the grand gift Persynthia had given Avicourt millennia ago—life and choice. Seeing them only made his heart ache in that old, jagged way that had not lessened in the last twenty years. His magic flared, and one of the jars full of fire providing light grew brighter. He breathed slowly, reining himself back in, shoving away the memories that hurt even so long after she was gone.

He moved through the process of cleansing his hands and his feet, pulling the hem of the gathered swath of fabric to keep it from getting wet. He set aside his sandals and then pulled his hair away from his face with a simple leather strap. Once he was ready, he stepped forward and into the temple’s grand foyer for the acolyte’s inspection.

The guard made no move to mirror his actions, spreading along the inner wall instead, their gazes watchful and their hands resting on their swords and other small blades.

The acolyte’s bright green eyes took him in for a long minute. Then he stepped back, offering his arm in invitation. Elias murmured a small gratitude and then delved deeper into the grand building. He swept past the shrine with the larger-than-life statue of the Goddess herself in the center of the space, her arm reaching toward those below her, ready to offer aid and assurance, and then the larger gathering chambers branching off on either side of the space. He did not stop until he reached the far end of the building.

Elias didn’t bother to knock on the door left ajar. His son would not appreciate this visit any more than he had appreciated the last two conversations they’d had regarding the Grand Rite over the last decade. Today, however, he would not be moved.

The door swung open soundlessly. His son was there, just as he expected, sitting in one of the mundane chairs set throughout the small library. His elbows were on his knees, and he leaned over, blocking the book he read with his body and his long blond hair, the same shade as his mother’s. The sight stole his breath despite the long decades he had had to adjust.

With him was Vincent, the son of two trusted within Elias’s court. They had been friends for nearly as long as his son had been in the court, almost thirty years now. His green eyes were shrewd and yet not unkind as he looked up from the book spread on the table between them, a strand of his white hair falling across his face, free of the long braid running down his back.

“Callum,” Elias said. His voice was warm and hoarse, weathered with his age.

His son looked up at once, his gold eyes swirling with some extreme emotion. His mother’s would do the same, gaining an ethereal glow as she spoke her visions and dreams into life.

A crown of black vines atop flaxen hair, citrine eyes blazing with resolve.

Her voice was just as bright in Elias’s mind as it had been the morning she’d uttered the words, pulled from sleep while heavily pregnant with their daughter. His stomach twisted over itself, stealing his breath. He had never uttered the words to anyone, not even the temple acolytes entrusted with Diviners’ visions. How could he when they depicted his death?

“Father?” His son frowned, the movement pulling on the scars that tracked down the left side of his face.

More of her words filled him. He wished her voice was not so soothing as it wrapped around his limbs, full of power even two and a half decades since she’d gone to Arcadia.

With him, a woman of alabaster skin and old blood. Matching scars.

Elias slowly sat in the chair across from his second son, trying to breathe through the ache that was building beneath his breastbone. Callum did not move, his book still open. His eyes cooled, solidifying as the moments passed.

“The Grand Rite comes this winter,” Elias said.

A kingdom of ruin, destined for restitution. Matching pain.

Callum’s lips tightened, the corners of his eyes gaining the small lines that betrayed his irritation.

“My choice has not changed since the last. I do not wish to participate.”

Her voice flowed through him, heedless of the wedge she had become between her son and him.

A womb swollen with life. The rebirth of the ageless magic. Matching hope.

“I know,” Elias murmured. “I ask that you do so anyway.”