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Neither woman gave a definitive answer, their focus staying on the area around us.

Howlers?

The man released the bloodstone. It suspended in the air just above his palm, spinning like a top. I held my breath, nerves I didn’t understand racing through my veins. Then, slowly, it stopped, the point facing toward the forest to our left, away from the trail we were following.

“Quickly,” he murmured, cutting through the trees hemming in the trail. I followed behind him, easing one of the daggers from its sheath, that sense of wrong growing stronger with each step we took.

The bloodstone quivered ever so slightly as we eased deeper into the trees until, about fifty feet from where we started, the trees thick enough I couldn’t see the trail at all, it vibrated violently. The sharp tip of the bloodstone moved until it pointed toward the ground a bit to my right. Without a second thought, I dropped to my knees and moved the underbrush away, moving with a frenetic energy I didn’t understand. A harsh sob tore through me as I uncovered a quarts slab the size of a dinner plate, so clear I could see the dirt beneath it.

“Holy Persynthia,” one of the women muttered.

A growl rumbled from the trees behind me, and the women both cursed.

“Now, cárias,” the man said. He held out his hand, and I took it without knowing why. “Before you need to restore your well.”

Before I could do whatever he needed, a beast broke through the trees, similar to the urgul but even more terrifying, its fangs larger than my hand and its four eyes a bright red. Quils longer than my arm traced down its back and at the tip of its tail, and it roared louder than a lion. The woman nearest me lifted her sword without hesitation, sinking it into the beast’s throat as another one came through the trees on its heels. Its claws raked down the woman, and I screamed.

36

AMETHYST

Iawoke all at once, my hands twisted with the blanket as I gasped. The feel of the beast’s lunge, the fear of its attack and the desperate hope of finding that quartz were a warring roil inside me, so strong I couldn’t hope to compartmentalize or rationalize my way out of them. The boxes I liked to use were laughably weak compared to the onslaught of emotion.

What in the hell was that dream?

The bed was cool beside me and sun spilled through the curtains that had been opened in the sitting room portion of the room. It must have risen over an hour ago. I slowly sat up, trying to orient myself, remind my body what was real and was what dream. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw that quilled beast emerge from the trees and rake its claws down the woman, her scream piercing even now that I was awake. The feel of my magic felt real, too, even if now I couldn’t do more than grasp at straws trying to draw it toward me the way I had with that bloodstone spearhead.

It took several minutes for the fear to dissipate and the trembling to stop. When it did, I blew out a long breath.

Cárias.

The name rang through me. It felt similar to the one Callum called me sometimes. I tried to shove the feel of it from my mind as I eased to my feet and padded across the room. My hair was soaked with sweat, clinging to my neck and chest. I turned the spigot on the freestanding tub in the bathroom, watching with a forced detachment I hadn’t felt in years as the water slowly fell into the porcelain, splashing up toward its rim. When it was a few inches deep, I stripped out of the slip I’d worn to bed, cringing at the sweat that marred the satin, and stepped into the tub. It took several minutes before I was ready to do anything more than sit in the warm water and dissociate.

Eventually, I reached for the small basket full of the bars of shampoo, conditioner, and soap perched on the ledge above the tub. I quickly soaped down my body, trying to wash away the fear of the dream along with the sweat the way I would after the horrible nightmares. It only sort-of worked, but it was better than nothing at all. Then I washed and conditioned my hair, twisting it up as I stepped out the tub and wrapped one of the plush towels around me.

After sliding into a clean chemise that sat softer than cotton should against my skin, I padded through the bedroom and to the wardrobe that was slowly filling with my own clothing. Instead of grabbing any of those pieces that were fitted for me, I pulled the oversized sweater Callum had worn the previous night where it sat haphazardly on the bottom of the wardrobe, letting the smell enmeshed with the fabric wash over me. Within a few deep breaths, the bone-quaking dread was gone entirely.

Able to breathe, I opened one of the windows and then settled onto the settee, pulling the book about the pantheon and opening it to the next entry. I’d gotten through all five of the goddesses within the main pantheon and two of the gods. Did I know enough about them to pass a college level exam? Absolutely not. But I at least knew their domains and their symbols. So a middle school exam, maybe. Considering I still couldn’t read Alwesh beyond the Avicourt version of Fox in Sox, I was counting it a win.

Today’s entry held an illustration of a man with a face made for the golden era of Hollywood, all square jaw and chiseled cheekbones and full mouth though he didn’t smile. His blond hair was cut shorter than I’d seen since being taken off Magefall, more similar to the styles common in Arizona. The small waves fell across his forehead and around his ears without brushing his neck. His eyes were a startling, bright green that I swore could see right through me even in the illustration, piercing and cold.

He wore a chest plate of armor decorated with jackals and prairie grass, the engraving more intricate than anything I’d seen the guardsmen wear here. Like Phillip and Heath on the equinox, he wore a half-cape that covered his left arm and fell to his waist. On his right hip was a sword, the scabbard decorated in the same motif as the armor. His clothing was pitch black and without flourishes. The pants cut tightly to his legs and the tunic was sleeveless. His muscles were cut, even more than the two gods I’d looked at already. His entire countenance screamed of power and destruction.

Behind him rose a towering tree, its limbs bare. Under his feet were the dried leaves, turned brown from death rather than the bright jewel tones of autumn. Stretching out behind him was nothing but barren field, even the prairie grasses browned with death.

I pulled my gaze away from the illustration and to the entry itself, slowly parsing out the letters.

Hadeon, God of Destruction.

Well, he certainly embodied that title. As I slowly sifted through the rest of the entry, the sun warmed on my face, burning brighter as the last of the early morning clouds burned away. Eventually, my mind ached from the effort of translating the symbols and then decoding them into some semblance of Alwesh I might understand, a children’s primer being less exhaustive than a thesaurus. I set the book on the small table and tilted my head back, trying to absorb some of the information.

I found it interesting that the gods separated destruction and war. Nearly every tradition in that college elective had lumped the two together. War, destruction, and cruelty, though some pantheons were known to be cruel collectively, too. Maybe the pantheon Avicourt worshipped didn’t have a God of War at all?

I carefully flipped through the remaining entries, looking for the letters that formed the word in Alwesh. Sure enough, there weren’t any references to war at all. Maybe they felt war was not something to be worshipped in any capacity. The thought was almost… comforting, in a way. If violence was not something to be praised, it would explain how Marish had spent these three hundred years since the Great War happily building toward a future of greater peace and integration without reservation.

Sounds of laughter filtered through the window and then jumbled conversation. Indecision weighed on me for a long minute before I finally set the book back on the coffee table and eased a set of leggings on underneath the sweater. The leather flats went on next, and then I braided back my still-wet hair into two French braids that land left small patches of water on the sweater’s back. Another shout of laughter drew me out of the room and down the spiral staircase at the back of the house.

Watching Callum hold court while the city celebrated the equinox around him was equal parts revelation and reprimand. His calm poise and warm voice never wavered, no matter who approached or what concerns they brought. His willingness to discuss taxes, trade negotiations, even crop rotation without once sounding bored had put a lot of my new role in perspective. These people were trusting me to help with their problems, lead them with my voice and life. Maybe never as a queen, not with Callum’s older brother inheriting the throne, but princess was a powerful title on its own. These people, this city, had no idea I hadn’t known this realm existed three weeks ago.