Page 39
Torach regards me, his gaze cold and contemptuous. “Magic is yours. Not ours. And you stole it from us.”
Darkness envelops the chamber, cut only by the glimmer of starlit moments. Tiny fragments of what was, is, and will be, float like motes in an ancient abyss.
The Gods of Time stand motionless around a small pool. Their reflections shift between youth and age, formation and decay, possibility and certainty.
Chronir, God of the Present, leans over the water. His eyes contain the intensity of the now, the singular focus of the moment being experienced.
His palm hovers just above the pool’s surface, fingers splayed as if conducting a symphony. “Seeing the pattern now.”
Chronoth, God of the Past, stands to his right, his body seemingly carved from memory itself. The edges are soft, blurred like paintings faded by centuries of sunlight. His beard flows down his chest, each hair a timeline of past moments.
His eyes carry the weight of every mistake ever enacted. Every triumph ever celebrated. Every life ever lived. “Seen it before.”
Chronira, Goddess of the Future, shifts between innumerable possibilities with each breath, sometimes tall and formidable, sometimes delicate and precise.
Her eyes never settle on one color or shape, moving instead between potential outcomes as one might flip through pages of a book. “Will see it again.”
“They always turn on each other.” Chronoth trails weathered fingers through the waters. Where he touches, the visions shift. The same palace razed and rebuilt across centuries, the same conflicts arising under different banners. Different rulers with the same desires.
“Always.” Chronira’s form solidifies as one scenario gains strength in the waters. A scene of treachery. Of a sword raised in a throne room and a broken crown.
“The patterns repeat.” Chronir’s ageless voice demands attention.
The water beneath his palm ripples with images of a palace, of a woman with gold- and burgundy-streaked wings. She stands as more people enter the dining room, clad in the red and yellow of Meridia. They join the fight, pointing accusatory fingers at the winged people.
Chronira’s face reflects the aftermath of decisions not yet made. Tears of betrayal and loss flow down her cheeks. She shakes her head. “Always.”
The sorrow in her voice draws glances from her brothers before they return their gazes to the waters.
Chronoth peers closely into their depths, watching ancient civilizations rise and fall in the blink of an eye, each believing itself immortal, each crumbling to dust within a breath, within the blink of an eye. “They never have vision. Only blame.”
Chronira closes her eyes, blocking out the vanishing potentialities. “True.”
The number of choices will continue to shrink until only violence and destruction remain.
Until history repeats itself once more.
King Mihel’s knuckles are white where they grip the armrests of his chair. I sympathize with him. In a kingdom where manners are so crucial, having two groups of guests who barge in and start yelling is a grave insult.
Shortly after Prince Torach and his entourage of guards burst through the doors, a small group from Meridia arrived. Almost like they planned the ambush.
“Your queen hoards magic like a squirrel hoards nuts in the winter!” The Meridian delegate whose name I’ve learned is Ronan has gone purple with rage, spit flying from his lips as he jabs a finger in my direction.
I cast a sidelong glance at Sterling, whose perfect posture hasn’t faltered despite the accusations.
His eyes meet mine. “Queen Lark cannot possibly control the distribution of magical ability across kingdoms.” Sterling’s words remain measured, but there’s tension in his jaw. “The changes in magic have affected everyone, including those in Tirene.”
“Yet your queen burns brighter than ever.” A Meridian woman with steel gray hair pulled back so tightly it gives her the appearance of a permanent scowl glares at me. Her face is nearly as red as her tabard, which also features yellow lining and an image of a wheat sheaf. “While our people can no longer manifest even the simplest magic.”
I look the irate woman in the eyes, refusing to let her anger intimidate me. “I understand your concern. Truly. But accusing me of hoarding magic is like accusing me of stealing the rain. It’s not something anyone can control.”
“Convenient,” Prince Torach mutters loud enough for everyone to hear.
Digging my nails into my palms, I silently count to five. “No. What’s convenient is blaming me for things I cannot control after I risked my life and those I love in order to save the world. Tirene lost many people in the battle against Narc and the drachen.” I gesture between Sterling and me. “So while other kingdoms no longer possess magic, we lost something infinitely more valuable that we have no chance of reclaiming…human lives.”
“Like I said,” Torach leans closer, malice evident in every line of his face, “convenient. For you.”
This entitled bastard is itching for a fight.
