90. Cyara

Cyara summoned every skill at her disposal. The curious young child, hiding behind a cracked door while her father recounted his days in the goldstone palace library to her mother. The watchful older sister, nearby but silent, ready if needed to jump in and defray an argument between her siblings. The royal handmaiden, seen but not noticed, unheard and unbothersome.

Not a feather moved. No twitch of her white wings to give her away. She had pulled them in tight to her body, shrinking into the pocket of shadow as much as she could. It still was not far enough for her to help overhearing Arran's prayers.

When he finally stood, she said a prayer of her own, beseeching the Ancestors to hide her from view long enough—

"Cyara." Arran's voice was a mix of surprise and resignation.

She eased her wings down her back. "Your Majesty," she said, bowing her head.

She kept it there, giving him the chance to pass her by without having to meet her eyes. His thoughts were private and deserved to remain so. She had only come to the temple because on the opposite end of it was the door that led to the priestess's sanctum, where Percival and Diana awaited her.

But the king did not move.

"Does a harpy pray to the shifters?"

Slowly, she lifted her eyes to his, finding the black orbs unreadable. Her wings relaxed another inch. "I am a fire-wielder. An elemental," she said. "But before all of that, I am a Knight of the Round Table."

Arran inclined his head, the corner of his mouth twitching. Not quite a smile. Maybe a grimace. Even after months of observing him, Cyara struggled to understand his small tells. Veyka was easy. But the Brutal Prince… High King…

"She is lucky to have you at her side."

Her throat threatened to close with emotion. "I would say the same about you, Majesty."

"Arran," he corrected.

Cyara dipped her head again. "As you wish. It is time."

His dark eyes asked the question.

"Diana is going to cast her spell. Very soon, we may finally have answers."

"Or more questions."

"Come with me." "You are a terrestrial. You may notice or understand something that is beyond my knowledge."

Cyara led Arran through the temple and into the quarters kept by the priestess and her acolyte. There was a reading room lined with bookshelves, a small bedroom the two females shared, and a bathing room. She had spent countless hours in the reading room with Diana and Percival over the last several weeks. As she did each time, she bid the priestess and her acolyte welcome and offered a small bow.

Behind her, Arran did the same.

If the priestess or acolyte were surprised by the Brutal Prince's sudden appearance, they did not show it. They merely bowed their own heads in response, as always, and continued at the work table where the priestess was providing instruction to her student in calm, steady tones. Mostly, was content to let them conduct their own research.

"It is time," Cyara said again, this time directing her words to Diana.

Diana nodded, closing the book that had been spread in front of her. Cyara noted all the minute details—the bob of the woman's chin, the slight sway of her hips, as if the ground was unsteady beneath her feet.

But her voice was firm as she pulled her lavender robes tighter around herself. "Not here."

Percival was on his feet as well. "You do not have to do this."

Diana's voice remained even but firm as she circled the table. "We have spoken about this at length, brother."

Cyara could not help the pride that rose in her chest at Diana's tone. Strength. New and hard won, directed mostly toward her brother, but noteworthy all the same.

Percival's bushy dark brows formed a single dark line across his forehead. Cyara steeled herself, ready to intervene, to offer silent or vociferous support as needed. But Arran beat her to it.

"Where?" the king asked. A question laced with command. To Diana, the query. To Percival, the promise of painful death if he did not shut his mouth.

Cyara swallowed her small smile. She did not quite want Percival dead—not anymore. She could understand his allegiance to his sister. But she had not forgotten or forgiven the dagger he had shoved into Lyrena's back.

Diana chewed her lower lip. "Will we bring down the wrath of your Ancestors if we use the temple?"

Arran cut his gaze to Cyara—as if he had not just been praying himself. But it was the priestess who answered.

"I should think our Ancestors would be honored, as it is their world you seek to save," she said softly from her worktable.

She made no bones about watching them. Her acolyte was less sure, eyes darting between the humans, the King, and the floor.

Arran thanked the priestess, and the acolyte actually began to quiver.

With permission obtained, it was the work of mere minutes to assemble what they needed. Diana quietly but firmly directed them to sit in a circle—Cyara, Arran, Percival, and herself. At their center, she placed a small pile of stones.

She turned to Cyara, seated at her right. "I shall need your fire."

A gentle, steady nod. Every movement smooth and careful. She did not want to spook Diana now that they were on the precipice. "Tell me what to do."

"After I say the spell, light the flame there, in the center." Diana pointed to the pile of stones. "I will not be able to hear you. I have prepared my mind as best I can, and thought on what answers we seek. We will have to trust the spell to take my mind where it needs to go."

They were all silent as she dragged in a breath and exhaled audibly.

Cyara's sisterly core, the female she had been before her sisters were murdered before her eyes, wanted to put her arm around Diana. Assure her that she did not need to take this risk. But the Knight held her silence and hoped that all the work she had done these last weeks would be enough.

Diana's next breath was steadier. "Percival, hold my hand." He gave it to her, reluctantly. "He is my tether," she explained. "If my mind becomes lost, he will pull me back to this realm, this place and time."

"Hopefully." Percival opened his mouth to say more, to argue more, but he was too late.

His sister was already chanting.

"Grant me wisdom, grant me sight, as I wander realms beyond my might. By ancient magics, this spell is cast. Guide me home, when the journey"s past."

A strange pall came over Diana's face. She was still upright, still rigid. But her features softened into complete relaxation. Her eyes glazed, then darkened. Cyara swore she saw starlight flickering in those dark orbs.

Arran inhaled sharply. "What is happening?"

"She is traveling," Cyara breathed.

She was so entranced, she almost forgot to light the fire. A wave of her hand, and a flame danced to life above the pile of stones. Her eyes were fixed on Diana, lips moving constantly. Repeated the spell, again and again, in a breathy whisper that Cyara could hardly make out.

A wave of heat pressed at her cheek. She could not have lost control of the flame—

"What is that?" Arran said, shifting forward to get a better look at the flames… at the image that appeared there, wreathed in undulating red and gold.

Cyara recognized the goldstone palace immediately, even if it was not the version she was familiar with. This one was stunted, still built into the orange-red mountain itself, rather than rising above it. But that was not what drew her eye. It was the sea of black. Where Baylaur should have been, and the sand of the Effren Valley, there was only black. The succubus. A throbbing darkness that stretched all the way to, and around, another familiar monument. The Tower of Myda. Then the undulating black wave retreated. Contracted. Until there was nothing but red sand.

Diana's voice was getting louder.

The flames devoured the image as quickly as it had appeared.

Two figures stood on the edge of a vast ocean. Waves lapped at their feet, around their ankles. Higher, until they were wet to the knees. But they were both smiling; staring at each other, completely lost to the rest of the world. Accolon and Nimue. It had to be. This was the mating, the one that had truly happened before the Great War, not to end it. Even as Cyara realized, a third figure rose out of the water. Everything about him was foreign—the tilt of his eyes, the knot that held the cerulean loincloth in place around his hips… he drew a dagger, its hilt made of embedded bit of sea glass, and slashed it across their hands. First Accolon, then Nimue—

The image dissolved.

Diana's voice filled the temple. Cyara spared her only a glance, only long enough to see that her face and eyes were unchanged before turning her eyes back to the ball of fire. Her heart raced, trying to fit in every detail against what she already knew, to find the incongruities.

Another vision—another place.

Towering white cliffs rose, up and up and up to the very tip of the flame. Waves crashed against them, battering the stone with unforgiving, endless swells.

The Ancestors had battled the succubus in the Effren Valley seven thousand years ago, caught them between the goldstone palace and the Tower of Myda, and emerged triumphant.

Accolon and Nimue had been Joined—mated—before the Great War. Because that was the Split Sea they had stood in, and it had not been breached in seven thousand years. Not since the end of the Great War.

But even as Cyara stared and stared at the white cliffs, she could not make sense of it.

There was too much noise. She could not think at all. Everyone needed to stop yelling…

Diana.

Diana was yelling—the words of the enchantment, each one a battle cry ripped from her lips.

Arran's sharp voice—a commander's voice—cut through everything else. "How do we get her back?"

"There is no getting her back! Didn't you hear what she said?" Percival screamed over Diana. "Is it worth it to you, if she dies here?"

"No one is dying today." Cyara said. Yelled. She had to yell to be heard. She grabbed Percival's other hand, while he clung to his sister with the other. "You are her tether. Pull her back."

"I do not even know what that means!" he cried.

But someone did.

Cyara spun. "Arran. You are Veyka's tether when she goes into the void."

"What?"

"The mating bond—that is how she finds her way back. How she does not get lost…" Panic bubbled to life in her gut. "She did not tell you."

She had to stay calm. Everyone else could panic, she would stay calm.

"Later," Cyara said sharply. "What does the bond between you feel like?"

Diana's cries were not getting louder, but they were more tortured by the moment. Percival was crying, his entire body shaking with the force of it.

"A thread," Arran said. "Through my entire body, through every layer of consciousness. But mostly around my heart, concentrated in my chest. A golden string that connects us, at any distance."

"Percival?"

"We are not mates," he cried through the sobs. "She is my sister."

Cyara gripped his hand fiercely. For Diana. For Charis and Carly. "And before my sisters died, there was no being in the world who I cared for more. Find it—find something."

He could not stop crying. But the sobs ebbed to quieter tears. He closed his eyes. It felt like minutes passed, but Cyara knew that was the Ancestors playing tricks on her.

"I… I can feel her."

"Bring her back."

"How?"

Arran knelt before them. The fire was out. Whether he had smothered it or she had let it die away to nothing… Cyara did not care. Not as Arran grabbed the man's knee and spoke, his voice dark as the space between stars and the corners of souls. "You love her more than anything in the world. You demand that she comes back to you, that she stays with you. Because there is no other option. There is no world without her. No air worth breathing, no kingdom to save. There is you, and her, and everything else is a distraction from that truth."

Percival's eyes were still closed. Tears leaked down them, but he was silent. Then, suddenly, Diana was too.

Arran retreated; Cyara moved forward instantly into his space. But Percival beat them both. Faster than a human should have been able to move—even a half-witch human—he had Diana's face between his hands.

"Are you here?" he demanded.

Diana blinked. "Yes." Her voice was horribly hoarse, but she got the words out. "I am here. I am fine."

Cyara pulled herself to her feet, retreated several steps. Percival and Diana were both talking quickly, embracing, muttering reassurances that she did not need to hear. She was too keenly aware of the male at her side to notice their words.

She did not flinch, did not still her impulse to study him. After what they had just seen, what Diana had endured… Cyara let herself study every inch of her king's face, looking for any clue. She only found one.

Arran's golden skin was eerily pale, his mouth wan as he spoke. "The white cliffs. I've seen cliffs like that before, at the entrance to Wolf Bay. They stretch for less than a mile, to the east. That must be where Accolon's fortress is hidden."

He did not mention the first two visions. Little bits of the past, from seven thousand years ago. Miraculous.

Cyara closed her eyes, let her back rest against the damp stone wall as she started the monumental task of sorting through the memories and their meanings.

But Arran did not linger.

Cyara jerked to attention. "Veyka."

All of those words, the way he described the bond to Percival, the power of it… all of it was about Veyka.

Arran froze, his hulking body blocking the entire doorway. "Yes."

"Tell her, Arran." Cyara's voice broke as she sank to her knees before her king. "I beg you. Tell her."