93. Cyara

They crossed a continent in a moment. This time, they did not have to work out an order so that no one got killed. Veyka merely held out her hand, an invitation to whomever was bravest to join her for her longest journey through the void yet.

Cyara stepped forward.

No matter how many times she went through, the void always terrified her. It clawed at her being, tried to separate her soul from her body. She knew Veyka was with her, could sense her lifeforce, but she could not see or hear or feel her friend.

Then just as suddenly as it started, it was over.

They landed on a bluff high above the entrance to Wolf Bay.

It took every bit of internal fortitude to keep from going to her knees. Cyara drew in breath after breath. The first—that was air around her. Real, life-giving air. The second—the air was salted, cold. The third gave her back enough of herself that she was able to take in her surroundings.

"Is this close enough? Can you tell?" Veyka asked, utterly unbothered by the void. She edged closer to the drop, peering down.

The way Veyka sucked in her breath between her teeth told Cyara enough. But still, she flapped her wings, catching a gust of ocean air that carried her out over the ledge, to where there was nothing but brine and mist.

A wall of white cliffs spread out before her.

Cyara knew they would glow with the rising sun. But something was not quite right.

She lingered in the air, her wings beating on the wind. She arced in a graceful curve before coming up to land beside Veyka once more.

"There."

From the corner of her vision, Cyara was aware of her queen turning, tracing her arm, her extended finger, beyond.

Beyond.

To an island cast in shades of blue and gray by the setting sun.

Veyka's swallow was audible, even over the rushing wind and incoming waves of an evening tide crashing against the white walls, as pale as her hair. "So be it."

Veyka brought them one after the other to the rocky beach of the island. Lyrena, Percival, Diana. Arran waited at Eilean Gayl for her return. Anxiously, Cyara was certain.

Cyara waited, unspeaking, eyes fixed on the rising white cliffs in the distance. It was only nominally warmer in the southern reaches of Annwyn than it had been north of the Spine. Cyara knew that the temperatures did not begin to rise until the other side of the Spit, in the elemental kingdom. Still, she found herself surprised. She rubbed up and down the arms of her thick gray tunic and wished she had brought her cloak.

It did not matter. Soon, they would be hiking up into the forested hills that made up this island on the edge of the world. She would be warm enough.

The crunch of gravel gave Veyka away.

"Are you ready?" the queen asked.

Veyka was not even winded. Four trips from Eilean Gayl, all the way south, to the entrance of Wolf Bay. Each carrying another person. Each in rapid succession. But her blue eyes glittered.

Her power was growing.

What would she be able to do in a month? A year? A hundred years?

Cyara swallowed down the thought. If they lived that long, she would worry then.

"Are you?" she countered, giving her queen a long look.

Veyka flashed that wicked grin—real, true. It eased something inside of Cyara to see it, finally. "Imbolc is the festival of females. I think I'll manage."

She lifted her hand and waved to the trio waiting further up the beach. Then, with a smile and wink, Veyka was gone.

The communication crystal weighed heavy in her pocket. She would use it to contact Veyka and Arran once they'd found Accolon's fortress.

Cyara prayed to the Ancestors, the human gods, whoever might hear her pleas for her kingdom, her queen, and herself. She prayed that when she reached for the crystal, she would have answers to give her queen.

When none of those mighty beings answered her prayers, Cyara turned from the water and began to climb.