“We’re going,” Mila snapped. She laced her fingers through mine, a solid reassurance, her voice thick with sarcasm when she added, “Thank you for being oh-so-helpful.”
Parrille dipped her head, and glided away down the corridor, twirling that long braid around her hand.
As we rounded the corner, we slammed straight into Lyria. The commander’s eyes were wide and harried, gaze darting around the corridor.
“Oh,” she exhaled. “It’s you.”
“Are you okay?” Mila asked with a step toward her.
“Fine,” Lyria snapped, flinching.
Mila eyed her. “Lyr, what happened?”
My hand drifted toward my sword as I looked over Lyria’s shoulder, but the hall was empty, the sounds of the Storytellers’ low conversations drifting from adjacent rooms.
“Nothing. I’m fine.” Lyria nodded too enthusiastically, running a hand through her long hair, taming the disorder. “I don’t like it here.”
“Come on,” I said, shaking off the remaining chill from the Storyteller. I fished the Seawatcher communication shell out of my pocket as it started to heat with a warning from the others. “Let’s get out of here.”
Mila’s narrowed eyes stayed on her friend the entire walk out.
Chapter Forty-Seven
Ophelia
“You know her?”Tolek gaped at me.
Aimee cocked her head, curiosity pursing her lips. Yes, it was certainly her. She may have adopted the Soulguider style of garments and accessories with the flowing silk and body jewelry, but that voice was undeniable.
“She was in the Wayward Inn when I rescued you from Mindshaper Territory.” I squeezed Tol’s hand. “She was telling a story of…” Aimee smiled, nodding. “Of the Angels.”
“That I was,” she purred.
“It was about the foundations of the Prime Warriors and the clans,” I said, thinking back to that night. “How they came by their magic from the land, how they created their descendant warriors.” Aimee’s eyes seemed to glow at the mention, something enchanting about her presence. “They fought among themselves, the magic eating away at them, until they eventually ascended. And left magic behind.”
Reflexively, my fingers curled around Damien’s emblem at my neck. It had been Aimee’s words that stuck with me, all through Mindshaper Territory and on the trek back to themountains. Through the Battle of Damenal, when I’d first seen Angellight burst from the necklace.
It had been that story that finally helped me piece together what the Angelcurse was about. And so, the hunt began.
“I believe you felt the repercussions of those feuds between brother Angels this winter, did you not?”
“What do you know?” Tolek’s eyes narrowed on Aimee. He seemed distrustful—a bit unlike himself, but I wasn’t sure why. Perhaps what he’d heard from her in Bodymelder Territory had been worse than he implied.
Aimee unfolded her lithe body, rising from her seat as gracefully as the winds that whispered to her. With a wave of her hand, the crowd scattered, the pair of warriors on the divan behind her unfazed in their activities.
“I know the stories that are whispered to me,” she said, leading us to a glass side table, delicate gold carvings twining up the legs. She poured herself a glass of deep red wine. “I know what happened with the dead queen.” A lengthy sip of maroon liquid, the notes wafting through the air around us stronger than they should be. “I know where you and your sister visited.”
“The Spirit Realm,” I breathed, that plane of murky light and falling stars flashing through my mind like bolts of Angellight. Quickly recovering myself, I asked, “Is that where Jez and I were?”
“I have only heard legends of the place,” Aimee said.
“Isn’t that what everything you speak is? Legends?”
Her full lips tipped into a smile. “The ones that are true, yes.” With a swirl of her wine and a pivot on her heel, Aimee glided through the nearest arch and down the wide corridor. “Coming?”
Tolek and I exchanged a glance that saidit’s why we’re here, and we followed her. All the way into a chamber packed with even more plush divans, wide cushions, and trailing silks. Theyfilled the low-lit space between the fireplaces at either end, not a stone of the floor visible.
Thiswas the true Storytellers’ nest. Half a dozen of them were scattered throughout, voices low, but there were no escapades taking place beneath the bronze chandeliers.
