Page 138 of The Stolen Throne
His large, lion-like head and mane block the wind for us, giving us the ability to talk, but they also block the view directly ahead or I probably would have seen it sooner.
Honestly…I think a view from the ground would be much more awe-inspiring.
“I wonder if we can see the western ocean from here,” Tabra says. She’s leaning into me, her chin propped on my shoulder. “Maybe even the shores of Savanah across the channel separating our dominions.”
No thanks.
“I mean…” she continues blithely. “Think about how high we are.”
I’d rather not.
“Are we above the walls?” she asks next, raising her voice to direct the question to Bene. “I’ve been trying to see them, but of course, they don’t reflect light.”
I groan. “Tabra, can we not—”
“No,” Bene answers her. “I have never discovered how high they reach. Too high for me to fly over.”
Which is why he had to wait for a crack in the glass to get through to try to find his heartmate. I couldn’t even imagine. I tell her what he said and hope that stops her from talking about how high up stuff is any more.
In the distance, the flames of the Sacred Tree reach into the night, reminding me of the angry red streamers that fill the cities of Aryd during Parethnia, the festival of female fertility. Golden embers drift even higher, turning into a glittering spray to compete with the blanket of stars, and yet no smoke. The huge desert willow never stops burning and is never consumed by its fire. A gift from our goddess. A miracle.
We could use a few more of those.
“It’s beautiful,” I murmur.
“I saw it with Grandmother on our fifteenth name day,” Tabra says. “But only in daylight. At night it’s even more impressive.”
Omma clears her throat. “I came with Atlice once, when we were girls.”
I startle a bit at the sound of Grandmother’s name. Omma rarely uses it. The three of us haven’t talked about Grandmother in general. I’m not sure what we would say. In fact, I can’t think of a single time that all four of us were together in the same room. Not once.
“Do you miss her, Omma?” Tabra asks, the wind snatching at her words.
If this was Tabra and me, after a lifetime of keeping each other’s secrets, I know I would miss my sister. Omma, though…she is made of harder stuff. So, for that matter, was Grandmother. Loveable isn’t exactly a term I associate with either one of them.
Omma hesitates, and I turn as much as I can to try to see her face and find the creases lined with something that might be regret. “She should be here now.”
“She’d just tell us we’re being foolish and send us home.” I can’t help the bitterness that creeps into my words. After all, Grandmother did nothing to stop Eidolon. She holed up like generations of twins before her and thanked the goddesses he never came for her during her time on the throne.
Omma frowns at me, but I don’t take it back. “When we were growing up, Atlice was the one who wanted to go after him, end his reign. I just wanted to expose him to the world.”
Tabra and I both jolt at that, swinging stares over our shoulders, as much as we can, to Omma. She stares right back.
“What happened?” I ask. What made the fight go out of them? Why did they give up and leave it to Tabra and me? They didn’t face anything like we’ve had to.
“He killed our own grandmother before we were even fifteen years old.”
That’s right. I knew that. Omma made sure I knew of each of the murdered twins in our line, including all the gory details of how they went. Tabra leans forward to rest her cheek against my back, different from before. Like she’s hugging me. I don’t have to ask why, because I’m thinking it, too. The twins in our line have all lost their sisters at some point—such is the wheel of life—but the way it happens, the way we live… I can’t imagine how much more alone I’d feel if I lost Tabra.
Omma continues. “My own Omma had to play both roles after that. She was queen with Atlice in the palace. I lived alone in the hovel until she’d come for me, continuing to teach me how to be the hidden twin. And then our powers manifested, and we were…” She shrugs. “Disappointments.”
She’s always hated that her own power was what she saw as weak. I didn’t know she felt the same about Grandmother’s ability to turn objects she touched into sand. Nothing too big, though. Growing up, I had no idea that Omma hated that weakness because it meant they couldn’t go up against Eidolon, but I see that in her now. In the regret.
She twitches her shoulders, clearly done with sentimental reminiscing. “For my sister, for all the sisters that came before us, I’m going to help you kill that sandrat bastard of a shadow Enfernae. Even if I die trying.”
Tabra snorts a laugh. “Now I see where Meren got her attitude.”
“Hey,” I protest. Until—well, now, I guess—Omma hasn’t exactly been my choice of role model.
