Page 144 of The Stolen Throne
The space between obsidian rock is a long, narrow channel with sheer cliffs that have been eroded by the elements and time into beautifully carved walls that curve and twist in a path that is not straight. Every so often, sunlight pours through a hole up above me like sand pouring over the dips and flows of the walls. Waterfalls of light. A fairy land.
I wish I could stay. Take the time to appreciate the harsh beauty of the lands that the Goddess Aryd created.
I reach out a hand, brushing over the rock as I walk, expecting them to be as velvety smooth as they look, but jerk back when my finger slides across a blade-sharp edge of stone. A tiny droplet of blood pools on my fingertip, and I scowl at the wall.
Danger disguised by beauty.
Like Reven.
When I come out on the other side, I blink in the sudden starkness of the full light. I don’t know what I was expecting, but it wasn’t sunshine in a place that houses dead souls. What makes it even more brilliant is that everything—the ground, the canyon walls towering above, even the sky—is a glinting purple hue.
All made of amethyst.
Except for the black trees scattered across the land that burn like smaller versions of our Sacred Tree. The flames here, though, are purple, the same as the sands and stone—darker at the base, almost blue with it, leading up to a pale lavender at the tips of each flame.
The smell of something sweet swirls past on a light breeze, and my mouth waters. I expected a place called “the burning lands” to smell like, well, burning. But it doesn’t. The air is soft and honeyed, reminding me of thick cream served over ice on holidays in the palace. An Arydian delicacy.
I shake off an unhelpful pang of homesickness and scan the area.
The place is deserted.
Again, not sure what I expected—maybe a bunch of ghosts wandering around or chatting with one another or pushing boulders up hills all day long? Instead, the lands are void of anyone but me.
What am I supposed to do now?
I glance around for a path or a sign telling me how to do this. How did Eidolon find his own remnants? How did Trysolde get the information that he did? Did he find his mother? Was she the one who told him about the amulet?
Nothing and no one appears. I guess I need to walk around. Taking a deep breath, I step out of the shadow of the tunnel and fully into the light.
“Mereneith Evangeline,” a voice says.
An achingly, terrifyingly familiar voice formed of velvet and iron. How did Reven get here before me?
I frown, casting my gaze around only to find no one there. “Reven?”
“No.”
Of course not. Apparently, and no real surprise, my rotten luck knows no boundaries and has followed me here.
Because Eidolon has that voice, too.
And so do his ghosts.
61
The Past
of a Lover
“I just can’t get away from you, can I?”
A low chuckle reaches my ears.
“Show yourself,” I demand, as if I have any power here.
“Very well,” he agrees almost pleasantly.
And then he’s there. Standing before me.
