Page 69 of The Half King
“Then by all means, give yourself to him. Forsake your calling to a higher purpose. But I don’t think that’s the life you want, Cerise. So tread carefully around those who matter most; otherwise, your path will be a lonely one that leads to ruin.” He mounted his horse and left her with one parting thought. “Thatis what you stand to lose.”
17
There was no muting the echo of Father Padron’s voice during the day’s ride. It chanted in time with Ash’s hooves:won’t-last won’t-last,concu-bine concu-bine. A new fear tightened her chest and reminded her of what Kian had said in the dark, stone room—that he had dreaded the pain of losing her more than the disappointment of never having her at all. At the time, she had thought it silly of him to let his fear of tomorrow steal his joy from today. But now she understood him all too well.
Mere hours had passed since the king had promised his soul to her, and already the fear of losing him had begun. A ball of ice formed in her stomach when she imagined giving her love to him, freeing him from his curse, and then watching him marry another woman. But that was the inevitable outcome. A king needed legitimate heirs, and ladies of the temple weren’t permitted to marry.
Father Padron was right. Her time with Kian couldn’t last.
She tried to tell herself it didn’t matter, that there was a purpose for every season, and now was the summer of her life. She could enjoy summer’s warmth or not, but dreading winter’s arrival wouldn’t stop the cold from coming. She had to be brave in order to love… Such a deceptively simple idea, but in truth, it was the hardest challenge she had ever faced.
She distracted herself from her troubled thoughts by riding alongside Daerick at the back of the caravan, where she shared with him in whispers the details of her visit to the Mortara underworld the night before. Daerick had already been watching her intently since her sudden recovery from her ailments that morning. As Kian had told her, her excuse about her courses hadn’t fooled him. She also suspected that her recovery was linked to her visit to the shadows. The timing of the two events couldn’t be a coincidence.
“At first I thought it was a vision,” she added in her softest voice, so Father Padron wouldn’t overhear. “And that I was finally receiving the Sight. But my spirit left my body and came back to it. That’s unlike any trance or vision I’ve ever heard of.”
Daerick held up a hand. “Wait a minute. So you’re telling me the underworld is a place—a place that actually exists—but it’s a purgatory for firstborn Mortaras?”
“It seems that way.” For a moment, she forgot her worries. She couldn’t imagine anything worse than returning to that place every night, except staying there for eternity. Now more than ever, she felt the weight of Kian’s curse on her shoulders.
“It almost sounds like you experienced astral projection,” Daerick murmured. “But you say your body was solid when you followed Kian through the portal?”
“Yes,” she said. “I’m certain of it.”
“Then I don’t know how to label this new gift of yours.”
“Gift?” she asked. It had only happened once. “How do we know it’s a gift?”
“I suppose we don’t,” Daerick admitted. “Not until you can repeat it. But you said Kian told you you’re the only one who’s ever followed him into the shadows. You’ve done something no one else can do. If that’s not the definition of a gift, then I don’t know what is.”
“All right, let’s say itisa gift,” she said. “Do you think it’s the only one I’m meant to receive? My Claiming Day is soon. Am I fooling myself by hoping for the Sight?”
Daerick laughed without humor. “In these unusual times? Who could say? My Claiming Day is still moons away, and you saw my lapse in sanity. The rules of nature don’t seem to matter anymore.”
At that moment, she glanced at the front of the caravan and found Kian’s horse in want of a rider. Kian must have only just vanished, because his clothes were still balanced on his saddle. As the linen pile slid onto the packed dirt trail, General Petros smoothly dismounted his beast and rescued the king’s clothing before resuming his ride as though nothing had happened. No one seemed surprised by Kian’s disappearances anymore. The loss of his daylight hours had become commonplace, and that worried her.
“Why, though?” she asked Daerick. “Why do you think the curse is breaking through the veil of time?”
Daerick cast a heavy look at the landscape on either side of the trail—the cracked and barren ground, the dried tumbleweeds, the vastness of death all around them. “I think it’s this place. The blight here runs deep. Nothing good has ever happened on this mountain.”
Cerise touched his hand and gave it a reassuring squeeze. “Let’s see if we can change that.”
…
The group approached the mountain summit at midday. The Blighted Shrine hadn’t come into view yet, but as Cerise peered ahead of Nero, she noticed there wasn’t much higher to climb…unless he meant to lead them off a cliff.
She used one hand to fan the back of her neck. The temperature at this altitude was unbearable, and the air was too thin and stank of decay. No matter how many breaths she took, she couldn’t satisfy her lungs. Blue was struggling, too. He panted as he jogged alongside her horse, and poor Ash had slowed his pace as well, his ribs expanding between her knees.
“Not much farther.” She rubbed Ash’s neck and asked Nero, “Right?”
Nero nodded, seemingly too exhausted for words. The group continued in silence for a short while, until the path inclined so sharply that the horses couldn’t hold their footing and the wagon threatened to capsize. The caravan stopped there, and they tethered the horses in a thicket of dried brush before following Nero up the path to the mountain summit.
What they found next explained the foul smell.
The Blighted Shrine stood above them at the highest peak of the summit. The shrine was simple in its design, constructed from three narrow onyx slabs that formed a waist-high table. At the base of the shrine lay the putrid remains of what appeared to be a stag or perhaps an elk, a once majestic beast that now writhed with maggots. The goddess had rejected the offering. If Shiera had accepted it, the carcass would have been consumed by her sacred flame.
“Shameful,” Father Padron muttered.
Cerise shared a heavy look with Father Padron while pulling her headscarf over her nose. It was sacrilege to defile a holy place with the odor of death. If the shrine had been located in a more hospitable place, priests would protect it and ensure that failed offerings were removed and burned. Whoever had left the carcass behind to rot in the sun had truly been unworthy of Shiera’s favor. The goddess had been wise to reject their plea.
