Jelena had never before scanned her father’s mind without his permission, nor could she have done so with him fully conscious. She did so now only out of her desperate need to connect with him, even if only on a subconscious level. She wanted him to feel her presence and know she loved him.
She entered her father’s mind with ease-none of the usual shields stood in place to guard it-and drifted like a feather on a soft breeze down into Keizo’s once meticulously ordered mental landscape, now made chaotic by sickness. Pieces of thought and memory flashed by like small lightning strikes. She found them difficult to read because of the quickness of their comings and goings, but one thing remained stable-a glowing thought form hanging stationary amidst the confusion. Jelena steered toward it, knowing this was what she had come looking for. She had found her father’s core sense of himself, his unwavering knowledge of who he was, unaffected by the ravages of the plague that had so devastated his physical body.
Without hesitation, she merged with her father’s consciousness as easily as she slipped into the warmth of his corporeal embrace. The rush of recognition and love which greeted her acted as a balm to her soul, easing the terrible fear burdening it since Keizo had fallen ill.
I’m here, Father.
Jelena…I’ve left you alone, but I don’t know why. What has happened to me? Why am I so confused?
You’re very sick, Father. Uncle Raidan has been caring for you, but he had to go south with the army. Sonoe and I are looking after you now.
Sonoe?
Yes, Father. Sonoe has hardly left your side. She’s been wonderful.
Sonoe…my beautiful one. I love her so very much.
I know, Father. She loves you, too.
Jelena, I loved your mother, truly I did.
I know that Father, and I understand why you two couldn’t be together.
Whenever I look at you, I see her. I’ve carried the pain of our separation with me all these years…my child! If I’d known about you, I never…
No, Father, don’t. Please don’t blame yourself.
But I do, and I always will. You are my first and only born child. By right, you should be queen of Alasiri after me.
You and I both know that’s not possible, Father. Your duty as king is to always do what’s best for the elven people. My uncle and his sons are the rightful heirs to your crown, not me. All I’ve ever wanted is to live a quiet life with my family, and that’s what I intend to do.
You’d have made a great queen, my daughter.
You rest now, Father.
Gently, Jelena severed the connection and withdrew from Keizo’s mind. She could feel him slipping away into sleep as she emerged from the trance, and upon opening her eyes, she checked the pulse at his throat, as she had been taught by Raidan, to reassure herself her father remained stable. In the soft light of the little oil lamps hanging above the bed, Keizo’s face appeared peaceful.
Jelena got up from her chair and raised her arms above her head in a long stretch, wincing at the tightness in her shoulders and back. She glanced out the open window at the night sky. A full moon hung round and brilliant in the gap between two peaks of the castle’s roofs.
Sonoe should be returning soon with a report on the preparations for the Sundering , she thought.
Jelena had deliberately shielded all thoughts about the ritual from Keizo, wishing to spare him unnecessary stress. Her father needed to focus all his energy on recovery.
As the days passed and the time for the Sundering approached, Jelena’s apprehension had melted into calm. The Kirians had prepped her as best they could. She felt strong and determined to survive. The Nameless One-that malevolent ghost of her centuries-dead ancestor-would be defeated and the Key safeguarded forever. They had no other options, after all.
A sudden craving for a sweet snack sent Jelena over to the pull-cord that would summon a servant to her father’s bedchamber, but before she could lay fingers on the rope, the doors flew open and Sonoe rushed in. Jelena turned to face her friend, a question about the ritual on her lips, but it died before she could utter it. Sonoe’s face gleamed white with shock.
“Sonoe, what…” Jelena whispered, but Sonoe cut her off with four astounding words.
“Jelena, Ashinji is alive!”
House of Shadows
Gods… Magnes !”
Magnes stopped staring into the ashes of the dead fireplace anchoring the north wall of the keep to turn and face his sister.
“Hello, Thess,” he murmured.
Thessalina rushed toward him, then stopped within touching distance and simply stared, dark eyes shimmering with tears. Her mouth trembled and her nostrils flared. He couldn’t tell whether she wanted to sob or scream.
She did neither. She asked him a question. “Where have you been?”
Magnes raked his hands through his thick curls.
“Can we go somewhere and sit, Thess? This is going to take awhile.”
Thessalina turned and led the way in silence, up the stairs to the second floor study that had been their father’s. Magnes hesitated at the threshold. All the memories of that terrible night when last he had passed through this door-sick with fear and horror over what he had done-came flooding back, threatening to breach the walls he had thrown up to confine them and sweep him away.
Perhaps returning home was a mistake after all.
He closed his eyes and sucked in a deep, shaky breath, then entered the room. Thessalina already sat at the desk, hands folded before her. Magnes approached with hesitant steps then took the chair opposite.
Thessalina remained silent, in complete charge of her emotions now, her eyes neutral. Magnes studied his sister’s face and in that moment, he understood just who she had become. The little sister and childhood playmate had gone, replaced by a woman with the authority to order him imprisoned or executed. She was the duchess in all but name only, his living body her only obstacle to attaining all their father’s titles and wealth.
He opened his mouth to speak but found his voice had deserted him.
“You must be thirsty. I’ll call for some cider,” Thessalina said. Magnes nodded, grateful for the momentary reprieve. She arose and pulled the service cord by the fireplace. While they waited for a servant to arrive, Magnes allowed his eyes to wander about the study. Thessalina had made few changes; their father’s presence remained very much a part of the room, infusing the atmosphere with the residue of his personality. Magnes felt a flush creep over him; sweat prickled his brow. Against his will, he found his gaze drawn to the fireplace and it seemed as if no time had passed. The vision of his father’s face, slack-jawed in death, the smell of blood and urine, the metallic taste of fear in his own mouth…
Gods, this is all too much!
Abruptly, he leapt to his feet, stumbled to the open window behind the desk, and vomited.
Thessalina appeared at his shoulder, murmuring soothing words. Magnes hung in whey-faced misery over the casement until his stomach ceased its spasms, then raised up to face his sister, stubble-roughened cheeks red with shame. Thessalina took his hand in hers, and for a few moments, became his little sister again. She pressed a cloth into his fist-a handkerchief of fine white linen embroidered with tiny yellow flowers-which he used to wipe his mouth. Grimacing with renewed embarrassment, he started to return the handkerchief, then instead wadded it up and tucked it into his waistband.