The Deathsinger: Book 2

Ch. 4: Guilt

Araphel blazed orange and gold against the black night sky. I watched it while sitting on the hillside, my face still streaked with ash and every bone in my body throbbing in agony. Not once since we'd arrived had the fire been this intense, and I wondered if Tievel's violent display of power had roused Seraphina's anger.

But surely she could only burn this bright for a brief period. If that was the case, then in a few days, the land would return to a place of char and smoke, and King Brinley would be eager to hear if I was ready to go to the Temple.

I was grateful for the darkness as I limped back to my tent. My condition would raise too many questions, though part of me wished I could rat Tievel out to his father. His patience with his son has always been a shallow pool, and no matter how distasteful King Brinley found my existence, I was valuable. More valuable than his son.

The risk wasn't worth it. Right now, no one had reason to suspect that the Puca had traveled to Araphel with Tievel and me. In fact, I suspected no one knew we had gone to Araphel at all. It was in my best interest for everyone to think the Puca had deserted.

After lighting the lanterns in my tent, I filled the washbasin with cold, clear water and went about the arduous task of scrubbing soot from my skin. Bowl after bowl of water turned to gray sludge, and my skin grew raw with the effort it took to remove the tar-like remnants of Araphel. I'd never seen anything like it, but then it was not normal fire that consumed that land.

I moved onto my hair, working the bar of soap into a rich lather before slathering the black strands with it. Three times I washed it, and even then I could still smell hints of smoke beneath the rose oil and lavender.

Raising a damp handful to my nose, I inhaled deeply and sighed. This was as good as it was going to get tonight. I forced myself to drag a comb through my hair to lessen the tangles, but on the second stroke, I dropped the comb with a strangled gasp.

From the base of my skull below my left ear, was a streak of white, nearly as wide as my thumb. Bile rushed up my throat, and I retched into the basin. Everything I'd eaten that day came up, and the heaves continued until I worried my insides were going to come out.

At last, it stopped, and on unsteady legs, I searched for the eating utensils I kept by my bedside since I took most of my meals in the tent. Thankfully, they were where I'd left them, and I grabbed the knife. It was dull and rusted, but I was grateful to have a knife at all since I was a prisoner.

Back at the mirror, I separated the white strands from the rest of my hair and sawed at them until they broke, leaving only a patch of short, bristly pale hairs that would require a razor to remove. I swung my eyes to meet the wide frightened ones in the mirror and received another shock. My irises flitted through a dozen different colors, never settling for long before moving onto the next.

"Get it together, Morana," I commanded out loud, gripping the porcelain bowl and slamming my eyes closed as I searched through the threads of power running inside of me, locating the newest one with ease thanks to Kuga's instruction.

Silver death. White ice. Golden fire. And now, verdant green. Shapeshifting. It pulsed and thrashed next to the others.

I grabbed onto the thread. Sweat dripped down my forehead as I wrestled it into submission, not stopping until it was as calm as the others, and when I opened my eyes, I was met with brilliant, unchanging amethyst.

There was no more water to rinse my mouth out, so I cupped my hand and filled it with the dirty bath water. Grit clacked against my teeth as I swished it around my mouth. Its flavor was bitter. It was no more than I deserved and a welcome relief from the sour tang of vomit that coated my tongue.