The Heirs of Death

13. Shot at Salvation

"Carter," I pressed, "is one of the cases you can't speak about?''

"We fear so. Thou will know but not from us, only when the time comes."

Those words were so similar to what Sorcha had told me when I asked her about the nightmares and the light at the end of it that I knew better than to ask again and waste my breath.

"The traitor?"

"Thou are correct about his identity, this we can only say."

Straightforward, so straightforward. No beating around the bushes, no trying to dodge the question. Nothing but pure honesty.

I looked all the men around me in the eyes, and they nodded, focus turning to the book who had gone still at one point as Siltheres talked.

There were many pages, all written in what was far more ancient than the Old Tongue but I struggled no little as I started with our very first option.
And perhaps it was to make amends for keeping all those secrets that made Siltheres and Téors seat themselves on the table, went through every page, and closed the Book of Astazan.

I saw their auras glow, and just like that, they acquired all the knowledge written with care on those papers. Siltheres grew until he was the size of a fully grown cat and jumped to my lap, circling twice, stretching it wings, and sitting on all four. Téors shrank, going as small as a mouse and sat on the dragon's back.

It was then that I realized something. They were more than forged from the same hands. They were cut from one single fabric, molten and shaped from the same metal. So different but so alike; two different and unique species but with one soul. Brothers; they were brothers sent into different paths for eight thousand years, only meeting again once the prophecy claimed me back home.

Téors was the first to speak, "As much as mortals wish their words to be carried with precision, large amount of time never plays to their favors. This weakness will be the major key to play on."

Siltheres lifted his head, eyes running over the King and Court Leader and future Lord of Nevora then to me. ''The blade Blake stole that night under the volcano: the sword holding the last breath, wasn't taken only to try and stop you from recruiting the book.

''He needed the distraction to make you fall apart, but it wasn't the true aim. This sword had been plunged in Dearcious's flesh by one of Leander's companion; the magic on it—the drop of dark ichor that tainted it—still hasn't faded. Blake and Lysithea need it to wake Apocalys from his slumber. Because it was Leander who trapped Apocalys, and because he was Dearcious's brother, the blood--both of Leander's kin and of Apocalys's darkness--can lift the spell."

"How?" breathed Ramos, fingers in his beard.

"Through rituals and ceremony and sacrifices,'' cooed Téors. "There are many of them, some faster than others, some that will take long enough for us to prepare. But they all demand a cost."

I was about to ask about that cost, about what they would need to pay to bring back a weakened god. But realization hit me. And hard.

It took me one look at Leon, on how sick his face had turned, to understand that he remembered too. Nausea churned my guts and I knew I looked worse than the Shadow. So much worse that Father was about to jump from his seat, honeydew magic already igniting from his fingertips.

"Blake spoke of this once. Hinted it," whispered Leon, hands flat on one leather book. "He said that only one of them would come out victorious. He wants Lysithea dead. He needs her blood, and she needs his." Another realization seemed to dawn upon him. "There has been a rift, so small it almost couldn't be perceptible, in how the dark forces are moving, each trying to reach a certain aim. Both Blake and Lysithea are plotting each other's death. And we all know that Blake, being now confirmed that he is Dearcious's reincarnation, will not fail in ending her."