Destiny's Blood

Chapter 43

Yoma gasped as Mirial called to her, tingling her blood with ether and anticipation. She could feel Mirial embrace her, and she welcomed the First Star as it soothed her pain and asked that Yoma help soothe hers.

“No!” Dunkat screamed. He threw a wall of dark ether into Yoma, shattering the altar. Pieces of stone cut into Yoma’s skin as she tumbled to the ground. “You will not revive ether!”

Yoma stood, but she did not feel the anger she had expected. She felt calm, and she looked at Dunkat as though he was but a little boy—a frightened little boy who had lost his parents when he was barely thirty; a boy who had witnessed their deaths in the ether storm that had vanquished Mirial’s capital when her queen had died.

And in him, a soul that did not belong, bent on vengeance for the death of the woman he had loved. Yoma smiled.

“She did not die,” she said. “Your wife, Minister, simply returned to Mirial.”

Dunkat’s features twisted in anger and pain, and Yoma guided the mists into him, as she had witnessed Layela do to Avienne’s ankle. She knocked the soul of the father out of the son’s body. The wraith hovered for a few seconds, its face twisted by years of rage and pain, before disintegrating into nothing, his soul finally purified and released.

Dunkat fell to his knees, his father’s powers no longer holding him together. The wounds Zortan had inflicted finally began to take their toll. Blood poured from his shoulder and he gurgled, his eyes staring wide at Yoma.

“You were right, Dunkat. It will end soon.”

Dunkat spat blood and fell forward onto his face, no longer moving. She stared at him for a long moment, before a bright flash at the corner of her vision caught her attention. Zortan’s bloodied blade gleamed with the first rays of the sun. Yoma closed her eyes and reached out, lowering the purple shields around the solar system and gently letting the sun shed its extra layer of ether. The light passed over the planet but obeyed Yoma’s will and did not crumble it. She smiled as she felt the ether races rejoice — even Josmere’s young, already firmly seeded into the ground.

Yoma’s peace faltered as she looked at Layela. She walked to her body and clutched the cold skin, kissing her forehead and softly calling to her, even though she knew her voice could no longer be heard.

She held Layela’s limp hand, uncertain what to do. She remembered feeling this lost only one other time. When she had crossed the threshold and killed to save her sister. When Yoma had given up all hope of ever being anything more than a derelict. Unlike her sister, who wanted to be more. Who could have been more.

“Layela,” her voice cracked on the familiar syllables, her tears flowing freely and falling on her sister’s pale skin.

Layela! Her heart and mind screamed the word over and over again, unable to shed the pain of having failed to save her. Her tears became sobs as memories assaulted her, the cold skin an insult to her sister’s liveliness.

“Why didn’t you take me instead? You just needed one! Why wasn’t it me?” she screamed. She felt Mirial dancing all around her, in her hair, brushing her brow, filling her heart. She closed her eyes, quieted her sobs and made a final prayer.

Lady Mirial, please make it so that my sister will be the one to walk out of this temple.

Yoma smiled as the warmth welcomed her home.

***

Mirial breathed life into her as easily as the blade had taken it away, with breath as warm and soothing as the mists of her ether. She hovered for a moment before leaving Mirial’s heart, understanding so much more in death than she ever could have in life.