A/N: This chapter is dedicated to Angus for a pretty simple reason: his wattpad rants. Finally, I've found someone who has the same opinion as me regarding the shit that happens on Wattpad. I suggest you check it out!
The picture is a hint to a teeeerrible joke I made in this chapter. if you get it, I will go through every single one of your stories and vote on all your chapters, but you have to PM me what the joke is. Got it? :D In other news, whilst searching youtube for epic writing music, i got turned into a brony; thus, the music. You're welcome, everybody!
The insides of Emmaline’s eyelids scratched at her eyes as she woke up. Her mind was a groggy blur and she had to focus hard to clear it away. As she opened her eyes, the scratchiness didn’t disappear, and she blinked several times to try and lubricate her eyelids.
After a few seconds, she could actually move her eyes without feeling the need to scream in pain. She twisted onto her side and blearily took in her surroundings.
She was in her old room in Herondale. Frowning, she slid herself up into a raised position. She was still wearing her clothes from the night before, and…
And the last thing she remembered was sitting back down underneath the Relic. Pirra left, and she was alone in the clearing, wondering why Pirra was so afraid of the Black Dawn. Emmaline let out a cold shudder. No, she had definitely fallen asleep at the Relic.
With a sigh, she stood up out of bed and stretched. Her feet had dangled over the edge of the bed the night before and she could barely feel the rug beneath her numb toes. She smiled at the sensation.
Then she noticed that she was fully clothed in what she’d been wearing the night before. The morning had started off strange and was only getting stranger. A stray twig caught on her hair and Emmaline, grimacing, tugged it out.
“A twig,” she muttered dubiously. “Now isn’t that a cliché.”
She flicked the twig across the room. Her travelling clothes were disturbingly unclean against her skin, slightly stiff with sweat. She grimaced. “I’ll have to buy some new clothes,” she muttered to herself.
Emmaline looked around the room that had been hers, all those years ago. There was still the small bookshelf, stacked with her very favourite books. On top of the shelf, there was a picture in a frame. She’d forgotten it when they left for the Hidden Temple.
Emmaline walked over to the bookshelf and lifted up the picture, studying it. When she had realized that she left it behind, she’d sulked sullenly for a good few days, until Azrael finally told her that there was simply nothing they could do; it was gone now. That was the first time her newly developed powers had manifested, when she punched him in the arm with such force he was thrown back several meters. Emmaline remembered the anger she felt before, and the terror just after the punch. She smiled slightly at the memory, her hand drifting to her neck where the Mark of Imprinting hung.
As it did, it also brushed against the other pendant hanging there: the sapphire. Her hand tingled slightly as it touched the gemstone. She flinched away from it, and the sensation faded. Emmaline frowned and looked back at the picture.
It was an Imprinting, but it was more than that. Certain Artisans of Weaving – no, they were called thaumaturgists, Emmaline had to remind herself – could create a Weave of Imprinting that captured the very essence of a memory and then, when they cast it as a Mark, it took the form of a picture of stunning detail. The task was demanding, and only a very few thaumaturgists had the skill to cast it.
This particular Imprinting depicted her sitting between Azrael and Sephy, outside their cottage in Nemetia. Emmaline smiled pensively at the image, then slid it out of the frame and put it inside Sephy’s journal.
With that, she walked out of her bedroom and down the two flights of stairs to the ground floor.
Lucian was standing with his back to her, seemingly watching the door. Alandriel was seated on one of the wooden chairs, his head dipped to his chest. Emmaline considered ignoring them and looking for something to eat, but realized that there wouldn’t be anything to eat.
Emmaline hesitated and cleared her throat. “Lucian?”
Lucian stumbled upright in a flash, whirling toward her. Alandriel’s head shot up and spun to face her. Lucian’s face was a picture of shock. “How… How did you get in here?”
Emmaline cocked her head in puzzlement. “Er… I’m not sure. I just woke up in my room, so I assumed… Wait, then you didn’t come find me or bring me home?”
Alandriel raised himself up with a groan. “We were looking for you for a good few hours, but we never found you. Apparently Lucian isn’t as good a telepath as he claims to be.”
Lucian glared. “Huh. You blame me? You’re the soldier, you’re supposed to have the incredible tracking skills.”
“You boasted you could find her in half the time it would take me,” Alandriel shot back. “And yet you made even less progress than-“
“Enough!” Emmaline barked. “If neither of you brought me home, then how…?”
With a shrug, Lucian walked into the kitchen and pulled several coppers and steels out of a drawer. He flicked his hand and they vanished, replaced moments later by a tray of eggs, a bottle of milk, some butter and several potatoes. “There’re several possibilities, but none of them are particularly likely.”
He tugged on the air with his right hand – the silver hand – and pulled from the drawer a peeler. He gestured again, and the potatoes rose into the air and began to peel themselves. Emmaline watched on curiously.
Lucian turned to the stove and clicked his silver thumb and finger together. A spark flared, which he flicked onto the cooker. Gas flames flared up, which he spread to a second element. With a jerk, he opened a cupboard and pulled out a couple of pans. He set them down on the elements and left them to heat.
Emmaline frowned slightly. “Wouldn’t it be easier to do all that without the magic?”
A scoff from the kitchen. Knives flew through the air, slicing rapidly through the potatoes. Behind the blur of steel, Lucian smiled sardonically. “Are you serious? Do this without magic? Fat chance.”
For a moment, Emmaline found herself smiling at the remark. Then she remembered the reason why she’d left the house the day before in the first place, and her good humour vanished.
“As I was saying, the possibilities. For starters, you could have teleported yourself home. That’s pretty much impossible, given that you’re only a thaumaturgist.” He glanced up at Emmaline, as if expecting a reaction. She gave him none. “Or, as is more likely, you sleepwalked home. However, if you had, I would have sensed you – which I didn’t.” He added some butter to both pans. Into one, the chunks of potato floated. He cracked the eggs into a bowl and added milk, twirled his fingers for a few seconds and then poured the scrambled mix into the other pan. The scent of cooking food filled the air. Despite herself, Emmaline felt her mouth water and her stomach rumble emptily.
“Is it possible that I hid myself from you?” Emmaline asked the question with more than a hint of smug triumph.
Lucian scowled. He knew when he was beaten. “Yes,” he finally admitted. “I suppose it is.”
Emmaline walked up to him. She wasn’t as tall as either him or Alandriel, and she only came up to his chin. Yet Lucian cringed away from her slightly. A smile tugged at Emmaline’s lips, but she suppressed it.
“You planned for him to die.”
The sound of food sizzling filled the air. Lucian twitched his hand and a spatula began folding over the eggs and stirring the potatoes. All the time, he watched Emmaline carefully. Eventually, he spoke. “We did.”
It was what she’d been waiting for, what she’d been dreading. “Did he know?”
Lucian shook his head. “We couldn’t do that to him. Emmaline, we didn’t plan for his death because we wanted to. We planned for his death because we had to.”
The fury had left Emmaline when she fell asleep the night before, leaving tiredness in its place. She wasn’t tranquil, but she was back in control. “Why did you have to plan for his death?”
Three plates glided out of the cupboards and set themselves down on the bench. Cutlery rose from the drawers and alighted on the plates. Lucian watched the process with detached disinterest. “Veritas is a complex world, Emmaline. It’s a complex world, and a complex game. There are players you or I barely understand. And there are others still that are beyond anyone’s comprehension.” He looked up at her and searched her face, as if he were actually looking for something. “Azrael’s death was a move that neither of us could ever have stopped; a move made hundreds of years ago.”
“What are you… You can’t mean the Forgotten Gods?” Emmaline said quietly.
“Not quite. No one really understands what happened.” Lucian lowered his eyes. “Not even me. All we had to go by was an artifact that was inactive for a long time. Then it activated itself, a little less than twenty years ago.”
“Alright,” Emmaline said slowly. “What is it? No, where is it? What does it do?”
“It’s called the Oraculum,” Alandriel said quietly. “It’s in Alfheim.”
Lucian smiled broadly. “Which just happens to be exactly where we’re going.”
Emmaline stared at him. “What?”
“I’ll explain soon. The Oraculum was a device that – so far as we can tell – had the power to read the fate of anyone in Veritas. All you needed was to say their name and picture their face in your head while you held it, and you would be shown their destiny.”
He had to be playing with her. There was no way that something like that, a device with that kind of power, could be kept a secret. “If it’s so extraordinary, why doesn’t everyone know about it?”
“Well, for one, because it’s in Alfheim,” Lucian said irritably. “They don’t like to let go of secrets easily. It took me quite a few years of wheedling and bribery to find out about it. For another, it can only be used by a chronomancer or a full deiomancer.”
Lucian handed a plate to Alandriel and Emmaline each, and took one for himself. “When you consider the fact that a talent for chronomancy has a one in twenty-five chance of occurring upon being Awakened, and a deiomancer even less, it really isn’t that surprising that the secret never got out.”
They ate in silence for several minutes. The potatoes were fried to perfection and let out a satisfying crunch when Emmaline chewed. The scrambled eggs were rich and dark yellow, and the bread was toasted flawlessly.
Emmaline thought over what Lucian had told her. The entire story about the Oraculum made sense, but only barely. She sighed. She felt terrible for not letting Lucian explain the night before, but damned if she was going to apologize to him. All she wanted now, more than ever, was for Azrael to be there with her. Thinking that made her heart ache. With vicious haste, she tore into her meal and finished it off in less than a minute.
Lucian watched her with fascination. When she’d finished, he spoke carefully. “Are you still angry at me? If you are… I don’t blame you. It was something I should have told you earlier. I’m sorry.”
Emmaline gaped at him. Lucian was apologizing to her? The Voice was just as surprised. He… He apologized to you? What is this madness? Oh, shut your mouth, girl, you look like a fool. She shut her mouth quickly. Feigning a glare, she looked him over for a second, then nodded. “Apology accepted. Now what in blue blazes do you mean, we’re going to Alfheim?”
“Precisely that,” Lucian said simply, and with a gesture, the dishes collected themselves into a stack and began washing themselves. Emmaline scowled at him. “Oh, do you want a reason?”
“Don’t bait me, Silverhand,” was Emmaline’s only reply.
Lucian chuckled. “You’ve picked up on the name too, then. Fine, you want a reason? Alfheim is probably the only place left in Veritas where you’ll be safe.”
“But why?” Emmaline groaned in frustration. “Nobody tells me a damned thing. Why do I need to go to Alfheim? Even if it’s magically protected, I’m fairly sure the Black Dawn could just hire mundane assassins to do their dirty work.”
“We’re going there,” Alandriel said morosely, “because that’s where Lucian is strongest, and right now, he’s the only person who can protect you.”
The door exploded inward.
Splinters of wood flew through the air as Emmaline lunged for cover. Alandriel, utterly defenseless without his armour, joined her. Lucian stood tall alone.
The crunch of shoes on wood told Emmaline that three people had entered the room. She closed her eyes and flared her Mark of Awareness, pushing her senses out gingerly.
Lucian ignored both her and Alandriel, focusing all his attention on the intruders. They were clad all in black, one with an axe, one with a sword and the last with purple fire dancing between her fingertips.
“Get out of the way, Silverhand,” the one with the fire hissed. “We don’t have any quarrel with you. It’s the girl we want.”
There was silence, interrupted only by the sounds of heavy breathing. Then Lucian laughed, a throaty chuckle that echoed throughout the room. “Oh, by the Nine, you people never learn.”
The woman narrowed her eyes. “Much the same could be said for you.” She raised her voice. “You can’t run forever, Longshadow! We will hunt you down, and we will kill you like we killed him.”
Emmaline jumped halfway to her feet when a force pushed down on her back. She glared furiously up at Lucian and spoke through gritted teeth. “Let… me… go!”
He shook his head slightly, then returned his attention to the invaders. “I’m going to give you one chance to leave. Then I’m going to destroy you. Got it?”
The men glanced at the woman, who was obviously the leader. Fear glinted in their eyes. “Cowards,” she hissed. “You bring shame upon the name of our Lord. Go, then! You’ll die anyway.”
The one with the sword shrank back meekly. The man with the axe, however, turned and ran. The woman closed her eyes and let out a breath. “One more chance, Silverhand. I’ll give you that. One more chance to give up the girl.”
The air around Lucian’s right hand shimmered with golden light. His staff flickered into existence, settled in his hand. “I don’t think so.”
One.
The woman roared, twirled. A purple dragon made of fire burst out of her body, surging at Lucian. The swordsmen lunged at him, swinging.
Two.
Emmaline watched from the ground. She could only see Lucian’s face, illuminated by the firelight, but it was enough.
Three.
Gone was the smirk, gone was the smile in his eyes. His face was a mask of concentration.
Four.
He gestured with the staff, and the man was flung to the side. Another twitch, and a bubble of air formed around him. The fire slammed into it, licking at the surface, trying to find a weak point. Lucian swirled, his staff dragging the fire behind him. He wrapped the flames around himself, and then pushed them back at the woman.
Five.
The swordsman got back to his feet unsteadily, his eyes glazed but his expression intent. He picked the sword up from the ground.
Six.
The woman was thrown backwards out of the door. Lucian leapt over the counter to follow her. Emmaline and Alandriel felt the world disappear and reappear, and they were abruptly lying on the ground in the street.
Seven.
With a scream, the man burst out of the house, hurtling through the air toward Lucian. Emmaline gasped. Lucian spun, pointed the staff at the man – and the man exploded into ash.
Eight.
Out of the doorway of another house, silver flashed through the air. Lucian pushed at it with his left hand, and the axe went flying back and plunged into the man’s chest.
Nine.
Dark light engulfed Lucian. His body glowed with arcane power and the very air around him was rent open. Even with her Sight shut off, Emmaline could make out the energy flowing into him. He rose from the ground and floated over to the woman, who lay groaning at the base of the house opposite. His silver hand glowed especially bright as he held the staff.
“I gave you a chance to leave,” Lucian said. His voice was a whisper that echoed with power, and faint silvery light puffed from his lips as he spoke. “And you threw it away. Now, you will pay.”
The woman raised a hand feebly, trying to block out the dark light that shone from Lucian. “Please… No…”
The light around Lucian flared and flowed into his hand, then into the tip of the staff. He brought it down to her forehead. She cringed away and closed her eyes. Lucian’s eyes shone blue fire. “Do you remember me? Do they still tell stories of who I was?”
She nodded slightly. Her voice came out a terrified whisper. “Vengeance.”
“Vengeance.” He tapped the staff on her head.
A scream echoed through the street, cut off midway. The woman’s body glowed brighter and brighter, then finally exploded in a flash of energy.
The pressure on Emmaline’s body lifted as Lucian sank to his knees. The ethereal glow left his body and he slumped to the ground.
It was several moments before Emmaline realized she was shaking uncontrollably. When she tried to stand, her legs collapsed beneath her. “Lucian,” she croaked.
Across the street, Lucian sat in silence. Emmaline felt herself fading, felt her body giving up. “Lucian,” she whispered again, only this time she wasn’t even sure she said it. Her heart beat faded, fainter and fainter. Beside her, Alandriel had already collapsed into unconsciousness. The edges of her vision were growing black.
The last thing she saw was Lucian standing up and turning toward her, a single tear on his cheek.
Emmaline woke up in the library. Opposite her, Alandriel laid asleep still, his face peaceful. She sat up slightly. A wave of weakness rolled through her and she slumped back down.
“Easy,” a voice said from the door. Lucian walked into her vision. He knelt over her and held his right hand over her forehead. “You’re still weak. I’m sorry; I didn’t know your limits.”
Emmaline watched his hand as a mark took shape on it. She recognized it faintly. “That… that’s a Mark of Healing. But… how? You’re a deiomancer.”
Lucian smiled at her. “I may not have been entirely honest with you.”
“You’re… you’re a thaumaturgist as well, aren’t you?”
“I am indeed,” he responded. The Mark on his hand began to glow.
Emmaline sighed with relief, feeling the energy of the magic wash over her. Thaumaturgy had three different styles to it: Weaving, to be used instantly; Marking, to be stored for later; and Praying, to be used on someone else. The Prayer of Healing poured renewing energy into Emmaline and she felt herself grow stronger, second by second.
After a few moments, the Prayer faded. By then, Emmaline was feeling thoroughly rejuvenated. “You said you didn’t know my limits. What does that even mean?”
“It means I didn’t know how much energy I could draw from you, and I overstretched you. Sorry, I’m doing it again aren’t I? I forget how little you know about deiomancy.
“When I was glowing with that dark light before, I was in what we deiomancers call a Conduit state. It essentially means that our usual conversion process for energy is bypassed completely, and we can draw on whatever energy there is around us to fuel our magic. Odic force is usable, but life force is better, which is why you felt so drained.”
Emmaline nodded. She was intensely curious about the entire theory of deiomancy, but right now, there were more pressing matters to be dealt with. “Will Alandriel be ok?”
Lucian laughed. “Him? He’ll be fine. I know his limits, we’ve fought together before.” He glanced at the former Knight. In his sleep, the man looked substantially younger. Lucian turned back to Emmaline. “I’m going to go to the markets, alright? We need supplies, a guide, and you,“ he sniffed, “need new clothes. Wait here. Pack your things. Try and ignore the devastation that is the bottom floor. If you want, you can go outside. Our cover’s blown now, well and truly.”
He touched one of the stones embedded in his staff and in a flicker of light, he was gone.
The statues of the Nine glinted in the morning light in the Highgarden. Emmaline stood just outside the circle they made, remembering. Above them all, the bronze ball shimmered. She walked along the path and took her customary seat beneath the orb.
The soft light fell on her skin like satin, and she felt exhaustion creep up on her. Her mind drifted into a half-awake state.
“Emmaline.”
She twitched awake. “Who’s there?” She hopped to her feet, scanning her surroundings.
There was no one else there.
“Emmaline.” And then, in her head. “Emmaline.”
Emmaline relaxed and sat back down. “Oh. It’s just you. What do you want?”
The Voice sounded as though it was scowling as it spoke. “Emmaline, turn around.”
She sighed, but did as she was bid. A niggling feeling prodded at the back of her mind, demanding her attention.
There was nothing there. Again, Emmaline let her concentration drift.
A flutter of feathers burst out in front of her. “EMMALINE.” A falcon alighted on the ground in front of her.
It was the falcon from the Temple. “How did you get here?”
The bird cocked its head. “I flew, obviously.”
Emmaline leapt backwards in fright. She landed in a fighting stance, her eyes focused on the bird. It flapped its wings and hopped onto the seat.
“Really, now. You’ve been hearing my Voice for the past seven years, and you only react like this once I have a body?”
Feeling foolish, Emmaline relaxed and stood up straight. She continued to watch the bird carefully, however. “What happened? Were you always the bird?”
“No,” the falcon replied. “I’ve been a Voice without a body for a long time. This body is very new. I’m still getting used to it.” The falcon twitched suddenly, its attention redirected toward a patch of bush across the garden. It raced through the air and flew back in less time than it took to blink. When it returned, it was clutching a mouse. “See?” the Voice sighed. “The damned thing has instincts that are nigh on impossible to suppress.”
Emmaline found it nigh on impossible to suppress a smile at that moment. “Do you have a name?”
The falcon paused midway through ripping the head off the mouse with its beak. “A name. Hmmm… it’s been a good many years since I had a name, Emmaline Longshadow. I’ve had many names. Which one would you like to use?”
She hesitated a moment. “The one you were known as last.”
“That would be Boreas, then. Very well, you may call me Boreas. Does that please the Shatterborn?”
That name again. Emmaline narrowed her eyes. “What does that mean, Boreas?”
“Ah, but that would be telling.” Boreas sounded almost smug. Emmaline rolled her eyes. “Oh, come now. I think you have enough on your plate, don’t you? What with the Black Dawn, the Darklings, Lucian… He’s rather impressive in his Conduit state, isn’t he?”
“Yes,” Emmaline said softly. “He is.” Yet all she could think of was the name he called himself. Vengeance. And the tear on his face… had she imagined it? She was losing consciousness at the time; perhaps it was a hallucination.
The bird, on the other hand, definitely wasn’t. A slow smile crept across Emmaline’s face. “Hang on. If you’re the Voice inside that falcon, does that make you-“
“Oh, gods, here we go,” Boreas groaned.
“-bird-brained?”
Emmaline giggled. “I’m sorry, Boreas, but I couldn’t resist.” She might have been imagining it, but she was sure the falcon rolled its eyes.
“If you’re done with the puns, I’d like to make you an offer.”
Her curiosity was piqued. “Go on.”
“I’m stuck in this body. I need your help to get out. I’d like to tag along with you, Lucian and Alandriel.”
“How is that an offer? What do I get out of it?”
“Perhaps you could peck – ahem, pick – my brains for information.”
A broad smile spread itself over Emmaline’s face at the pun. “I think we’re going to get along just fine. You have yourself a deal.”
Boreas nodded to her. “Brilliant. Now, if you wrap some leather around your shoulder, perhaps I could make that my perch? The falcon in here laughs at me when I try to fly. Wretched thing.”
Emmaline laughed. “Of course.”
A few minutes later, Emmaline was standing outside her house with a cord of leather wrapped around her left shoulder. Boreas bounded down from the railing he’d been standing on and landed on her shoulder. “Perfect. You have my thanks, Longshadow.”
“Not a problem, Jack. Hold on tight, we’re going down to the Lowgarden.”
“Jack?”
“I don’t know. It felt like an all-powerful voice made me say it.”
“Riiight,” Boreas replied.
With that, bird and girl walked down the streets and stairs to find Lucian.
They found him outside one of the stables at the edge of town. He was deep in conversation with a bulky horseman. Emmaline approached from behind the other man, and waved at Lucian to catch his eyes. He flicked his eyes up and smiled in acknowledgement. The horseman turned to see who it was, and nearly fell over in surprise.
“Well bugger me, if it isn’t Emmaline bloody Longshadow! Hey, lass. Got yourself a nice birdie too, I see. Some of us seem to have moved up in the world,” he said with a wink.
“Hello, Dom,” Emmaline said with a laugh.
“Birdie,” Boreas fumed. “BIRDIE?”
Emmaline smiled at that. When both Lucian and Dom looked at her with quizzical expressions, she realized they couldn’t hear Boreas. “Aren’t you getting a little old to be guiding people down the valley?”
Dom guffawed and slapped his rather rotund gut. “If it weren’t for this, I would’ve retired years ago, but this belly has a thirst that only Snowmelt Mead can satisfy.”
“And Stella?”
“Hah! That damned gelding gave up the ghost winters ago.” He nodded at Lucian. “This chap though, he gave me enough steel to buy myself a proper bleeding stallion.” He coughed. “Right. I’ll meet you lot back here in an hours time.” He turned and walked back into the stables.
Lucian smiled apologetically at Emmaline. “He was the only guide who would take the job. It seems they’re all a little nervous about leaving Herondale these days.”
She smiled. “Not a problem. I actually quite like Dom.”
“Nice pet,” Lucian said, nodding at the falcon on Emmaline’s shoulder. He walked out of the stables.
“Pet?” Boreas snorted disgustedly. “What is it with these people?”
Emmaline ruffled the feathers on Boreas’ head and murmured, “It’d make life a lot easier if you made yourself audible to Lucian, at least.”
“Pah” was Boreas’ only reply. She grinned and followed Lucian out of the stables.
As she walked to catch up to him, Emmaline caught the eye of a familiar face. Pirra met her gaze for a second and looked away quickly. Emmaline frowned, but didn’t say anything.
Lucian was waiting for her about a block ahead. “Catch up, lass. It’ll take us a good few weeks to get to Alfheim, and I plan on visiting other places too.”
“I thought speed was of the essence,” Emmaline muttered. Then, louder, “Where are we going first?”
A mischievous grin flashed across Lucian’s face. “Well, I have an old friend to meet about halfway to Skyfall. If we catch a boat down one of the rivers, we should get there even faster.”
Emmaline nodded. “Where will we get a boat from?”
“Why, Riverfold of course.”