A Shadow in the Ember (Flesh and Fire 1)

It was the only way to save Lasania.

Any deal made between a god or Primal and a mortal ended in the favor of whoever had been granted the boon upon the death of the god or Primal who answered the summons. In our case, it meant that all the things that had happened to restore Lasania two hundred years ago would return and remain until the end of time. That was the piece of information my family had discovered in the years it’d taken for me to be born.

But he hadn’t claimed me, so that knowledge had proven useless so far. Somehow, I…I had messed up. He’d looked at me, and maybe he saw what was in me. What I tried to hide.

I thought about what my old nursemaid, Odetta, had told me when I asked her if she thought my mother was proud to have a Maiden as a daughter.

She had gripped my chin with gnarled, cold fingers and said, “Child, the Fates know you were touched by life and death, creating something that should not be. How could she be anything but afraid?”

I shouldn’t have even asked that question, but I was a child, and I…I had just wanted to know whether my mother was proud.

And Odetta had been the wrong person to ask. Gods love her, but she was as blunt as the back of a knife—and cranky. Always had been. But she had never treated me differently than she had anyone else.

What she’d said really hadn’t made much sense then, but I sometimes wondered if she had been talking about my gift. Had the Primal of Death somehow sensed that? Did it even matter now?

I’d failed.

“How could it not be my fault?” I demanded and then twisted toward the dummy before throwing the dagger.

The blade struck its chest, right where the heart would be located.

Sir Holland stared at the dummy. “See? You know where the heart is. Why didn’t you do that before?”

I twisted toward him. “I had a blindfold on before.”

“So?”

“So?” I repeated. “Why am I even practicing with a blindfold? Does someone expect me to go blind sometime soon?”

“I would hope not,” he replied dryly. “The exercise helps you hone your other senses. You know that, and you know what else you should know?”

“Whatever it is, I’m sure you’re going to tell me.” I angrily tossed the braid back over my shoulder.

“It’s not your fault,” he repeated.

A knot formed in the back of my throat at his tone. It was the same gentleness he’d used when I was seven, crying until my head ached because I had been forced to remain behind while everyone else left for the country estate. The same compassion he’d shown when I’d been eleven and sprained my ankle after landing on it wrong, and when I was fifteen and nearly gutted when I hadn’t deflected his attack in time. The kindness had been there when I was first sent to the Mistresses of the Jade in the months before my seventeenth birthday and didn’t want to go. Sir Holland and my stepsister Ezra were the only two people who treated me as if I were an actual person and not a cure—a fix that didn’t work.

I forced air around the burning knot. “Yeah, well, someone needs to tell the Queen that.”

“Your mother is…” Sir Holland shoved a hand over his closely cropped hair. “She is a hard woman. She and I don’t agree on a lot of things when it comes to you. I think you know that. But history is repeating itself, and she is watching her people suffer.”

“Then maybe she should summon a god and ask for the suffering to stop,” I suggested.

“You don’t mean that.”

I opened my mouth but then sighed. Of course, I didn’t. It wasn’t often that any were desperate or foolish enough to find their way to one of the Temples, but it did happen. I’d heard the stories.

Orlano, a cook in the castle, had once spoken about a childhood neighbor of his who had called upon a god, desiring the hand of the daughter of a landowner who’d refused to entertain his offer of marriage.

The god had granted exactly what he’d asked for.

The hand of the landowner’s daughter.

My stomach churned as I walked over to the dummy. What kind of god would do that?

What kind would kill a babe?

“Do you think you’re unworthy?” Sir Holland asked quietly.

Shaken by the question, I stared ahead but saw none of the burlap sack. “The Primal of Death had asked for a Consort in return for granting Roderick’s request. He came and left without me—without what he asked for. And he hasn’t come back since.” I looked at him. “So, what do you think?”

“Maybe he thought you weren’t ready.”

“Ready for what? How exactly could he determine if a Consort was ready?”