Page 137 of Trials of Dusk and Dreams
His tent is larger than mine, and he has a small table with chairs beside his bedroll. Grumbling, I sit quietly, although I’m still annoyed he refused to allow me to attend the trip to Heliodor with our Shadow. Still, I understand this rabble of exhibitors needed to be corralled.
“Ignarius is appeased?” Legion queries, looking over his brass spectacles at me.
“It didn’t take much to convince him to cover for me,” I reply. “After all, he breaks the Old Code himself with his Shadow.”
We spend the next hour brainstorming ways to avoid continuously slipping into this horrible state of false identity Titania gave us.
“There are no viable options,” Legion says, “apart from begging our mother, The Morrigan, for assistance.”
I bristle at the idea. “No. We can do this ourselves, as we always have.” The words sound hollow even to my own ears. “Have we asked her for help before?”
He shakes his head. “We disowned her after the first deal she made with Oberon to contain our power.”
I remember none of that. “My answer stands. We avoid the gods at all costs.”
My fingers drum an impatient rhythm on the table. “Where is Styx? It has been hours.”
Legion sighs, his dark eyes troubled. “Hopefully, seeing to Willow’s comfort. But with him, anything is possible these days. I don’t know what’s going on inside his head. He reminds me a little of . . .” He pauses, then continues, his voice low and intense. “Bodin, I must tell you something. Perhaps you won’t resist the memory flashes so much if you understand what you’re trying to push away.”
Our eyes lock. If I recall the bloody feathers when Willow is not here, I fall deeper into the false identity. The ugly pain attached to the memory feels unbearable without her by my side. Everything feels intolerable without her. How did I come to be in this position? She has destroyed me thoroughly and addictively.
My fingers resume tapping on the table. “You think this pet—this canary—is why I slip more frequently?”
He winces. “It can’t hurt to test the theory.”
A part of me recoils against finding out the truth. But if it avoids another situation where Willow is hurt, then I’ll do it. “Tell me.”
“There were once seven of us,” he explains quietly, his steady eyes watching me for signs of . . . I don’t know. Collapse? Breaking? “And that seventh had golden feathers.”
A cold stone sinks in my stomach. “Canary.”
“Our nickname for him.”
“Why do I always see blood on my hands?” I ask, the coppery scent suddenly vivid.
His lips flatten, almost like he doesn’t want to relive the memory. It’s as painful for him as for me.
“Did I kill him?” I ask, eyes wide.
“We all played a part,” Legion admits, “But the act was by your hands.”
“How?” I gape. “I thought we were immortal.”
He cocks his head, studying me. “You are aware of our hive’s chain of command.”
I nod, but I don’t like where this is heading.
“Death is possible,” he continues, “if it is by the hand of a rank above. Canary was the Seventh.”
You’ll never escape your true nature.
“I killed someone I was meant to protect—worse, the weakest among us?” Self-loathing twists my features into something ugly. I can hardly get my words out. “Yet you allow me to be the . . .” I can’t even say the word. It is a mockery.
“As I said, we all played a part.” The haunted look in his eyes deepens, and I see the crushing weight of leadership. If I, the Second, killed the Seventh, then the only one who could have physically stopped me was the First.
And he didn’t.
“This is the source of your vow,” I state.
