Page 199 of Golden Queen
Bullshit.That was the word I had used and the one that was still bouncing around in my mind as we followed Master Cassius to the Citadel Forges—where the master smiths were waiting to tackle the cuffs on my wrists.
Impossible, there was another one that suited the situation quite well.Ridiculous, asinine, false. Pick one, choose one. Any of them would work.
I was Aelia of Windemere, from a long line of very mundane humans spanning all the way back to Edgeon and the founding of Windemere. My mother was said to have loved my father so much that I could not even begin to imagine that she would have been unfaithful with some...long lost nephilim descendant.
The idea was preposterous. Not only because I didn’t believe my mother would do it, but also because it was ridiculous to believe nephilim blood would have lasted in the world through successive generations of humans over the course of thousands and thousands of years.
It would have become lost by the time I was born—the blood not even amounting to a drop after so many generations. It certainly would not be enough to give me any kind of significance in the world. At least not the kind that spawned prophecy.
And even if I did believe the bullshit theory, what difference did it make? Why would it matter in whatever war was coming. And was that why Penjan wanted me? And King Behr? And was that maybe even why Io wanted me? To...to breed nephilim blood into his line?
That thought drew me up short. I chastised myself for being dramatic. The man who now held my hand as though it was a death grip did not want me because he thought I had god’s blood.
The idea, even though hewasthe one who voiced it, terrified him. I could see it in his eyes as he spoke the words, and I wasn't sure I had ever seen him truly afraid before.
The worry was still clear in his dark eyes, in the set of his shoulders. He was afraid of what it meant for me—for my safety.
Master Cassius had agreed with Io's assertion though—whole-heartedly and with a return of some of the excitement from when he was first dissecting the prophecy. It had not been news to him.
And because my brain had not yet managed to bridge the gap between what I already knew and this newfound information, Master Cassius did it for me.
"We once believed that Amon's advanced gifts, that golden fire in particular, came from a long-dormant drop of nephilim blood in the Aldur line. The nephilim had great and powerful light magic. After much study, we determined it was not possible that Amon retained this magic. Shadow magic could never exist in someone with the blood of the gods. Shadow magic was something so foreign and oppositional to the light that they were said to have feared it—absolutely abhorred it."
I glanced at Io beside me, thinking of the beautiful shadows just under his skin. I felt myself becoming unreasonably angry at those old gods for their ignorance in fearing something that they had likely just not understood.
Io didn't seem to notice or care about the fear of some long-dead gods though, as he explained to the master his theory that I had the same golden fire. I watched Cassius' face light up again.
"That only lends credence to the theory, don't you see?"
I, at least, did not see, so the master explained. "The gods were known to be all powerful—their magic as infinite as the stars. Where the mages of this world can summon magic, the gods could create the same using only an ember of the elements around them. If we are correct and you have the blood, then you could be taking an ember from Amon and...and multiplying it!"
"That would explain why she has also shown an affinity for blood and life magic, even in those cuffs," Io added, taking my hand where it lay on my lap, my fists tightly clenched.
Master Cassius’ excitement seemed near to bursting even as I was still shaking my head. "So where does Amon's fire come from, then?"
"We don't know!" Master Cassius admitted, never losing a bit of his exuberance.
It seemed they hadn’t known a lot, I thought, as we reached the forge. A group of men and women with almost universally thickly muscled arms crowded around me to examine the cuffs on my wrists.
Several were dwarves as I could tell by their slightly shorter stature and general dwarvish features. Many of them were bearded, men and women alike.
The Master Armorer of the Citadel, a pretty, red-gold-haired dwarf woman with muscular arms and massive thighs beneath her leather apron, shook my hand with vigor as she announced herself.
“Pettal Standifer, formerly of Morgus Tyrrund,” she said proudly. Morgus Tyrrund was one of the smaller underground cities in the Vildspher Mountains.
The armorer smiled affectionately at me. She had wide, unassuming green eyes and a soft, downy-looking beard. She was not at all like any of the dwarves I’d met in Albiyn. They were shorter, rougher, and a great deal hairier.
Pettal was soft-spoken, even though her words held a ring of authority as one of the Citadel's masters. She had the usual deep, rich Vildspher accent that seemed to rumble pleasantly from the chest instead of the throat. I liked her immediately.
"Removing the cuffs will take a great deal of spell work," she told us, not unkindly.
I sat back and watched as Pettal and a young, male apprentice wound copper wire around each of the cuffs before shoving a strip of leather between them and my skin.
It looked like I was wearing leather vambraces by the time they had finished
"Can you help shield her from the heat, My Lord?" Pettal asked Io.
"I can," he said, coming to perch behind me on the wooden bench where I sat with my hands laid across a large black anvil.
