Page 163 of Lady of the Drowned Empire
There was a pang in my chest watching him now. Rhyan was the one with the true appreciation for art. An appreciation he hardly got to sit with.
“It was actually the subject matter that made me call you at first,” he said. “But then I noticed the style.”
I stared at the series of images. There was something a little off, something that was missing Meera’s essence, making me feel certain it wasn’t her. But was it possible all vorakh painted the same way? She’d never painted before her visions. I wanted to believe it was her work just as much as I prayed it wasn’t, that I hadn’t missed an opportunity to be there for her and help her. And that fear in the back of my mind, that it was someone else’s work—no. I couldn’t go down that road. I just couldn’t.
Rhyan stepped back, and I moved with him, taking in the entire scene.
A white seraphim watched as five bodies fell from the sky. One was a female with raven hair and an orange dress rustling in the force of her flight. Another was a male with equally dark hair and indigo robes tight against his falling body. There was another female with white hair, her dress a vibrant blue. And another female with gold hair and a gown painted violet. Beside her was another male, his limbs flailing, his robes yellow.
Rhyan waved his torch up, and I could see that they’d fallen from the stars. From Heaven.
“Auriel’s Bane,” I said. “These are the fallen Guardians banished from Heaven. Ereshya in the orange, Moriel wearing indigo, Cassarya in the blue, Hava in the violet, and Shiviel wearing yellow.”
“You’re right.” Rhyan stepped to the right, moving the torch with him, and we both saw in the same moment that the mural expanded. Sitting opposite the white seraphim was a black gryphon, also watching the fall. And farther down still was another image: a golden-haired god carrying a red-haired goddess in his arms. The goddess’s eyes were closed, and the god wore a look of utter devastation on his face.
I met Rhyan’s gaze. The god was adorned in green. His eyes painted a vibrant emerald that reminded me of Rhyan’s.
In the next image, he had laid the goddess on top of a white stone. He was sinking to his knees.
“By the Gods,” Rhyan said, his chest heaving.
“What is it?” I asked.
His mouth fell open as he looked at me with a distraught expression nearly identical to the one in the painting. “Gods, I forgot, you can’t see the pictures moving.”
I’d forgotten Lumerian paintings came to life. I was so used to seeing pictures remain still, unable to see the true magic of them without my own magic power.
“What do you see?” I asked. “What is it?”
“That’s Auriel. And that’s Asherah. He places her not on the white stone, but inside it. There’s a lid, and when he closes it, the stone takes form. It becomes a seraphim, just like the one on Gryphon’s Mount.” His face had paled, his eyes haunted and distant, before he looked back at me. “I don’t think the statue of the seraphim is simply holding the shard. Lyr, I think we’re heading for Asherah’s tomb.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
“Her tomb?” My eyes began to water, some emotion I couldn’t explain overwhelming me. Like a memory, or a knowing. A sense of…of another life. But one I couldn’t grasp. One I was now afraid of. “You mean…her body is there?”
“I’d read that Auriel buried her in some stories. There’s so many, but I never knew where, or if that was the full truth. Her tomb had never been found, just as none of the gods’ or goddess’ burial places had. Just as the shards have been lost for centuries. No one’s seen them, only speculated.”
“Is there more?” I asked, dread rising inside of me. I had only vague memories of Asherah. I hadn’t yet felt the pull toward her, the emotions of being her, the love she felt for Auriel. But I could feel it now. I’d known the name Auriel my entire life. I couldn’t think of a time I was not aware of him, of his existence. But he was a god. A legend. A story. And now…I felt…tenderness. Hearing his name differently in my mind. My heart warming. My chest swelling.
Auriel.
I looked to Rhyan and realized nothing had changed there. I still loved him, still felt the same. But now I felt…more. Like my love had expanded. My heart was nearly bursting. And then the dread sank in. I wasn’t sure I was going to be able to open the seraphim. How could I be expected to open my own tomb. Even if it wasn’t really me…something had shifted. It felt like me.
And I felt the truth of this in my soul. Her soul. Every vision Meera had had, even the visions of my mother, they all showed the same thing: Asherah was asleep on Gryphon’s Mount.
It was her body that was there. She was only awake now because I was. Because I’d taken her blood—my blood—into me.
Rhyan’s finger reached for Auriel. “His eyes,” he said.
“Just like yours,” I whispered. Rhyan’s eyes had always been extraordinary, greener in color than any other eyes I’d ever seen.
“Hmmm.” Rhyan frowned uncomfortably then glanced ahead, waving the torch. His chest heaved, his eyes glazing over before he turned his away. “There are more paintings up ahead.”
“How old are these, do you think?” I asked. The colors were vibrant, not faded, but the magic of Lumeria could have easily preserved the paintings for hundreds of years. These had certainly been painted after the Drowning. No Lumerians would have been on these shores yet. That gave me a window of a millennium. They could have been ancient. They could have been painted weeks ago.
“Not old,” Rhyan said, waving the torch forward. He revealed a small alcove and jars of paint on the ground. “Not even close.”
“Meera!” I shouted.
