A Court of Whispers and Song

Chapter 36

"I know this week has been hard on all of you since..." Nesta paused and Gwyn saw her chosen sister valiantly battling against her desire to use profane words as a descriptor for the departed. "Since Merrill died."

Whispers drifted amongst the seated Valkyries, elite and novice alike, as Nesta addressed her legion from the top of the training ring, flanked by Gwyn and Emerie. The trio had taken on the roles of trainers while Azriel and Cassian were busy getting answers for the High Lord. How the hell Merrill slithered back into Velaris undetected? How she made it past Clotho and the protective wards. And who the deceased ex-priestess was abetting.

A priestess dead by Gwyn's hand—guaranteed dismissal from priestesshood.

Her old dorm was now barren, cleared out, and ready for the next lost soul the day after Merrill's death. There was tranquility in the knowledge someone else would receive their safe place to heal. To rebuild.

After stowing away the last belongings and assessing her tiny room one last time, Gwyn had gone to formally relinquish her Invoking Stone to the High Priestess of Velaris. But when Gwyn had held out her hand, Clotho shook her head, mouthing, It's yours.

A breath caught in her throat. "But, it's custom. I'm leaving. Therefore, I must return this to you. I—"

The pen scrawled on stationery, the limpid blue radiance from her headdress of stones defining beneath Clotho's hood.

I know you haven't believed yourself worthy for some time, dear Gwyneth. Clotho's knobbed fingers folded around Gwyn's hand. The cobalt stone chilled her fingers, which closed around it. Let this gem be a reminder of how far you much you've grown and to light your way to your future.

"But the magic—"

The magic is yours ; not the stone. The stone only amplifies what we have— you have. Perhaps what you have yet to discover. As you would never use it for harm, it is yours. Clotho's eyebrows climbed in the azure hue. I am High Priestess, am I not? I say it's yours; it is. The library is also accessible to you whenever you request. Attend service when you choose. Please visit the children for they admire you so.

Her eyes brimmed with tears as Clotho rose, her dusty blue robes settling to her feet. When the High Priestess opened her arms, Gwyn clung to her as a child would do with a mother.

"Thank you, Clotho. This is more than what I deserve."

Since then, Gwyn dedicated her time in the library, researching the insanity Merrill had spewed as fact. Forgotten people, indeed. Those that Gwyn discussed such a matter with - Rhysand, Cassian, Azriel, and Mor - all rejected the idea.

"There were no such people," Rhysand said directly.

"Sounds like the ramblings of someone hitting the sacramental wine too often," Cassian had grinned wildly, knocking his shoulder into hers.

Mor merely twirled her strands of burnished gold around her finger and shrugged, shaking her head, suggesting Gwyn speak with Amren. Gwyn would not speak to Amren—at least not alone. Childish as it was, Amren was still nightmare fodder for the youngsters of Prythian.

Azriel had been, well, Azriel. His hazel eyes and onyx brows set in harsh concentration, reflecting on his past, and came up with nothing as well.

Curious. Perhaps Merrill's ramblings were simply that—madness in rhetoric.

Something was simmering in Gwyn's subconscious, drawing her to the library each day after practice. Only now escorted by rogue shadows perched on her shoulders. Her quiet, smoky little sentries. They genuinely made her feel protected, and it would be a lie to say otherwise.