Spark of the Everflame (Kindred's Curse, #1)

by Penn Cole

When my mother had been here, it had been so easy to stay sheltered in the cocoon she’d built around me. I’d pushed back in all the ways that restless youth do, but I always surrendered in the end and accepted my curated existence. She’d kept so many secrets. From all of us, but especially from me. Her daughter, her firstborn. If anyone should have known the truth, shouldn’t it have been me? Before Teller, before even Father, it had been the two of us, alone in the world. An unwed mother and her bastard infant. A part of me hated her for it, even though I knew she had done it for me. I knew in my heart, my soul, that my mother would do anything to protect me.

If Teller had heard what transpired at the palace, he said nothing of it to me. Though when I sat in front of the hearth and gazed vacantly at the fire, I felt his curious stare on my back. I supposed my moodiness since I’d stopped taking the flameroot powder had made him wary enough to give me space. The flameroot. The vial of red powder burned a hole in my pocket. My chaotic thoughts circled it like vultures around a fresh kill. That bottle was my anger and fear, my anxiety and resentment—all my darkest emotions in tangible form. When the sky turned black and the men in my family were lost in dreams, I gathered all the bottles in my mother’s supply and slipped outside to the water’s edge. One by one, I hurled the moon-shaped jars into the sea. One by one, they hit the waves and sank forever to a watery grave. Each quiet splash felt like the creaking open of an old, heavy door, its iron hinges rusted from ages of disuse. I said a prayer to the Old Gods to make me ready for whatever lay beyond.

Henri squeezed me reassuringly before pulling back. “Come on, let’s get some sleep. Dawn is still hours away.” As he turned, the glimmering embers of the campfire illuminated his muscled back. In his sleep-dazed rush to get to me, he’d left his shirt behind. My eyes caught on a patch of black ink on his shoulder. A gnarled tree, with leaves of flame, inset in a circlet of vines—the sacred Everflame, the Tree of Life and Death. According to the old mortal religion, all life began as sparks from the Everflame that fell to the earth as glowing seeds. At death, those found worthy by the Old Gods would be placed among its burning branches, where their earthly bodies would turn to ash but their souls would remain forever warmed by the Undying Fire. Those found unworthy were doomed to an eternity in a cold hell encased in ice, far from the Everflame’s redeeming heat. Though some mortals still clung in secret to the ancient faith, all references to the Everflame and the Old Gods were now outlawed across the nine realms. I’d only ever seen them in the old mortal books my mother collected—the one law she’d always been happy to flagrantly disobey.

It’s a group for mortals who refuse to accept the Descended as the rulers of Emarion. We fight back in whatever ways we can. We call ourselves the Guardians of the Everflame.”

As I gazed off at the road ahead, it struck me that this might finally be my opportunity to choose my own future. My family, my tiny village, even my work as a healer—these were all paths laid out for me by my mother. Even my body had lately felt like a prisoner to unwelcome thoughts and emotions. And voices. Mad as it was to work against the godlike creatures that were the Descended—this was something I could choose for myself. Whatever the consequences, they would be mine and mine alone. Surely the Descended, and especially the royals, would not be foolish enough to divulge useful information in my presence. But if they did, if they slipped up—and if it was information that would not harm my patients, but rather protect innocent mortals... Maybe that was exactly what I needed. The voice kept demanding that I fight. Maybe instead of fighting someone, what I needed was something to fight for. Maybe I could channel the temper smoldering inside me and direct it somewhere it could help someone, instead of slowly burning me to ash.

“Suit yourself. But whatever you do or don’t do, sweetheart, do it for yourself. Don’t choose a mediocre life for a mediocre man. Go be exceptional. If he’s worth it, he won’t judge you. And if he’s really the one, he’ll come along for the ride.”

“But what if...” I couldn’t find the words to explain to him the conflict brewing in my heart—the sense that I wasn’t just compromising, but sacrificing a fundamental piece of myself I could never get back. I shook my head and sighed. “Yes, of course. You’re right.”

She must be part Descended.

After every push, I felt deflated and entirely drained, convinced I couldn’t possibly give it another try, couldn’t possibly find one remaining ounce of effort in my weary, exhausted soul—but each time, the voice inside of me roared to life and unlocked some new cavern of defiance deep within. Flames licked at the walls as we passed, flecks of falling debris speckling my arms with blisters and burns, though I barely felt it. I felt only the pound of my heart and the call of the voice as it urged me on.

As my hand brushed against Luther’s magic, the sensation that thrummed along my skin was unlike anything I’d ever felt—like starlight made solid, like holding a shaving of the moon in my hands. It seemed almost to flow into me and coat my body in a shimmering, silvery sheen. A tingling burst of energy exploded up my arms and bloomed through my chest, dulling the bite of my fatigue and renewing my focus. I took the strands of light and wrapped them like a binding around the wrists of the unconscious man. Luther’s magic hummed at my touch, and I swore I heard a distant harmony that went silent the moment I let them go.

“Every day I draw breath is as much a curse as a gift. I’ve been living on borrowed time for longer than you can imagine. If you’re the way my fate finally catches up to me, I can’t fathom a more beautiful end.”