The Chronicle (Erafeen, #4)

by David F. Farris

Wert’s face began to morph into something else. His golden scruff vanished, the hard angles of his blockish jaw receding into something gentler and smooth; his suntanned skin darkened to a deep caramel; and his messy blonde and gray hair lengthened, falling down his back as it transitioned into jet black. Even his body had changed to that of a woman’s; his uniform baggy over the smaller frame, a hand now present where there was once nothing but a stump. Toth dropped his head. He had already accepted defeat, but to have been toyed with like this for nearly a year—there were no words to describe the humiliation. “Pilot Ophala,” he muttered, his brittle voice piling onto his shame. “You hid while your son died?” “Did you not just see Elyol standing over Jina’s body?” Ophala asked. “He is on our side. What you saw was what I wanted to be seen. The same goes for most of what you’ve witnessed these past several months. This has been nothing but a theatrical performance. That shadow that just cast the street in pitch black; it came from my son. He is not dead. In fact, he even argued to keep you alive while you celebrated his supposed death. But I am not so merciful … not anymore.” A jolt shot up Toth’s spine, and a rush of liquids escaped him again. This time, however, the stream didn’t seem to stop. “A nasty little herb,” Ophala said. “Therapif wasn’t too keen on sending it over to me years ago. It had originally been intended for Itta, but I could never bring myself to use it....