If there was one good thing that had come out of River’s storm last month—‘good’ being an extremely relative term, allthings considered—it was that she hadn’t been late once since then. She’d arrived at the hospital with at least fifteen minutes to spare every single day.
It was a small silver lining, but considering that lateness had plagued her for most of her life, she’d take it.
Callum led her to the front of the temple, remarking on the unusually cold weather they’d been experiencing this fall. A difficult winter was coming, he predicted. River nodded absentmindedly, distracted by the stained-glass scenes they passed.
Much like the six steps leading up to the temple, there were six stained glass windows on each side of the room. On the one side, they depicted Iris’s trials, and on the other, they showed Dyna healing various patients.
In the first, following fae tradition, Dyna was pictured without clothing. Her supple, tanned female form was covered by long locks of raven hair that fell to her feet. She kneeled over a sickly fae child, their olive skin pale. The goddess pressed her hand against the child’s forehead.
In the next window, the same child was dancing as Dyna watched on, smiling. The artist had managed to infuse so much warmth into the goddess’s expression that it felt as though Dyna was there with them.
The following scene was of the goddess healing a woman in childbirth. The fae’s russet skin was covered in sweat, and she was crying out in pain in the first image, while in the second, she was cradling a healthy baby in her arms.
The third scene was of a battlefield. River wasn’t sure which of the fae wars it depicted, but it showed Dyna standing beside Syrn, the god of death. Shivers ran down her spine as the gods appeared to be discussing fates in the first image, while inthe second, Dyna was standing over several bandaged soldiers in a field hospital.
Life and death exist hand in hand, River.
Not for the first time since she left his home, Nikhail’s voice echoed through her mind. As much as it pained her to admit it, he was right. There was no life without death. Syrn’s presence in Dyna’s temple was proof of that.
She and Callum strode past rows of empty wooden pews, coming to a stop in front of the stone altar at the front of the temple. The altar was eight feet long and half as wide. Six onyx candles stood on its surface, in groups of three. Each was over two feet tall, resting in a black candle holder.
A glass bowl filled to the brim with tiny specs of obsidian sand took up the place of honor on the altar. The entire scene was watched over by the eight-foot marble statue of Dyna herself.
Callum extended a hand towards the candles, a small flame coming to life in his palm. He twisted his fingers, directing the flame to each candle, and murmured prayers.
As the priest lit the candles, River ran her prayer beads through her fingers and knelt before the altar. The beads had belonged to her grandmother on her father’s side, and she’d used them for as long as she could remember. The stone floor was cold through her stretchy leggings, but she wouldn’t let that stop her from praying to the goddess. Crossing her chest in a religious gesture, she dipped her head.
Robes swished on her right as Callum joined her. From her peripheral vision, she watched as the priest placed his prayer book in front of him and opened his hands at his sides.
The godly man’s low voice filled the temple as he began speaking in Ancient Fae. The language, which had once been commonly used by their ancestors across the Indigo Ocean,was now a relic of times long gone and only spoken by scholars and temple workers.
River only knew a few words in the old language, but the familiar, lyrical tone of her people’s tongue brought her peace. The phrases washed over her, and her eyes slipped shut.
Rolling her prayer beads through her fingers, River fell into the rhythmic calm that came from speaking to her favorite goddess.
I come to you today, Dyna, merciful and compassionate goddess of healing, to lift up my father, Cyrus Waterborn. You might remember that he has been afflicted with the Stillness for nearly two decades. Even though he is far from me, I ask that you be with him…
Her prayers continued. She begged the goddess to keep her father healthy, to help him regain strength, and to reverse the Stillness’s path. For years, River had prayed the same prayer, but ever since Anya Valois’s death, she’d been even more fervent with her petitions.
River couldn’t shake the bad feeling that had settled in her gut the night of the storm. Every day, when she called to check on her father, she held her breath. Every time, she thought that this would be the day they told her that his health was declining. They would urge her to hurry home, because he didn’t have much longer.
Even though the round-the-clock nurses Tertia hired to look after Cyrus assured River that her father’s condition was stable, that feeling of doom remained. Her beloved father was in desperate need of a miracle, and his time was running out. River could feel it.
Children were meant to outlive their parents. It was the natural way of life, even for long-lived fae. But Cyrus wasyoung for their kind, and the thought of him dying, of Tertia being her only remaining parent…
A prayer bead cracked, the sound echoing through the temple. River gasped, loosening her grip. Beside her, Callum was still praying.
Breathe, she urged herself.Dad is still alive. There is still time.
Maybe they would find a cure before it was too late.
Repeating Eliza’s mantra to herself, River focused on the air she was bringing into her lungs. In for four, hold for seven, release for eight.
Again and again.
She continued until her magic was calm in her veins, like water lapping at a lakeshore on a sunny summer’s day. Only then did she return to her prayers.
River submitted one final plea for her father’s health before shifting her attention to Lakewater General. She had started including the hospital in her prayers as soon as she found out that she’d been accepted to the residency program.