Keith Sterling's Arc

Chapter 7 of 8

Keith held the ring to his chest and reached for the grief again. He waited for the warmth. This time nothing came. The ring lay cold in his fist. He pushed harder against the wound, but the door behind his eyes stayed shut. "It's gone quiet," he said. "The trace is fading. I can feel it draining out." Lysandra tapped her staff once on the stone. The blind oracle had guided him from the start, but her calm now edged toward warning. "The rite drained the ring," she said. "You spent its magic to hear that one sound. Without the trace, the door seals for good. You will never reach the rest of the name." "Then I restore it." Keith stood. "The petals. The altar. Same as before." He remembered the crimson blooms crushed under his palm, the magic waking in the ring. He had done it once. He could do it again. The oracle shook her head. "Not here. My altar gave what it could. The bond has grown too deep for it now. You need older ground. A field where these roses first grew wild." "Where?" She lifted her hand. A silver owl dropped from the dark above and landed on her staff. Its wings caught the light and scattered it like broken glass. "Follow her," Lysandra said. "She knows the sanctum. But go now. By dawn the trace is dust." Keith ran after the bird through the night. It led him to a stone arch wrapped in climbing roses. Red blooms crowded every crack. Their glow lit the dark opening. He stepped through into a wide field of pink roses that sparkled like they held small stars. In the center stood a low stone altar, ringed with crimson flowers. He dropped to his knees and gathered a handful of the deep red petals. Their velvet edges pricked his skin. He crushed them over the altar and set the ring in the wet red mess. Then he reached for the grief. He thought of the empty years. The wanting. The voice he had heard laugh and then lose. The petals hissed. Red light climbed the ring and sank into the gold. The metal warmed. Behind his eyes, the sealed door pressed against its frame, alive again. Keith gasped and clutched the ring. The trace burned strong, stronger than before. He pushed too fast. He grabbed for the memory. The door cracked wider than he meant, and a second syllable rang out in that laughing voice. Then a third crowded behind it, too fast to hold. Pain split through his skull. Both sounds tangled and blurred. He fell forward against the altar, breathing hard. The ring glowed full and hot in his fist. He had two syllables now, maybe three, jammed together and half-lost. The trace was strong again. But the grief ahead had teeth. Each piece would cut deeper than the last, and he had only begun to bleed.