Children of Fallen Gods (The War of Lost Hearts Book 2) by Carissa Broadbent (good english books to read .TXT) 📕

There, with my steel pressed at his jaw, was Orin. He looked utterly unmoved by the weapon at his throat and lifted his chin, peering down at me. A single drop of violet rolled down his throat.

So I hadn’t been imagining things. He had been watching me at dinner.

“Why are you following me?” I snarled.

His stare sparked with anger. It came on quickly, oddly familiar, in a way I couldn’t place.

“Get the knife off of me. I don’t give answers to people who are threatening me. Nor spies who lie to me, and my kingdom, about who they really are.”

It was only then that I realized what I had done. I wielded black obsidian blades — there was no weapon more obviously Sidnee, or more clearly not Wyshraj.

Slowly, I lowered my blade, though still remained ready to strike.

Orin took two long steps back, wiping away the drop of blood on his throat and frowning down at his fingers. Then his gaze lifted to me, lingering at my weapons, and then traveling slowly up to my face.

It was strange, to be looked at that way. It wasn’t lecherous. But it was… thorough.

“You are a Sidnee,” he said.

I cringed.

“The blades were only a gift.”

“Because the Sidnee are so known for giving gifts to the Wyshraj.”

“It was—”

But he looked as if he barely heard my argument. “You are Sareid’s daughter,” he said, quietly, “aren’t you? You so resemble her.”

Shock careened through me. “What?”

“Why are you here?” He stepped forward, and I thrust my blade up.

“How do you know my mother?”

He froze, raising his hands.

“She never spoke to you, then,” he said, at last. “About her time here.”

Her time here?

I nearly dropped my blades.

“What are you talking about?”

“Would you put down the blades first, please?”

I wasn’t about to stand here unarmed in front of a magic speaker who had just learned I was his sworn enemy — and whatever else. Orin sighed, muttered something beneath his breath, and lifted his hands. A burst of smoke furled around me, and the next thing I knew, my blades were clattering to the ground and skidding halfway down the pathway. On instinct, I almost lunged after them, but Orin shook his head.

“Not necessary,” he said. “I don’t have any intention of hurting you. Do me the honor of a conversation without weapons between us. Please.”

I didn’t like that idea at all. But what choice did I have? I scowled and turned back to him, making a show of dropping my empty hands.

“No weapons,” I said, sweetly.

He almost smiled. “Thank you.”

“How do you know my mother?” I asked, yet again.

“First, I need to know what a Sidnee Blade is doing here. With Wyshraj, no less.”

“It was an innocent deception,” I said. “Everything else we have told you is the truth. The Sidnee and the Wyshraj have forged an alliance to investigate and fight the human threat. But considering the history of the Sidnee and Nirajans…” I cleared my throat, resisting the uncomfortable instinct to check if my tattoos were still hidden. “We thought you would not welcome Sidnee.”

“An alliance?” Orin let out a bitter scoff, muttering as if to himself. “The Teirna of the House of Obsidian forming an alliance. We shall see how that turns out.”

I was growing impatient. “And what about—”

“Your mother.” Orin’s lips thinned. “Sareid was a childhood friend of mine. Long ago. And she lived here, for a time.”

My mouth fell open. Orin said this statement — this ridiculous statement — so simply, as if it were some unremarkable fact.

“She did not,” I said, before I could stop myself, and Orin’s brows lurched.

“Yes,” he said. “She did.”

No. Absolutely not. There must be some mistake. He had to be talking about a different Sareid, because my mother — my graceful, half-mad mother — could not possibly have lived in Niraja, of all places.

I started to shake my head.

“Sareid did not agree with the exile that was handed down to Niraja,” he said. “She did not agree with many positions in the House of Obsidian. She fought them for a long time, but then she got tired of fighting. So, she came here.”

“She couldn’t,” I rasped. “She was a Teirness. She wouldn’t leave.”

“She did indeed. She could have made the House of Obsidian a whole new kingdom, if she wanted. Perhaps one that coexisted with… all of this.”

He gestured out, towards the Nirajan skyline, but I shook my head.

“She wouldn’t do that.”

Orin gave me a curious look, a hint of sadness on his face. “Tell me,” he said, softly, “how is Sareid now? Is she someone who truly seems so at-odds with what I’m telling you?”

“Yes” wasn’t a strong enough word. “She wouldn’t do that,” I said again, and that response seemed to make that sadness wrench deeper into the lines of his expression.

“Sareid was nothing less than visionary, Aefe. She had such dreams for what the House of Obsidian could be for so many people. I’d never— I still have never known anyone as…” Words seemed to elude him, and yet, his eyes had gone far away, as if so lost in memory that they seemed insignificant.

“You…” I choked out.

You loved her.

I didn’t say it aloud, but we both heard it. Orin’s wince and pointed silence told me everything I needed to know.

“Tell me why my father attacked Niraja.”

I didn’t know why I asked. A part of me knew the answer, and dreaded hearing it. A part of me never wanted to hear it.

“He attacked Niraja to bring Sareid back,” Orin said.

My eyes were stinging.

“That’s not true,” I said. “He attacked this place because it is corrupted. Because the blood is corrupted here.”

Orin winced. “Aefe…”

I lurched back. “Why do you know my name?”

“Because I—” He stopped himself and swore under his breath, a certain tone that started high and ended low, and hearing it that way was like hearing an echo of myself.

No.

“Sareid was pregnant when she was taken,” he said. “And I—”

Taken. Not rescued. Not