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

I would die tomorrow. If I did, would this ink tip the scale? How would I be judged?

“Aefe,” Ishqa said, softly.

I met his gaze. It was rawer than I had ever seen it. It was a strange shade on his face.

“You have earned your place in any afterlife,” he murmured. “Sidnee or Wyshraj. Any god worth worshipping would grant it to you. And if there’s an afterlife that would deny you entry, I do not want to be there, either.”

A lump rose in my throat. “If we die tomorrow, it was an honor to fight next to you, Ishqa.”

He was silent for a long moment. Then he said, “Likewise, Aefe, Teirness of the House of Obsidian. It has been an honor.”

After that, our conversation settled with the embers of the fire. I lay down, but I could not sleep. Instead I looked up at the stars, and thought about the passed Wyshraj who lived among them, Ashraia included. I thought of the stone beneath my feet, and Siobhan. And I thought of the House of Stone, and the sudden, devastating realization that I did not know where Caduan had gone.

I rolled over, and watched the grass. In the darkness, I could see Ishqa lying there, too, completely still, with his eyes wide open.

In the morning, we packed our things in near-silence. There was a knot in my stomach that I couldn’t untangle, and I feared that if I opened my mouth, nothing but my own fear would come spilling out. Ishqa once again offered me his blood, and we shifted together and took off for the island where the humans were gathering.

I knew little of the human world. A part of me expected this island to look like Niraja, grand and majestic. But for a place that had come to consume all of my thoughts, it was surprisingly small — even if it, too, was beautiful. It was crescent-shaped, and heavily forested, with trees that were bare save for thick clusters of ferns. The beaches were sandy, and so bright they were nearly blinding to look at beneath the midday sun. The eastern side of the island had a collection of boats. Small ones, to my relief — even the largest surely couldn’t hold more than a dozen men. At least we would not have to worry about the humans’ overwhelming numbers here.

We landed on the opposite side of the island, and shifted back our Fey bodies, crouching in the sand. My heart was pounding.

“Where are the Wyshraj?” I whispered to Ishqa.

“They must not have arrived in time.” He shook his head. “It was far to travel. I wasn’t sure that they would.”

I cursed under my breath. But I wasn’t about to let that stop us — not when we had gotten this far. I reached for my knives and shot Ishqa as confident a glance as I could manage.

“Then it’s just us. I hope you’re ready.”

Ishqa looked slightly pale. But he nodded, all the same.

There was only one structure on the island: a stone, circular building, not particularly tall. The windows were high and small, near the top of the roof. Columns surrounded it, carved with a language I didn’t recognize. A single path of large, flat granite led up to the building’s entrance — a set of arched double doors in dark wood.

There was no sign of the humans. Perhaps they were already inside.

“The windows,” I said, jerking my chin up. “They’re small, but we can fit through—”

But Ishqa was already standing and walking towards the door. I caught his wrist. “They could shoot us where we stand,” I hissed.

“It will be fine,” Ishqa said, calmly, though there was a slight twinge to his voice that I couldn’t decipher. He took my hand in his — a strangely intimate movement — and stepped towards the door.

“Ishqa…” I tried to pull my hand away, but his grip was firm.

“There were dissenters,” he said, without looking at me. “Let us talk to them, first.”

I wasn’t convinced. I wasn’t convinced at all. But before I could stop him, Ishqa pushed open one of the doors, and we stepped through.

Chapter Sixty-Five

Max

My knees hit sand.

In any other context, I would have been willing to flop over in that sand and take a nap. It was beautiful. Soft, white, fine. For a moment my mind was stuck on that odd sand appreciation, and then I reordered my thoughts.

The box of hands. The fucking monster. The birds. The Stratagram.

And this.

Tisaanah and I got to our feet. We looked ridiculous, half-dressed and wielding ridiculously fine weapons, spattered with strange grey-purple.

We were on a beach. Actually, perhaps it was an island, because I could see the coastline curving in the distance. Tall trees with tufts of leaves loomed above us. The forest ahead was dense, with lots of ferns. It was bright daylight — jarring after coming from the night of hell at the cottage.

“We must be far away,” I murmured, “for the time to be so different.”

“Look.” Tisaanah pointed down the beach. There were several boats on the shore. “Are there others here?”

“After all that, there’d better be someone here who can give us some Ascended-damned answers.”

That, or try to kill us, I thought. At this point, who knows.

Tisaanah looked up, and I followed her gaze.

Ahead of us was a single stone path, leading up to a massive arched doorway set in an eerily imposing stone building. The structure was circular, and surrounded by large columns. As we stepped closer, I could see they were covered in carvings that looked as if they could be writing — though not a language I understood.

Tisaanah approached one and ran her fingertips over it.

“I think this is Old Besrithian,” she murmured. “My mother loved history books. Some had writing that looked like this.”

“So this place is ancient.”

Old Besrithian was a long, long dead language.

She nodded. Then her gaze fell to the door.

I let out a sigh. “I suppose,” I said, “we’re about