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

people must have felt, watching me be cleared when I wasn’t even there. Is that justice?”

“You going to that place because you felt guilty wouldn’t have been justice, either.”

Maybe. But maybe it would have been closer to it.

You belong here.

When Ilyzath had whispered that to me, it had felt like the truth.

“Max.” Tisaanah turned my face to her. Her mismatched eyes were bright and fierce. “You have never belonged there. And you never will, no matter what it said to you. Do you understand?”

She said it the same way she had once declared that she would free the Threllian slaves — the same voice she had used when she insisted that she would save Serel, even when the world told her it was impossible. Relentless brute force.

I kissed her on the forehead and pulled her into an embrace. “I know,” I murmured.

She did always make it seem so easy to believe her.

But when I looked at her again, her face as I had seen it in the darkness of Ilyzath stared back at me. Ilyzath’s whispers caressed my dreams all night long.

Chapter Thirty-Seven

Tisaanah

I couldn’t shake the things that Ilyzath had shown me. Sleep was restless. It was nearly morning by the time I finally dozed off, and when I woke again, Max was gone, a note on his pillow:

T,

Your snoring was charming and you were too peaceful to wake. Early drills. Dinner later?

Love,

M

It was so deceptively nonchalant, written as if we were two very ordinary people leading very ordinary lives, and like we hadn’t been victimized by a magical ancient prison twelve hours ago.

I set the note aside. Then, as I rose and began to prepare for the day, I noticed another letter that had been slid beneath the door.

It was from the refugee dwellings, from a young woman named Fijra whom I had met a few times before. Her grandmother needed my help, and requested that I visit that day, though the letter remained somewhat vague as to why.

Not that it mattered. Whenever the refugees asked me to go, I went. Today would be no exception.

“Thank you, Tisaanah, for having the time to come.”

The old woman spoke with a thick Derali accent, a dialect of Thereni that was sharp and choppy. Her hands shook as she served us stew, broth splashing across the table as she struggled to support the weight of the ladle. I gently took the spoon from her and poured the stew myself. For me. For her. And then for Fijra, who sat silently with her eyes lowered.

“Of course I have time,” I said.

I settled back into my chair and sipped my stew. The flavors weren’t quite the same as those found in Threll — it had that classic Aran fishy, burning spice — but still, nostalgia flooded over me at even an imperfect taste of Threllian food.

My eyes drifted to the corner of the apartment, where a little boy, perhaps no older than five, played with blocks on the floor. I gave him a small wave, which he seemed reluctant to return.

“That’s my boy Meo,” the old woman croaked, following my gaze as she settled into her seat. “Not by blood, but I love him all the same.”

“The family we choose is just as important,” I said.

There was a long, awkward silence. The old woman was peering at me through cataract ridden, wrinkled eyes. Fijra wouldn’t so much as look at me.

I cleared my throat. “So. What can I help you with?”

“I did have a grandson, though,” the woman creaked out, as if she hadn’t heard me. “I did have a lot of things, a long time ago. Before Deralin fell. I used to live in the capital, you know. Before it fell.”

The woman’s stare glazed over. I knew that look. Almost everyone got that look, when they got to thinking about the past. I put down my spoon, realizing that what this woman needed above all, right now, was to talk.

“It was the Essarians that got us,” she went on. “We were all surprised by that. Those ink-stained mice brought down the great Deralin nation.”

The Essarians had been one of Threll’s only allies. They didn’t have a strong military, but they had money and scientific advancements. They used that money to purchase the best warriors, now-infamous bands of private armies like the Roseteeth and Goldbark Companies. In the end, though, the Essarians were still playing a game they couldn’t win. They spent all their gold trying to keep up with the Threllians, and when they were no longer useful, the Threllians conquered them, too. Mercenary armies don’t stay to defend you if you can’t pay them anymore, and so, Essaria fell just like the rest of us.

“We got out early,” the old woman went on. “Before the major cities fell. My grandson, my little Senrha, was just thirteen. Dangerous age, for a boy. Old enough to fancy yourself a hero. Went on like that for some weeks. Thought we might make it out. But that’s when the slavers started to come. And the first time we saw them, my boy didn’t want to run.” Her voice was flat, too used to telling sad stories, but the grief beneath it never dulled. “Thirteen is a dangerous age for a boy,” she murmured, gaze far-off. “Fancied himself a hero.”

Fijra’s eyes closed, as if shutting out the memory.

“A terrible thing,” I whispered.

“They took Fijra and me. Gods’ luck, we stayed together, but the others… well, soon, it was only us.” The woman patted Fijra’s hand. “Then I meet little Mara and little Meo. Mara was such a gentle little thing, like a broken bird. And Meo looked just like my boy, he did. Just like him. Didn’t he?”

Fijra spoke for the first time. “Yes, Grandmother. He does.” She glanced at me for only a second before looking away again.

The old woman nodded slowly, then peered down at my bowl. Half empty. “Eat, girl. You’re so small, so thin. Eat.”

I obeyed.