“But when a valkerax gives its blood willingly…” Yorl pauses. “This is called a blood promise. We would call it a conversation. But to a valkerax, it is a pact—between the valkerax and the one it is giving its blood to—to communicate openly and trustingly. But since the time of Old Vetris, no valkerax has been able to make a blood promise, not even to one another. Their minds are too submerged in the madness of the Bone Tree to willingly, clearly choose to give their blood. Which is why Varia and I needed you.”

I sink to the ground, disbelieving. The cold clarity I felt in the clearing while I was killing all those men and Gavik—the Weeping gave me that. It gave it to Evlorasin, too. And now I— Now I can— If I even think about the Bone Tree, the image blossoms bright and right into my brain. I know where it is.

I’ve done it. My heart is waiting.

“Send a watertell to Varia, then!” I snap. “We have to move. It’s going to be there only until noon!”

Yorl’s laugh—a laugh from him—is rife with a purr-like rumble. His whiskers twitch with a smile he’s trying hard not to show on his face.

“It’s understandable that you think valkerax conversations end. Mortal conversations end, after all.”

I start. “What? What do you—”

“It’s called a blood promise, Zera,” he drawls. “Not a blood moment.”

I jump to my feet and reach for him again, this time determined to shake information out of his intentionally cryptic arse, but he cuts me off at the pass with another laugh, his emerald eyes staring up at the ceiling.

“You know where the Bone Tree is. You will always know. Now and forever. Until the very moment your human body dies for the last time.”

23

23

A Promise
of Blood

My knees do their godsdamnedest to turn to gelatin, but I keep them strong. I focus my eyes on the celeon royal guard line as they pass more rocks to one another, clearing out the arena that’s completely caved in by rubble. The gate—that one I walked under so many times to teach Ev—has been obliterated into nothing more than a twisted piece of metal by the collapse. The cracks in the rock avalanche show faint traces of sunlight peeking through.

I close my eyes and picture Evlorasin flying through the sky, a streak of pearl-rainbow-white against the blue.

Yorl sends a watertell to Varia, and we wait for the response. In the meantime, the suddenly eternally smiling celeon takes to writing, his quill scratching busily over parchment, leaving me to simmer in my newfound shock.

“The blood promise was supposed to be for Varia,” I say slowly.

Yorl doesn’t even look up, but he nods. “Yes. But we will adapt, as we always have.”