“Father gave this to you when you were in Wendlyn. To protect you.”
The smile remained. “And before that, his uncle gave it to him when he came of age. It is a gift meant to be given to people in our family—to those who need its guidance.”
She was too stunned to object as her mother slipped the chain over her head and arranged the amulet down her front. It hung almost to her navel, a warm, heavy weight. “Never take it off. Never lose it.” Her mother kissed her brow. “Wear it, and know that you are loved, Fireheart—that you are safe, and it is the strength of this”—she placed a hand on her heart—“that matters. Wherever you go, Aelin,” she whispered, “no matter how far, this will lead you home.”
•
She had lost the Amulet of Orynth. Lost it that very same night.
She could not bear it. She tried begging the Valg princes to put her out of her misery and drain her into nothing, but she had no voice here.
Hours after her mother had given her the Amulet of Orynth, a storm had struck.
It was a storm of unnatural darkness, and in it she felt that wriggling, horrific thing pushing against her mind again. Her parents remained unconscious along with everyone else in the manor, even though a strange smell coated the air.
She had clutched the amulet to her chest when she awoke to the pure dark and the thunder—clutched it and prayed to every god she knew. But the amulet had not given her strength or courage, and she had slunk to her parents’ room, as black as her own, save for the window flapping in the gusting wind and rain.
The rain had soaked everything, but—but they had to be exhausted from dealing with her, and from the anxiety they tried to hide. So she shut the window for them, and carefully crawled into their damp bed so that she did not wake them. They didn’t reach for her, didn’t ask what was wrong, and the bed was so cold—colder than her own, and reeking of copper and iron, and that scent that did not sit well with her.
It was to that scent that she awoke when the maid screamed.
Lady Marion rushed in, eyes wide but clear. She did not look at her dead friends, but went straight to the bed and leaned across Evalin’s corpse. The lady-in-waiting was small and delicately boned, but she somehow lifted her away from her parents, holding her tightly as she rushed from the room. The few servants at the manor were in a panic, some racing for help that was at least a day away—some fleeing.
Lady Marion stayed.
Marion stayed and drew a bath, helping her peel away the cold, bloody nightgown. They did not talk, did not try. Lady Marion bathed her, and when she was clean and dry, she carried her down to the cold kitchen. Marion sat her at the long table, bundled in a blanket, and set about building the hearth fire.
She had not spoken today. There were no sounds or words left in her, anyway.
One of the few remaining servants burst in, shouting to the empty house that King Orlon was dead, too. Murdered in his bed just like—
Lady Marion was out of the kitchen with her teeth bared before the man could enter. She didn’t listen to gentle Marion slapping him, ordering him to get out and find help—find real help and not useless news.
Murdered. Her family was—dead. There was no coming back from death, and her parents . . . What had the servants done with their . . . their . . .
Shaking hit her so hard the blanket tumbled away. She couldn’t stop her teeth from clacking. It was a miracle she stayed in the chair.
It couldn’t be true. This was another nightmare, and she would awaken to her father stroking her hair, her mother smiling, awaken in Orynth, and—