Crown of Cinders (Imdalind #7)(29)

“Ilyan,” I gasped as I turned toward him, the words quickly replacing themselves as his pain became mine. The memories of the happy father he had known moved through us like a movie reel.

I placed my hand on his arm, my touch gentle as I tried to gauge his mood from the oddly crippling weight moving over me.

Wyn froze in place as she put her own Lincoln logs together in her mind, her mouth forming a wide O of understanding.

My father had killed his father.

The irony of that statement was strangely cruel.

Perhaps we can laugh at it another time, Ilyan’s voice filled me, the pain in his mind infecting the words. He didn’t need to say more.

I wrapped my arms around him, letting my magic fill him from tip to tip as I warmed him, fully aware that this was a pain that couldn’t be smothered. Evil dad or not, as the memories that I was currently being filled with proved, he hadn’t been all bad.

“I’m sorry, Ilyan,” I whispered. “I didn’t realize.”

“If it makes you feel any better, it hurt when I killed my da—when I killed Timothy,” Wyn said, running her fingers over the faded marks on her arm as she shuffled her feet uncomfortably. “I didn’t expect to feel anything, either. Jerk that he was. But then … I mean … I guess there were good times, too.”

“Thank you, Wynifred.” Ilyan looked up at her at that, his eyes wide as his jaw set in what could easily be confused as anger.

Wyn didn’t even flinch. She pursed her lips together and shrugged as if Ilyan had done nothing more than reject an offering of cake.

“Have you seen anything more besides what you two witnessed in the alley, mi lasko?”

“You know my visions have been changing, and everything outside the dome seems to be broken. I can’t access any of it. If Sain did something like this, then that could be why.” I swallowed, my hand still strong on his back even as he looked up at the stars hanging high in the lavender sky.

“Was my father there?” Ilyan very rarely referred to Edmund as his father, and given the situation, I shouldn’t be surprised. Still, it caught me off guard, his grief intense.

“Not—”

“Wait,” Ilyan cut me off, his hair fanning around his face as he turned toward me, the stars forgotten as his eyes filled with an odd, maniacal energy that I hadn’t seen for some time. “Has Edmund been in any of your sights since the ending began to change?”

I blinked, my mind running over his question as sight after sight ran across my recall, the answer becoming apparent.

“No.”

“And the funeral?”

“I don’t think I want to hear any more,” Wyn groaned and walked back toward the Technicolor courtyard.

Ilyan and I stayed still, our hearts pounding as our eyes locked, more pieces of this complicated web falling into place.

“Has the funeral changed?” Ilyan asked again, his heart clenching as mine did. That painful reality was one neither of us wanted to face.

“No, It’s the same. It still does that crazy backward thing that Dramin and I can’t figure out. But it’s the same.”

“Is Sain in any of the sights since the change?” The excitement he had exhibited before faded as he asked the question even he knew the answer to. We had talked about my sights enough. Heck, he had peeked into one no more than an hour before.

“Yes.”

“So, it’s true.” The same pain ran over his face at the admittance, his shoulders slumping a bit. “Even if he is still alive, Sain has—”

“Guys?” Wyn interrupted as she rejoined us, her focus on the cluster of tents right before us. Her eyes were wide with fear, as if she expected some demon to appear and gobble us up. “Ryland’s coming.”

She had barely spoken the words when Ryland pushed his way between the too-close canvas, his curls sagging under glistening sweat. The entire effect made him look like a lost dog who had fallen into a pool of muddy water on accident and was still bewildered by what had happened.

“Ry?” I asked, confused, as Wyn remained frozen between us.

I didn’t know what had spooked Wyn so much. She could sense magic, not moods, and yet something had infected her. She looked like she could vomit, run away, or both.

“Finally. I’ve been looking for you,” Ryland gasped out as he continued his sprint toward us, his shirt so soaked I expected him to remove it.

My stomach jerked uncomfortably at the memory attached to that thought, the imagery of Ryland removing his shirt too close for comfort.

Ilyan cleared his throat beside me, pulling me against him as a frown came upon his face.

I cringed, my stomach falling to my toes in embarrassment.

Ilyan’s thoughts weren’t on mine, though. They were on what we had been discussing. They were on his father as his eyes focused on his baby brother.

Ilyan hadn’t been Edmund’s solitary son.

I was a fool for not having remembered that. I had practically grown up in their house.

Well, in the kitchen, anyway.

I recoiled, the flash of a familiar face haunting my memory. Luckily, no one noticed. Everyone was far too focused on what was before them.

“We have a problem.” Ryland panted, his voice broken as he ran his hand through his hair, tiny droplets of sweat flying away from him.