Aurora Burning (The Aurora Cycle #2)(115)

“Did you sense deception or devotion?” he asks.

“… Both,” I realize.

“Only one of them is for you, Aurora.”

“Just …” I look him up and down, then shake my head. Taking all he meant to me, bundling it tight, and with a conscious effort burning it away once more. “If you’ve come to take me to him, then do it, Kal.”

He scowls at me. Shoulders set, jaw clenched tight. I can feel it then. Inside him. The shadow he talked about. His Enemy Within.

And I know, just up that corridor, he waits for me.

“Follow,” Kal says.

We walk down the beautiful crystal pathways, him in front and me behind. The power swells around me now, pressing in on my skin, my skull.

The part of me that hurts, that wants, that wishes I could hold Kal’s hand as I walk toward the light, is silent. The part of me that regrets, that wishes this could have turned out another way, is gone. There’s only the power now, the thing they made me to be, this girl who’s going to save the galaxy, as she follows the boy she thought she loved down the shimmering path and finally, finally, out into the heart of the ship.

It’s beautiful. Perfect. One massive, spherical chamber, its walls almost lost in shadow, curving up and out from the base and then in again to meet at its apex. Raised up from that lowest point, on spires of crystal, is a throne—huge and jagged, shining with every color of the rainbow.

This is the center of the Weapon, the center of everything, and the whole room seems to strain toward it. Shards of crystal emerge from the chamber walls, all turned inward like grasping hands, as if to claim the one who sits atop that throne, or maybe to offer him homage.

I see Kal in his face—the familiar cheekbones, the lift of the chin, the arrogant arch of a brow. He’s wearing high-collared black armor, and a blood-red cloak spills down the stairs that lead up to his throne. His silver braids cover one half of his face, and one side of his mouth is curled into the smallest of smiles.

Archon Caersan.

Starslayer.

Father of the boy I loved.

Trigger of the Eshvaren.

Traitor to the Eshvaren.

Kal backs up to stand against the curving wall as I search for words that will test his father, prod him just a little, to see what he does.

“That,” I tell him, “is a very dramatic costume. Where do you buy a cloak like that? Or did you get it custom made?”

He doesn’t reply. But he rises to his feet and slowly makes his way down the stairs toward me, cloak spreading out behind him. I have to admit, it is impressive. He doesn’t speak at all until he stands before me, towers over me, just a few meters away. He takes his time, looking me up and down as if he’s measuring me and finding me wanting.

“I thought,” he says eventually, his voice beautiful, musical, utterly mesmerizing, “that you would be taller.”

“Sorry to disappoint,” I reply, making no effort at all to stand up straighter. I am what I am, and that’s short, especially compared to a Syldrathi.

“I have been waiting for you,” he continues. “I felt you awaken.”

“And now I’m here. And I know what I have to do.”

He lifts one silver brow. “Give yourself to the cause of the Eshvaren?”

“Defeat the Ra’haam,” I correct him. “Save thousands of worlds.”

“Protecting their playground,” he muses. “And the dolls they made to live in it.”

I blink at him. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You do not know,” he says, “what you are.”

“I know I’m the girl who’s going to do what you failed to.”

“Failed?” he smiles. “All I failed to do was kneel as they wished me to.”

“The Eshvaren made you what you are. They gave you this power to save the galaxy, and you used it to murder billions.”

“Is that what you believe?” he asks, his smile thin. “That they wish to save the galaxy? That they actually care a drop for us?”

He huffs a soft, derisive breath.

“We are things to them, child. Mere tools. They created us.”

“Of course they created us,” I repeat, flat. “They created us to defend th—”

“Not us,” he hisses. “Not you and me. All of us.”

He gestures toward the outside, to the battle I can feel raging even now.

“Everything around you—every race, every individual, from the grayest elder to the youngest babe. We were all created by the Eshvaren in the hope that among those billions, they might find one to continue their fight against the Ra’haam. A vessel capable of wreaking revenge upon the race that bested them.” His lips curve into an almost conspiratorial smile. “The Eshvaren are not the noble paragons they’d have you believe. Not selfless martyrs who gave their lives for us. They are demons. Demons who would be gods.”

I sneer. “I’m supposed to believe that?”

He shakes his head a fraction, as though I’m a slightly dim student. “Have you never wondered why we all resemble one another? Think, child. Every race in the galaxy. We all stand on two feet. Breathe the same air. Speak languages the others can comprehend. The chance of hundreds of races evolving in such similar patterns across so vast a timeline and distance is nonexistent.” He folds his arms and scowls. “The Eshvaren seeded the galaxy in their own image. We are a virus in a petri dish to them. No better than insects.”