A Liar's Twisted Tongue, page 47
Closer to Azaire’s.
“Do you remember what happened after the Arcane… left me?”
“You died,” I whisper. I had hardly even processed it when it happened. And here she is sitting in front of me, alive and breathing with eyes that are less green and seemingly no magic.
“That doesn’t make any sense.”
“Nothing about this morning makes sense.” One moment I was dying, and the next they were gone.
After a long pause of silence, Wendy takes a shaking breath and says, “The only person who I want to talk to is gone.”
“I know,” I whisper.
“You do,” she says. There is an odd comfort in that. We carry the same ghost. We keep him alive by maintaining the pieces of him that he’s left in us.
This does not make the loss feel any more real, however.
The aftermath happens fast. With the corenths gone, classes begin again. Occasionally I go to Azaire’s room and knock on his door. Yuki always opens it with a frown.
“My inadequacy,” I’ll mumble.
I get cheers and applause as I walk through the hall. I’ve been granted the title of a savior. Only against the corenths. No one but our small group knows of the Arcanes, but they too think we won because of me. I only know the truth of what happened in one of those battles, and I was far from a savior.
On another evening, I find myself going to Wendy and Calista’s suite and knocking on Aralia’s door—Lilac’s old room.
I’m not sure why I am here, only that it feels like I should be.
The first thing I notice are the sheets on what should be an empty bed. “Why is that bed made?”
Aralia looks over her shoulder. “I didn’t even notice.” She looks back at me and says, “I don’t even like green.”
“That’s rather odd,” I observe.
“Yeah,” Aralia says thoughtfully. “Yeah it is. You know, there was something else kind of odd.” I look at her with an expression equivalent to saying go on. “I found a notebook with a name in it I’ve never heard, under the bed.”
Epilogue
The moonlight glitters upon the snowy region of Soma on the night that a man called Mial has given an important piece of information to the lands queen and king.
The child has been retrieved.
Queen Lusia throws her shadows across the room in distress, while King Labyrinth sits on his throne, deep in thought. How are they to stop these creatures—these partners of theirs—when they do not even know the first thing about this weapon they’ve acquired?
“We’ve failed,” King Labyrinth speaks in dismay. The unspoken question hangs in the air.
How are we to stop them now?
For the last ten years, they have been trying to discover a different means of generating this weapon. A power source that will work as well as the child who carries the destiny of destruction.
“Lucian was always our answer,” Queen Lusia says, attempting to convince herself that they had not lost so gravely.
“Do you believe we could keep Lucian subdued long enough?” King Labyrinth speaks the obvious.
“We still hold the Soul Ruby,” the queen says. Yes, they do hold the most powerful of the Soul Stones. However, it has undergone such rigid experimentations and manipulations that the various pieces of the once-glorious stone are now lackluster in comparison.
“We’ve already tried that,” King Labyrinth says in dismissal, believing his wife to be speaking of using what’s left of the stone to power the weapon.
“Perhaps it could have an affect on Lucian. Weaken him, as with the Arcanes.”
It is the best chance they have at powering the weapon before the Arcanes do. The moment the child is used will mark one step closer to the end of their glorious reign.
The destruction of all lesser planets.
The destruction of their own, quite possibly.
It pains King Labyrinth deeply to harm his nephew. Despite the common opinion, the king loved his brother dearly. Many pieces of him lie within Lucian.
With that in mind, he says, “I suppose it is our final option.”
On the other side of the universe, Wendy Estridon sits close to the tree that once was Azaire Wendigo, looking over the crater in the world she has caused and cannot fix. Then she holds a knife to her skin, but cannot find the heart to use it.
Lilac Aibek and Calista Contarini lie together. While both know that it will only be for a short time, each of them makes vows of forever.
Leiholan Kepa tries to walk with his new prosthetic leg and when he fails, he rips it from himself and throws it at the wall. He, like some others, feel that he is missing an intrinsic part of himself.
And Lucian Aibek makes a despairing trip to a woman he has not missed, wondering why a name he’s never heard fits so comfortably on his tongue.
Cynthia Constance sits like she always has, as though unaffected by the Arcanes and those lost.
“If we have claimed our victory so easily, I don’t believe it to be over,” she says, which Lucian has been thinking.
He does not sigh or act disappointed. He does not sugarcoat what he says next. “No, it’s not. These are vicious, evil creatures down to the very soul I doubt they carry. A victory I can’t remember has to be a mind game.” And who better to play one on than your child?
“There are pieces of history that I have never told you,” Cynthia says carefully, cautiously. She has always been rather keen on Lucian resolving his own questions, believing it to create depth of character, strength, and a worthy partner. But she sees now, very much so, that her partner is straying from their task.
That she is losing him.
Lucian always expected she had withheld information, always believed that losing your children may be a bigger loss than losing parents you can hardly remember.
“In the old stories of The Rising, it wasn’t thought that the orphia who go to the void are forgotten. It’s that the Phoenicians are.”
“The Phoenicians?”
“The creatures the Arcanes were genetically modified from.” Cynthia pauses, weighing her options. She wants Lucian on her side, for he is to her what she is to him—the only person who understands the vendetta.
“The true story goes that when the Phoenician rises again, it will bring about the rise or demise of the Arcanes.”
Lucian gives her a quizzical look as he weighs the likelihood of what Cynthia is implying. The name almost rolls off his tongue.
“You’re saying you believe we have forgotten someone?”
Cynthia nods, pleased with Lucian and herself. “I am almost certain of it.”
Acknowledgments
The first person above all others whom I want to give my utmost gratitude is my dad. This book wouldn’t have come to be without him, for many, many reasons. When I began writing A Liar’s Twisted Tongue I had no intention of ever sharing this work with the world. But the second I told him I was writing a book he was nothing but supportive. He believed in me before I began to believe in myself. From the beginning, he told me he had a feeling it was going to be great. And he is not the kind of person who has feelings things are going to be great. Sorry Dad, but you’re a bit of a pessimist. Or, as he would say, a “realist.” But it was that belief from a guy like him that made me think I could do this.
To my brother, Dominic (don’t mind me checking off the familial obligations). No, I’m kidding. He was the first person I told about this project. I plotted key parts of the book while we were watching The Wolf of Wall Street one night and when we finished he sat with me in the kitchen for two hours while I all but acted out the entire story. I had no intention of telling him every detail. I told him every detail. In the end, he told me that one of these days he was going to think about this story, want to finish it, realize I was the one writing it, and bug me about it.
He did, in fact, bug me about it. A lot. For a whole year.
My brother Anthony, for all his support. Thank you for all the phone calls and ramblings that you sat through. Having the support of both my brothers was incredible as a younger sister. It’s those childhood dynamics that shaped Lucian and Lilac’s connection. Same with Calista and Kai in the many, many deleted scenes.
My friend Talia and my cousin Tommy, who each got about a million videos of me talking about this book and working through plot holes. Thank you for putting up with that.
Stefanie Saw at Seventhstar Art, for the beautiful cover! It would not be what it is without her and her creative input. I could not overstate my gratitude to her. Joe, the man who made the map, from Caffee Cartography. He was so attentive and is a wizard with his pen. If you don’t believe me, go look at the map again! It was everything and more that I had envisioned in my mind. Both of these two brought this world to life.
Thank you to Jan, for the lovely illustrations you see inside the book. To my copy editor, Mallory Bingham. In the world of self-publishing finding a reputable and honest editor can be tough work, and she made it easy.
Lastly, and of course, thanks to you, dear reader. The fact that you had enough faith in this story to choose to not only pick up but read it through to the end is world-shattering to me. No dramatics. I am endlessly grateful that you’re here today. I am endlessly grateful to you. Thank you.
About the Author
Caroline Cusanelli has been writing since she was a child. What started as stories of fairies and frogs has turned into something more sinister; beautiful worlds with dark underbellies. When she isn’t writing she’s probably reading, swimming, exploring, or, much like a cat, laying in the pockets of sun in her room. Caroline is a student at the University of Barcelona and hopes to be immersed in literature for the rest of her life.
www.carolinecusanelli.com
Caroline Cusanelli, A Liar's Twisted Tongue
