As Eliana watched Simon’s light fizzle out across the carpet, she shook her head, laughing a little. “I’m no Blood Queen,” she whispered. She sat back in her chair and breathed away the threads’ lingering chill. “I’m not her.”

Harkan set down his mending. “Of course you’re not,” he said, giving her a small smile. “I could have told you that.”

“Yes, but I think I’m finally, truly realizing it. That I’m my own self, and not her. I have power, yes, but I shouldn’t always be afraid of it.”

“I’m glad for you. Truly.” He reached for her hand, then hesitated.

She took his instead. “It’s all right. You can touch me.”

His smile seemed to shrink with every passing second. “I feel as though I can’t anymore. You’re so far from me now. You feel beyond me, and mighty in this way I don’t understand.”

“And if I am beyond you?” Eliana watched him steadily. “Does that mean we can’t even be friends? Will you drug me again?”

He pulled away from her, his face raw with shame. “I’m sorry, El. I wish I was more, for you. I wish I was better at this. I wish I hadn’t…”

His voice dropped into silence.

Eliana swallowed against a hard knot of hurt. She had not been prepared for this conversation, nor for the terrible, distant sadness on Harkan’s face. She knew so well the way he held himself, the subtle ways he wore his despair. But then the front door opened and shut, and a few seconds later, Simon was storming into the room, Remy at his heels.

Simon stopped when he saw her, and then he smiled, a broad, easy grin. It was something she had never seen before on his face—such a real, true expression of unabashed happiness. For a moment she could hardly feel her own body. She was only a shapeless, fizzy, foolish joy, watching Simon smile.

“It worked,” he said, breathless, and then he went to her in two long strides, and she was rising to meet him. His arms came around her, tight and strong, and she pressed her face against his shirt, breathing in the rain on his collar and the sweat on his skin. In his arms, she nearly forgot herself. She nearly tilted up her head to kiss him.

But Remy, and Harkan. And the open door, which could admit visitors at any moment. If she was going to kiss him, she wanted the kiss all to herself.

So she stepped back from him, her fingers lingering on his sleeves, and when she turned to find Harkan, schooling her face into something more neutral, something less giddy, he was gone.

• • •

That night, Eliana could find neither sleep nor a sense of calm. When she closed her eyes, she saw an overwhelming assortment of images—the memories Simon’s scar had held, of his torture at Rahzavel’s hands. The threads hovering at his fingertips. The web of wounds in his mind.

Harkan’s empty, brave smile.

Opening her eyes was no better, for the first thing she saw was the door, and she knew that past the door was the hallway, and at the end of that was Simon’s door. Was he sleeping, or was he also lying awake, his brain as frenzied as hers?

A few minutes more, and she sat up, swung her legs out of bed. She got up, then sat back down. Then she rose again and went to stand crossly by the window, staring out into the wet woods.

It would be easier, she thought darkly, if he came to her, since she apparently could not find her courage.

Just when she had decided to climb back into bed and find relief in the touch of her own hands, a shape manifested in the corner of her room—black and vague, flickering in and out of itself.

Eliana’s hand went to Arabeth, ready on her bedside table. “Zahra?”

“Oh, my queen,” came the wraith’s distorted voice, still not as strong as it had once been, before her imprisonment in the blightbox. She dropped to the floor. The insistent pressure of her shifting form pulled on the air, bringing Eliana to her knees.

She touched the chill empty shadow of the wraith’s head, her streaming dark hair. “What is it? What’s wrong?”

A knock on the door interrupted them, and when Eliana opened the door, she found Simon on the other side, glowering, and past him, the house bustling to life as people left their rooms, tugging on boots and coats.

“What’s happened?” Eliana demanded.

“Red Crown scouts have arrived with news,” Simon replied. “Empire forces are coming north from the southern regions of the continent. Reinforcements, and unexpected ones. Our intelligence said nothing about this. They’ll be here in less than two weeks.”

Eliana’s skin turned cold. “They know I’m here,” she said, seeing the truth in his eyes. “They’re coming for me.”

37

   Rielle

“I’ve now spent weeks ensconced in the Belbrion archives—and once I gained the trust of their head librarian, Quinlan, I even gained access to a different, superior library. I have sworn not to give you further details, except to say that these archives belong to a rather eccentric woman named Annick, whose intellect and character I trust completely. She and Quinlan are lovers, and while Annick was at first unhappy to welcome me into her home, we have become fast friends, due to a shared fascination with texts on the empirium. And this I must tell you, Audric, before anything else: During my weeks of study, I have come to understand that, whatever happens, we must trust Rielle. The prophecy, this talk of a Sun Queen and a Blood Queen…it is folly. Humans aren’t all goodness or all badness, and reducing Rielle to this choice—presenting her with two impossible and inhuman extremes—is a terrible cruelty, and it will be our undoing. We must allow her to live a life of her own making.”

—A letter written by King Ilmaire Lysleva to Prince Audric Courverie, dated May 9, Year 999 of the Second Age

Rielle had insisted they arrive back in Âme de la Terre on foot, rather than flying straight to Baingarde on Atheria, but there were problems with that plan—namely, that she had flown back quickly with only Tal and Ludivine and had therefore left the Sun Guard behind to make their journey by more conventional means.

And then there was the problem of the city itself.

Word must have traveled that she would be making her way home from Mazabat. People must have been waiting at their windows, watching for Atheria on the horizon. For when the godsbeast touched down at the edge of the city, in the tall, thin grasses of the Flats, there was already a crowd waiting on the lake bridges encircling the city. They stood along the central roads that wound lazily northward from the outer districts, toward Mount Cibelline and Baingarde, built upon its slopes. They leaned out of windows and clustered on rooftops.

Not the entire city, not by half, but still many thousands.