“The saints lied to you. I just saw it, in my mind. The empirium showed it to me.”

Corien froze, watching her in silence.

She approached him slowly. “During peace negotiations, near the end of the war, they told you they had discovered another world, lying beyond our own. An uninhabited world, where you could create a new homeland for yourselves. Humans, in Avitas. Angels, in this new world. Two races, separated and at peace. And they lied.”

She shook her head, laughing, and lightly touched her temples. “You thought you were traveling to a new home. Then you found yourselves in the Deep.”

“And bodiless.” The color was high in Corien’s pale cheeks.

“It was torment for you. I felt it, just now. I lived it. I felt my body being taken from me, as yours was from you.”

He rounded on her. “Vision from the empirium or no, you could not possibly understand what it is to have your body truly stripped from you. To lose your beauty and strength, all sense of touch and taste, and be forced to exist as a shell of yourself. And all the while knowing that your true home lies just on the other side of a veil you cannot move past.” He took her face in his hands. “Don’t you see, Rielle? What I do, I do to save my people. We were banished to a place that is not our home. We have been painted villains by the very people who wronged us.”

“And they would not have had to wrong you,” she replied, “if you hadn’t grown so jealous of our power that you tried to kill us.”

Corien’s expression turned to stone.

“Yes, I saw that too,” she whispered, smiling. “You were the one to start this war, centuries and centuries ago. You started the movement in the angelic cities that caught fire and spread. You thought it was unjust of God to have granted elemental power to beings so much lower than you and your own. You thought us a scourge, an insult to your own existence, a blight on your world. You craved our power for yourself. You’re a warmonger. A zealot. You turned your race against mine. If anyone is to blame for what’s happened to your people, it’s not the saints. It’s you, and you alone.”

She stepped away; his hands slipped from her face. “You led an insurgency, near the end. You tried to prevent the banishment, but the saints were too strong for you. They forced you through. Kalmaroth. That was your name.”

He flinched, as if the word were a struck fist. “Do not ever say that name again,” he said, very softly. “It is no longer mine.”

“Do you run from it because it reminds you of what you’ve done?”

He lunged for her, catching her hard by her wrist before she could stumble. She braced herself to burn him if she had to, insults sharp on her tongue.

And then, distantly, past the vision of himself that Corien had created, came a cry from Atheria. Corien’s grip loosened. He frowned a little, looking past her.

“Something’s wrong,” he muttered.

She turned, searching the trees. “Atheria?”

“Something else. Something that should not be here.”

He released her from the veil of his mind, but the echo of him remained beside her, like a ghost of her own body. All at once, she saw the world as it was—the pine forest, identical to the one in which Corien had visited her, but darker, still brightening with the dawn. Atheria, standing before her, wings outstretched as if to protect Rielle from an attacker.

And beyond Atheria, a slender young woman—her skin a few slight shades darker than Rielle’s own, dark hair gathered in a single braid, eyes wide and brown and strangely familiar. She stared at Rielle as though she were witnessing something unthinkable.

Behind the girl, far back in the trees, shimmered a faint ring of light.

“She shouldn’t be here,” Corien said again, his presence in her mind one of utter confusion. “She doesn’t belong here.”

Feeling Corien so bewildered sent fear shuddering down Rielle’s spine. “Who are you?” she snapped. “What is your name?”

The girl answered, falteringly, her accent and pronunciation so clumsy that at first Rielle could not understand her.

But then she repeated herself, and this time Rielle heard her plainly. It was a lie; it was some terrible trick of Corien’s. Her exhausted mind was breaking at last and could no longer be trusted.

“My name is Eliana,” said the girl. “I am your daughter.”

44

   Eliana

“Studies authored by practiced marques, and confiscated by the Mazabatian government, emphasize the importance of discretion when traveling. One errant word, one misplaced stone on a path, could alter the course of a future history in infinite ways—some minute, others gargantuan. Even a marque who is vigilant and meticulous when traveling carries the potential for catastrophic devastation in their blood.”

—Meditations on Time by Basara Oboro, renowned Mazabatian scholar

Eliana waited tensely for Rielle to respond, trying to ignore the enormous godsbeast standing between them.

She waited so long that she began to doubt herself. The woman across the wood was Rielle, wasn’t she? Simon had given her a detailed description, and she could see, on Rielle’s face, similar features to her own. Her nose, the clean turn of her jaw, her arched eyebrows.

How utterly strange to see pieces of her own face on this stranger, to know that this person she had never seen before had given her life. Trying to wrap her mind around the concept felt like trying to circle her arms around the entire world.

She stepped forward, hesitant. Remy had taught her key words and phrases in Old Celdarian over the last few frantic days, enough to communicate the essential: Do not ally with the angels. What you do will bring the world to ruin. The angels will rise and destroy not only this world, but others as well. I can help you.

She had practiced these sentences until they’d rubbed grooves into her mind. But now, standing here, in this world that was both her own and not, they eluded her.

The air was too thick with magic, too hot and vital, as if it did not quite fit in her lungs. It clogged her throat as she breathed, burning the back of her tongue. Her castings sparked to life, more eagerly than they ever had before. The heat of them smarted against her palms, and she bit back a yelp of pain.

“Mother?” she said. “Can we talk, please?”

For a moment, Rielle stared at her, muttering under her breath in Old Celdarian far too quickly for Eliana to decipher anything but a few scattered words: Lies. Believe. Kill.

Corien.

Eliana stiffened. “Corien? Is he here?”

Rielle’s face changed, her expression shifting from one of bewilderment to something dark and malicious. She spat something in the direction of the godsbeast, and the creature launched itself into the air, clearing the wood. Even before Rielle’s arm moved, Eliana felt the pull in the air, the tightening of it. She knew something terrible was coming, that magic would soon hit her, but it was such an immense sensation to be faced with Rielle’s wrath that for a moment she couldn’t move. Time became a tangible substance, viscous and tacky. She saw the ripple in the air as Rielle’s power surged toward her, felt the heat of its passage.