Unexpected, the desperate fear that lashed her heart.

Do not let her die, she told the empirium as the Gate burned her, and she thought she felt within its thunderous hunger a reassurance, sent from nowhere and everywhere:

she will rise

A girl, then, as she had guessed. Rielle smiled as she opened the Gate wide, rending asunder all that the saints had spilled so much blood to achieve. She pushed and tore until she stood in the Gate’s mouth, her rigid arms outstretched and her head flung back to the skies. Furious tides of power ripped through her every seam and remade them with stitches of gold.

A howl rose above her, as if all the winds had gathered in celebration.

Rielle barely managed to open her eyes, tears streaming down her cheeks. But even blurred, the escaping angels were glorious—a swift cascade of shadow, the echoes of jointed black wings.

They poured from the Gate’s light, a river unleashed. Some touched her as they flew, with their minds and their supple cool nothingness. A barrage of frenzied gratitude, of triumphant rage, and Rielle shook as they coursed past her. Images pelted her: The flutter of glossy wings, flares of light joining them to bodies sleek and gleaming as seals. Hair that flowed like silver streams. Towering cities capped with spiraling turrets.

How long she stood there, Rielle could not measure. When at last she fell to her hands and knees, she lay weeping, smiling through her tears. Her body vibrated with a thousand bruises; her skin hissed with fire. And yet she was alive, and her hands were bare, and there was the proof of what she was: to do this monstrous thing, she had needed only her own self.

Corien was frantic when he came for her. Though she felt his pride in her, his dazzling joy at the sight of his freed people, she heard that little hitch in his heart, the fear that betrayed him.

My love, my beauty, he crooned, sending comfort to her. His thoughts cooled her, a false poultice for her burns. He sent her an image: his flesh-and-blood self, his beautiful stolen body, blazing toward her across the Northern Sea on a black ship. He was coming to bring her home.

You did too much, he told her. Look at you, my glorious one. I’m almost there.

I am more even than this, she replied, surprised by how her thoughts had deepened and coarsened, accommodating a different voice. She felt Corien startle and wondered through her euphoric haze of pain if on some future day, she would stop speaking altogether. If someday when she opened her mouth, the empirium alone would speak, her own voice consumed and silenced.

23

   Eliana

“Saint Ghovan the Fearless forged his casting on the high cliffs of western Ventera during a furious storm. The ocean was a far, wild thing, endless and terrible, and the forging fires were so great they burned his hands, but he held onto the pain, for it reminded him of the thing he was beginning to understand he must do. He had seen the darkness in his father’s eyes, the secrets in his father’s palace, and so he began to craft secrets of his own.”

—The Book of the Saints

Eliana dropped to the floor, drenched in sweat.

She lay flat on the carpet and gulped down ragged breaths. Her head pounded along the searing paths where Corien had just been, a swift, booming drum of pain.

He crouched beside her and smoothed the wet hair back from her face.

“Let’s try again,” he told her kindly. “You were going to kill yourself. Then you stopped. Why?”

It was difficult to find her voice. “I couldn’t leave Remy. He wouldn’t understand.”

“Liar. He would have. He’s not so changed that he no longer understands sacrifice for the greater good.” Corien’s voice twisted with mockery. “Tell me the truth.”

Eliana closed her eyes. Her body shook, seized by feverish chills. “I can’t,” she whispered, which was the truth. Whenever she tried to think about what had happened, a confusion of shadows blocked her way. She reached for her thoughts, ready to arrange them so Corien could see, for if she had to face another day of this—his mind raging through hers, his black gaze relentless as she thrashed in pain on the floor—she would die.

If only he would let her.

But as always, the memories slipped from her grasp.

“I can’t tell you,” she said again, and forced open her eyes to glare at him. A spark of defiance snapped inside her. She pressed her cold castings against the floor and relished the bite of their chains. “And even if I could, I wouldn’t. You can tear at me all you want. You’ll never find what you seek, and you’ll never see my mother again. She’s dead. I’m all you’ve got now, and I’ll fight you until one day you lose your temper and kill me. Then you’ll be alone forever.”

She smiled, exhausted laughter bubbling in her throat. “An eternity trapped behind black eyes in a gray world full of broken magic you can’t touch, eating food you can’t taste and drinking wine that turns to ash on your tongue. Wondering every morning if this will be the day that finally tears you out of the body you stole and leaves you stranded, unable to take another. I don’t envy you. Poor thing.”

Corien watched her for a long moment. The silence filled Eliana with a slowly climbing dread.

“Please don’t,” she whispered, full of regret. “I didn’t mean it.”

“You did, you awful bitch,” Corien said. “I hope it was satisfying.”

Then he came for her again, his will hard and cold as a knife kept sharp for the hunt. It sliced through her skull and everything that lived there. It peeled her back, layer by layer, until she forgot her determination to fight and went rigid with animal screams.

• • •

At night, Eliana wept or lay in knots of pain. She sometimes slept, but sleep often brought visions from Corien, indescribable nightmares that left her convinced she had died, that the agony of her mind had at last killed her. Then she would realize she was still alive and feel frantic with despair.

But her guard watched her closely, and Jessamyn—red-eyed, her skin strangely wan, as if she too were finding sleep elusive—no longer carried her knives. They were all careful to present her with nothing she could make into a weapon. She ate every meal with her hands.

Occasionally, a faint whisper of thought brushed against her, and she remembered that a voice had spoken to her kindly, that a gentle mind had stayed her hand that day.

She dismissed it as delusion.

There was nothing kind or gentle left in her world.

• • •

Awaken, said the voice in Eliana’s dreams, but slowly.

She walked along a flat gray beach, scattering sheets of sea foam. Carefully she edged into the water until it closed over her head.

Her eyes opened.