“That’s enough, Sarakael,” Corien ordered, his voice shifting to that of a practiced commander. Rielle could easily imagine him as the angel Kalmaroth, ordering regiments of angels to war. “The rest of you, make yourselves useful. My generals, who are stronger than any of you—strong enough to escape the Gate long ago and to possess bodies of their own accord so they could help me begin to build our new home—these generals have tasks each of you can perform. Until you are summoned for resurrection, you will obey their every command.”

Rielle listened to him speak as if from a great distance, her spinning head a whirlpool on the verge of collapse. Distantly, she comprehended that Corien was helping her to her feet, that he was supporting her weight with an arm linked through her own.

When at last they reached their bedroom, Rielle let herself fall.

Corien caught her, kissed her softly. “My beauty, my brave one. You’re here with me now. You can rest.”

She relaxed her tense muscles, began to shake in his arms. As he led her to bed, she saw her startling reflection in the mirror: lips pale as her skin, all color leeched from them. But her eyes glowed as if embers burned within them. She imagined herself opening her mouth and breathing fire. She imagined biting Corien’s neck and injecting him with venom.

A strange thing, to tremble so and need Corien’s hands to hold her up, and yet to feel stronger than any of her past selves. It was as if they had all been skins to shed, and she was beginning to uncover the true Rielle beneath them all. A sweet nut of power glowing hard in its shell.

Gaunt and glittering, she grinned at her reflection, watching black-gold shadows roil at her collarbone, in her palms, at her tender pulsing temples.

“When I’m strong enough,” she whispered against Corien’s chest, “I will give them all wings.”

25

   Eliana

“Many of the saints’ writings about the Deep have been lost to time, or to vandalism by radical factions of humans—such as Anima Primoria—who support the angels and decry the creation of the Gate. Those writings that have not been stolen are under close guard by whoever possesses them—usually that country’s holy authority—and are not available for study by visiting scholars, a reality that this scholar in particular finds not only offensive but potentially dangerous. Only by understanding what happened in those days can we prevent it from happening again.”

—The Fathomless Deep: A Treatise by Tasha Kirdova of the First Guild of Scholars

When the Prophet returned to Eliana, seven days had passed since her journey to the Deep.

You’ve done well, they said, sending her cautious waves of comfort. He sees nothing of the Deep in you, and it will not occur to him to suspect it.

Curled on the floor where Corien had left her, Eliana cracked open her eyes. She swallowed and tasted copper; she had bitten the inside of her mouth bloody. Across the floor, shards of glass were scattered like fallen snow. Corien liked to break things when he was angry. Her windowpanes stood open to the evening, their edges jagged. Half her guards were dutifully sweeping the remnants into pans. The other half, with their blandly watchful expressions, made sure she didn’t lunge for a piece to cut her throat with.

“Under the rug,” Jessamyn ordered, toeing the floor with her boot. She glanced at Eliana, a troubled expression darkening her face. “Take up every carpet.”

Eliana watched them clean, then climbed into her bed and pretended to sleep, her face hidden beneath her hair, but in fact she was watching the doors to her rooms, waiting for Corien to storm back through them. Tears wet her cheeks, but she hardly felt them. Each sound from her guards made her flinch. An hour passed, then two. A shift change. Jessamyn left for the Lyceum, the home of Invictus, where she would sleep.

At last, Eliana felt it was safe.

I want to go back, she thought to the Prophet, the forming of each word a triumph. I have an idea. Do you think it can be done?

Then she sent them her plan, what she envisioned for its end.

The Prophet’s pride was unmistakable. Oh, little one, I like the way you think. Yes, I believe it is possible, and worth exploring. We will begin tonight.

• • •

In the courtyard, tucked into the thicket where she had first entered the Deep, Eliana sat in the dirt with her legs crossed, considering the dark seam hovering in the air before her. It pulled at her like a mouth eager for a taste. She had to hold on to the tree roots at her knee to keep herself away from it until she was ready. Everything near the seam—moss and leaves, the dirt, its pebbles—had turned black and withered. The desiccated remains shivered, pulled toward the fissure as if resisting being swallowed.

Remember, the Prophet told her, the moment you can no longer hear me, you must return to Avitas, just as you did before.

Eliana would have bristled, had she not been so afraid. You have said this already.

And I will say it again. Your plan is a fascinating one, but it is not without risk.

Risk. Such a small word for what she was about to do. It had taken the seven saints all their power to create the Gate. Later, her mother had opened it with only her bare hands.

And now, here was Eliana Ferracora, her hands damp with sweat and wrapped in gold chains.

Tell me again what it is, she said. The Deep.

The Prophet hesitated. I worry repetition will only add to your fear.

Please. Talking through this will settle me.

Very well. The Deep is, essentially, an abyss. A void between worlds, as Zahra told you, months ago. No sight or sound. No physicality. Nothing but raw, unfettered empirium. At least, for angels, this has been true. Occasionally one of them might sense a flash of color, a whisper of sound. Visions that pass as if mere thoughts before the empty blackness returns. But it seems your power allows you a different experience. For you, the Deep is a place of continuous, corporeal illusion.

It’s also full of countless enormous monsters, let’s not forget, Eliana said dryly.

The Prophet sent a flutter of amusement. Yes. The cruciata that have entered the Deep from their world—which the angels named Hosterah—can indeed survive there. They are strange, ancient beasts that even the angels do not entirely understand. But little else can survive the Deep. The angels could not and lost their bodies.

Eliana placed her palms in the dirt. The earth beneath her was a familiar anchor. Panic beat a fierce drum in her heart. Images of her body tearing itself to pieces flashed through her mind.

You won’t lose your body as the angels did, the Prophet reminded her, though their voice vibrated quietly with tension. They could not pass through the Deep unharmed, but it seems that you can. Your mother could have too, I think, if she’d had the chance to try.

As if that were a comfort. Eliana set her jaw, rolled her shoulders. I will see things I cannot trust, but I have to trust them.