“Their leader.” The shadow edged forward slightly, as if to also get a better look. “A shadowless at their center.”
Madness, Zhang thought. An army of shadowed people, led by a shadowless who wanted to remove all human shade from the world—against a council of shadowless, led by a living shadow, who wanted to give everyone back their dark twin.
“Well, eight to one is good odds,” Malik said as hopefully as he could. Zhang knew he was wondering the same thing the rest of them were. Why Transcendence needed only one.
“Don’t fear,” Gajarajan said, as if answering his thoughts. “The Eight are powerful, too.”
“Why eight?” Ahmadi asked. “Yoshikawa said it’s the strongest number. But why?”
“Eight is the number of verses about Surya in the Rigveda,” the shadow answered.
“Surya?”
“The god of the sun,” he replied, as if it meant something to them.
Just then there was a small ripple across the alabaster army below. Something was about to begin.
“The Eight are ready?” Zhang asked, resisting the urge to run, to hide anywhere he could find.
Gajarajan nodded. “Vienna will lead memories related to Transcendence, knowing most what they look like and how they act, and Downtown and Curly will lead any memories related to defending New Orleans. The rest shall harmonize, to help shoulder the burden of forgetting and intensify the strength of each act.”
Downtown and Curly. Zhang had heard their names from the other New Orleanians from time to time, along with a few others who were no longer there—Marie, Buddy, and a shadowed doctor named Dr. Avanthikar. Of the original Eight, Downtown and Curly were the only two left who still served. The others had entered their endless wait long ago, and now remained in body only. No mind. Everything had been spent, down to the last recollection.
To know that two of the original Eight were with Vienna gave Zhang hope their plan might just work. She didn’t really know what she was doing yet, but The Eight did, and they were intensely powerful. After all, they had been part of The Eight that had remembered the very first and still the most massive work of magic: the reimagining of the deadly hurricane that almost destroyed New Orleans into the gigantic water wall beneath them. Zhang watched the crystalline surface shimmer as the sun struck it. He understood it now—if unguided, how hard it would be to resist the urge to want to forget again thereafter. To do things even more incredible.
“Easy,” Gajarajan said to Malik as the white shifted further.
“This is crazy,” he replied, fists clenched. “Look at how many there are.”
“Easy,” the shadow repeated. “This isn’t your battle.”
Gajarajan had gathered everyone in New Orleans last night and reiterated that they were not to fight. That The Eight would do it for them. All the rest of them had to do was run to the center of the city on Vienna’s command, and stay there, no matter what. Whether Transcendence was inside or outside the gates, whether they were attacking or not. Simple enough, Zhang thought. Simple and terrifying. But where were The Eight? They still hadn’t arrived, and the army below was beginning to shift in waves, like a great ivory tide.
“They’re moving,” Ahmadi warned. Her fingers spasmed, wishing there was a bow to grab for. She was struggling as much as Zhang was to place all their safety in someone else’s hands. Zhang turned around again, but the far hill in front of the sanctuary was still empty. Where were The Eight?
“There she is,” Malik gasped. They all looked to where he was pointing. Across the city, Zhang could see eight small figures moving out from the first great hall into the sun. From this distance, and with no shadows, they almost looked like they were floating.
“Vienna, Downtown, Curly, Fromthelandoflakes, Skinny, Old-Timer, Chef, Survivedthestorm,” Zhang said to himself. He tried to picture each one of them as they headed toward the city gates beneath him, to make himself believe that they could do it. That whatever their plan was, it was going to work. Vienna, Downtown, Curly, Fromthelandoflakes, Skinny, Old-Timer, Chef, Survivedthestorm . . .
“Gajarajan,” Vienna said when they had reached the ground below the watchtower’s ladder. They stood facing the gate in a pyramid formation, Vienna in front, Downtown and Curly behind her, and then the remaining five behind them.
“It’s time,” Downtown called up to them. “Something is stirring.”
A chill went through Zhang as he looked backward, at the rest of New Orleans. Everything was empty and still. He knew that all the shadowed and shadowless were hiding just inside doors and windows and behind walls, ready to do what seemingly suicidal thing Vienna was about to ask for—but the sight of the city so utterly dead was frightening.
“His name will be Lucius,” Gajarajan said to Vienna. “Their leader.”