The King’s body.
A pyre had been erected in the center of the square. The soldiers threw the King onto it amid jeers and stamping feet. Everyone apart from the grievously injured stood to get a good look. Lei took hold of Wren’s hand while keeping hold of Blue’s in her other. Lei’s face shone with tears. Blue looked angrier than Wren had ever seen her, her features scrunched, mouth wobbling as if on the verge of crying or screaming out. Perhaps both. Together, they faced the pyre as a soldier held up a blazing torch.
The square was a roar of noise. The soldier seemed to be looking for someone, and Wren’s stomach lurched when she thought they’d want her or Lei to do the supposed honors. Then an elegant figure cut through the throng.
Shala. The Demon Queen.
She walked regally, one hand cupping her swollen belly. Whispers slunk in her wake; most of the crowd didn’t know who she was. Wren wondered if she should have made some sort of official announcement—her father would have, to claim her loyalty. But Wren felt it should be down to Shala to decide what role she played in the shaping of the new world. Maybe she wouldn’t want anything to do with it.
Wren could understand that.
Shala took the torch. It limned her chestnut fur, picking out its lovely russet accents. Her horns were wrapped in cobalt fabric, as if to mark her allegiance to the Hannos, though maybe they were always worn that way. Wren wondered who she was, this mysterious demon who’d been kept alone all this time, just for the King. She felt a twist of revulsion, chased by fierce relief.
The King could never come for Shala again.
Shala surveyed the King’s corpse. Then she brought the torch to the pyre.
It lit slowly, then all at once. The blaze churned out heat, played molten shadows across the faces of those watching, who’d finally fallen silent, the gravity of the moment sinking in.
The Demon King, terrorizer of Ikhara, enemy of Papers, thief of dreams and girls and lives and hopes and peace, was dead.
Lei pressed her head into Wren’s shoulder, and Wren curled her arm around her, looking over the top of her head at Blue, who was still holding Lei’s other hand.
“We’re free,” Blue whispered, as if she still didn’t quite believe it.
Lei sobbed, and Wren clutched her tighter.
Yes, they were free.
They were free.
FORTY-ONE
LEI
THERE ARE JUST TWO PLACES IN the palace I want to visit before I leave it for what I hope will be the last time.
Wren, I’ve gathered from the endless meetings over the past week, will have to come back fairly often to check on how Darya is getting on with overseeing the palace’s remodeling. The destruction of the exterior walls has already begun, a process Lova and her cats seem to be having a lot of fun with. Then there’s all the damage from the battle that’ll need to be repaired before its buildings can be adapted for their new purpose.
Wren and I decided early on what we want the Hidden Palace to become: a sanctuary for women. Papers, Steels, and Moons. Anyone who identifies as a woman and who’s seeking shelter, whether temporary or permanent. It doesn’t matter if they’re fleeing violence or simply seeking a quiet space to be. The Free Palace, as we’ve renamed it, will be open to all.
It wasn’t a popular decision with the new council. But Wren and I wouldn’t budge, and with Kenzo and Lova’s support, we managed to get them on board.
The last morning in the palace, I tell Wren where I want to go. The first location doesn’t surprise her. I can tell the second does, but she assents all the same.
Ghost Court isn’t as empty as the last time we were here. All week, funerals have been taking place in its hushed gardens, humans and demons from both sides of the war lighting pyres for their loved ones or setting their bodies into the soil. We’ve attended funerals ourselves—for Merrin, and Kiroku, and of course, for Ketai. Though she doesn’t cry at her father’s funeral, Wren leaves our bedroom that night for a long time, and when she returns her eyes are red and raw, and she holds me a little tighter.
This morning, like usual, everyone bows to us as we pass. Many grasp our hands or thank us profusely, and while I’m touched by their sentiment, it’s wearying, too.
I don’t feel like anyone’s savior.
Luckily, the Temple of the Hidden is deserted. We make our way to the little garden and its rustling paper tree.
“Wait,” I tell Wren when she brings out the sheaths of paper from the fold in her robes. I draw her down with me beneath the tree’s low boughs, sunlight winking through the paper leaves. I tip my head back. “Let’s just sit here a while.”
I close my eyes, relishing the peace. Wren kisses my brow, and my heart flushes with something both sweet and bitter. There are so many things we’ve yet to discuss. We’ve been too busy with the new council, organizing the mess of the King’s broken legacy while grieving those we lost in the war. Even though we’ve spent every night together, wrapped in each other’s arms in our rooms in the Night Houses Darya kindly offered us, our comfort and closeness hasn’t progressed to anything more. It’s not just that we’re still reeling from the battle; there are deeper issues, too. Wounds we opened in each other.
We’ll have to face them sometime. Just not quite yet.
I push out a shaky breath. “I’m ready,” I say.
Wren hands me a small curl of paper and a brush. I smooth the paper open on my knees and dip the brush in the ink pot she holds out. I write a name on it, my eyes already welling.
Chenna
We never managed to find her body. I assume the King had it burned, or thrown somewhere after his failed execution that night. Perhaps someone will come across it one day. I hope so. Chenna was strong in her beliefs. She deserves to be buried in her customs.
I set the paper leaf down, and Wren hands me another.
Mistress Azami
Like Chenna, we haven’t discovered her body. Tears fall into my lap, but I keep on, Wren’s steadying hand on my leg.
Zelle
Nor
Qanna
Mariko
Mistress Eira
Madam Himura
“Are you sure?” Wren asks at the last name.
“Whatever else she was,” I say, “she was a lost woman, too. Isn’t that who this place is for?”
Wren smiles gently. “It is.”
We tie them to the boughs of the tree. Without the enchantments that had lain over the temple, the paper leaves have begun to droop. Some have already shed. I feel a pang as I imagine Chenna and Mistress Azami and the others’ leaves falling. Still, even if this ritual is meaningful, it’s only that—a ritual. A small tradition to honor these treasured women. Their true legacy is something we’ll carry with us in our hearts, where they can never be tarnished.
Wren gathers me into her arms when we’re done. “Are you sure?” she asks again, this time meaning where I want to go next.
I nod into her chest, her robes wet from my tears. “I’m sure.”