“You think they’ll listen to us?” Minya scoffed.
“I said, lay down your weapons!” the captain commanded, though he had to know that the ghosts themselves were the weapons, with or without their knives. One might excuse him, though, for not knowing how to demand the surrender of a magical child with an undead army. Eril-Fane had chosen wisely when he put Brishan in charge. Any other commander would already have attacked. Even he wouldn’t wait much longer. His voice grew harsh. “On the ground! I won’t tell you again.”
And they came to it: fight or surrender. Minya felt herself torn at by two possible outcomes, as though she were lashed to creatures straining in opposite directions, but she couldn’t see what they were.
Fight, and what then? Sarai was right: They were stranded. It wasn’t supposed to be like this. She had planned to sweep down on Rasalas, wreak her vengeance, and fly home to safety.
But her vengeance was stolen—Eril-Fane was dead—and so was home and safety. Overhead, so high and hopelessly out of reach, the citadel was disappearing.
The seraph was up to its shoulder now, one whole arm eaten away. That was what it looked like to her: as though the sky were eating the angel. Minya hadn’t seen what the others had—the portal, and the world beyond it, or Lazlo’s hand vanishing when he reached through the warp. She didn’t know what was happening. Confusion pounded in her temples. She couldn’t catch her breath. She felt light-headed, frail, as though her power, now that she understood its heft, had become too much for her to bear.
A slither of fear writhed through her. It left a cold trail. Could she win this fight? She’d lost once today already. If she lost again, there would be no pieces to pick up off the floor. This would be the last game she ever played.
Surrender, though? Put their fate in the hands of humans? Impossible. Minya had seen what humans did to godspawn. Surrender was simply not an option.
Sarai saw all of this play over her face. “Minya,” she pleaded, her throat tight with mounting fear. “They’ll kill us.”
A ripple went through the ring of ghosts. Sarai braced for the worst, and was stunned when they dropped their knives without fanfare. Steel clattered and skittered over cobbles. She was dumbfounded. For an instant she almost believed they were surrendering.
Then their quicksilver substance transformed. Wings unfurled from their shoulders and flared open. They were wings of fire, each feather a flame. The ghosts took on the forms of seraphim, and out of magic and air, in their hands, spears appeared, and the same smile shaped all their lips. It was tight and grim. It was Minya’s smile echoed across all their faces.
“They’ll kill us no matter what we do,” the little girl said. “And I’m going to take them with us.”
Chapter 50
More to the Story
Violence erupted in the amphitheater of Weep.
The Tizerkane hurled their spears. Fire-winged ghosts surged up to block them.
Any hope Sarai had of survival dissolved under the first clash of metal on metal. She looked up at the sky. The citadel was half gone. Her hearts cried out for Lazlo. She imagined she could hear his hearts crying out for her. It was all so unfair. They’d never had a chance—any of them. Their lives had come to them tangled in hate. They’d tried to untangle them and failed. And now?
The ghosts deflected the hurled spears with their own, and none made it through to the godspawn. The Tizerkane roared and attacked with their swords, and, up above, the archers loosed arrows. Sarai heard the twang of bowstrings from all sides, and felt a whisper of air by her cheek. Arrows are swifter than spears, and much smaller. The ghosts couldn’t possibly block them all and the archers had the advantageous position. Sarai, gasping, looked around to see if anyone was hit. She saw Ruby and Feral looking wide-eyed and frantic, Suheyla between them, beginning to stir. Minya stood stock-still and furious, flanked by the Ellens. And Sparrow—
The instant Sarai’s eyes lit on her, Sparrow jerked. She was on her knees between Eril-Fane and Azareen, and an arrow slammed into her back and threw her forward.
“No!” screamed Sarai, and rushed toward her. Where was she hit? She couldn’t tell. Please. Not her hearts, not anything vital, she prayed as more arrows flew.
Sparrow was slumped across Azareen. Sarai reached her as she struggled to push herself up. “Stay down!” she told her, trying to shield her with her self.
“No,” said Sparrow, pushing up with a cry of pain. The arrow had hit high, off-center, burrowing under her right shoulder blade. There was a lot of blood. It was vivid carmine. Against it her skin looked sickly pale. Sarai didn’t think the wound was mortal—at least, not if it could be tended, and if it wasn’t followed by another, and another.
If this battle didn’t end in all their deaths.
An inner ring of ghosts rose like seraphim into the air, their fire wings outspread and overlapping. Minya used them to shield the godspawn. While they still couldn’t block all the arrows, they could keep the archers from taking aim. But Sparrow was still right in the center of the circle, where there was least protection.
“Over here,” said Sarai, putting an arm around her and urging her—gently—away from the bodies, to where Ruby, Feral, and Suheyla were huddled under cover of wings.
But Sparrow resisted. Again, she said, “No.”
In frustration, Sarai looked at her, prepared to be less gentle, if that’s what it took to get her to cover. “Sparrow, it’s not safe…” she began, and trailed off, but she saw her clearly and ran out of words. She had thought Sparrow was pale. But Sparrow wasn’t pale. She was gray.
Sarai knew what that meant, but before she could make sense of it, a voice surged above the chaos.
“HOLD YOUR FIRE!” it boomed.
It was deep and rich. Sarai heard it, and knew it, and couldn’t believe it for the obvious reason that it was impossible.
It was Eril-Fane’s voice. But Eril-Fane was dead. He’d been pierced through the hearts. His body was right…
… here?
Sarai turned to where Eril-Fane’s body was sprawled out on Sparrow’s other side. Only it wasn’t sprawled out anymore. It was—he was getting to his feet.
But how? The stinger had cut clean through his body. Sarai was no expert on wounds, but even she knew that one was mortal, and she’d seen how it ended the first time, before the time loop began. Their eyes had been lifeless. There had been no mistaking it. And yet her father was picking himself up off the ground. She stared, disbelieving, wanting it to be true, but unable to trust it. Was it the same magic as up in the citadel that had brought him back only to kill him again?
But that didn’t make sense. The citadel was almost gone. Their enemies were far away.
And then the sickening realization struck her: Eril-Fane had an enemy right here. Of course. This was Minya’s doing. It had to be. She’d captured his soul. He wasn’t alive at all. This was just his ghost, under Minya’s control.
But…if that was true, then where was his body?
Sarai felt dizzy. All the possibilities of life, death, and magic spun in her head. If Eril-Fane was a ghost, there would be two of him, as there had been two Sarais in the garden: ghost and corpse, side by side. But there was no corpse. There was only him—weak, in pain, covered in blood, but alive, and rising shakily to his feet.
“I said, HOLD YOUR FIRE!” he boomed again, and the rain of arrows stuttered to a stop. “Tizerkane, stand down!” he commanded. “These children are under my protection!”
A stark silence fell. Even the ghosts fell still as Minya stared at her foe, hate and confusion at war in her expression. All eyes were on the Godslayer.