Days of Blood & Starlight

76


DEAD WEIGHT


He wasn’t alone. Karou felt the presence of others even before the glamours fell away and revealed them. The two from the Charles Bridge. She knew them at once, though they looked so different now. The sister—Liraz—whose beautiful face had been so sharp and dangerous; it was transfigured by misery. She was gasping, and her eyes were red pits of grief—though nowhere near as red as Akiva’s, which looked as they had that long-ago day when Madrigal had worn a hijacked body to free him from his cell in Loramendi. The whites had gone bloodred from burst capillaries. What had done that? He looked waxen, ravaged by exhaustion.

But neither of them was so altered as their brother. Who was… dead.

They cradled his body between them, and neither seemed up to the task. As they lowered him to the floor, he slipped and landed heavily. A moan came from Liraz, who dropped to her knees and picked up his head with such gentleness.

Hazael, Karou remembered. His name was Hazael. His eyes were open and staring, his skin livid, neck and limbs already rigid. His wings had burnt out; his flame feathers were nothing but bare quills now, the barbs all turned to ash and fallen away. He had been dead for some time.

Karou’s body was still flashing from hot to cold and back; she stood frozen in place, trying to make sense of the scene. It was Issa who moved slowly forward and bent over Hazael to touch his face. Karou only watched, a queer detachment settling over her—that old unreality returned, as if her life were a shadow play cast on a wall—and she expected the fierce sister to snarl and shove Issa away, but she didn’t. Liraz reached for Issa’s hand and gripped it. The serpents in Issa’s hair and around her neck grew still and taut, ready to strike if it came to that.

“Please.” Liraz’s voice was strangled. Her eyes shifted from Issa to Karou and they were wild. “Save him.”

Karou heard the words, but in her slowed-down state they seemed to drift in the air. Her gaze swung to Akiva. The way he was looking at her… it was like touch. She took an involuntary step back. His face was a silent plea; he was nearly as gray as the corpse of his brother, which they had laid down on the space of floor where Karou conjured bodies. The resurrection floor. They were all looking to her. Even Issa had turned to her.

Save him?

They had come to her for help? After burning Brimstone’s portals—and Brimstone—after destroying her people, they had brought her their slain brother to resurrect?

How far had they carried him? They were racked with tremors from the effort. Akiva slumped against the wall. His arms hung at his sides. He looked more dead than alive, more dead even than when she had first seen him, bleeding on the battlefield at Bullfinch.

“What happened to you?”

It might have been her asking him that question, but it wasn’t. It was Akiva, and he was looking at her cheek, her lip, and her newly stitched earlobe. Self-consciously, she untucked her hair from behind her ear and concealed it. “Who did that to you?” he asked. Weak as his voice was, it burned with anger. “It was him, wasn’t it? It was the Wolf.”

He was not wrong, and all Karou could think of, seeing the fury on his face, was the living shawl he had made her once, the so-soft touch of moth wings on her shoulders. Once upon a time, Thiago had torn her dress, and, down from the false stars of the festival lanterns, Akiva had summoned a living shawl to cover her.

She had made a choice that night, and it had not been the wrong choice.

But that was then. So much had happened since.

Too much.

She ignored his question, hating the physical evidence of her vulnerability, wishing her arms were covered, and wishing she had mended herself. What was a little more pain, after all? She must not show weakness, not now. She stepped forward, turning her attention to Hazael. Akiva had brought her his dead brother? Well, he had also brought her Issa. And he had given her Ziri back, she mustn’t forget that, whatever may have happened since. She lowered herself to her knees beside the body—slowly; everything hurt—and wondered that they had brought his body so far.

Bodies are only dead weight—we’re all just vessels, after all—but knowing that was one thing; leaving a body behind was another. Karou understood that well enough. It is bodies that make us real. What is a soul without eyes to look through, or hands to hold? Her own hands trembled and she clasped them to keep them still.

The wound was under Hazael’s left arm. His heart. It would have been a quick death.

“Please,” Liraz said again. “Save him. I’ll give you anything. Name your price.”

Price? Karou looked at her sharply, but there was no trace of the cruelty or severity she remembered, only anguish. “There is no price,” she said. She glanced at Akiva. Or if there is, she could have added, you’ve already paid it.

“You’ll do it?” Liraz’s words trembled with hope.

Would she? Karou knew she was their only hope—she whom they would have slain in Prague just for bearing the hamsas on her hands—and there was irony there, but she took no pleasure in it. She couldn’t bear the sight of Liraz’s hands—they were so black—but they were so tender on her brother’s neck, her fingers so soft on his dead cheek, and Karou knew she should not feel sympathy for this killer of her people, but she did. Who among them, after all, had clean hands? Not her. Oh, Ellai, my hands will never be clean again. She clenched them suddenly and her blisters burned from her work with the shovel. It felt to her as if to do this one thing, save this life… it might be a salve. Not just for these seraphim but for herself, after the horror of the pit and the shovel and what she had had to do, and… and the lie she was now forced to live. She wanted to do this. A tick on her knuckle for a life saved instead of taken.

“I can’t preserve this body,” she said. “It’s too late. And I can’t make him look the same, either.” Maybe Brimstone would have known how to conjure those fiery wings, but they were far beyond her. “He won’t be a seraph anymore.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Akiva said. She met his eyes, his red, red eyes, and she wanted to do this for him. “As long as he is himself,” he said. “That’s all that matters.”

Yes, she told herself, and wanted to believe it as firmly as he did. Soul is what matters. Flesh is vessel. “Okay.” She took a deep breath and looked down at Hazael. “Give me the thurible.”

Her words were met with a silence that was like sinking.

Sinking.

Oh no. No. Karou stared at Hazael’s dead face, his open blue eyes, his laugh lines, and her upwelling sorrow overwhelmed her with its force. No. She bit her lip, willing it to stillness. She was rigid. She had to be. Her grief… if she let it out, it would be a magician’s scarf, one grief tied to another to another, it would never end. She didn’t want to look up again, to see the stricken faces frozen in that terrible silence.

“We didn’t… we didn’t have one.” Liraz. Whispering. “We brought him here. To you.”

Akiva was hoarse. “It’s only been a day. Karou. Please.” As if it were a matter of persuading her.

They didn’t understand. How could they? She had never told Akiva how it worked, how tenuous the soul’s connection grew after death, or how easily it could be cast adrift if it was not contained. She had never told him, and now there was nothing in the air or aura of this dead angel—soldier, killer, beloved brother—no impression of light or laughter to go along with those blue eyes and laugh lines, no stir of any kind to brush against her senses and tell her who he was because… he wasn’t.

She looked up. She forced herself to meet Akiva’s red eyes and Liraz’s so they would see and understand her sorrow.

And know that Hazael’s soul was lost.





77


TO LIVE


It was her sorrow that undid Akiva. One look and he knew. Hazael was gone.

“No!” Liraz’s cry was choked, airless, nearly soundless, and she was in motion.

Akiva didn’t have the strength to restrain her. She couldn’t have much strength left, either. Even after the sickness of the hamsas, she had borne most of Hazael’s weight on the long journey here—and for what, all for nothing—and sometimes his weight, too, catching him by an arm and screaming at him to wake up when he would start to slide into the darkness. The darkness, the darkness. Even now it was lapping at him.

What had he done in Astrae?

He didn’t know. He had known only the thrum in his skull and the gathering, the pressure, the pressure, and he had grabbed Liraz and held her to him, fallen on Hazael and held him, too, and the blast when it came—from where?—had carried them clear. Far away, far, and not one dagger of all the glass of the shattered Sword—not one splinter—had touched them.

They had brought Hazael to a field and he was already dead. But what is death? Akiva had thought of Karou. Of course he had. Hope, he had told himself, on his knees in the grass, weak and dazed and numb. Her name means hope.

But not in their language, and not for them.

Liraz lunged at Karou and Akiva reached after her but he was too slow. She hit Karou and slammed her backward. There was a chair lying on its side. They went down. Karou cried out in pain.

Liraz found air. “You’re lying!” she screamed.

Screamed.

Akiva was moving, but it was like wading through darkness; the serpent-woman was faster—the serpent-woman was Issa, he knew her from Karou’s drawings. She must have been the one in the thurible. Thurible thurible thurible. Why hadn’t he had a thurible? But maybe the blast had torn away Hazael’s soul; maybe it was already gone when they laid him in the field, and there had never been a chance of saving him. They would never know. Hazael was gone, that was all that mattered.

And Liraz was screaming.

Whatever Karou might have decided to do with them, it was out of her hands now. “Just save him!” Liraz screamed at her and the sound was terrible, it was raw and so loud, and Akiva imagined eyes snapping open all over the kasbah.

Issa was strong where Liraz was weak and broken. The serpent-woman threw her off Karou, thrust her back to Akiva; she could have killed her, her serpents could have sunk fangs into his sister’s flesh, but they didn’t. Issa shoved her to Akiva and he caught her. Liraz struggled, but sobs broke her and she collapsed in his arms. “No no no,” she was saying over and over. “He can’t be gone, he can’t, not him.” He held her and sank with her back down beside their brother’s body, and he cradled her while she sobbed. Each sob was like a tempest racking her rigid form, seizing her, shaking her. Akiva had never even seen her cry before, and this was beyond crying. He held her, weeping, too, and looked over the top of her head to where Issa was helping Karou to the edge of the bed.

He saw the gingerness of her movements, the pain on her face, the cuts on her face, and the sorrow in her swan-black eyes when she looked at him, and silent tears slipping down her cheeks, but he couldn’t process any of it. Darkness was tilting and weaving around him, Liraz’s sobs were sending shudders straight to his heart, and Hazael was dead.

The cremation urn is full, he heard in his brother’s lazy, jovial voice. You have to live.

And here he was again: alive while others died. Oh, black fatigue. He just wanted to close his eyes.

And then, at the door, a knock. Karou snapped to face it. A guttural female voice demanded, “Karou? What’s happening in there?”

When Karou snapped back toward him there was still the sorrow in her eyes, but dismay was distorting it, and distress. She wiped away her tears with the back of her hand and struggled to her feet. Her face contorted with pain from the effort—what had he done to her, that… animal?—and she seemed to want to say something, but there was no time because the door was opening. Liraz lifted her head, her sobs trailing away as she came back to herself and realized what she had done.

She was alert, her face white around her wet, red eyes. She reached for Hazael’s rigid hand and gripped it. The grief left her face, resignation settling her features into an unnatural calm.

Akiva understood that she was ready to die.

He knew he had no right to be horrified—he’d been fighting the same feeling for so long—but he was horrified anyway, and he felt himself caught in a spiral of helplessness. At the tugging edge of blackness, trapped once more in the enemy stronghold, a profound new urgency arose. He was not ready.

He wanted to live. He wanted to finish what he had finally started, all these years too late. He wanted to remake the world. With Karou, with Karou.

But he didn’t think that was going to happen.

The first figure through the door was Thiago’s she-wolf lieutenant. Slinking bestial creature, she went into a hunch and growled at her first sight of the angels. But Akiva didn’t even look at her, because behind her, paused on the threshold, cheeks scored by scabbed gouges that confirmed his worst suspicions, was the White Wolf.





78


THE ANGEL AND THE WOLF


“Visitors, Karou? I didn’t know you were having a party.”

Oh, that voice, the calm and disdain, the hint of amusement. Karou couldn’t make herself look at him. Life in those pale eyes, strength in those clawed hands. It was wrong, so wrong. And she had done it. Her bile rose; she could have fallen to her knees to retch all over again.

“I didn’t, either.”

It was the only way, she told herself, but her trembling intensified as she struggled to stifle it. She fixed on a point behind him, but the shifting forms of Lisseth and Nisk filled the corridor, and she didn’t want to look at them, either. She would never forget or forgive the coldness of their faces when she had come limping back from the pit, blood-drenched and shaking, in shock, trailing behind Thiago.

As for Thiago himself…

He entered the room. She could hear the dig of his claws in the dirt floor and she could smell the musk scent of him, but she still couldn’t look at him. He was a blurred white presence in her peripheral vision, crossing the room to face the angels from her side. From her side, as if they were together in this.

And… they were.

She had made a choice. To deserve Brimstone’s belief in her and the name he had given her. To work for the salvation—and resurrection—of her people, by any means necessary, by any means. And Thiago was necessary. The chimaera followed him. This was the only way, but that didn’t make it any easier to stand beside him and feel the weight of Akiva’s stare, and when she turned to him—she had to look somewhere—to see the loathing and confusion on his face, and the incredulity. As if he couldn’t believe she would suffer the nearness of this monster.

I am a monster, too, she wanted to tell him. I am a chimaera, and I will do what I have to do for my people.

Such false courage. Her expression was defiance, but it was pinned in place. The fire of Akiva’s eyes had always been like a fuse that set the air alight between them. Now was no different. She burned, but it was with shame to be facing him from the Wolf’s side. The angel and the Wolf, together in a room. It seemed to her now that she had always been headed toward this moment, and here it was: The angel and the Wolf faced each other, and Akiva was red-eyed, gray-faced, broken and sick and grief-stricken, and she… she stood beside the Wolf, as if the pair of them were lord and lady of this bloody rebellion.

It’s not what you think, she could have told Akiva.

It’s worse.

But she said nothing. He would get no explanations or apologies from her. She forced herself to turn. To Thiago. She hadn’t set eyes on him since they returned from the pit. She made herself look at him now. If she couldn’t do that much, what chance was there for all that lay ahead?

She looked.

The Wolf was the Wolf, imperious and breath-catching, a work of Brimstone’s highest art. He wasn’t his usual impeccable self, which was no surprise considering the past day and a half. His sleeves were pushed up, bunched and wrinkled over his tanned and muscled forearms, and Ten’s attention to her master’s hair appeared to have slipped. It had been gathered back by hasty hands and tied in a white knot. Some strands had escaped, and when he pushed them back it was with a flicker of impatience. As for that hated, handsome face, it bore scratches from Karou’s nails, but the wound where her blade had slid up under his chin, that was sealed and mended as if it had never been. It had been an easy fix, nothing like Ziri’s hands or even his smile; only a few layers of tissue to draw back together along a tiny slit. Karou could scarcely have killed him more cleanly if she’d planned to bring him back to life, and she’d had pain in plenty for the tithe.

It was his eyes, oh god, it was his eyes that were hardest to look at. Life in those pale eyes.

We’re all just vessels, after all.

Behind her own eyes came the sting of tears and she looked down. She didn’t know what to do with herself. She hugged her bruised arms to her body and cast wildly about for something to say. Angels in her room, one of them dead and one of them Akiva; here was a pretty predicament.

It had been only a space of seconds since the Wolf entered. His stillness and silence did not yet ring strange, but soon they would.

If Liraz hadn’t screamed, Karou would have helped the angels get away. She would have burned incense to cover their scent. She owed Akiva that much and more. No one would have needed to know they had ever been here. But it was too late for that. Now Thiago would have to do something about them, and—Karou had seen it in his eyes in that brief glance—he was at an even greater loss than she was.

His course of action should have been clear; he had dealt with Akiva before: tortured him, punished him not only for being a seraph but for being Madrigal’s choice, and everyone close to him knew how he hungered to finish what he had started. The White Wolf should have been laughing now; he should have been drunk on his bloody delight.

But he wasn’t.

Because, of course—of course, of course—he wasn’t really the White Wolf.





79


DONE


“So, is this what it looks like?” Thiago asked.

“What does it look like?” Akiva asked, hating to speak to the Wolf at all. They hadn’t been face-to-face since the dungeon in Loramendi, and now that they were, talking was not what Akiva wanted to do.

“It looks like a dead angel.” Indicating Hazael, Thiago turned from Akiva to Karou and back again with a contemptuous half laugh. “Did you come to pay a call on our resurrectionist? I’m sorry, but we don’t service your kind. Perhaps you are aware, we are at war.”

“The war is over,” snarled Liraz, with a passion Akiva knew she didn’t feel for their victory. “You lost.”

“Did we? I like to think that remains to be seen.”

Slowly, Akiva reached a restraining arm around his sister’s shoulder. If she launched at the Wolf the way she had at Karou, the serpent-woman would not be shoving her back to him alive. Maybe death was what Liraz wanted, or thought she wanted in her mourning, and maybe death was going to happen, here, tonight, no matter what they did, but Akiva would not court it further than he already had by coming here, and that had been pure desperation.

He looked to Karou, trying to guess what she was thinking. She would have helped Hazael; he had seen the truth of her sorrow. What now? Would she help them? Could she? Those bruises on her arms… She still held her arms cradled against herself, and though Akiva was fairly sure she was trying to conceal her bruises—why did she look so ashamed?—the effect was that he kept finding his eyes drawn to them. And… he had seen her tithe bruises when he came before; the memory had haunted him. These were different.

These bruises weren’t made by brass clamps, but by hands.

All at once, they were all he could see. A wave of fury overcame him and it was he who needed to be restrained. He was on his feet and it was only the insistent tug of darkness, the infuriating weakness, that made it so easy for Karou—Karou—when he lunged or staggered forward, to step between him and Thiago and shove him back. Her brow was drawn hard and her eyes were fierce; her look asked Are you mad?

And he was. He was also pathetic. He stumbled over Hazael and it was Liraz this time who caught him. They were both so weak, so debilitated and demoralized, that they just sank together to the dirt floor beside their brother’s body. This without the chimaera even having to flash a hamsa in their direction. They were just so done, so painfully, obviously, pitifully done.

“Just do it,” hissed Liraz, and Akiva couldn’t even bring himself to argue. “Kill us.”

Karou regarded them with that hardness she’d shown when she shoved him—it was anger, Akiva thought, that he had again forced her to decide his fate. She had changed so much in just a few months. The sharpness, the bleakness. He remembered how she had been back in Prague and Marrakesh, in the little time they’d spent together before the wishbone: the softness and mobility of her expressions; the shy, incongruous smiles; and the rapid-flare flushes that had spread up her fair neck. Even her anger had been a flashing, vital thing, and he hated this new carved-mask hardness, and he hated his part in bringing it about. But at that moment, if he was given the choice, he would still have said he wanted to live.

It was only in the next moment that this conviction was shaken.

Karou turned to Thiago—to Thiago, of all living creatures in two wide worlds—and shared a look with him that was brief and secret, unguarded and full of pain—but it was shared pain and it was… tender. It was so profane, that tenderness, and so unbearable, that Akiva forgot everything else. All his dwindling vitality gathered in a last-gasp burst of strength and he flew at Thiago.

And Thiago caught him by the throat with one clawed hand. He held him at arm’s length; he made it seem easy. Their eyes met, and as Akiva felt his throat crush closed in the Wolf’s vise grip, he saw a trace of that perverse tenderness lingering in his enemy’s gaze. With that, he just let go. His eyes rolled back. His head fell.

He let the darkness have him, and there was a part of him that hoped it would decide to keep him.




When Akiva collapsed, the Wolf’s relief was as profound as his abhorrence for the words he had forced himself to speak, and for the sound of them issuing from this throat that was Thiago’s throat, as this voice was Thiago’s voice. And these hands that were a dead match for Karou’s bruises? They were Thiago’s, too.

But the nightmare? That was all Ziri’s.

He wanted to ease the angel down to the floor, but he made himself thrust him roughly back to the other seraph, the beautiful female who looked as lost as she did savage. She caught Akiva, staggering under the dead weight of him—but no, not dead weight. Akiva wasn’t dead. The Wolf wouldn’t let Beast’s Bane die so painlessly. As for Ziri… he wouldn’t let him die at all, if he could help it.

If.

That the first test of this deception should be to decide the fate of the seraph who had saved his life, it was… unfair. He wasn’t ready to be tested. The skin still fit too ill, or he wore it poorly. It wasn’t the physical fit. As a vessel it was strong, graceful; it had a suppleness and tensile power that felt enhanced, and he knew it was a thing of beauty to behold, but he couldn’t overcome his revulsion for it. When he had taken possession of it… Oh, Nitid, the taste of Karou’s blood had still been in its mouth.

That was gone now, but his revulsion lingered, and the worst part: So did hers. And how could it not? Ziri had seen the state of Thiago at the pit; he knew what he had done to her—or tried to do, he hoped only tried to do, but he hadn’t asked, how could he ask her that? She had been drenched with blood when he found her, and shaking with a violence that was like shivering in killing cold, and even now she could barely bring herself to look at him.

How many days past had he been gripped by the hope that she could see him for who he was—not a child anymore but a man grown, a man and… maybe a flint of luck to strike, his flint to her steel and his luck to hers. A man she might love. And now he was this?

If there was a will at work in the cosmos, the stars were ringing with laughter now. He could almost laugh himself. Had ever a hope been so annihilated?

But if it was unfair, at least it was his own doing. He had seen what needed to be done, and he had done it.

For her. For the chimaera, and for Eretz, yes, but it was her he had thought of when he dragged his blade across his own throat. He hadn’t even known whom to pray to, the goddess of life or of assassins. What a foul gift he had given Karou: his sacrifice. His body to bury. The enormity of this deception to carry forward.

And… the chance to change the course of the rebellion and claim the future. That was enormous, too, but right now the deception felt like everything.

What was already done—the dying—was the easy part. Now he had to be Thiago. If this was going to work, he had to be convincing, starting right here with these seraphim. Which was why he was so immeasurably relieved when Akiva lost consciousness and he could put a quick end to the encounter, at least forestall the inevitable and try to think what to do.

“Take them to the granary,” he told Ten, with what he hoped was the Wolf’s gentle and authoritative contempt. And after she obeyed, with Issa assisting the female seraph with Akiva’s body, and Nisk and Lisseth carrying the dead one between them, he closed the door behind them and fell back against it, squeezed his eyes shut and raised his hands to his face. But oh, how he hated the touch of them. He let them fall. He hated the touch of his own hands. His hands? He held them apart from his body—his body?—and in the tension of his misery they were rigid as rigor mortis, like the hands of the angel whose death he had made himself mock.

There was no escape from the vileness, because the vileness was him.

“I am Thiago,” he heard himself say in low, choked horror. “I am the White Wolf.”

And then, first at one hated hand, then both, Ziri felt a light touch and opened his eyes. Karou was right before him, pale and weeping, bruised and shaking, black-eyed and blue-haired and beautiful and very near, and she was looking at him—into him, to him—and holding both his hands in both of hers.

“I know who you are,” she said in a fierce sweet whisper. “I know. And I’m with you. Ziri, Ziri. I see you.”

And then she laid her head on his chest and let him hold her in his murderer’s arms. She smelled of the river and trembled like a breeze on a butterfly’s wing, and Ziri cradled her as if she were their world’s last hope.

And maybe she was.





80


THE DECEPTION


A sound and it was near and it was wings.

Karou had been sure it must be Thiago’s cohorts returning, and she had neither fled nor hidden. She had frozen like a prey thing, on her knees in the dirt and rocks and blood and vomit and flies and horror, waiting to be found.

And when she saw who it was, when he dropped down before her, his Kirin hooves scattering stones, there had been no room in her shock to be glad—Ziri was alive and he was here—because the undone way he stared at her only sharpened her shock. He looked to the Wolf and back at her. His jaw was loose with disbelief; he actually took a halting step backward, and Karou saw the grotesque tableau as he was seeing it. The indignity of the Wolf’s pose, clothes twisted and wrenched asunder in an unmistakable display, and the little knife lying where he’d dropped it, looking like a letter opener, or a toy.

And her. Shaking. Bloody. Guilty.

She had killed the White Wolf. If she had been thinking at all, she wouldn’t have believed that it could get any worse than that.

But, oh, it had.

Now, in her room, she laid her head on his chest and felt his heart beating against her cheek—fast and faster; she knew it was Ziri’s heart now, not Thiago’s, and she knew, too, that its rushing was for her—and she tried to quell her revulsion for his sake.

She had hoped that her little Kirin shadow might prove an ally, but she had never imagined… this.

After that first instant of slack astonishment he had lunged to her side and he had been so careful with her, so present and good and unfaltering—none of his shyness now; he was all focus and strength. He had held her shoulders, carefully but firmly, and made her look at him.

“You’re all right,” he had told her when he was sure that the blood that painted her wasn’t her own. “Karou. Look at me. You’re all right. He can’t hurt you anymore.”

“He can, he will,” she had said, near hysteria. “He can’t be dead, it can’t stand. They’ll make me bring him back. He’s the White Wolf. He’s the White Wolf.”

That was it, all there was to say. Ziri knew it, too; they didn’t have to talk what-ifs. It was Ziri who saw what to do and who did it. Karou grasped his intent when he drew his crescent-moon blade; she gasped, tried to stop him. He said he was sorry. “But not for myself. That part’s all right. I’m just sorry to leave you alone, for the time between.”

Between. Between bodies.

“No! No!” No no no no no no no. “We’ll think of something else. Ziri, you can’t do this—”

But he did, and with a practiced hand, and his blade was very sharp.

She held him while he died, and his round brown eyes were wide and unafraid, and they were sweet, in the instant before they dulled, they were sweet and hopeful as they’d been when he was a boy following her around Loramendi. That was who she thought of as she held him dead in her arms—the boy he had been—and again now, as he held her in his new arms. She thought of the boy so that she wouldn’t betray him by shuddering. It was so unfair, after the magnitude of his sacrifice, and so cruel, but it was all she could do not to wrench herself away, because though he was Ziri, his arms were the Wolf’s, and his embrace was anathema.

When she couldn’t stand it another moment, she used a pretense to draw back. She reached into her pocket, stepping away, and drew out the thing that she had put there days earlier and half forgotten.

“I have this,” she said. “It’s… I don’t know.” It seemed stupid now. Ridiculous, even—what was he supposed to do with it? It was the tip of his horn, a couple of inches long, that had snapped off in the court when he’d fallen unconscious. She wasn’t sure what had made her take it, and now, as he reached for it, she wished she hadn’t. Because there was a shyness in his voice when he said, “You kept this,” that made it clear he was reading too much into it.

“For you,” she said. “I thought you might want it. That was before…” Before she had buried the rest of him in a shallow grave? Again, her stomach felt like a clenching fist. It had been the best she could do, and at least it wasn’t the pit. Not the pit for the last true Kirin flesh, dear Ellai, be it only so much stardust gathered fleetingly into form. It had been hard enough to shovel dry dirt onto his face. She’d kept thinking she should change her mind. After all, it was up to her. She had two bodies freshly dead. She could mend either one. She could have put Ziri’s soul back where it belonged; he’d done what he’d done and it was so brave, but then it was in her hands. His soul was in her hands.

Ziri’s soul felt like the high roaming wind of the Adelphas Mountains and the beat of stormhunters’ wings, like the beautiful, mournful, eternal song of the wind flutes that had filled their caves with music he could not possibly remember. It felt like home.

And she had put it in such a vessel. Because he was right, after all. This was the only way to take control of the chimaera’s fate. Through such a deception.

If they could pull it off.

It wouldn’t be easy even under ordinary circumstances, but so soon, while they were both still reeling and hadn’t even been able to talk or plan, to come to such a test. The angels must be dealt with.

Karou turned away and went to her table. She righted the chair that she had toppled when Akiva fell through her window, and eased herself into it. The backs of her legs were so torn up from thrashing under Thiago’s weight, and her whole body pretty much felt like it had been clamped in vises. But that would all pass in a day or two; the rest was here to stay. The problems, the terrible responsibility, and the lie that at all costs must go no further than this room.

Issa and Ten returned, minus Nisk and Lisseth.

“I want them gone,” said Issa in a dangerous tone, and Karou knew that she meant Nisk and Lisseth, not the angels. “They’re savages, leaving you out there with him like that. The others, too.”

Karou tended to agree, but still. “They were following orders.” She pointed out that they had followed worse orders than that.

“I don’t care,” said Issa. She was even more disgusted with the pair because they were Naja, and she wanted to believe better of her own kind. “There has to be some basic understanding of right and wrong, even when it comes to orders.”

“If we made that a rule, we’d have no one left. Well.” She glanced at the Wolf. At Ziri. “Very few.” Balieros’s team must be resurrected soon, along with Amzallag and the sphinxes, whose souls she had gleaned from the pit. She needed soldiers she could trust. “Anyway, we can’t start disappearing everyone we don’t like. That would be suspicious. And,” she added somewhat after the fact, “wrong.”

In fact, they had disappeared no one, and she didn’t plan to start. Razor didn’t count. He had died attacking a seraph stronghold called Glyss-on-the-Tane—the same engagement in which Ziri had been lost, to the sorrow of all. No one need ever know what had really happened when Razor had tried, and failed, to carry out Thiago’s order, or that one of the two of them had returned—though only to the comfort of a shallow grave and the starring role in this enormous subterfuge.

“Let me have the two Naja,” said Ten, clicking her teeth together. “This wolf mouth has a hunger. I’ll say they asked me to eat them.”

“Don’t be terrible,” Issa protested mildly.

“No?” Ten peered around at Karou. “But wasn’t that the whole inducement?”

Karou couldn’t help but smile, which hurt her raw cheek. Ten was no more Ten than Thiago was Thiago; she was Haxaya, and it was easier with her. As much as Karou had grown to hate the she-wolf, there just wasn’t the same level of physical aversion as with the Wolf. It was good to have Haxaya’s dark humor in the mix—even if one couldn’t quite tell when she was joking. When Karou had awakened her old friend in Ten’s body—Ten having fatally underestimated Issa and her usually docile bands of living jewelry—she had put it to her straight: the terrible situation, and what she must do or else be returned forthwith to her thurible.

Haxaya’s answer, with a smile that seemed made for Ten’s wolf jaws, had been, “I’ve always wanted to be terrible.”

“Can you be slightly less terrible?” she asked her now. “No eating the Naja, or any other comrades, even despised ones.” As an afterthought, she added, “Please.”

“Fine. But if they do ask me—”

“They’re not going to ask you to eat them. Ten.”

“I suppose not,” she conceded with what sounded like true disappointment, and maybe it was.

And here they were, Karou’s allies: Thiago, Ten, and Issa. And they were looking to her. Oh god, thought Karou, feeling tipsy with panic. What now?

“The angels,” she said, willing her pulse to even itself out.

“They escape,” said Issa. “Simple. He’s done it before.”

Karou nodded. Of course, that was it. Get them gone, see the last of Akiva, finally and forever. That was what she wanted.

So what was that ache in her chest?

We dreamed together of the world remade, she kept thinking. It had been the most beautiful dream, and could only have arisen as it did: born of mercy and nurtured in love. And she couldn’t think of the future, and peace, without remembering Akiva’s hand to her heart and hers to his. “We are the beginning,” she had said then, in the temple, and everything had seemed possible with his heart beating under her hand.

And now, his heart was beating right over there, in the dark, in the granary. So near, and yet so very far away. There was no way she could imagine, no collision of impossible events, that would bring his heartbeat under her hand ever again, or join the two of them back together in the dream that was theirs—not hers and Ziri’s, not even hers and Brimstone’s, but hers and Akiva’s.

No way she could imagine.





81


VEINS OF CHANCE


One world on its own is a strange enough seethe of coiling, unknowable veins of intention and chance, but two? Where two worlds mingle breath through rips in the sky, the strange becomes stranger, and many things may come to pass that few imaginations could encompass.





82


TOP THREE REASONS FOR LIVING


Zuzana and Mik were at Aït Benhaddou when it began. It. The thing that would never be eclipsed, that would own the third-person singular, neuter pronoun “it” forever.

Where were you the day it began?

Aït Benhaddou was the most famous kasbah in Morocco, much bigger than monster castle, though lacking the zest of monsters. It had been restored by World Heritage funds and movie money—Russell Crowe had “gladiated” here—and it was sanitized and set-dressed for tourists. Shops in the lanes, rugs draped over walls, and at the main gate, camels batting their astonishing eyelashes as they posed for photographs—for a price, of course. Everything for a price, and don’t forget to bargain.

Mik was bargaining. Zuzana was sketching in the shade while he, pretending to peruse a selection of kettles, purchased an antique silver ring that he suspected was not actually silver, and probably not antique, but indisputably a ring, which was the main thing. Not an engagement ring. He’d gotten the air-conditioning back on all right, but he wasn’t about to count that as one of his tasks, and never mind, ahem, curing Zuzana’s ennui. That was most certainly not a task. It was one of his top three reasons for living—the other two being the violin and holding Zuzana’s hand—and it was an activity he performed—participated in—with a feeling of deep gratitude to the universe.

To win her hand, though, he required a challenge. Two more challenges.

He felt a curious commitment to this whole task idea. Who got to do things like this? Monsters and angels and portals and invisibility—even if the last one was a little hard to enjoy on account of all the ouch. For that matter, how many people ever got to buy maybe-antique maybe-silver rings for their beautiful girlfriends in ancient mud cities in North Africa and eat dried dates out of a paper bag and see camel eyelashes, for god’s sake, and… hey, where are all the people going?

There was a sudden tide of rushing in the narrow lane, and hollering in Arabic or Berber or some language that was not Czech or English or German or French, and Mik watched in perplexity. The locals were hollering and rushing and then doors were swallowing them up and the lanes were empty of all but tourists: tourists blinking at each other as the dust quite literally settled, and, behind the doors, the hubbub intensified.

Mik pocketed the ring and returned to Zuzana, who was still sitting in the shade, but no longer sketching. She looked up at him, unsettled. “What’s going on?”

“I don’t know.” He looked around. A few families still lived within the walls here; he caught a glimpse of a bright TV screen as a door swung open and shut. It was such an anachronism: a TV in this place… and then… and then the hollering turned to screaming. Such a pitch of screaming. It seemed to mingle joy and terror.

Mik grabbed Zuzana’s hand—a top-three reason for living—and pulled her across the way to where the TV was, to see what in the hell—or in the heavens—was going on.