We crossed the room, leaving behind the cold darkness of the misty plains for the warm darkness of the castle, which smelled strongly of Pythora blossoms and faintly of mold. That intangible presence I had sensed outside grew stronger, albeit still... strange in a way I couldn’t pinpoint.
We passed beneath the archway, ascending the stairs. Step by step, the throne room unfolded before us—first the elegant arched ceiling, painted with chipped frescos of the gods’ wrath, then the gold molding and the arms built into it to hold stained-glass lanterns.
We reached the top of the stairs. The throne room was just as grand as ancient visitors had said it was centuries ago. Probably even grander, to those viewing it with eyes, but its beauty was so aggressive, so ornate, that I still felt it through the threads.
At the end of the long, long room stood a single throne, high upon the dais.
And slumped in that chair, lounging to one side, was the Pythora King.
For a moment, Atrius and I both tensed—waiting for a shout, a command, an acknowledgment.
None came.
My brow furrowed. Atrius’s jaw tightened.
I couldn’t shake the strange numbness in the threads, the unnatural silence that felt like cotton stuffed into my ears, but I still followed when Atrius crossed the throne room, his steps firm and long, sword ready.
The Pythora King did not move or speak.
And we were several strides away from him when I realized why.
“Atrius,” I choked out, just as he lifted his sword and drove it into the king’s chest, piercing through layers of purple silk and hair-mottled skin.
The king slumped a little. His eyes, which stared blankly into the middle distance, fluttered.
Atrius stood there for a long moment, gripping his sword, eyes narrowing first in confusion, then realization. Perhaps he, too, was noticing all the other marks on the king’s body—a slash or three at his throat, tears in his chest, a brutal mark, perhaps from an arrow, right over his heart.
The steady—unnaturally steady—rise and fall of the Pythora King’s shoulders said he was not dead.
But he was certainly not alive, either.
He was a breathing corpse, and we weren’t even the first people to kill him.
Atrius stumbled back, yanking his sword free. The thick, purplish substance that stained his sword and globbed at the open wound only vaguely resembled blood.
“What in the—” he muttered.
A familiar presence fell over me like a long shadow.
Suddenly everything felt very cold.
Suddenly I was very, very afraid.
In a single abrupt movement, I stepped in front of Atrius, pushed him back, and bowed my head.
“Sightmother,” I breathed. “It’s such a relief to see you.”
I tried to make myself believe it—make every single one of my threads vibrate with my love for her, my gratefulness.
“I wish I could say the same,” the Sightmother said, emerging from the darkness to stand beside the Pythora King, a single casual hand on his shoulder.
43
I wished I could communicate with Atrius wordlessly. I wished I could tell him to put that damned sword down, right now. Because I knew he was confused, too, but all he knew was that I was a runaway Arachessen and this was the Sightmother, and he had promised to protect me.
If he tried to protect me, he would die.
I held my hand out behind me, a single splayed palm that I prayed told him clearly, Stop.
And what did it say that a childish part of me, the part of me who had been raised by this woman, couldn’t stand to see Atrius kill her—or the other way around?
What was she doing here?
I hadn’t asked for backup. They certainly hadn’t indicated they would give me any. But perhaps I had been wrong when I’d interpreted my unanswered call to the Keep as a sign that the Arachessen had discovered my betrayal.
Perhaps she had changed her mind.
Perhaps she had come here, knowing we were coming for the Pythora King and... and killed him before we could.
It didn’t make sense. But it was the only scenario I could string together.
I was normally good with words, good with playing different roles while thinking fast. But my confusion slipped to the surface now, despite myself.
“I don’t—did you do this, Sightmother?” I gestured to the king—the corpse, more like it. “After all this time, have we finally—”
The Sightmother approached me, step by step, and cupped my cheek. She smiled. Her touch was overwhelming—she let all her emotions pour through it. Intense motherly love, fifteen years worth of it. The pride of a commanding officer.
And sheer, bloody, cold-as-steel anger. Anger that only cut deeper for all the warmth she felt, burying into my gut and twisting.
Her smile soured as her lip curled.
“What,” she asked calmly, “are you doing here?”
I had experienced fear before. But never fear like this.
There was a right answer to this question. There had to be. I frantically told myself this, forced myself to believe it.
I could give her that perfect answer. I should try.
Instead, I asked, just as calmly, “What are you doing here?”
“I came to meet you, of course.”
This answer was not comforting. Instead, it chilled me down to my bones.
I stuffed that fear as far down as I could, hidden beneath decades worth of genuine love for the Sightmother.
“I’m so happy to see you,” I said. “But why is the Pythora King—”
“The Pythora King is more than a man.”
I didn’t understand. I didn’t even know how to frame the question on my lips.
“The Pythora King has not been a man,” the Sightmother said, “for a very long time.”
A terrible feeling rose in my throat. A buzzing in my ears, like the breath of a monster behind me, a realization that I didn’t want to turn around and face.
I said, quietly, “Sightmother, I don’t understand.”
Her smile flickered. She laughed softly. “Come, Sylina. You’re so intelligent. How can you tell me you never suspected?”
Never suspected what? I wanted to say. But I didn’t want to open my mouth to let her hear my voice. Didn’t want to betray my own confusion.
“There is power in suffering,” she said. “There is power in having something to fight against. We taught you that. And you know it better than most.”
My ears were ringing.
I didn’t want to believe what she was saying. Couldn’t believe it. Because if I was putting these pieces together right, it meant I had just spent my life fighting against a king that didn’t exist, in service to a Sisterhood that had lied to me. Lied, in the name of the very evil that I was so determined to wipe off the face of this kingdom.
Something inside me simply collapsed. Just came apart. I opened my mouth but found no words. I choked them back, because whatever would come out would just betray my devastation.
Think, Sylina. Focus.
“You were never supposed to know,” the Sightmother said. “If you had obeyed, you still wouldn’t.”
Her face hardened. I felt the shift in her presence, something deadly, like a sword being drawn—except the magic of the Sightmother was more deadly than any piece of steel.
“And why didn’t you obey, Sylina?”