“A miracle,” a woman gasps. I roll my eyes. If she knew the truth, she’d just as quickly call it devil-work.
Once the officials are out of sight, Luca and I sprint down the alley back to the main street, my heart thundering worse than a summer storm, and then turn and make straight for the gates outside the city. The impressive wooden drawbridge is wide open, stretching over a stagnant pool covered in algae below.
“That was smart,” he says. “The illusion. I saw you concentrating.”
“Just because I’m not immortal doesn’t mean I’m entirely helpless.”
He shakes his head. “Shit. That was actually terrifying.”
Because my chest is so tight there is actual pain, pain like I could have a heart attack, I snap, “It’s not like you had anything to worry about.”
“Of course not.” He grimaces. “I only stayed up late to follow your sorry ass into Cartona to keep an eye on you and give you the white clothes I knew you’d need. But I can’t die, so what could I possibly have been worried about?”
His sarcastic remark startles me. I didn’t realize he cared so much about my safety. All of this time, I haven’t known whether Luca was merely a partner or more my friend. I know I should apologize, but I don’t. I’m too focused on escaping this place, which makes me feel disgusting and unclean. I need to bathe and wash everything about this city off of me.
I make up my mind to apologize later.
A crowd forms around Cartona’s gate. We mustn’t be the only ones trying to flee the city. Concealed by my illusion, Luca and I push forward.
Until we see the actual reason for the crowd.
In the center, a priest in white robes clutches a sun and sword medallion in his hands. He blesses a man in front of him, who, rather than accepting Ovren’s grace, cowers. “You cannot expect Ovren’s forgiveness if you do not accept His punishment,” the priest tells him.
All I can think about is the Beheaded Dame, potentially executed in this same public square hundreds of years ago. The fate of Gomorrah’s proprietors. Fear gnaws at my stomach as I study the priest’s robes, the crowd and Cartona’s golden walls.
“Look away, Sorina,” Luca whispers.
The priest’s assistant hands him a knife. The priest dunks it in a basin of water.
“Sorina, you don’t want to see this.”
I turn away just as the priest raises the knife, but I don’t have time to cover my ears to block out the noise of the man screaming. The crowd around me winces, but no one looks away, as if they are forcing themselves to watch.
The man falls to the ground, his face sliced open and covered in blood. The tip of his nose dangles by a small strip of skin.
A cold sweat breaks out over my forehead. “What was his sin?” I ask.
“Withheld vanities, I think. I don’t know what kind. That’s why there is a crowd. He’s an example.”
Luca tugs me away by my arm. My illusion keeps us from the notice of the guards who stand watch around the crowd. If that is the punishment for vanity, what is their punishment for stealing? Blasphemy? Jynx-work?
After leaving the city behind, we have a mile-long trek back to Skull Gate. It stands at the edge of the road, twenty feet tall, its mouth gaping open as an archway. It beckons us home.
We enter the black tunnel of its mouth, lit by white lantern light. The ticket booth stands at the end, blocking off the entrance to the Festival. Several Gomorrah guards gather around it. They don’t wear uniforms like the Up-Mountain officials, but they wear black sashes tied across their shoulders to their waist and around their hips, and their faces are always concealed.
“You’re not the first people we’ve seen running back from Cartona,” one tells us. “You should get back to your caravans. We’re leaving early, by dusk.”
“That’s the second time in a row we’re just packing up and leaving a city,” I say. “How much money is that losing us? We’re leaving because of a little commotion?”
The guard shrugs. “This time we’re choosing to do it. The proprietor was just attacked.”
CHAPTER TWELVE
I am no fortune-worker, but during my race to Villiam’s tent, I cannot shake the feeling of doom. One by one, this killer will rip my family away from me, and after all the horror is over, I will be alone. The certainty of it weighs in my soul like a stone lodged in my throat.
I cannot breathe.
Gomorrah’s guards circle Villiam’s tent, looking like a flock of ravens. Many members of the Festival crowd around them, still in their sleeping clothes, whispering to each other. I am not accustomed to seeing so many people in the Festival in daylight. Even with the smoke to shield the sun and the cover of forest, the brightness makes the dirt on our skin and clothes more pronounced.
Gomorrah holds no glamour before sundown.
I push my way to the front of the crowd. “What happened?” I yell at the closest guard. “Is he all right?”
The guard startles and then, realizing who I am, pulls me out of the crowd. The onlookers chatter more behind me. “The proprietor is okay,” he whispers. “His leg is broken. We aren’t announcing anything yet.”
“How did this happen?”
“Trampled. Someone spooked his horses and the caravan ran right over him.”
The sort of attack that could look like an accident. Like what happened to Blister barely three days ago. Could this have been the same person?
“Have you found out who did it?”
“Yes, we have, but I haven’t been informed of the attacker’s identity yet.” He approaches the tent, where four guards stand outside. One of them leaves to find Agni. While we wait, the guard rests his hand on my shoulder, which I imagine is meant for comfort, but I’m so tense that I wrench myself away.
“Sorry. I’m sorry,” I say.
“Don’t be.”
I hug my arms to my chest and search around the area. Is this where it happened, right outside of his tent? Or was he attacked somewhere else? I know his horses, and they aren’t jumpy creatures. Gomorrah animals are accustomed to loud noise and strangers.
Agni appears at the tent’s flap. “Sorina.”
“Is he all right?” I ask. I move to pass Agni to enter the tent, but he blocks my path.
“He’s fine. No permanent harm done. But he doesn’t want to see you right now.”
“What? Why not?” He must know how worried I am, how much I need to see him.
“He’s embarrassed. He needs to collect himself—”
“No, no,” my father’s voice unmistakably bellows from inside the tent. “Do not go near my horses. I’ve had Nahim and Wilhemina for over five years. You’d be spooked, too, if I held a torch underneath your legs.”
“He sounds fine,” I say, relieved but also doubly annoyed he doesn’t want me to visit him. And what does he mean about a torch?
I create a simple illusion of myself, standing in front of Agni, while the true me slips around him, inside the tent. It only takes Agni a moment to see through the illusion before he clears his throat and follows after me.