“Why do you want me to do this?” I ask. “What is it to you?”
He grimaces. “You’re right. I’m an Up-Mountainer. Why would I possibly care about world events? Why would I not dwell, even a little, on the fact that I only exist because Exander exists? I have been fashioned in the image of prejudice and terror. Everything I remember about my life was invented by your father. Why would I possibly care that you are sitting in your dead father’s chair, mourning him and the future he promised you?”
I wince. “Do you hate me now?”
“No. No, I don’t hate you. Even in the Menagerie, trapped and feeling very much betrayed, I did not hate you.” He sighs, and I’m too overcome by guilt to speak. “But I know you. You aren’t going to do nothing. While Gomorrah remains in Leonita, you’re the proprietor. So...what are you going to do?”
He holds out his hand.
His eyes are questioning, but he already knows my answer.
I take it.
The walk to the outside of Gomorrah takes over forty minutes, from Villiam’s caravan to the obelisks at the edge of the Downhill. The Festival moves behind us, a roar of wheels turning and wood creaking. Neither of us speak.
I am not certain who I am doing this for. For my family? To help finish Villiam’s goals feels like a terrible insult to their memory. But Luca is right: the Alliance is a real danger. They always have been.
Am I doing this for myself? I was once a slave, according to Villiam’s stories. Even if he lied about so many other things, I don’t really think he lied about that. But I was so young. I cannot even imagine my life then. The evils of the Up-Mountains’ empires have harmed thousands, and I feel almost guilty for not remembering my past. It’s my story, yet it doesn’t feel like mine to tell. Maybe Villiam stole that from me. Maybe the Up-Mountains did.
I shouldn’t merely do this for Luca, simply because he wishes more of me. Everyone thinks I am a warrior, but I don’t believe there’s any fight left in me.
We stop in the field, its grass trampled and brown from accommodating Gomorrah. It looks as if we’ve left a wasteland behind us. Even in the sky, we have stained the clouds black.
“Leonita’s officials even reached the Downhill,” Luca says. “Look. One of the obelisks is broken.”
The one to our left is missing its point. They are no longer twins.
“What are you going to do?” he asks.
“I usually make my illusions up on the spot.”
“But this isn’t the Freak Show.”
“Isn’t it?”
“You sound like you don’t care.”
“What makes you think that?” I ask. Really, I don’t have enough in me to feel anything at all.
“Your voice is flat. You’re...” His face darkens as he searches for a word. Broken would be the best choice. He touches my mask. Matte, black, plain. “Where are the feathers? The sequins?”
“My father just died.”
“And the rest of your family is safe.”
“Are they?” I ask. “Safe from Villiam and Agni, I suppose. Agni probably forced Dalimil to lie about the spy. But Gomorrah is currently fleeing from a possible war. A Ninth Trade War, everyone is saying. This battle might be over, but there are more to come. Gomorrah has asked my family to defend it before; who is to say they won’t do it again?”
“You are. Right now.” His voice rises, and the wind carries it. We are alone in this field—the iron gates of Leonita ahead of us, the fraternal obelisks of Gomorrah behind us. “The Wandering City will always wander into trouble. You must convince Exander not to follow us there.” He points his walking stick toward the castle jutting out over the Leonitian skyline. “He should be in his castle.”
“I don’t think I can single him out from such a distance,” I say.
“Then show the whole city your illusion.”
I wither. That must be thousands of people. I don’t normally perform illusions for such a large crowd. I perform in small details: in the scurries of insects, in the glittering of stars.
“I don’t know if I can do this.”
He rests his hand on my shoulder. I’m so startled, I nearly flinch away at his touch. “I’m connected to Exander, aren’t I? Use me to find him.”
I hesitate.
“Sorina. You can do this.”
I’m not a warrior.
“You’re Gomorrah’s proprietor.”
I don’t desire any battles.
“Make him remember.”
But maybe...I can stop them before they begin.
I lift my arms toward the Leonitian skyline, all iron and angles on its hilltop. I picture Gomorrah’s smoke—the thickness of it in the air, in every mouthful we breathe. The towers of the castle twist into the spires of the Menagerie. The gates bend as if, bit by bit, someone is twisting them into a new shape: a skull. Its mouth gaping into a scream.
With everything I have, I push the illusion from my mind until I feel it seeping into reality. The dark clouds descend over the city as if falling from the heavens, cloaking its buildings, and its angles and contrasts disappear into shadow. The castle twists like a top spinning until the Menagerie tent spreads open wide and covers it completely, semitransparent.
I imagine Exander stepping to his window to look outside at the city below him, only to find Gomorrah. The churches of Ovren have vanished into the smoke. His people disappear entirely. I don’t grace him with the smells of licorice cherries and kettle corn—I bring the rot, the manure, the tobacco smoke.
There’s an obvious disturbance in Leonita. The gate falls shut. Horns blare out in the distance.
Luca squeezes my shoulder, and I focus on his touch. I don’t know anything about charm-work—Villiam stole that knowledge from me. But I sense a presence in the city that reminds me of Luca in a way I cannot describe. A presence in the tower.
I’m so far, so incredibly far, but I grasp hold of that presence and use it to propel me closer. Whether or not my vision is real, I picture him at his window. With the smoke surrounding the city, he cannot see Gomorrah retreating in the distance. He might not understand. I’ll have to show him who is responsible.
I allow the scene to continue for another thirty seconds before the next illusion comes to me. Beside that window on the tallest tower, I picture myself: maskless, in my performance robes. I hover in the smoke several feet from him, my hands stretched out menacingly like they are now. The image of me burns and flickers like the faint glow of fire within the city below.
I beckon to him, as if urging him to jump. I know he won’t.
But I inch toward him. The wind stirs, and I turn around for a moment to admire what Leonita has become. When I meet his gaze again, my skin cracks. White grains of salt fall from my hands, my cheeks, my lips. The lord of Leonita watches as my remains are scattered across his city.
All at once, the illusion vanishes. The castle returns, the gate, the dark stone, the angles. All the lord sees is the smoke of Gomorrah in the distance. But even as we leave, he still catches the faint smell of burning in the air. Our ghost remains.
I drop my arms and lean against Luca to steady myself, entirely exhausted. That was all I have.