“Monsieur Montagnet-Alarie, Monsieur Mercado-Lopez,” said Ruslan. “Join me if you please. I want you by my side in case there are any more surprises.”
When he snapped his fingers, the four rotting guards lurched down. One went to Hypnos. The other caught hold of Zofia’s arm, pulling her toward the next step. Two surrounded Laila. As Zofia took another step forward, Ruslan snorted.
“I suppose the little mute is good for something after all,” he said.
Zofia said nothing. She would not waste words on someone like Ruslan. Besides, she was busy. She was studying the stone joints of the towering automatons, the pattern of light on the ziggurat steps.
For the first time since Ruslan had appeared, Zofia did not need to count the objects around her to quiet her mind’s panic. The unknowns had not disappeared, but their size had diminished. Or perhaps, her perspective had outgrown it. The unknown would come and go, but Zofia could always be a light. She had found her way out of the dark once.
And she could do it again.
33
SÉVERIN
Séverin was beginning to lose all sense of time.
His legs ached, and sweat poured down his back. He’d shrugged off his jacket long ago, but it made no difference. He could not remember the last time he’d sipped water, and when he licked his lips, he tasted the blood and cracked skin of his mouth. By his count, they should be midway up the ziggurat by now, and yet, when he turned to his left, he saw that he was still no farther than the place where the automatons’ hands rested against their stone thighs.
Wrong, whispered a tired corner of his mind, but even that voice of caution felt thready and wispy.Something is wrong.
Séverin snuck a glance to his left where Enrique trudged upward, step after step. Sweat and blood had soaked through his bandages. His jacket was now tied around his waist. He didn’t raise his head, but Séverin could see his lips moving silently.
As if he were uttering prayers with every step.
Séverin wished he could turn around and look at Hypnos, Laila,and Zofia… but the golden knife pointed at his chest kept his gaze fixed on the steps ahead.
One more step, he told himself.One more step and we will reach the top, and I will play the lyre and become a god.
Ruslan’s wishes made no difference.
He could command Séverin to play the lyre, but its power was not for him. Séverin closed his eyes, summoning the memory of his mother’s voice.
In your hands lie the gates of godhood… let none pass.
He had no intention of disobeying her.
Ruslan’s only power was in his threats against the others, and the moment they reached the top, that threat would cease to exist. Séverin would play the lyre. He would claim that godhood for himself and be rid of Ruslan once and for all.
Séverin wished he could tell the others not to worry, but it would have to wait.
Forged rope bound his wrists, and yet he could still feel the hard strings of the divine lyre chafing against his shirt. Through the fabric, he felt the dull pulse of the instrument. With every step, a hum built steadily at the base of his skull.
All he had to do was keep moving, and yet with every step, the top of the ziggurat seemed farther and farther away. The beauty of the sanctum now struck him as a taunt ripped from a Greek myth. Above, the thick, tangle of inviting gardens. Around him, the phantom perfume of lost flowers haunting the air. All of it just out of grasping reach.
No,he told himself.This is yours…
That was the point of everything, was it not? All that he had lost was in service to this one glorious gain. He was meant for this. It was the only explanation that made sense.
Séverin blinked, and imagined Tristan’s cool, gray eyes crinkling in a smile. He felt Tante FeeFee’s warm hand cupping his chin.
Another step, just one more, he told himself, lifting his leg up a shining, stone stair.
The divine lyre strings pressed against his heart, and for the third time in ten days, Séverin heard his mother’s voice reaching to him across the years. When he breathed, he caught the sharp, bright scent of orange rinds that Kahina used to perfume her hair.
Shall I tell you a tale, habibi? Shall I tell you the tale of the orange trees?
Séverin told himself that he was hallucinating, but that only made the fragrance of orange trees grow stronger.
