“… I realize fire is your element?”
“Yes,” said Séverin slowly. “We have the wrong element.”
“How?” asked Laila. “Fire and earth don’t work. Water had no effect, and air is all around us.”
Séverin took a step toward the wall. His shoes slipped and squished. The earth did not feel as it had on the other side of the lake. And it was not simply because of the damp.
“What is this?” he asked, lifting his leg and examining the bottom of his shoe.
Zofia knelt, touching the ground, reading the elements within. “Clay.”
“Clay?” echoed Enrique. “Was the other shore made of clay?”
Zofia shook her head.
A slow smile curved Séverin’s lips. “I see it now.”
He took a handful of clay, squeezing it, the lantern forgotten by his feet and casting an unearthly illumination on his hands. “What was god’s gift to man after we were molded from something as base as clay?”
“Life?” said Hypnos.
“No,” said Laila, smiling. “Breath. That’s the name for Forging in India… thechota sans.”
Séverin recognized that phrase:the little breath.The rest of the world had a hundred names and explanations for the art the Western world called “Forging.” But its artistry worked the same no matter what name it carried.
Séverin placed his hand against the rock wall.
Before, he had turned from Laila, sighing—exhaling—and hating how powerless he was. Now, when he breathed out, it was full of hope. It was cold in the cave, and his breath plumed before him, holding shape in the air for an instant before unraveling on the rock—
Light bloomed.
The light was no larger than the span of his hand, but it was a window nonetheless… an aperture through which a corner of the temple was revealed. Through the shining pane of amber, Séverin glimpsed jagged steps. His mother’s voice rang clear as a bell in his head:
In your hands lie the gates of godhood.
A weightless sense of giddiness swept through him. The pulse of the divine lyre, like a heartbeat laid atop his own, paused… then synced. As if they were one. Even when the light faded, Séverin felt as though it had moved inside him as he turned to the others.
Enrique looked awed. Zofia’s eyes were huge in her face. Laila bit her lip, her chest rising and falling as if she could not gulp down enough air in that moment. Even Hypnos, serene and smirking as always, shook his head, trying to dispel what he’d seen.
“Before we do this… I want to apologize in advance for all the garlic I consumed in Italy,” said Hypnos.
“Breathing on it is not required,” said Zofia. “It requires a gustof air. That was why the crashing waves revealed its translucency to us earlier.”
“How are we going to do something like that?” asked Laila, casting about for something on the shore.
Hypnos reached into his pocket and whipped out his fan. “You. Are. Welcome.”
Séverin grinned, but Enrique asked, “Will it really work?”
“Only one way to find out I suppose,” said Séverin. He nodded at Hypnos. “Shall we?”
Hypnos spun the fan between his fingers, then deftly flicked it open. When he turned to face the wall, Séverin noticed that the smirk on his face faded. His throat bobbed. A rare expression stole onto his face… one of true nerves. Hypnos glanced at Laila, who smiled at him. Séverin reached forward, clasping his shoulder for a moment.
Hypnos rolled his shoulders back and began to fan. Dust blew off the jagged stone. Seams of light wove their way up from the roots of the rock wall. As the light grew brighter, Séverin wondered what the cave would say if it could speak. Laila had said there was an alien consciousness and feeling flowing through the stone. What would it make of them now?
A tall archway shaped like a tear formed in the rock. Its edges glowed.
No one spoke as they stepped across the threshold.
