“Quite right,” Voren says. “I’m pretty sure that if we find a way to resurrect Aethel, her power will revert to her automatically, bypassing the First Law because it’s nothing to do with her.”
“But then she has my power,” I say, knowing how petulant that sounds.
“Not for long.”
“It won’t work,” I insist. “I have the Wraith Crown. That ishispower. She won’t have that.”
“She might not need it. Isn’t it worth a try?”
“It’s a flimsy theory at best,” I say, crossing my arms over my chest. “And it relies on the Devourer being stupid enough to mistake a has-been tyrant for me.”
“The Devourer isn’t focused on you, Nyssa, but on the power to hold it in a physical presence.”
“Make me feel special, why don’t you? This isn’t going to work. We have too many variables floating up in the air. The main two being first the Judge and the second the Devourer. Throwing resurrecting an ancient hag into the mix is a complication we don’t need.”
“And yet,” Voren counters, turning his gaze back to the empty space where the dead queen hovers, “she is the only other being with a divine signature strong enough to distract it.”
“She is dead,” I remind him. “Let’s keep her that way. I worked hard to put her in the ground.”
Tabitha sets her mug down with a sharp clink. “Resurrection is a violation of the natural order. It requires a sacrifice of equal value. Who exactly are you planning to trade for a dead tyrant?”
“No one,” I point out. “We aren’t doing this. It’s Plan… Z, at best.”
“Plan Z is still a plan,” Voren says, but I think he is talking to Aethel.
Tabitha picks up her mug and twirls it. “Then we return to the original problem. The Devourer waits. The Judge approaches. And you,” she points a manicured finger at me, “are currently powerless to stop either.”
“I have my blade,” I point out, gesturing to the blade on the floor.
“A blade is useless against the First Law.”
The cottage lights flicker. It isn’t the chaotic pulse Dastian emits when he is bored, but a slow, rhythmic dimming. The shadows in the corners of the room stretch, ignoring the light source, and pool in the centre of the rug.
“Speaking of which,” Dastian murmurs, the humour dropping from his face.
The air pressure drops. My ears pop painfully.
“It’s here,” Voren says. “Don’t even think about it,” he adds to Aethel.
I stand up, my heart hammering against my ribs. “The Judge?”
“When you least expect it,” Dreven reminds me.
A knock sounds at the door. It is polite, firm, and absolutely terrifying.
I stare at the door. The wood looks perfectly normal, but the air around it vibrates with a frequency that makes my head ache.
“I’ll get it,” I say, my voice sounding far steadier than I feel.
Dreven shifts, his body angling to intercept me, but I hold up a hand. “No. The slab said I have no authority. Hiding behind you won’t help my case.”
He stops, but his jaw clenches tight. Dastian’s hands stop sparking, though he looks ready to burn the cottage down at the first sign of trouble. Voren just watches, his stillness more unnerving than Dastian’s motion.
I walk across the rug. My boots feel heavy on the floorboards. I reach out and grip the handle. The metal is cold against my palm. I take a breath, hold it, and pull the door open.
A woman stands on my welcome mat.
She looks entirely ordinary. She wears a beige raincoat buttoned to her chin and sensible brown shoes. She isn’t wet, despite the deluge hammering down just inches behind her heels. She holds a clipboard.
