“It is time for the Vigil of the Rising,” she says, quiet and dispassionate. “Come.”
The cat trots ahead of us with his tail waving like a banner, and though the temple is hushed in what must be the predawn, it’s hardly empty—they’re all preparing for the vigil, I suppose.
Techeki and I follow the cat past citizens and students, and one thing that stands out to me is hownormaleverything is.
Everyone moves with quiet purpose, rather than panic, and they speak to one another in low, businesslike voices. This doesn’t feel like a place that’s been subject to a hostile takeover. The screams and fear from the Feast of the Dying are gone. This place just feels … busy.
It’s like nothing ever happened—like there was a seamless change in management, and everybody’s just getting on with things.
What happened after we left? How did Inshara segue from murdering Daoman in front of everyone to this quiet, calm, everyday feeling?
I feel like the whole world’s been turned upside down, and I am the only one who’s noticed.
I feel like I’m going mad.
Whatever Inshara’s done to convince them to return to their usual lives—some combination of her deadly charisma, her displays of power, and the promise of a solution to their woes—it’s working. It’s simply business as usual around here.
I wish I knew what she had planned. But I have a goal now. Her crown.
If I get it, would I use it?
Could I use it and leave Nimh to face Inshara alone?
“At the Feast of the Dying, we mark the solstice,” Techeki says quietly. “We farewell the sun, knowing the shortest of days are before us. But now, at dawn, we’ll see the Vigil of the Rising, and remember that the darkness is behind us, and the time of the sun once again grows longer.”
The guard leads us out onto a terrace, and with a jolt, I realize we’re standing where Nimh stood when she performed the Feast of the Dying. Every detail of that evening is burned into my mind, from the setting sun to the spreading stain of Daoman’s blood on the stone floor during the feast afterward.
Attendants light lamps around the edge of the terrace as the guard ushers us forward. The broad stone platform looks out over the city, the stonework beneath our feet an intricate pattern on too large a scale for me to pick out. Toward the center of the terrace the design turns less freestyle and more structured—the lines in the stone are so precise, I’d say they were machine-cut if Below had tech of that kind. A knot of people is gathered there, and I catch a glimpse of crimson robes—Inshara.
She’s wearing the crown.
As my eyes adjust, I can see the city below us. Straight ahead, I see the river snaking away—the same river Nimh and I fled down only a few nights before. It vanishes into the gloom, the stars hidden in that direction by large, dark banks of cloud.
The river splits to pass around the city on either side, creating one big island, though so many boats and bridges cross the water that I’d never have noticed unless I came up this high.
The city below us, where I stood during the Feast of the Dying, is a sea of lanterns and flickering spellfire. I can just make out the faces of the crowd, turned up toward us.
Flanking Inshara are half a dozen temple guards, rows of priests and attendants, some of the civilian dignitaries I saw at the feast, guildmasters and council members, and I see solemn men and women dressed all in gray.
If I hadn’t known Elkisa’s performance the night Inshara took over the temple was all a lie, I would assume Inshara had somehow placed these people under the same spell. Though a few of them glance at me, their gazes troubled and uncertain, most pay me little attention.
How easily she’s taken Nimh’s people from her. How desperate they must be for a savior, that they were ready to believe in the woman who murdered the high priest in front of everyone that night.
Or, I think to myself, feeling sick,Inshara is just that persuasive.
So much so that she’s done what Nimh could not: unite the priests and Graycloaks alike. What must she have promised them?
Inshara makes her way toward us, crimson robes catching the lamplight. When she stops in front of me, I can’t help myself—my gaze drifts up to her crown. I never really looked at it when Nimh had it—I was more interested in its wearer.
But now … now I see it. The crown’s design is intricate, but there’s a message just for me hidden within the motif.
Two stylized wings spread out on either side of a small space that’s perfectly clear. And the shape of that plain little area is one I know as well as my own face. It’s the outline of a sky-island.
My family’s crest is on the crown, calling me home to Alciel. Our mark, left behind on this world when we fled. For a wild moment, I want to snatch the crown from her and run. If my blood really is the key, I could use it to get home, to warn my family that those below want to destroy them, that their religion demands it.
I know that’s what I should do.
It should be easy to choose. I’d be leaving Nimh behind, but I can’t sacrifice my people, abandon my duty, for just one girl, even this girl. It shouldn’tbea choice.
