A voice rings out demanding my surrender.
It is then that I see the woman standing amid the clouds of dust.
For a moment, I want to laugh—for how could anyone think they could stroll up to the temple, blow a hole in its side, and start making demands of one of the most heavily guarded people in the world? There are only half a dozen others standing among the rubble, flanking the woman in front as if participating in some strange ritual.
But then reality descends upon me in a swift, dizzying swoop and seizes me in its talons.
The Cult of the Deathless has breached my temple. My home.
The woman standing in the rubble wears a robe much like my own, but of deep indigo, little flecks of stone and centuries-old mortar speckling its skirt like stars. Gleaming relics from the ancients adorn her fingers and hang around her neck, more than I have ever seen in one place. She holds a staff like mine, although it has no blade at the end, only ceremonial charms. Her black hair is long, but twisted up and tied so that it forms a circlet along the top of her head from ear to ear—a crown, not of gold, but of darkness. At first glance, it seems she is wearing a blindfold—but then I realize it is a stripe of black painted across her face, emphasizing the brightness of her eyes in the darkness. Even at this distance, I can see them flash as they scan the room.
She must have known from the instant she could see through the dust that I was not there, and yet she makes a show of searching for me. A few of those nearest her draw back as her eyes pass over them. Her lips, a red so dark they nearly match the paint across her eyes, curve a little.
“Why have you all ceased your celebration?” she asks, her voice still pitched to carry across the chamber. “I have no wish to stop such a moving display of faith. Please, continue.”
No one moves, her words hanging in the air like the dust from the collapsed wall.
“I saidcontinue.” When her order fails again, those eyes flash toward the musicians’ dais just below my bathing chamber. “Play!” she snaps, and behind her, one of the other intruders draws a blade from his belt with a sound that lingers in the silence.
Haltingly, fumbling and out of sync with each other, the drummer and piper begin to play again, the lively tune a harsh contrast with the shock and horror of the room’s occupants.
The woman lifts one hand and makes an expansive gesture, like a ruler welcoming honored guests to her throne room. “Do not be afraid,” she declares. “You should rejoice—for you are the first beyond my own people to look upon the face of the one who will be yourtruegoddess.”
Beside me, North makes a small sound. I wrench my gaze from the screen long enough to spare him a glance. His face is grave and tense, his hands clenched tightly together. When he raises his eyebrows and glances toward the door of my chamber, I shake my head—whatever he might be proposing, I cannot move.
“I am Inshara,” the woman continues, “true vessel of the divine. I am a child of two worlds, born to commune with the Lightbringer himself. The day approaches when he will infuse me with his spirit, and I will become the greatest of all divinities. I will be the Wrathmaker, the Destroyer, the Eater of Worlds. Bring your false goddess to me, for she and I must speak.”
A murmur of fearful confusion slips around the chamber as my people react to her words. Some shuffle backward, some duck their heads, but not one of them show her any defiance.
My own breath catches, and I bite my tongue against the reply I want to fling at her, my anger and disbelief demanding to make themselves heard.
Everything she says is false—none of the prophecies speak of a vessel to beinfusedby the Lightbringer. Where is her Last Star? Where are any of the signs?
A flicker of movement catches my eye, and I shift, pressing my cheek to the carved wooden screen until I can see it properly.
Elkisa.
She is moving slowly, carefully, sidling away from her post and closer to the cultists’ leader. I can read the icy calm of determination as she moves between and around the guests at the party.
She is the sole survivor of the massacre at our camp. She means to kill this intruder. She means to take revenge.
“No,” I whisper, and after a moment, North sees her too—his breath catches and his knuckles show white.
Inshara smiles, unaware of Elkisa’s approach, and steps gracefully down the pile of rubble as though descending a grand staircase. Her guards remain where they are, covering their exit back through the hole in the wall.
A flicker of hope kindles in my chest. If Inshara keeps moving into the room,maybeElkisa can reach her, stop her, before her guards can …
“One of you must know where she is,” Inshara says, her tone almost pleasant now—indulgent, like that of a parent speaking to a child she knows has been naughty. “You could not be so foolish as to misplace a goddess.”
From my vantage point above and behind the musicians’ platform, I can see the piper’s shaking fingers and the sweat darkening the drummer’s hair. I can see heads swiveling side to side in the crowd, looking for me, or perhaps for Daoman—anyone who might take charge of the situation.
Then, like povvies scattering before a predator, the crowd parts and I see the rich saffron of my high priest’s robe.
“Leave this sacred place,” he commands, his voice effortlessly pitched to carry just as hers does. His face is calm, but I know he wears a mask—I know that beneath the facade, he is raging.
Inshara’s flashing eyes turn toward him—and a few degrees farther away from Elkisa. My guard is nearly within striking distance. The false goddess smiles at Daoman. “High priest,” she greets him, with a gracious inclination of her head. “Well met. If you bring your goddess before me, I shall let you remain among my priesthood.” She adds with a touch of amusement, “Not in your current position, you understand, but you will be permitted to light incense and join in the prayers of my acolytes.”
From where I stand, I can see them facing each other. Daoman’s profile is motionless and stern; Inshara’s smiling and certain.
