“He was a Church cleric originally, so he already knew all the tricks,” she’d said. “Most of his rhetoric is the same as theirs: Gods good, magic bad, etcetera, etcetera. But while their dreamis to rid the world of magicandthe Gray, he only wants to rid it of magic. He seems to think that doing that will have some sort of transformative effect on the shadows, and he’s promising the typics that it’ll benefit them, as well. A lie, probably, but they believe it.”
Which made the real question: why doeshebelieve it? Why is a Shade or a void, or a Shade who thinks he’s a void, waging a war on magic when the shadowsaremagic? Kill one and you kill the other.
“Maybe he doesn’t realize that,” Saleen had ventured. “If he grew up surrounded by faith, then who the hell knows how twisted things got in his head. He could even be making it all up as he goes along—that’s certainly what the Council thought at first; they chalked him down to a crackpot the Church should deal with itself. By the time he actually started killing us, it was already too late, he had wards and an army of followers; he’d become too insulated.”
Funny that, isn’t it? How the Council is always creating problems through its inaction—or worse, through the actions it does take. The trackers have spent so long chasing scapegoats within their own ranks, they’ve forgotten that the true threat is coming from outside the Gray. They keep handing faith the win.
Once we snake our way into the nave, we stay at the rear of the congregation, hidden behind a towering effigy of the Gods where we won’t be noticed when it comes time to phase. Though this church clearly belongs to the Meridian now, it still bears the marks of having first been loyal to a different master, the walls riddled with scars from where the old paintings were unceremoniously ripped down and replaced, usurped by the sacred star sigil.
“That’s our cue,” Cemmy says as the Meridian emerges from the annex behind the altar, eliciting a roaring wave of adulation, complete with fevered cries of “prophet” and “messiah” and “save us”. These typics don’t just worship this man, they adore him, with their whole hearts and entire chests, entirely oblivious to the fact that they’re devoted to a fictional tale.
Truly the consummate con artist.The moment he begins his sermon, we blink into the Gray as one, not lingering to hear the falsehoodsand the vitriol in his address. Our time in his sanctum will conclude when he does, so we don’t have a single second to waste, we’re already hinging far too much on the hope that he hides his secrets in an obvious place.
Crossing the nave once we’re ensconced in the shadows is easy, but the door to the annex presents a hurdle we should have—but didn’t—think to expect, a solid barrier Cemmy’s physicality won’t allow her to wisp through.
“Go without me.” Since opening the door in the Gray would open it in the real world, too, she instantly decides against taking that risk. “I’ll stay and watch the echoes, scry when it’s time for you to leave.”
“Are you sure?” Where I expect Chase to argue, he merely asks if she’s certain and gives her hand a squeeze. Whatever these two have spent the past year doing, it’s only strengthened the bond they forged in Isitar, the first time we were forced into a fight against a zealot and the Church. And Gods, I resent it. I don’t mean to, but I do. Because his betrayal cost Eve her life, yet Cemmy chose to forgive him—to love him—anyway, and I can’t forgive her for that. I can’t forgive either of them. Then again, that’s not what they’re asking me to do right now, and working together is like slipping on an old glove that still fits.
One by one, Chase and I wisp through every door in the adjoining passageway, looking for a room that might reveal the Meridian’s true aim.
“I’m not seeing anything, are you?” I ask after finding nothing but a bedroom, a water closet, and a small kitchenette. This must be where the Aralagio in residence used to live—back before they were summarily expelled.
“Maybe . . .” Chase points to a stretch of wall that seems newer than the rest, almost as if it’s been recently plastered over. “What better place to hide his secrets than a room that can only be accessed from the Gray?” he says, flitting through to the other side.
And he’s right.
For it’s both the perfect ruse and the Divine Meridian’s lair.
“By my colors, it’s like a scribe exploded in here.” The sight that greets us robs me of breath. It’s not so much that the room’s untidy—quite the opposite, in fact, everything inside feels deliberately arranged, a sparse smattering of furniture that serves a purpose in lieu of decorating the space. No, it’s the way the Meridian has covered the walls with his musings that raises the hairs on my neck, the scribbles that extend floor to ceiling, all in the same tiny, meticulous text.
“More like a madman,” Chase mutters, staring wide-eyed at the chilling tapestry. “You take the right side, I’ll take the left? Look for . . . anything that feels relevant, I guess.”
“I don’t suppose you’ve stolen any magic that could help us?”
“Sorry.” He shakes his head. “And I didn’t think to take any Indigo charms from Saleen. Probably should have, to be honest—but I wasn’t expecting . . . this.”
“The old-fashioned way it is,” I say, since I didn’t think to take any either. Then once we’ve phased back into the physical realm, I make a beeline for the most distinctive part of the Meridian’s mosaic, the giant family tree he’s inked along the wall behind
his desk.
By Gods, the man did not skimp on the research. This tree spans at least two dozen generations, stretching back to long before the Council began purging the world of illegal Shades.
“Well, this can’t be a coincidence . . .” I hone in on a branch towards the very bottom edge, where the name Lars Vancent Denata has been circled in angry red. “That’s the elder who presided over my trial.” An Orange, according to these notations, which also happen to include the wordliarin big hulking letters.
“You think he’s keeping tabs on those in power?” Chase asks, crossing the room to examine my find with interest.
“Could be.” Though it strikes me as more deliberate than that—more specific. “Or maybe he’s . . . tracing blood lines, or . . . documenting magics,” I say, since every name is accompanied by a color, with Council Shades denoted one way and rogues another, those who married typics another way still. The real curiosity,however, sits right beneath Councilman Denata, where a branch has been furiously crossed out and severed, with no reason given for the disavowment—of his only son, it looks like, though the lack of siblings could be due to the fact that his wife has been marked as dead. A sad story, yes, but not indicative of anything, and hardly worthy of this level of rage.
Why are you so special?There are six other brutally severed branches on this tree, one every four or five generations, all of which bear the disturbing note: terminated at birth.Illegitimate children, maybe?Though that seems a monstrous way to deal with those—even for families back then—not to mention that there are plenty more bastards signified elsewhere, and none of them appear to have met such a gruesome end.
What the hells is he tracking here? The more I lose myself in the details, the deeper the mystery gets, and it only grows more bewildering when I happen across his accomplice.
“Here’s Alara.” I point the Emerald out to Chase. Alara Francis Hayes, her name is, and her lineage tells exactly the story I expect: two dead parents and no offspring to speak of, the standard Hue fare. Though one leaf over is where the story takes its curious turn. There’s a brother inked in beside her but not stemming from the same chain. Adopted into the family, unrelated by blood but her brother just the same.
Adriel Lars Denata.
“Adriel is the Divine Meridian’s name,” I say. It’s what Alara called him back at the halfway house—I remember it all too well. “This must be his family tree. He’s tracking his own heritage.” Which somehow includes a sitting councilman.
