The ground has stopped shaking, thanks to Father Guzan’s control, but the sky continues to mourn the loss of its master. Rain batters us. Wind assaults us. Lightning strikes the ground directly to our right and left as we follow the Father down the treacherous mountain trail. Above us, darkness continues to drip like paint through the eternal blue sky—slowly changing it to night. I flutter my fingers to see if I can summon the threads, but the blackness is as solid as stone. Because it isn’t darkness at all, I realize. It is nothingness. The absence of a creator.
The Father says nothing as we walk—not a word of thanks or condemnation—but He does sing. All the songs I know by heart. I find myself humming along, taking comfort in the familiarity of His words and the richness of His voice—like the steady gurgle of a stream.
He holds the Lady of the Sky tight against His chest to shield Her from the worst of the storm. Tears drip from Father Guzan’s cheeks and speckle the Lady’s dress, causing swathes of green moss to sprout from the fabric. When His tears happen to find the ground, little clovers and flowers spring up from the mountainside. I don’t know if He’s letting them fall on purpose, but I whisper my thanks regardless because the foliage provides the smallest bit of traction, helping us down the rocky switchbacks.
A crowd waits at the base of the mountain, gathered around a lifeless form at the garden’s edge. I immediately take inventory to see who’s missing. Ziva and both kings are present, as well as the Kalima and most of the shepherds and Chotgori who stayed to fight. The Shoniin and Zemyans stand still, weapons forgotten on the ground. Their prince is glaringly absent, but the body sprawled across the rocks couldn’t be Ivandar’s. Ghoa killed him at the other end of the garden. Which leaves only two options.
The two who fell from the summit.
I reach for Serik’s hand, needing his warmth, which he readily offers, even though he has none left to give. His fingers are cold and trembling. He keeps shutting his eyes and shaking his head. I tighten my grip, lending him some of my strength to repay all the times he’s carried me.
Still singing, Father Guzan steps boldly through the crowd. The shepherds part and bow their heads. Most of the Shoniin fall to their knees. Even the Kalima warriors and the Zemyans stumble back, slack-jawed. Pale as they are, none are as ashen as the Lady of the Sky.
She was the only constant from the beginning of time. The creator of the heavens and earth and everything in between. I don’t know what happens now that She’s gone. Will the Father cast us from the Eternal Blue? Or force us to stay and be flattened as it crumbles? Does it matter? There’s a good chance the entire continent is collapsing in the absence of its maker.
Father Guzan halts in the center of the crowd and looks down. I force myself to look too, expecting to see a mangled heap of blood and limbs. That’s all that could remain of anyone after falling from such a height. But Ghoa rests peacefully on her back, completely whole, her hands folded across her chest and not a hair out of place. Her face is smoothed of every scowl line, making it look as if she’s sleeping—far more peacefully than she ever did in life.
“Did you cast her from your presence for her crimes?” Ziva pops up from her bow to address Father Guzan.
King Minoak reaches over and presses Ziva’s head to the ground, all without lifting his own. Groveling as only the lowliest servants do in Verdenet. “The commander streaked through the sky like a falling star,” he explains. “When she hit the ground, the land shook and the sky darkened and a fierce wind drove us to this spot. We assumed you were angry with her, punishing her.”
Father Guzan kneels beside Ghoa, still silent.
“Was there another body?” Serik asks Minoak.
“Another body?” the Marsh King asks. The lines in his craggy face deepen even further. “Who else fell?Wheredid they fall from?”
Serik darts a meaningful gaze at the Zemyans and Shoniin, many of whom are trying to retreat as far and as fast as possible without drawing the attention of the Father. A wasted effort. His attention is solely on Ghoa.
Father Guzan lifts Ghoa into His arms alongside the Lady of the Sky before answering. “The assailant will never reach the earth. He’ll spend eternity falling.”
The Zemyans call out questions, but the Father resumes His solemn march, deeper into the garden. It could be my eyes playing tricks on me. Or I could very well be losing all sense of reality in my confusion and grief. Because, with every step, the Lady’s and Ghoa’s limp bodies slide closer together. Merging and melding. Until the Lady wears more than just Ghoa’s face.
At the entrance of the hedge maze, Father Guzan glances back and beckons us to follow with an almost imperceptible nod.
There’s no hesitation. No discussion—not even among the Zemyans. We obey as if compelled by Kartok’s Loridium—except this is an invitation, rather than a command.
We wind deeper and deeper into the garden, and the perfectly manicured hedges grow taller and taller until they form a tunnel over our heads.
“We’ll never find our way out,” Serik whispers.
I feel the same uncertainty emanating from so many of the others behind us. But I also feel the heartbeat of this realm, pulsing through the ground, whispering through the trees. An unwavering rhythm that keeps me walking ahead with faith. If the Father were going to cast us out or punish us, He would have done so already … right?
A breath later, the labyrinth ends in a sprawling lawn lined with even more of the jewel-leafed trees. Another gold-dust pathway leads up a rise to a palace unlike anything I’ve ever seen. It’s made of opal or abalone shell that glistens blue and green and pink. The walls ripple, almost like waves, and tall turrets and towers rise into the clouds, connected by bridges that look to be made of nothing but light. Rendered all the more impressive in the ever-darkening sky. The most striking feature of the palace, however, is how it hovers several lengths above the ground—tethered by glittering ropes, as if to keep it from floating away.
“Maybe we won’t want to leave,” I finally whisper back to Serik. “Have you ever seen anything so spectacular?”
“I’ve seentoomany spectacular things. I’m more than ready for the ordinary. And I’d wager so are they.” He motions back to the Zemyans, who have fallen onto their faces, crying for pity. Even though Father Guzan hasn’t so much as glanced at them.
Or at any of us.
The gold-dust trail is as soft as carpet underfoot, reminding me of the fine grains of sand in Verdenet. It’s even warm against my feet, as if heated by the sun. The trees lining the pathway are reminiscent of those in Namaag, with their towering trunks and branches, thick enough to support platforms. King Ihsan touches the face of each tree, his expression full of wonder. And as we approach the palace, there’s no denying how the walls glimmer like ice, taking me back to the decimated Castle of the Clans, which we destroyed during the Ashkarian siege of Chotgor.
This place is entirely new yet achingly familiar. Exactly as I thought the Eternal Blue would be. Teeming with a force far stronger than the overwhelming power and frantic energy that was present in Kartok’sxanav.His world was fueled by hate and ambition. But the true realm of the Eternal Blue is fueled by love.
Father Guzan steps effortlessly through a towering entry hall that hovers just a step off the ground. When the rest of us move to follow, the entire palace rises with a sudden jerk. It’s only then that I notice the stalwart figures positioned at intervals along the wall, half hidden by the deepening shadows. There are three of them, and each holds a rope that tethers the palace to the ground.
I know who they are at once. I would recognize them anywhere. The only three people who have qualified to ascend to this realm.
