The back-and-forth between Ghoa and the Lady is so sudden and swift, it’s giving me whiplash.
“Ghoa?” I whisper as I approach. “Is that you?”
“Come,” is all She says, leading me through the arched palace entrance.
As we move down the colonnade, the structure groans beneath us and rises once again. When I reach out to steady my balance, the wall is closer than I expected. Instead of stone, it’s papered with an ornate cream-colored damask. A white-and-burgundy rug covers the entire length of the hall, and I can’t stop staring at it. I tell myself it’s because I expected a more traditional castle with several curtain walls and outdoor courtyards. I shouldn’t give this rug a second’s thought. It’s undoubtedly the least interesting aspect of the palace of the First Gods. But for some mystifying reason, I’m certain I’ve seen it before. A small but fierce longing compels me to run my fingers through the shag, to press my face into the creamy softness.
When the hallway opens into a room, I understand why.
Directly across from us, an impressive stone fireplace roars with heat, the mantelpiece heavily laden with trophies and medals and certificates. More than any one person should be capable of earning. To the right of the fireplace, in front of the floor-to-ceiling bookcases, is the little round table where we were supposed to take tea and practice laying place settings, but instead played nik and gambled away the small weekly allowances we earned for completing our chores around the estate.
Serik’s filthy boots are abandoned in the middle of the room, as they always were. Purposely trying to provoke the matron. And Ghoa’s first saber—the dented hunk of metal she was given when she first enlisted, which she insisted on carrying everywhere, even when she was home on leave—rests in one of the armchairs as if it were the king’s personal saber. The air smells of leather books and lemon polish and the buttery aroma of winterberry pies baking in the kitchen below.
This is our home. Our childhood. Somehow preserved inside the palace of the First Gods.
“I don’t understand,” I whisper, every inch of me prickling.
The Goddess or Ghoa, or whoever She is, takes my hand and leads me to the twin settees with the black and gold stripes. The ones the matron swore she’d throttle us within an inch of our lives if we ever dared to sit in.
“I don’t have much time.” Again, the delivery sounds like Ghoa, but the graceful way She moves and Her placid expression are all wrong.
“What’s going on? How is all of this possible?” I ask urgently.
“I am whoeveryouneed me to be. This palace is whereveryoulong to be. My children are as varied as the blues of the sky, so I, too, must adapt in order to properly serve them. Strong for some, merciful for others. Wise and serene, compassionate and long-suffering.”
“Where did Ghoa go? I don’t understand,” I say again, staring into my sister’s brown eyes, but seeing the reflection of the Goddess.
Two answers come in unison, rising from the same pair of lips:
“I’m here.”
“She’s here.”
It sends me into an even deeper spiral of confusion. I clutch my head so tight, my bad arm twinges. But I keep squeezing. Praying the pain will bring clarity. I’ve dreamed of speaking with the Lady of the Sky all my life, but I watched Her die on that balcony. And I’m desperate to know why Ghoa leapt to save Father Guzan, desperate to have some sort of closure after everything we’ve been through, but that’s just as impossible.
Gentle fingers slide beneath my chin and tilt my face upward. “Much to Kartok’s dismay, I cannot be killed,” the Lady explains. “Not in the sense that you interpret death. My form may pass away, but my essence is infinite and simply finds a new host.”
“AndGhoais that host?” I blurt. I know it’s impertinent to question Her, but this proves that I am dreaming. Ghoa wouldneverlet the Lady of the Sky take her form. And the Lady would never want to reside in someone like Ghoa—proud and disbelieving, cruel and selfish.
The Goddess flinches and draws back, even though I’m certain I didn’t speak those thoughts aloud. “Not holding back even a little, are you, En?” All of the Lady’s softness vanishes, and the challenging glint in Her eyes is so irrefutably my sister, a sob works its way up my tightening throat.
Ghoa’s really in there, somehow.
They both are.
“Is that honestly what you think of me?” Ghoa asks, and it could be the ringing in my ears, but it almost sounds as if her voice catches.
“You know it’s not,” I whisper.
For all her flaws, Ghoa is also bold and courageous and self-sacrificing.
All ideal qualities in a goddess.
As if summoned by the thought, the Lady’s aura rises once more, looking bewildered for a moment before settling into this new skin. “The transition is usually immediate,” She pants, “but Ghoa refused to cooperate at first. Then she made several demands … one of which was speaking to you, which I’m trying to honor.” Her face pinches with strain and Her breath grows heavy.
I stare at the Lady of the Sky. Unable to comprehend what She’s saying, what I’m seeing. “What do you mean the transition isusuallyimmediate? That makes it sound as if this has happened before.”
“It has. Three times. I believe you know them well: Jamukha, Zen, and Ciamar.”
