“Not sure,” Orfeyi said, “so we’d better make this quick.”
The four of them lay down next to each other, ready for sleep to take them. It was a loophole that Clover seemed unaware of, that whenever Orfeyi’s lyre broke whatever influence he had on them, they were able to access their magics. Romie still needed to bloodlet to call on her Dreamer ability, and did so now with a sharp wooden splinter she kept hidden in her pocket for this very purpose. A pinprick against her index finger—she couldn’t afford anything bigger in case Clover noticed—and Romie dipped her hand in a cup of water.
As she drifted to sleep, she dreamed.
It was an easy thing to guide the others’ sleeping consciousnessinto the sleepscape with her, as she had done before with Aspen and Tol in the Heartland, where they had seen a vision of Atheia. They found themselves on the path of stars and began their desperate search for answers—for Atheia’s presence, her guiding hand and counsel. As it always did, the song soared around them, the harmony complete now that the four of them were here together.
That was usually the extent of it, the song bringing with it no visions of the deity who was fractured within them. But today, there was something desperate in the song, a note of urgency in the layered, feminine voices.
A hundred stars appeared all around them, dreams or visions calling for their attention. One of them burned brighter than the others, diamond-like and beautiful. Romie grabbed it, guiding the other three with her into the dream.
And there she was again. A woman with kaleidoscopes for eyes and a braided crown of iridescent hair.
Atheia.
“Please,” Romie murmured, “tell us how we can save ourselves—show us how we can bring you back without dying, and without it all having been for nothing.”
If the ritual worked as Clover intended, if the keys let themselves be sacrificed to bring Atheia back into a single body—then Clover would have dominion over Atheia. He would sacrifice her to the fountain and gorge himself on her power until there was nothing left of her, in true Tidethief fashion. And he would do the same to Sidraeus.
That song in Romie’s soul, which was echoed in Aspen and Tol and Orfeyi, seemed to screech at the thought. From the look on Atheia’s face, it was clear she didn’t want this; couldn’t bear to be controlled by a monster like Clover.
Atheia cupped Romie’s cheek, and a strange, wordless exchange passed magically between them. The threads that bound the keystogether appeared, shimmering light between the four of them. They connected to Romie’s pulse points, before flowing back into Atheia like blood vessels connected to a main artery. Atheia looked at Romie with those hypnotic eyes, as if willing her to understand. But understandwhat?
The only thing that was clear to Romie was this sense of urgency emanating from Atheia. This bleak understanding that they were running out of time; that Clover would soon have what he needed, and the ritual would proceed unimpeded. Unless they could stop him.
Atheia’s crystalline voice pooled into her mind.Act the part of the brave dreamer.
And with that, Romie was shoved out of the dream.
The four of them lay gasping in the sea of ash, staring wide-eyed at one another.
“Did you all see…?” Romie began.
Orfeyi nodded fervently. “Yes.”
“Atheia,” Tol breathed in wonder.
Aspen’s brows knitted together. “But what was she trying to tell us?”
Romie had no idea, but the urgency of it all coursed through her veins. They had to try again, had to decipher whatever this ghost of Atheia was implying.
“He’s back.”
Tol’s defeated whisper brought their attention to the silhouette making its way through the gate. Clover had returned. It wouldn’t be long now before the keys were under his spell again—or pretending to be, in Orfeyi’s case—all thoughts of Atheia forgotten.
Before the lull of Clover’s magic could efface all her agency, Romie shared a look with Orfeyi, knowing he understood her without words.
She needed to head back into the sleepscape—needed to dreamagain so she could try, for what felt like the hundredth time, to reach Emory or Nisha or any of the others. To warn them to stay away and keep Emory out of Clover’s reach, because for some reason, Clover believed the sacrifice could not happen without her.
Orfeyi needed to play his lyre as soon as he got the chance, with or without Clover gone, so they could finish what they’d started. Before the clock ran out on all their lives.
7EMORY
THEY LEFT INGA AND HERcommunity accompanied by two gruff rangers who would take them to the mountains—two older men with pale complexions, reddish-gold hair, and thick beards that reminded Emory of her father. Inga had given them all horses, magnificent beasts with a hardy build, thick manes, and large hooves covered with shaggy hairs, and so they traveled by horseback through fjords and glacial valleys, the journey made daunting for those of them who had little to no experience riding horses. Which, as it turned out, was all of them except for Vera.
At the quizzical look they’d all given her when she expertly got on her very large horse while the rest of them fumbled awkwardly—Ivayne and Vivyan most of all, muttering about draconics not needing mounts, cursing the stormy skies that made it too dangerous for flying—Vera had merely shrugged, a smug smile tugging at her lips. “I grew up around horses. My mother was an equestrian.”
Emory had felt a pang of longing, reminded yet again that therewas this entire side of her family that she didn’t know—that she would love to one day meet, if they ever got the chance to go home.
