The back half of the space is dominated by a massive, raised dais, set with an elaborately gilded desk and chair, both of which are framed by a towering piece of stained glass artwork. It’s three stories high at least, a kaleidoscope of colors depicting the Heraldic creation of Trinity. The bronze sphere of our world sits in the middle, with the familiar faces of the Twelve Heralds standing around it, their palms out like they’re offering something.
There’s an extra figure, though, at the very top, his arms raised in triumph, his blocky, stylized features depicting golden hair and a tall, looming frame.
Thirteen founders in that photograph. Thirteen people responsible for creating the naphtha that destroyed us. The last one, the one with his name scratched out—
This has to be him.
The Thirteenth Herald of Trinity.
As I’m studying the scene, I start to make out a shadow behind the glass, like something is hidden behind it. Stepping up onto the dais, I search all along the edges, the frame, anywhere I can reach until I finally find a small, sapphire crystalline panel. Wiggling one of my gloves off, I place my bare palm against it, and almost immediately the stained glass display splits in two, sliding apart. I jump back into the center of the dais, my head craned back so I can see…
My stomach churns, and I gag, wanting to look away and yet not being able to.
It’s a child, around Kelda’s age. Pinned against the wall by some invisible force, their eyes closed, their arms and legs spread wide, floating in a suspension of liquid light the same blue-white color as the pool behind me. Thin, bright threads of it weave through the liquid and into the child’s body, slipping beneath their skin like veins.
He’s aged several years, but I still recognize his face. I know that his eyes are hazel, and that they get even bigger and rounder when he’s scared.
Gabriel Cirillo. The saint discovered when I was twelve. The storm-touched boy I’d watched get ripped from his family while I’d whispered to myself:Better him than me.
Tears burn in the corners of my eyes as I stare at him, at how small and frail he looks. The fear on his face when the Archangels took him away is painted so vividly in my mind, and I can’t help imagining what he’d felt when they’d brought him here. Confused. Terrified. Had he been awake when he’d been placed in that stuff? Had he known what was happening to him? Or maybe whoever had done this had put him to sleep first.
My eyes are still fixed on Gabriel’s face when I hear the sound of strong, steady footsteps behind me. My fingers wrap around the hilts of Wrath and Reason, and I turn, sucking in a sharp breath as the man approaching me steps up onto the dais.
Tall, with light hair swept back from his forehead and a smile that’s more like a challenge than a greeting. Wearing a dark coat buttoned over light-colored striped pants and a light-gray vest, the golden fob of a pocket watch gleaming on his chest. He looks exactly as he did in the photograph on the plaque, and he spreads his arms and hands wide in welcome as he comes up to me.
“My lost saint has found their way home at last,” he says in a rich, gentle voice. “I am so glad we can finally meet, Valene Bruinn. I understand you might be feeling a bit anxious, but it’s all right. There’s nothing to be afraid of. My name is Horace Cooper. I am the Last Herald of Trinity.”
CHAPTER FORTY
“DO THE OTHERS TRULY REALIZE, AS I HAVE, WHAT WE HAVE ACCOMPLISHED HERE? I FEAR THEY CANNOT UNDERSTAND THE TRUE SCOPE OF IT. THERE IS NO PLACE IN OUR WORLD THAT HASN’T BEEN REVOLUTIONIZED BY WHAT WE’VE CREATED. NAPHTHA IS NOW INEXTRICABLE FROM LIFE. AND WE ARE THE ONES WHO SUPPLY THAT LIFE. IT MAKES ME FEEL AKIN TO A GOD.”
—FROM THE PERSONAL RECORDS OF HORACE J. COOPER
All my life, the Heralds had loomed over every aspect of existence on Trinity. They permeated everything, but it had always been in the way you might think about the sky or the sun. Ever present, but distant, intangible.
But this person—Horace Cooper—is extremely tangible, even as he is perfectly impossible. He seems made out of gold, hair and skin luminous, and his blue eyes are wide and earnest, crinkled at the corners. Tall, young-looking, somehow unchanged by a single day since founding the Herald Power Company thousands of years ago. But maybe that’s what happens when you survivelong enough to become a god. Maybe you’re reborn into some kind of eternal youth.
His expression is a strange mix of sympathy and relief, and my head is too full and spinning to realize how close he’s gotten until he reaches out to touch his fingers to the side of my face, a gesture that’s too intimate, too familiar. It sends a shiver through me, and I pull my head away.
He steps back, folding his hands behind him. “My apologies if I seem overly familiar. You must understand that I feel close to every soul who lives and breathes on Trinity. I watch over them. My Archangels aren’t just my hands—they’re my eyes and ears as well. Everything they see, I see.”
His gaze on me is so steady it could anchor airships, scanning my face like he’s reading it, like every bit of information about my life can be found in my eyebrows, my hairline, the lines of my mouth. I inch back from him a little.
“And what about the souls who die on Trinity?” I ask. “Do you watch over them, too?”
“Of course I do,” he says without hesitation. “Being the Last Herald is an enormous burden and responsibility, one I do not treat lightly.”
“Sounds rough.” I glance around at the original Archangels—the Herald-angels—quiet and dark in their recesses and think of the gaunt, empty faces hidden inside them. “I think the others might have it worse, though.”
He follows my gaze, his lips pressing together. “That is very arguable. I walk the hard path, the path of never-ending, unrecognized labor, while they now get to rest, canonized in immortality. I think many would prefer that fate.”
I point at Gabriel, suspended above me, and despite my best efforts, my hand trembles, just a little. “What are you doing to him?”
Horace raises his eyebrows and looks up, maybe surprised by my question or maybe he’d forgotten he had a human child trapped up there. “Oh, yes. He is simply going through the process all saints do, returning the power you were never meant to have back to Trinity where it belongs.”
I snort. “For his own good, I take it?”
“Absolutely.” He sighs, like I’m an idiotic child. Which maybe I am to someone like him. “Storm-touched children are a danger to themselves and all those around them if they aren’t dealt with. I mean… just look at you.” His words cut, sharp enough to draw blood. “Gifted, but dangerous, yes? A murderer who lost their own sister.”
