“If you mean that you want us to get back together, I won’t say it hasn’t occurred to me to give this”—she pointed her finger at herself, then at Emere—“another chance. But you are like a moth. Always flying off to whatever shines the brightest, whether it’s finding out what the Star of Mersia was, fighting the Empire, or looking for the woman in your dreams. What could I possibly hope for from a man like you?”
Emere was speechless. Rakel sat back down and said, in a calmer voice, “All over the world, there are Ebrians fighting for the Nameless God. I am sending information from the Capital to them. I—wehave moles inside the Ministry of Intelligence, the Office of Truth, the Ministry of Provincial Affairs, even a few among the Senate functionaries. You can’t imagine the number of people I’ve saved in the past seven years.” She sighed deeply. “My husband helped me manage the informants for years. But ever since he died in the Great Fire, I haven’t been able to do as much as I used to. Every bit of information I squeeze out of them costs me, and it’s not enough on my surgeon’s money. If you want me to help you by keeping this woman here, you must pay my price.”
“… What is that?”
“Anything that I ask. Everything you have.”
Emere opened his mouth, but nodded without speaking. He owed her, not just for her recent help but for everything he had done, including the actions that led to the death of her husband.
“I still have feelings for you,” said Rakel. “And I probably always will. But I don’t want you or your amends. Not in exchange for caring for someone I do not even know. I will take this Septima woman as my patient, in exchange for my price, until she recovers. You can stay here as long as you like too, and leave whenever you want.”
At her words, Emere’s heart ached. He knew she was breaking hers to say that, and there was nothing he could do but nod.
“I understand. I am sorry.”
“It’s fine. Because you will do and give anything I ask of you.”
Rakel wiped her tears and forced a smile. Emere hugged her gently. They had been apart for ten years and much had changed, but much had also stayed the same. Emere stood up.
“I’ll leave now. Please take care of Septima for me.”
Rakel held up her hand to stop him. “You’re not leaving, not when the streets are overrun with whoever it is pursuing you. Eat something. There’s leftover food in the pot over there, and bowls. I’m going to head upstairs and go to bed.”
“It makes no difference if I leave now or—”
“You can leave the dishes in the bucket.” And with that, Rakel went up the stairs.
Emere looked over at Septima, still unconscious, before he went to the pot and opened the lid. There was a bit of barley porridge left at the bottom. Not bothering to reheat it, he scraped itup with a ladle into a wooden bowl and slurped it straight from the bowl. He hadn’t eaten all day.
After he put the bowl in the bucket as he had been told, Emere climbed into one of the beds usually reserved for patients. Lying sleepless, Emere thought about what Rakel had said. Had he truly been like a moth, always moving on to whatever was the next brightest light? He didn’t want that to be the story of his life.
Rakel had not said so directly, but he wondered if the unspoken implication was true, that he had used “destiny” as an excuse all this time. Even now, instead of trying to build a meaningful life in the Capital, was he off chasing a new “destiny”? But how could he ignore all of this—Loran, Septima, Ludvik, Cain, and the Circuit of Destiny? How could he deny the things that he had seen with his own eyes? His thoughts began to blur as sleep finally overtook him.
Once more, Emere stood on the plains of Arland. The gigatherion lay in a smoking pile, surrounded by the remains of a battle. Some steps away, clad in leather armor and carrying a sword, King Loran stood looking in his direction. In her left eye socket burned the same blue dragonfire that wreathed her ivory sword.
“Prince Emere.”
Her usual address to him. But Emere now knew this wasn’t the real Loran, or even the Loran from his true dreams or memories.
“There is no need to imitate the face of Her Majesty. Who might you be?”
Loran blinked. “We did need to imitate. So that you would listen.”
So it was as Cain had said. The Loran in his dreams was simply an illusion created by the Circuit of Destiny, and it was the Circuit that was speaking to him now. Even while bitinghis lip in disappointment, Emere wondered: Were his dreams more or less meaningful for this intrusion and meddling? The Tree Lords said dreams were the mirrors of destiny, but what should he make of a dream created by a machine made from dead sorcerers?
Despite his wariness, his heart was beating fast. He had spent his whole life chasing after destiny. There was no reason to give up now.
“You’ve received wisdom from the Tree Lords of Kamori,” said Loran. “You believe that dreams are the mirrors of destiny.”
Emere took a breath before replying. Did this machine just read his mind? Perhaps his train of thought was just that easy to guess. Or perhaps it had predicted it, as that was what the Circuit did. “That is so.”
“Within us is also the wisdom of the Tree Lords.”
When Kamori fell, the priests who served the Tree Lords were all killed or taken to the Imperial Capital, and presumably made into Power generators after their deaths. Emere’s heart ached whenever he thought of those who had been holy to his people, who were now mindless cogs for the Empire’s machines. Perhaps some of them had ended up in the Circuit. Emere had long suspected the Empire was not only powered by generators but driven by the need to build more of them.
“Who are ‘us’?”
Loran stepped closer. Her left eye burned brighter and larger. The blue flame was licking at her forelock. For the first time, Emere felt threatened by it.
