I light the oil lamps and take another step toward him. It’s only then that I notice his head is lying in a pool of blood. A celestial measuring instrument protrudes from the side of his neck.
My limbs react before my mind, and I dive down next to the cook, searching for life at his wrist. Puncture wounds line his throat, but even a slight amount of consciousness will give me something—a name, a clue.
“Stay with me, stay,” I say. “Who did this?”
There’s no reply.
“Give me a name! Just a name!”
I slap his cheek, careful to avoid the gash in his neck. Still nothing. I go quiet, aside from the pounding of my heart, and hold his wrist. Nothing—no pulse. He is dead and yet still warm. He was killed recently—sometime in the past hour.
I drop his arm and ball my hands into fists. Rage flames under my skin. Someone found and murdered my only lead while I sat at dinner.
A thousand curses on Jubilee.
I tip my head all the way back, staring at the inlaid ceiling as I struggle to breathe. Another victim. This one dead because he was trying to better the lives of his loved ones.
But I was the one who left him alone. I should’ve tortured him this morning when I had the chance. He would’ve screamed as I removed his fingers and toes, but he was weak: he would’ve revealed who paid him. I let my own history get in the way. I hesitated because he was innocent.
Frustration fills my chest at my failing. I’ll never make this mistake again. I can’t afford the cost of mercy.
I get off my knees and trip over the dinner basket, letting out a humorless laugh. Minutes ago, I was so certain that I wouldn’t have to resort to violence that I selected a bottle of wine. Barely able to see for the pounding rage in my head, I grab the basket and hurl it against the wall. Meat and shards of glass rain down on the stone.
Violence is the only answer in Pryor—I’ve known this for years. And yet.
All I’m left with is a false confession and a dead scapegoat. I’m trying to bring down a senator—the most elite person in the capital—with nothing more than my hunch that he’s guilty. I might as well try to dismantle a temple with my bare hands.
Chief Justice Probus, General Hadrian, even Julian would tell me to leave this alone. Everyone would…aside from the High Priestess.
I stand straighter as thoughts race through my mind. Terrance was particularly horrified that she might be able to reveal past crimes, and if he is behind the murders, he’s also the one framing her. If I can follow through on my earlier idea and form an alliance with Kerasea, I may just be able to bring a would-be king to justice, prevent any more murders, and save my position.
I stare at the dead body of the cook. Kerasea Vestal may be my only hope.
Fuck my life.
XXXII.
Kerasea
I close and lock the door behind me and stand in the center of the tower, trying to catch my breath. My exhales make little clouds of mist in the frigid room.
Curse those flights of stairs.
Finally, my breathing returns to normal and I can speak to the divine with dignity.
“God of truth, I pray you hear your servant, your vessel here on earth.”
I stand next to the brazier and prick my hand with my hairpin. It hurts, but the truth often does. I push the pad of my finger until a drop of blood falls. It lands, sizzling into the eternal flame.
There are other ways to call the god, like how most priests use lapis, but this is the most direct.
When my blood hits the fire, it causes swirling red smoke to rise and float through the oculus of the domed roof. I tilt my head back, watching as the crimson plume enters the night’s sky. The storm has stopped, and millions of stars twinkle in the blackness, but the cold bites and lingers. I shiver. I’m in my red dinner dress, not temple robes or furs, but this won’t take long.
“All-seeing divine, I call upon thee to answer my prayer and guide your humble servant toward the light.”
I bow my head and, moments later, a bronze eagle falls through the oculus. It gracefully descends until it lands on its back, dead in the center of the altar.
I give thanks for the sacrifice, signing a circle in the air with my drying blood. Then I take the sickle knife and make the primary vertical incision. The innards steam into the cold air, but the preternatural liver is exactly where it belongs. It’s at least a positive beginning. The organ also has the correct feel and smell.
