No one argues, though I don’t much like the sound of it. A net of iron would stop him in his tracks.
I step in behind him. “I’ll go next.”
Rhian nods. “Brioc and Gethin, you’re after Angharad. Everyone else get in the middle. Gwenydd and I will take the rear.”
The rebels fall into position. Even the scouts and Arianell are here, determined to see this journey through to its bitter end. Daggers hang at their hips, though I pray to the gods—if any others are alive to hear it—that they won’t be needed
With soft and careful steps, we inch up the stairwell, passing through one floor and the next. One contains all manner of instruments: brass rings suspended from the ceiling, small metal spyglasses, quills and parchment scattered everywhere. The next holds a row of narrow beds. The third floor is entirely empty save for a gathering of cobwebs in the corners.
We move on quickly before spilling out onto the highest floor. Above us, the white dome curves like the underside of the moon and glows just as brightly. Every wall is layered in maps, some of the kingdom, others of the shores beyond our own, and others of every constellation. Charts overlap charts until no surface is left bare.
A small wooden platform stands at the heart of it all, where the harp has made its home. The eerie hum of it washes over me.
Rhian lets out a low whistle as she comes up behind us. “I can’t believe this has actually worked.”
“Don’t get too excited,” Gethin says grimly. “We still need to open this roof and perform the ceremony before anyone stops us.”
“I’ll guard the stairs,” Taliesin says, already moving into position.
Several of us begin searching the room for answers about the dome. Brioc takes the scrolls from Taliesin while Gethin cautiously approaches the harp. Its hum deepens with his every step, but nothing worse follows, even as he takes up position on the stool beside it.
Rhian leans in and lowers her voice. “Does this seem too easy to you?”
“There were meant to be twelve Rhyfelwyr here,” I reply just as quietly. “There were only five outside.”
“Where the fuck are the others?” she mutters with a quick glance around, like they might emerge from behind the charts at any moment.
Suddenly, aclickresounds through the room. Arianell staggers back from a wall with a gasp. Before her, a wooden button protrudes from the wall.
A low rumbling rolls overhead. The dome shudders, then splits. It yawns open in the center, revealing an expanse of empty darkness above. I shield my eyes as dust and grit rain down on us. It’s like no one has opened this ceiling in months.
Someone coughs. Another claps dust from their hands. And a third mutters something that sounds like a prayer.
When the air finally clears, Brioc stands at Gethin’s side, the first scroll already unfurled in his hands. His fingers tremble around the parchment, and a sheen of sweat covers his forehead. He didn’t look like this before, even when the crowd was near a hundred and dressed in their finest clothes.
But here with our battle-hardened group and our cheeks dusted with grime, our tunics ragged and half-torn, and our hearts weary, we know the world is about to change. Brioc knows this time it will actually mean something. And he’s right. There’s something in the air I can taste. The Ballad wasn’t right before. It is this time.
My heart pounds as what we’re about to do finally sinks in. We’re only moments from the greatest event our world has seen in…centuries. Magic—what was lost for so long, controlled, and contained—is about to flow freely again. People will hold power in their own hands. Stars will burn bright in the skies. The gods will rise again.
And I might finally remember.
Across the room, Taliesin meets my gaze like he can see every thought spinning through me. He probably can. All along, he’s known me well enough to understand even the smallest shift in my expression or catch the slightest hitch in my breath.
More than anything, I hope I will remember him.
Gethin clears his throat. “Is everyone ready?”
Whispers ofyesripple through the room. With a smile, he lifts his fingers.
“Well, I don’t know about anyone else, but I for one am most certainly ready.” The clear voice rings through the Observatory, setting every hair on the back of my neck on end.
Iknowthat voice.
Seren, the woman who made me what I am, steps up behind me, and cold steel kisses my throat.
41
“If I feel so much as a chill go through this room, I’ll cut her throat,” Seren warns Taliesin.
