“Is that all?” I say, perplexed. “We’ve all done things we’re not proud of, Eban. But we did what we needed to do to survive. Luwalhati must be aware of that. It’s hardly disqualifying—”
He shakes his head, his eyes flat and black. “You don’t understand.”
I put my hand on top of his. “Help me to, then.”
Eban looks down at our hands as if the sight of them together is more than he can bear. He starts to speak but stops. His eyes meet mine then look away, restless, haunted. I can feel the storm of words gathering behind his silence and see the tension in his jaw.
I pull back, suddenly self-conscious about the gesture, and he sighs. For a moment, I almost demand the truth from him, to reveal the dark secret of his past. But the way he sits there—shoulders drawn, hands clenched tight in his lap as if he’s holding himself together by force—keeps me from pushing.
“Whatever it is, it can’t be that bad,” I tell him. “I know you.”
He shakes his head once more. His mouth twists, and he stares at the ground as though wishing it would open up and let him fall. The silence between us grows taut, humming with what he won’t confess.
At last, I let it go and squeeze his shoulder. “It’s okay. You don’t have to tell me.”
Relief flickers across his face, and he nods.
“Let’s take a walk,” I say, partly to defuse the awkwardness I feel between us and partly because I hope that will help him open up. I can’t imagine what he’s holding inside that could possibly be disqualifying, when all Ophir in the Sleeve have resorted to tactics we aren’t proud of.
Something in the stone beneath our feet evokes a memory, of when I was a child. Walking hand in hand with someone, watching my tiny feet as I step around shards of broken glass.
I stop in my tracks. Eban looks at me quizzically. I focus on the design in the stone, a border of curvy lines. Waves. The same from my childhood memory, when there was only a bit of wavy edge left, worn down but visible in the cracked old stone.
My stomach seizes. This place becomes real in that moment. A tangible link between the magical city and what remains of the Ophir.
I realize without any reservation that I’ll do whatever I have to do to help us regain what we once had, with or without Eban. I can still do my part.
As if summoned, when I look up, Luwalhati appears before us. I startle and step backward.
“The time has come to make your decision. I cannot keep you here any longer,” she tells us. “I’ve been made aware of developments in your world. Forces in motion demand a response.”
“I’ll do it,” I say, straightening my shoulders and lifting my chin. “I’m ready.” I know this is what I’m meant to do. After all, what is there to live for if not this? Back to my pitiful existence in the Sleeve, waiting for Lacon to unleash our own magic against us?
“I will take the trial as well,” Eban adds abruptly. I can hardly control the surprise from registering on my face. He squares his shoulders—an attempt, I can tell, to appear more confident than he actually feels. The slight, almost undetectable grimace on his face gives away his true feelings about the situation, though.
I reach out and squeeze his hand in mine. He squeezes back, and gently caresses the top of my hand with his thumb. That touch alone makes the risk worth it.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVENEBAN
“Let us begin,” Luwalhati says.
With a snap of her fingers, the three of us are now inside a large temple. The building is gleaming white like the others, but with twelve massive columns lining the front, and a lofty arched entrance. Now the archivist is wearing a gauzy, shimmering gown in pale gold, with a simple gold and pearl diadem over pinned-up black-and-silver hair. “Eban. Gineth. There is no obligation to undergo the bonded trial. The challenge is undertaken voluntarily, never under duress, with the intention of harnessing the ancient power of the ancestors for the good of all the Ophir, not personal glory. Do you accept?”
We both affirm our commitment.
I wish I’d asked more questions. Namely: How many times has a bonding ritual been attempted, and of those, how many have succeeded? And does failure mean death? But I’ve been dodging Blackcoats my entire life, cheating death from every corner. If I die today, at least I die for a noble cause.
It’s quiet in the temple, the silence practically echoing off the walls. Somewhere in the distance, there’s a faintplinkof dripping water, barely perceptible. The space is empty aside from twelve massive statues, taller than most buildings I’ve ever seen.
Luwalhati spins around to face us and holds her arms out to each side, gesturing to the statues. “Each statue represents one of the twelve gods of Ophir.” She lowers her arms. “Once we were a strong nation, with the full might of twelve bonded spirits. Now there is only one.”
“You mean Gin?”
Luwalhati shakes her head. “Gin is not yet bonded. There is an Ophir above the waves who is bonded to the trickster god.”
“Who?”
“I do not know. I cannot see them as they do not heed the call of the Drowned City. It is strange. I have sent Bastian, but we have been unsuccessful in reaching them.”
