With trembling fingers, Hesaya reached toward the skull in Jacen’s hands. “And Neri did this.”
“You should have seen it, Hes. He was . . .” Jacen didn’t seem capable of describing it.
Hesaya drew a shaky breath, clutching the front of her robe, and the hope on her face broke something in Ysira. She could do nothing but follow them to the library, mind racing and utterly alone, even as they caught up with the knights.
Neri was finally looking at Ysira; she knew because his gaze was like a pair of daggers in her back, but what could she say to him? Where could she begin?
Rakalem’s vanguard had broken Otavok’s defenses by the docks, through which Seth had arrived with Turil in his head. Those tunnels had been collapsed, along with the entrance in the caldera. Most of the civilian population fled along a southbound branch of Esh, and soon that route would be blocked as well. Militiamen marched and hauled equipment, laying traps along the narrow, sloped streets of the Shrouded City. They fortified the complex atop the hill, which contained the city’s lifeblood: the fields, the library, and the temple.
The fire had been put out. Scorch marks blackened the sandstone, and a soggy layer of ash and water coated the floors. What little remained of the archive was strewn about the banquet hall, tended to by Disciples, many of whom wept as they worked. Their fellows’ bodies—Eneva and the two Seth had slain—lay in a corner, stripped of their veils, polished stones over their eyes.
Mondral’s remains would have to be retrieved later, but word of his fate had spread. Solai sat against a wall with her face in her hands. A man who must have been her husband held her tight, staring blankly over her shoulder.
When Neri stepped across the threshold, a flurry of whispers spread through the hall. Then a hush, as every soul within turned to look upon the boy who had killed a god.
When one of the knights tried to follow Neri, Jacen held out an arm and barred his way. Jacen shook his head at Ysira.Wait,he didn’t have to say.Watch.
As Neri walked, alone, through the crowd, there was no celebration. Only silence. The people of Otavok knelt in his wake, and soon, he was the last one standing.
He stopped. He looked back at Jacen and Ysira, and at Ged behind them, as if he expected them to say something. Jacen set a hand on Ysira’s shoulder. She must have been trembling.
“They’ll tell their grandchildren about this day,” he murmured to her. “They need to remember it. Remember him.”
Neri’s face had settled into horrible resignation. He resumed his slow pace through the crowd, letting them bow and touch his tunic as he passed.
A militiaman approached Jacen. He held out his hands, asking for the skull but too stunned to use words. Jacen gave it to him. The man climbed onto a table, raised it overhead, began to shout in Zal. Though Ysira could hardly hear him over the ringing in her ears, she caught “Sun et nath!”
They are dust.
After a moment of speechless shock, the hall erupted. Amid the shouts and cheers, those words became a rising refrain. A battle cry: “Sun et nath! SUN ET NATH!”
Neri’s shoulders had gone rigid, and soon, Ysira lost track of him in the chaos. She waded through the crowd, dodging their questions, their prayers, their grasping hands. Jacen did not leave her side, his grip tightening on her shoulder. They beheld him with new eyes, too—no longer suspicious, but grateful.
Ysira struggled to maintain her composure until she could get out, find some dark and quiet corridor in which to disappear.Now that the adrenaline had faded, the hurt set in. Something deeper than physical, which Iyelekirin could not heal. The weight in her chest threatened to drag her to her knees.
But rest was not for her, not now and maybe not ever again. No sooner had she slipped into the hall than someone called, “Ysira!”
She had expected Saraida to corner her eventually. She kept walking anyway, even as Jacen stopped and turned. To her horror, Saraida followed at a jog.
“Ysira.For gods’ sake?—”
Ysira rounded on her. Saraida held up her hands, green eyes wide. “I just want to talk. I’m so sorry about Seth.” She glanced at Jacen. “I may not have loved him, but I considered him a friend. I know what he meant to Neri.” She hesitated. “Neri’s your son?”
Ysira was not interested in having this conversation again, but Saraida seemed determined to. She was shorter than Ysira but more solid, and blocked her way with the confident physicality of one of the Citadel’s finest warriors.
“I never knew,” she said. “That’s why you disappeared. You were pregnant.”
“I was Harvested,” said Ysira.
Saraida blinked. “That . . . explains a lot.” She studied Ysira with a look of gentle reproach. “I can’t believe you never told me.”
“What do you want?” Ysira put the question to her bluntly. Perhaps it was uncalled for, but there was something very strange and altogether too sincere about Saraida’s tone.
“The same as you, I expect. I’m here to fight. More literally, though, I’mherebecause of Neri.”
It was not what Ysira, nor Jacen, had expected. They exchanged a look. Ysira narrowed her eyes. “Why?”
Saraida squared her shoulders with the air of one on trial, ready to present her case. “Under the Black Sun,” she said, “my family fared better than most. But my father was born in the Knots. He taught me that the Ancarath wealth could be a means to help the less fortunate, and that to have my grandmother’s ear waspower.I did little of consequence with it. But then, at thisyear’s first offering, Neri accused my grandmother of cheating the Harvest.”
