Iyelekirin stirred, as though perplexed by its inability to address Ysira’s pain. The demon could heal injury, poison, and disease, more quickly and efficiently with each new trauma, but it had learned nothing of this.
All Ysira could do was prepare for battle and remember what she had promised Ogden. He would never again see the stars, but he might yet have his vengeance. For all the parasite gods had done, Ysira would make them suffer.
She arrived at the Otavok temple, dressed in dark armor like Mondral’s and Solai’s, with a hard but flexible collar that stretched up to protect her brainstem. Neri stood before the Gate, surrounded by knights, Disciples, and militiamen. He wore only a fresh black tunic. No one had been able to locate armor in his size, and he would not have been strong enough to run in it, besides. Ged loomed over him, giving Ysira little choice but to avoid them both.
She didn’t know what she would have said to Neri, anyway. Nothing about the task ahead had changed. But she had hoped, perhaps, to hold him. To say goodbye. When it came to Neri, Ysira could not distinguish love from grief.
She passed by Commander Azaharo orienting the knights to the Shrouded City’s arsenal of Firstborn weapons. The towering woman produced a metal ball the size of her fist, then something that looked like two oblong cylinders fused together at a right angle. Ysira had seen similar devices on the station.
“These are plasma weapons,” Azaharo said. “Seeing as we’re no longer concerned about exposure, we can take advantage. I don’t expect any of you to be proficient, but they’ll help buy youtime to get in close, where our size and strength give us the decisive advantage.”
Nines, meanwhile, was listening intently as Urien held up a syringe, showing her how to use it. Beside them, Seth stood with his hands bound. He moved sluggishly, blind and deaf to the outside world, sedation titrated just light enough that—with a bit of psychic nudging from Nines—he could walk.
“Nines will administer regular doses, keep Seth moving and Turil oblivious,” Jacen said as he approached Ysira’s side. “They’ll go with Urien to the communications center inside the tower and secure the Gate level. No one enters. No one leaves.” He paused. “I’ll keep eyes off Neri long enough for him to cross through the Gate and signal the rest of you to come through. We’ll clear the level together. Then Ged will take his team to Zivora, lock the white room, and shut down the tracking mechanism. We’ll all meet atop the spires, then Urien will pilot the transport to the station.”
Jacen fell silent as they both did the math. It had been at least an hour since Turil’s ultimatum—since the unfortunate knight had been killed by his tracking device and scores of others presumably died the same way. Another hour or two would pass before Ged reached the White Cathedral. At least three hundred dead.
Ysira nodded in Seth’s direction. “You’re sure Nines can handle this?” “I trust her,” said Jacen. “Urien thinks we have enough sedative to keep Seth incapacitated for several hours.” His mouth tightened. “I hate doing this to him.”
Before Ysira could respond, a Disciple approached. He bowed. “Var Naktis. It’s time.”
He carried an ornate box carved of something that wasn’t quite stone. Even from several feet away, Ysira felt the pulse and buzz of dozens of creatures trapped inside.
The Disciple set the box on a pedestal and opened it to reveal a stack of long, thin tubes made of the same not-stone. He passed them one by one to the knights and militiamen who would travel through the Gate. Most held the tubes like they were rattlesnake eggs.
“Before you walk through,” said the Disciple, his voice echoing, “you twist open the tube.” He mimed the action. “Like so. You hold it against your skin—it will be uncomfortable, butdo notdrop it—and step through with haste. Be wary, and have respect. To step through the Source is to step across the mind of the divine.”
Jacen examined his tube. As something audibly slithered within, he shuddered.
“However it feels,” Ysira told him quietly, “I promise it won’t be as bad as having one crawl inside your ear.”
He looked at her in alarm. She tapped the back of her head and nodded grimly. Jacen gave a short, nervous laugh.
Another Disciple produced an obsidian bowl—and a steel knife.
These, she held out to Ysira. “Let them see.” Ysira frowned at her, not understanding.
“They’ve seen Var Naxal’s power,” the Disciple clarified. “Now let them see yours. Anoint them as they go into battle.”
Ysira hesitated. But . . . to the void with it. She held out her forearm and let the disciple make a deep cut. She hardly felt it; she didn’t even feel like solid flesh and bone. As the woman held the cut open, letting red blood drip into the bowl, Ysira might as well have been no one and nowhere at all.
She held her arm high, let all assembled watch the wound knit shut. A murmur echoed through the temple and grew into a shout—“Sun et nath!”—as the Disciple anointed the warriors of Otavok. With Ysira’s blood, she painted Naxal’s inverted triangular spiral on every face.
Asal Isebin,they called her.Mother of God.
Saraida accepted the symbol. Two of the knights followed her lead. Through it all, Ysira held Ged’s gaze until he looked away. Vindictive pride burned in her chest, even as it ached with grief and fear, even as she thought she might vomit, even as she reminded herself,You did this, you wanted this.
These people believed. She’d made sure of that, and now she knew this reverent awe for what it was: a cage. She felt its bars snap shut around her future and Neri’s.
All that remained was the Gate.
Nines, Seth, and Urien were already in position. Neri took his place behind them, and Jacen began to follow.
Then Ysira said, “Jacen.”
He froze at the sound of his first name. She’d never used it to address him before. She lifted her chin toward Neri. “Protect him.” Despite her best efforts, the barest hint of a tremor entered her voice. There was no time to say everything she wanted to, so she only said, “Please.”
Jacen bowed his head. “With my life.” They clasped forearms. His thumb brushed over her smooth olive skin, where moments before had been a gaping wound. She saw in him something akin to what she’d glimpsed at the baths—not quite passion, not quite fear. Deeper than both.
