Compared to this, Zivora’s gods were trifling, pathetic things. How could anyone worship something so small?
Ysira touched the window with trembling fingers, sinking to her knees. Terror and awe bloomed on the horizon of her consciousness like that rising dawn, so bright she fought the urge to look away.
All she’d known her whole life were shadows, foggy reflections of reality, and while she’d begun to guess some greater truth existed . . .
She could never have fathomed it.
She pressed her palm to the cold plane. She could cover her entire world with her hand. Tears sprang to her eyes. Despite everything, she found herself smiling, because amidst the smallness, another feeling crept up on her. Surprised her with its intensity:hope.
Perhaps she’d lost her mind. She could have stared at that miraculous view forever.
But there was still Neri to consider, and all the strange and terrible events that had transpired. Ysira had to move, and plan. She ripped her gaze away from the window.
“I’ve been waiting for you,” said the god behind her.
PART II
GODS OF RUIN
FROM THE WHITE CATHEDRAL ARCHIVES:
Darkness is refuge. Chaos is clarity.
Power* is freedom.
—ZAL PROVERB (TRANSLATION BY SISTER ALEIDA NAYARA, 113 A. C.)
*Addendum: There are two words forpowerin Zal, and we cannot be certain of the original usage here.TAYUNis the more conventional translation, used to meanstrengthorauthority.The alternative,ATYUN,bears the connotation ofsacrifice. It is also the word fordemon.
17
THEOPHANY
YSIRA
The god was taller than any man Ysira had seen, with pointed ears, a lean build, and skin the color of sun-bleached bones. Vivid emerald irises peered out at her from ink-black sclerae.
She could not pinpoint his age; he could have been a well-kept sixty or a worn forty. His white hair was cropped short, and he wore a sleek black coat over a green tunic. He moved like a river, with a presence that made the hall feel even more silent, as though the very air went still for him.
“You have nothing to fear from me.”
Something brimmed beneath the low, musical tones and odd cadence of his voice. It seethed and skittered, making Ysira’s scalp prickle. Once or twice, she had witnessed telepathic priests perform extradimensional communion, and now she understood. The language of demons was this being’s—thegods’—native tongue.
She battened down the hatches of her mind and reached, automatically, for a weapon that wasn’t there.
“Which one are you?” she croaked.
To her numb surprise, he answered, “I am Tharanoth.”
The Lord of Hunger was the least present of Zivora’s gods, more distant and mythical than the rest. The Priests of the Black Sun tended to agree that if one of the Six reigned supreme, it was Tharanoth.
There was something oddly familiar about him, though Ysira was quite sure she’d never seen him before. She couldn’t pinpoint it.
“Please,” he said. “Follow me.” Ysira didn’t move. “Where is Neri?”
Tharanoth tilted his head. A sharp, inhuman motion. “Who?”
Ysira carefully considered her next words. “The boy who was with me.” Tharanoth’s second eyelids clicked together. “The boy is safe.”
