time, I think. You’d have to ask the archivist for an exact answer, if anyone could find him.”
“What do you mean? Is Matias all right? He helped Nimh and me escape. If Inshara found out …” Guilt washes through me—I should have thought to ask earlier.
Techeki shakes his head. “He hasn’t been seen since the night you fled. None of my sources have yielded even the smallest scrap of information. That may be good news.”
I have no choice but to cling to the hope that Matias has holed up somewhere to wait out Inshara’s wrath. For now, he’s not here, and Techeki is. I hesitate, but only briefly. Techeki’s loyalties might be questionable, but I don’t see anyone else on my side around here. Maybe he knows something he doesn’t realize is important—I need to give him a reason to search his memory for me. By magic or technology, I need to find a way home.
The blood of an ancient king …
Lifting my chin, I say quietly, “My family has been sitting on the throne of Alciel since the time of the Exodus.”
Techeki’s other eyebrow joins the first. “Not just a god, but a prince among gods?” His voice is amused, however, rather than reverent. Then realization takes hold. “You think it is possible you are descended from the ancient king whose blood sent the last cloudlander home.”
“You wouldn’t believe how intense my family is about making sure our bloodline is unbroken. If your ancient king was my ancestor, then I most definitely share his DNA.” Remembering who I’m talking to, I add, “My blood could work just like the amulet did—if we could get our hands on the crown.”
Techeki nods slowly. “It’s possible,” he murmurs, thoughtful. “And if we remove you from the equation, then the usurper has no way up to the sky. I shudder to think what she might be capable of should she get her hands on the powers of the gods.”
Inshara, with Alciel technology, would be a formidable opponent down here … and anyone armed with magic would be nearly unstoppable in my world. But Techeki’s point makes my stuttering heart steady a little as hope takes hold, and I say the words out loud. “My blood could be my way back home.”
The cat suddenly growls low in his throat, and a moment later the door opens to reveal one of the temple guards, a woman clad in black and gold.
“It is time for the Vigil of the Rising,” she says, quiet and dispassionate. “Come.”
The cat trots ahead of us with his tail waving like a banner, and though the temple is hushed in what must be the predawn, it’s hardly empty—they’re all preparing for the vigil, I suppose.
Techeki and I follow the cat past citizens and students, and one thing that stands out to me is how normal everything is.
Everyone moves with quiet purpose, rather than panic, and they speak to one another in low, businesslike voices. This doesn’t feel like a place that’s been subject to a hostile takeover. The screams and fear from the Feast of the Dying are gone. This place just feels … busy.
It’s like nothing ever happened—like there was a seamless change in management, and everybody’s just getting on with things.
What happened after we left? How did Inshara segue from murdering Daoman in front of everyone to this quiet, calm, everyday feeling?
I feel like the whole world’s been turned upside down, and I am the only one who’s noticed.
I feel like I’m going mad.
Whatever Inshara’s done to convince them to return to their usual lives—some combination of her deadly charisma, her displays of power, and the promise of a solution to their woes—it’s working. It’s simply business as usual around here.
I wish I knew what she had planned. But I have a goal now. Her crown.
If I get it, would I use it?
Could I use it and leave Nimh to face Inshara alone?
“At the Feast of the Dying, we mark the solstice,” Techeki says quietly. “We farewell the sun, knowing the shortest of days are before us. But now, at dawn, we’ll see the Vigil of the Rising, and remember that the darkness is behind us, and the time of the sun once again grows longer.”
The guard leads us out onto a terrace, and with a jolt, I realize we’re standing where Nimh stood when she performed the Feast of the Dying. Every detail of that evening is burned into my mind, from the setting sun to the spreading