The Other Side of the Sky - Amie Kaufman Page 0,78

will infuse me with his spirit, and I will become the greatest of all divinities. I will be the Wrathmaker, the Destroyer, the Eater of Worlds. Bring your false goddess to me, for she and I must speak.”

A murmur of fearful confusion slips around the chamber as my people react to her words. Some shuffle backward, some duck their heads, but not one of them show her any defiance.

My own breath catches, and I bite my tongue against the reply I want to fling at her, my anger and disbelief demanding to make themselves heard.

Everything she says is false—none of the prophecies speak of a vessel to be infused by the Lightbringer. Where is her Last Star? Where are any of the signs?

A flicker of movement catches my eye, and I shift, pressing my cheek to the carved wooden screen until I can see it properly.

Elkisa.

She is moving slowly, carefully, sidling away from her post and closer to the cultists’ leader. I can read the icy calm of determination as she moves between and around the guests at the party.

She is the sole survivor of the massacre at our camp. She means to kill this intruder. She means to take revenge.

“No,” I whisper, and after a moment, North sees her too—his breath catches and his knuckles show white.

Inshara smiles, unaware of Elkisa’s approach, and steps gracefully down the pile of rubble as though descending a grand staircase. Her guards remain where they are, covering their exit back through the hole in the wall.

A flicker of hope kindles in my chest. If Inshara keeps moving into the room, maybe Elkisa can reach her, stop her, before her guards can …

“One of you must know where she is,” Inshara says, her tone almost pleasant now—indulgent, like that of a parent speaking to a child she knows has been naughty. “You could not be so foolish as to misplace a goddess.”

From my vantage point above and behind the musicians’ platform, I can see the piper’s shaking fingers and the sweat darkening the drummer’s hair. I can see heads swiveling side to side in the crowd, looking for me, or perhaps for Daoman—anyone who might take charge of the situation.

Then, like povvies scattering before a predator, the crowd parts and I see the rich saffron of my high priest’s robe.

“Leave this sacred place,” he commands, his voice effortlessly pitched to carry just as hers does. His face is calm, but I know he wears a mask—I know that beneath the facade, he is raging.

Inshara’s flashing eyes turn toward him—and a few degrees farther away from Elkisa. My guard is nearly within striking distance. The false goddess smiles at Daoman. “High priest,” she greets him, with a gracious inclination of her head. “Well met. If you bring your goddess before me, I shall let you remain among my priesthood.” She adds with a touch of amusement, “Not in your current position, you understand, but you will be permitted to light incense and join in the prayers of my acolytes.”

From where I stand, I can see them facing each other. Daoman’s profile is motionless and stern; Inshara’s smiling and certain.

“Go,” Daoman says again, “and you will be permitted to live long enough to leave this city.”

“I can’t do that,” Inshara replies, simulating dismay. “Not without proving to you and all those here that you have put your faith in a tragic mistake.”

Movement. Elkisa is only a few paces away from where Inshara stands facing Daoman. I see her draw her blade slowly, making no sound.

Gods of my ancestors, please …

For the first time I can remember, I am seized with such a powerful desire to reach out and take someone’s hand that I am forced to ball my own hands into fists. I squeeze them so tightly that I can feel my fingernails digging into my palms.

I glance at North and realize that now my hands look exactly like his.

Daoman’s voice is ringing. “Nimhara is no mistake, Insha.” He leaves off the divine honorific—the sound of that truncated name makes the leader of the Deathless stiffen. “Even without an aspect, she holds great power.”

Inshara collects herself, treating the high priest to a slow, lazy smile. “Perhaps. But you have never seen true power, Daoman.”

With a scream of rage and effort, Elkisa launches her attack, blade raised. Inshara whirls, incanting a spell I don’t know, and then moves as if throwing something invisible at my guard. Elkisa’s headlong rush halts so abruptly it’s like she hit solid