Arrayed in a semicircle around the platform were four tree-lined pathways. The other three were identical to the one we’d just walked, down to the unsettling coffinlike box and the marble steps. The flames still burned along the sides of our path, but now they filled the stone rectangle, a blanket of fire. In another lane, water seeped up, creating a vast pool. In the next, the bottom of the rectangle seemed to split and heave, transforming to rich soil, and the scent of freshly turned earth wafted toward me. In the last pathway, there was no visible change, but the blades of grass around the rectangle wavered and bent, and the leaves of the trees began to whip around. A bell tolled, low and dolorous. The vibration carried through the ground and traveled up the soles of my feet, into my core.
“That’s the Summoner. No matter where they are, Arcs hear it, know to drop what they’re doing and head here.”
“And you do this every time somebody dies?”
“No. Evangeline was a Matriarch, so there’s more customs to observe.”
The bell sounded again. “Showtime. Stay close,” he said.
“Where would I go?” People were filing up the lanes now, their voices hushed. You could hear the sweep of their cloaks along the ground, the air alive with whispers and magic, and my stomach twinged in response. The Water Arcs, Evangeline’s people, gathered directly in front of us. I edged behind Luc. Neutral ground, I reminded myself. Safe.
Luc said only the Quartoren and a few others knew the truth about Evangeline’s death, and I believed him, mostly. But I knew how people reacted when someone died unexpectedly and you were in the vicinity. If these people had anything in common with Constance or Jenny Kowalski, my presence here was a terrible idea. I was about to tell Luc so when Dominic clapped my shoulder.
“Ready?”
Luc answered for me, his hand finding mine through the slits in our cloaks. “Let’s get this over with.”
The tension between them simmered unpleasantly, but Dominic seemed to brush it off, speaking with a jovial cadence that didn’t fit a funeral. “Quartoren’ll take their usual places,” he said, nodding toward the front of the dais. “You two will stand to the side, but it’s important Maura be visible. Want everyone to see she’s a part of this now. Helps deliver the message. Marguerite—” He glanced at his wife, concern flickering across his face. “You’ll stay with me.”
“I should stand with the House,” she protested. “It’s protocol.”
“I
make
protocol,” he said.
“You worry so. My men,” she sighed, addressing her words to me. “They do protect what’s theirs.”
Remarkably, Luc seemed to flush as I studied him, the color on his cheeks deepening.
“What about the Seraphim?” I asked suddenly. “Niobe said they were planning to do something big.”
“We’ve been over this. The Seraphim disbanded in the wake of their defeat,” said Orla, annoyed.
“We don’t know that,” Dominic said. “But even so, they can’t act here. It’s neutral ground.”
But Marguerite said Dominic was trying to protect her. And Luc was nervous—I could tell by the way his gaze darted around the crowd and the way he clutched my hand. If the Seraphim weren’t the threat, what was?
There was a sudden quiet—the tolling of the Summoner stopped. Its absence was nearly as startling as its commencement.
“Time to begin,” said Dominic, moving to the front of the stage, with Marguerite on his arm. Orla and Pascal flanked them. Luc urged me forward, but in the instant before we reached our position, he hesitated.
And that’s when I really began to worry.
C
HAPTER
36
T
ime and again, Luc had told me he’d been brought up as the future leader of his House. He was an essential part of the Torrent Prophecy. Taking his place in an Arc ceremony should be the most natural thing in the world for him.
If he was having doubts, something was very wrong.
I started to pull back, but it was too late—we were center stage. Thousands of people were staring at me, questioning, suspicious. A familiar panic clawed its way up my throat.
Dominic began to speak, praising Evangeline’s sacrifice during the Torrent.
The back of my neck grew hot as I listened, disgust churning through me. She’d been a traitor to these people, not a martyr for them. His voice carried across the crowded Allée, praising Evangeline’s wisdom and courage, her commitment to strengthening the Arcs and preserving their legacy. He spoke with absolute, unshakeable conviction, either an Oscar-worthy performance or a sign that I’d misread his loyalties completely.
Luc didn’t seem interested. His eyes swept the crowd continuously. I tried to see what he did, but I couldn’t seem to ignore Dominic’s words, my anger swelling as he went on and on.
Finally, mercifully, Dominic stopped. He strode down the steps, his cloak billowing behind him, and cupped his hands over the glassy pool of water. An instant later, my skin began to tingle, faintly, as if a limb had fallen asleep. I rolled my shoulders, trying to dislodge the feeling. He opened his hands, as if he was scattering something across the water, but nothing fell. I heard a sizzling sound, and then plumes of steam rose from the surface, scattering on the breeze.
Luc leaned in. “He’s offering a tribute. Rest of them will follow suit.”
“Everyone?” I looked at the crowd of Arcs. It was the world’s biggest wake. We’d be here forever.
He spoke without moving his lips. “Be glad you wore comfortable shoes.”
But as Dominic stepped back and Pascal moved forward, offering his own tribute, the magic crawled over my skin again. I rubbed my arms and Luc edged closer.
Orla took her place in front of the pool, the surface whipping up into tiny whitecaps. I flinched at the new surge of magic, and noticed Pascal watching me closely.
In an instant, I saw the error of the plan.
“It’s too much magic,” I whispered.
“Just a drop,” Luc assured me, but his voice sounded strained. “Almost nothing.”
“Look. Count them, Luc. How many drops?” Like the old story about putting a grain of rice on the first square of a chessboard—one grain on the first square, two on the second, four on the third ... by the last square, the pile of rice is bigger than Mount Everest. Those drops of magic were like grains of rice, and I’d be dead before we got to the second half of the board.
Dominic jerked his head, indicating we were up next, but Luc stayed where he was, looking at his father with utter loathing.
“Your turn, son,” Dominic said, the words pleasant on the surface and commanding underneath. The crowd stirred, impatient, and his voice dropped to a hiss. “Make the tribute.”
Jaw set, Luc tugged me toward the reflecting pool. “Hang on,” he said as we approached. “It’ll be okay, I swear.”
I wasn’t sure he could promise that. My stomach cramped, and I wrapped an arm around my waist.
The pool of water was easily ten feet long but less than three feet across—a narrow rectangle of black, glassy stone—obsidian, maybe, or onyx. The water was so still, our images caught in the surface like a mirror. Luc, all smoldering fury, and me, pale and bewildered. I barely recognized myself, and when I did, I was appalled. I’d worked too hard and seen too much in the last few months to be the frightened girl in the water. With an effort, I tore my gaze away and surveyed the crowd. People were starting to grumble, their faces clouding over with suspicion.
Constance stood a few feet from the front, her silvery hood barely drawn forward. She was trying to look bored, her lower lip jutting out, but her eyes were wide, taking in everything. Next to her, Niobe looked exasperated, unsurprised I was responsible for the delay.
With stiff, jerky movements, Luc held his hands out, waiting for me to follow suit. When I didn’t move, he nudged me, expecting I would follow his lead.
I couldn’t.
It wasn’t the fear stopping me, or my anger over Dominic’s words. I couldn’t stand up in front of these people and pretend to mourn Evangeline. I couldn’t pay a tribute—real or symbolic—to the woman who’d killed my best friend. No amount of logic or reasoning or dirty looks from Dominic was going to make it happen.
The noise from the crowd grew louder.
“Mouse, what’s the holdup?” Luc spoke without moving his lips. “You gotta do this.”
“I
can’t.
”
He paused, searching my face, his own expression miserable. “Well, I have to. I’m sorry.” He drew a breath and summoned the magic.
The world seemed to go high-def, my vision supersharp and clear, Luc’s words sounding as if he was speaking inside my head, the magic hitting the water below with a crackle. I felt the power racing along our bond, being absorbed into the chain rather than striking me. It was our bond that protected me, like it did whenever Luc cast a spell.
I felt buoyant, giddy with relief. If we left before the rest of the Arcs took their turn at the reflecting pool, I’d be safe. And then someone in the crowd shouted, “The Flat didn’t pay tribute.”
“Hell,” Luc muttered, and I couldn’t agree more.
The murmurs and grumbles of the crowd increased, more shouts ringing out, some so far back the words were impossible to decipher. Their tone wasn’t, though—anger passing from a simmer to a boil. The protests increased: I was an interloper, trespassing on hallowed ground, making a mockery of Evangeline’s memorial.
With no warning, a crack echoed over the head of the crowd, sounding like a gunshot. At the far end of the stage stood a cloaked figure, sky blue hood pulled up to hide his face. The crowd quieted instantly. His voice rang out in the silence, smooth and mesmerizing. “The Flat has brought us to ruin,” he called. “It’s this girl who has corrupted our magic and our leaders. She should pay the price.”
I could feel the magic eddying around him, an invisible current, surprisingly strong. The others must have felt it, too, or they would never have allowed the disruption.
For a split-second, Dominic’s face contorted, like a child who’d had his favorite toy taken away. And then he was back, full of masterful charm. He crossed the stage, Orla and Pascal falling into step behind him. His voice boomed, the very picture of affronted nobility. “We have gathered here to pay tribute to our lost Matriarch. You dishonor her, and your House, by speaking so. As Verity Grey lay dying, she transmitted some essential part of herself to this girl; through the conduits of blood and sacrifice, a Flat was transformed to the Vessel. We owe her our thanks, and without Evangeline’s help, we might never have known. Who are you to come here, spouting wild accusations, defilin’ this ceremony?”
The speaker pushed back his hood, revealing an utterly ordinary middle-aged man. He was handsome, in a bland sort of way, like an anchor on the local news. Brown hair combed straight back, deeply set brown eyes, square features. It was the calculating light in his eyes that made you look again.
“Anton Renard. I’m not the one making a mockery of this ceremony.” His voice was feverish with righteousness as he spoke to the crowd. “Do you see how powerless they are? How weak? They forged a Covenant with a
Flat
. They are so incapable, their best hope is to place our future in the hands of this girl. Look at the magic, at the harm their stewardship has brought about. Their time has passed.”
“What would you have us do?” Dominic’s voice managed to be strong and nonchalant at the same time, but I could sense the strain underneath. Out of the corner of my eye, I spotted Pascal and Orla try to copy his stance, and I understood—they couldn’t afford to look weak or afraid, not with so many Arcs watching. Why not get rid of the guy? Surely they had the ability to blast him into Between.
“Forego the Covenant. Allow the magic to revert to its natural state. It will restore the Arcs to our former glory and free us from the dictates of the Quartoren.”
“That sounds an awful lot like treason, doesn’t it?” Dominic said, his words hanging in the air. The crowd stood motionless at the accusation.
“Loyalty to the magic isn’t treason.”
“You belong to Evangeline’s house, yes?” Orla said. “You could be elevated to the Quartoren. Is that what this is about? Seems a little gauche, angling for her seat before her mourning ceremony concludes.”
Luc bent his head to mine. “The man’s lookin’ for a bigger prize than Evangeline’s seat. He’s one of the Seraphim. Best if we get you out of here.”
Anton scoffed at Orla’s words, letting the audience see his contempt. They watched the spectacle before them, expressions rapt. “You believe I would aspire to be one of you? That I care about the Houses? They’re just another relic.”
He flung his arm to the side, hand outstretched, and shouted something in the language of the magic.
A foot away from me, the reflecting pool shattered, water streaming onto the ground. A collective gasp rose up, every Arc in the Allée rearing back in shock.
Beside me, Luc’s eyes widened, and he shoved me away from the jagged pieces of rock.
“What’s wrong?”
“That stone’s imbued with magic. It’s unbreakable.”
“Not anymore,” I said.
Anton looked out over the sea of robes, basking in the looks of fear and grudging respect.
“I propose a new world,” he said, “built on the rubble of the old, guided by the Seraphim. We shall cast aside the Quartoren, and with them the Vessel. Her presence among us is offensive, but it is hardly the most grievous of her crimes.”
He brought his hands together in a thunderous clap and then flung them outward, palms up, in our direction. The force of the blow knocked us apart, sending Luc headlong into the broken stones. I pitched forward, landing on my knees at the base of the steps. The heavy cloak hampered my movements. Anton hauled me to my feet and gathered hold of the material, twisting it so the clasp pressed against my windpipe. Choking, I clawed at it until the silk finally tore, releasing me.
“You have no right to wear our robes,” he hissed. A few feet away, Luc was clambering up, blood trickling down his forehead. Before I could reach him, Anton grabbed my arm and thrust me toward the crowd, shouting, “The girl herself is proof of the Quartoren’s betrayal!”
I knew what he was going to say the minute I saw the weird, unholy light in his eyes. I struggled to break free as he announced, “She is a killer. It wasn’t the Torrent that took the life of our Matriarch. It was her. The Flat used our magic to murder Evangeline Marais.”