“Goddess,” someone murmured. Maret. His voice was soft. Too soft for a murderer. He was silent for a moment, then gave a startled shout and backed away. Something tugged at the edge of her consciousness.
The people closest to Andra noticed before she did. They exclaimed and knelt, and that’s when Andra saw it.
A nano’swarm coalesced in the air, glittering in the flickering light. Roughly human shaped, it hung suspended for a moment, and then dove into the girl. Her back arched, and Andra scuttled back, watching as the wound in the girl’s throat knitted itself back together, slowly, purposefully, until the fatal cut was nothing but a puckered scar and dried blood. Andra had never seen nanos work so quickly or cleanly. It was incredible, but ultimately useless. The girl was already dead; the nanos couldn’t change that.
But they did.
The girl gasped, her eyes flying open. Andra dropped the icepick dagger and it clattered to the tile. The girl met Andra’s stare, gulping in heaving breaths. Andra sensed the ’swarm leaving the girl’s body, but slowly, not as dramatically as it had entered.
The girl wiggled away from Andra, eyes still set in defiance, hands grasping for her swords, which were now out of reach. It was like no time had passed for her. Like . . .
Like she’d been in cryonic stasis.
Maret was still beside her, his ’implant gleaming on his forehead.
Andra was too stunned to move, but her brain was flying through the implications. In order to bring someone back to life, they couldn’t have been dead in the first place. The girl had dropped like a stone, almost as though she had died instantly. Even the deepest cut to the carotid artery would have incurred some kind of reaction as she died. But if she had been put into stasis first . . .
It would require portable cryo’technology, which should have been beyond Maret’s capabilities, beyond anyone’s capabilities. But Andra saw the evidence in front of her. The girl had been put into stasis right before Maret slit her throat, then she’d been healed and woken up again. All in a matter of seconds.
The crowd gasped. Every single person fell to their knees, bowing to Andra, and suddenly she realized what they saw. What they thought they saw.
She’d brought someone back to life.
Well shit, she thought, and glanced at Maret. Had he just proven she was a goddess?
She had to make the most of it, use it to her advantage. It had to look like she’d done it on purpose. She stood, willing her legs not to give out. The people were bowing, trembling, and Andra opened her mouth to speak, not sure what would come out.
“This planet is dying,” she said, keeping her voice firm but quiet, so that the crowd had to lean forward to hear. “The protection the gods have given you will not last forever. The gods’ dome must be sustained with . . . magic that is beyond any of your sorcers, even that of your beloved Guv.”
She heard Maret’s breath falter, but she didn’t care. Something churned inside her. Something dark and wonderful and heady. The tips of her fingers tingled with power, and she loved it. And she hated it.
And she loved it.
She was used to being too much: she was too fat, too analytical, too sarcastic, too Andra. So she’d learned to make herself smaller, to take up less space—physical and otherwise. To stay out of the way until needed. But here. Here she could make herself as big as she wanted. As much as she wanted.
She raised her voice—just a bit, not enough to make it look like she was trying to hold their attention, but enough that none of them would miss her next words. The stars shone above. Twinkle orbs reflected off the colorful tile and the thrill of nano’bots brushed her skin.
“But it’s not beyond me.” She took a deep breath. “I am your goddess. And I will save you all.”
The crowd was silent, and Andra felt a thrill of light-headedness as they stared at her in awe. Like she was some great and terrible thing. And Andra realized they saw in her both their salvation and destruction.
She turned to go, but not before pausing to hiss at Maret, “What did you do?”
“I didn’t do anything, Goddess.” He stared at her, just as awed and frightened as the people. “That was all you.”
TWENTY-FOUR
THE BROTHER
Zhade crept through the First’s suite like a thief—moving as silentish as possible despite being in a hidden corner of the palace. He didn’t even light the candles, mereish searched by starlight. Outside, the wind howled under a fading moon bandaged in tattered clouds.
No meteor how many times he’d hit the button on the speak-easy, Wead still hadn’t responded. There were a palmful of possible reasons. Perhaps he’d lost his device. Or maybe he was busy. He and Dzeni had been apart awhile, and perhaps they had the ridiculous need for space. But Zhade couldn’t shake the sense something was wrong. He hadn’t heard from Wead in a turn, and now, news was spreading bout the girl who had died and been resurrected by the Third, as was her identity. If Wead recked his sister was being held captive in the palace, nothing would stop him from saving her.
So what was stopping him?
As stunned as Zhade had been in the Yard, he’d had enough sense to snatch the discarded icepick dagger before anyone noticed. It now hung heavy in his pocket as he rifled through the First’s suite, looking for bits of magic he’d yet to explore. A few fractured spells littered the ransacked drawers. Discarded casings hid under the bed. He was full certz he’d already gathered anything useful, anything Maret had missed, but if there was something left that would help him get Doon out of prison, he would find it.
Zhade should have seen this coming. The little warrior was changed, for certz, but she’d always been impulsive. He should never have told her bout the dagger. He should have taken an eye out for her. He should have done more to stop her. There had been oozhles of opportunities to prevent this, but he’d been too focused on his own plans to see them.
Wead was going to kill him.
When they had left four years ago, Doon was still playing Stone’s Throw with the other Hive kidduns. She was smaller, and weaker, and if she hadn’t been so fraughting sweet, she’d have been a target for bullying. Now, she was a trained killer who’d died and been resurrected.
Zhade had paid so much time planning to fake a miracle, and then the Goddess had gone and done a real one.
He didn’t reck how to describe what he’d seen. Doon had been dead—that was for certz. No one could survive an injury like that—not even with an angel nearish to heal them soon and sooner. Zhade’s mind had blanked, and then flooded with images of Lew-Eadin finding out his sister was dead. At the hands of Zhade’s brother.
Evens. It wouldn’t be the first time they’d lost someone to Maret’s knife.
What Zhade couldn’t shake was that through all the grief and shock of seeing Doon dead on the floor, he also felt . . . grateful to his brother for saving the Goddess—even though she’d never been at danger. And everything bout that was unforgivable.
Zhade spotted two sensor spells and a glamour mask tucked under hair threads in the gilded vanity, and shoved them in his satchel. That would have to do. He didn’t have time for an intricate plan—the long con, the marathon: those were his specialties. This slapdash, hurried kind of mission always went wrong, and if he ever needed Wead here to sort things, it was soon and now.
He tossed his bag over his shoulder and strode across the plush carpet to the metal servants’ door, swinging it open—
And ran straight into the Goddess.
Her short hair was free from ornament, and for once she wore no face glamour. She was dressed in the dark clothes she usualish wore when sneaking round the palace, because she recked they made her invisible. As though anything could do that.
“Miss me?” He tucked his hands into his pockets and leaned against the doorframe.
“Terribly.” She scowled, but Zhade recked it was just
to hide her true feelings. “How did you know?”
“Evens, it was either that, or you’re here to ask for my help breaking the little assassin out of prison.”
The Goddess blinked. Zhade grinned.
“I’m full brill. Didn’t you reck?”
* * *
Zhade’s plan was brash, and he’d prefer that the Goddess not be involved, but he was running out of time to save Doon, so here they were. The first thing they needed was a disguise. It would be hard enough to sneak into the dungeon, even harder with a recognizable goddess at his side. So he smuggled a uniform about her size from the laundry and brought it back to the First’s rooms.
Zhade turned his back as Andra changed, scrunching his eyes shut as he listened to the rustle of fabric over skin. Once she was done, he sat on the First’s bed, spelling the glamour mask to make her features mimic a guard named Ahloma, whose clothes she now wore. It wouldn’t fool anyone who looked closeish. But no one tended to look closeish at those wearing uniforms. He was aware of the Goddess watching him as he nimblish cast the spell, picking out features from the scry that best suited Ahloma.
“Seriously,” she said. “Where’d you learn to do this?”
“Magic hands,” he said, wiggling his fingers.
A single streak of moonlight shone across her face as she rolled her eyes.
She liked him, he could tell. And not just physical attraction, either, though her response to his kiss in the hall had been enthusiastic enough. She found him charming, wanted to pass time with him. He couldn’t blame her. Most people did.
But most people didn’t make him feel the same way.
He lifted the hem of his shirt to wipe off the sweat from his brow. He flexed his abs. She looked.
Certz. The Goddess was in love with him.
“Evens,” Zhade said. He motioned for her to sit on a nearby chair and knelt before her, lifting the glamour mask to her face, sealing it against her skin with extra care. He sat back on his heels, admiring his work.
At a quick glance, she looked just like Ahloma. But at closer inspection, there was no mistaking her for anything but the Goddess. Through the glamour, he could see her dark eyes and amber skin. Her full lips pursed together, like they did when she was lost in her head. Every time she blinked, her lashes fluttered against her cheeks, and Zhade found himself drawing forward.
The Goddess cleared her throat.
“What’s next?”
Zhade blinked. “Uh . . .” He sat back, running a hand over his face. “Ahloma has the day shift, so we shouldn’t run into the real Alohma for a good six bells. But shifts change all the time, so nobody should question why you’re—she’s with me.”
The Goddess nodded, and Zhade grabbed her hand.
“How did you do it?” he asked. “You keep saying you’re not a Goddess, but I saw you. Everyone saw you. You brought someone back from the dead. What are you?”
Zhade had seen the First do miracuful things, but he’d never seen her bring someone back to life. For true, he’d sole ever seen goddesses resurrected, and Doon was no goddess.
Andra hesitated, and something like fear flashed over her features. “I don’t . . . know.” She let out a long sigh. “I have an ’implant . . . in my brain.” She touched the back of her head, tenderish, like she would touch a bruise. “Sort of like the one Maret wears, but it’s inside me. I didn’t think it could interact with the nano’bots—the stardust. But somehow, it did. And it did something it shouldn’t have been able to do, even with compatible tech. Maybe whatever happened with the little girl is the same thing that happened when I accidentally destroyed the nano’patch. I didn’t mean for it to happen, it was just instinct. Or maybe it’s a fluke of how tech has evolved.” Her eyes glazed over. “I thought it was Maret who brought her back.”
Zhade rubbed his neck. “Maret was the one who killed her.”
The Goddess shook her head, eyes still thoughtful. “I don’t think she was ever dead. My ’implant wanted to protect me from her, so it did. It was like it put her into stasis—like I was, but without the box. That shouldn’t be possible though.”
Zhade let out a breath and pulled the icepick dagger out of his pocket. “I reck it was this.”
She looked from him to it. “What is it?”
“Dunno. I recked it was mereish a dagger, but now I imagine it’s something more. Something to do with you. Both times you held it, you performed a miracle.”
He didn’t want to convo this—he recked the guilt the Goddess would feel when she realized she had killed the man in the Small Wastes. But keeping it a secret had cost them both. He saw when it hit her, the grief that overtook her face.
“You think I killed the man by the statue?” she choked.
“Sorries and worries. I reck you didn’t do it apurpose,” he said.
“That doesn’t matter!”
Zhade took her hand. “You saved my life. Thank you.”
She bit her lip, and her eyes grew red and wet. For a moment, she did nothing but stare, and Zhade could all but hear her thoughts. Under her glamour, her face was ashen and her eyes shimmered. He held her gaze til she nodded, then turned the dagger over in his hands.
“Whatever this is, it releases your magic.”
She swallowed. “It’s . . . possible, I suppose. My ’implant doesn’t interact with the tech here. Maybe this is some kind of . . . translator? An upgrade patch?” Her voice was still rough.
Zhade didn’t comp what she was saying, but one thing was for certz—the Goddess was teetering on the precipice of something. Whatever it was, it was wild and dangerful, and if Zhade didn’t pull her back from the edge, he’d lose her.
And then what would happen to his plans?
And her?
“You should hold it,” he said, offering her the dagger.
She immediatish recoiled. “No. No way. If what you say is true, I killed someone with that, Zhade. You can’t let me near it.”
“You also saved someone.”
She hesitated for a moment, but then shook her head again. “No. I can’t risk it.”
“Evens.” He stood. He would find another march to protect her, after they saved Doon. “Soon and sooner, let’s peace and break the tiny warrior out of the palace dungeons, marah?”
Andra stopped him with a hand on his arm. “She’s Lew’s sister isn’t she?”
Zhade nodded once.
“And she wasn’t trying to kill me, was she?”
He shook his head.
“Then why—”
“Rescue anow, convo later,” he said, shouldering his bag.
He handed her a sword, which took her a few tries to get into Ahloma’s scabbard. He promised her she wouldn’t need it, though it was a promise he couldn’t keep. The plan was to casualish walk to the dungeons, then casualish walk out with Doon.
Terrible plan, for certz. The Goddess told him as much, and he agreed.
“That’s why it’ll work,” he said. “But it’ll sole work once.”
Zhade led Andra down the hall. He’d visited the dungeons a handful of times, back when he was a kiddun. They weren’t used as dungeons then—mereish storage. They made their march downstairs, and the farther they went, the dimmer the light grew, the more twisted the halls. Guards and servants let them pass, giving them mereish passing glances. Occasionalish, someone would nod to Zhade or ask the Goddess how she was doing. Ask Ahloma how she was doing. She’d shrug, and Zhade would smoothish provide some excuse bout Sfin changing Ahloma’s shift, and fin would be fin.
They entered the dungeons by descending a flight of cracked, narrow stairs. At the bottom, two guards stood blocking their entrance. Zhade wouldn’t have recognized them, but he had memory of the rotation and recked they were Legra and Dzon.
Legra nodded to Zhade. “What happens?” Her tone wasn’t accusato
ry, just curious.
“Sfin sent Ahloma and me to relieve you,” Zhade said.
Dzon frowned. “We’ve been down here mereish half abell.”
If some of the other guards had been down here—Pin or Ricado perhaps—they would have jumped at the chance to be relieved of duty soon and sooner. But Zhade had to take a different tack with these two.
“Evens,” he said, thrusting his hands into his pockets. “Sfin’s not too happy with you pair after prior eve.”
Their eyes widened. Yahtzee.
“He recks bout that?” Legra asked.
Zhade nodded graveish. “Firm. And you happen at luck that all he asks is you clean out the barracks smallroom.”
The guards sighed in relief, nodded their thanks to Zhade, and hurried up the stairs.
“Don’t return til it shines!” he called after them.
“What did they do last night?” the Goddess asked.
“No idea.” He opened the door and gestured for her to go first.
Zhade grabbed a torch from where it was mounted outside the door and lit the room. It was a cavernous space, the walls a hodgepodge of rocks and hardcrete and metal, jagged and muddied. The cells were cages, the metal rods disappearing into the walls and ceilings, like they grew from the rocks themselves. Somewhere, water was dripping, hitting the floor with incessant pings. Doon was huddled in the corner of the far cell, a pile of rags curled in on itself.
“Little assassin?” the Goddess whispered, weaving her arm through the bars. Something bout the image made Zhade’s heart clench. “Are you okay?”
“Evens, it’s bout time,” said Doon’s voice, but it was coming from the ceiling, and definitish not from what turned out to be an actual pile of rags.
Doon dropped from where she was perched, fingers clinging to minute grooves, legs forming the splits, each of her feet wedged against a wall. She landed with an oof, but quickish straightened.
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