At the same time, Séverin and Enrique dove through the Forged heat net. Séverin slammed into the ground. Sharp pain shot up his wrist, but he pushed past it.
“Behind you!” shouted Enrique.
A huge ice lion sprang toward them. Séverin clambered backwards on his elbows, turning his face sharply. Seconds later, a rush of water hit the floor. He looked up to see water soaking his pant leg.
The heat net had turned the creature to a puddle of water.
Beside him, Enrique fought to catch his breath, his arms around his knees.
“Thank you,” said Séverin.
Enrique’s eyes turned glossy. When he fixed him with a stare, it was dead-eyed. For a long moment, he could say nothing. He looked away from Séverin to the floor.
“How could you do that to me?” he asked quietly.
At the sound of his voice, something inside Séverin threatened to break. He had nothing left to offer but the truth. He closed his eyes, thinking that once more his head would be full of remembering the slick golden ichor on Roux-Joubert’s mouth and the fleeting weight of wings.
But instead, he thought of Hypnos’s last toast. May our ends justify our means. That was all he had wanted. And he’d failed.
“I needed you for this one last job,” said Séverin, hauling himself upright. “I needed everyone’s complete focus and attention, but it wasn’t just for me. It was for all of us. The Divine Lyrics can grant godhood. That’s what I wanted for us … Do you understand? If I had that, no one would ever hurt us. You could have anything you want. You could go back to the Ilustrados, and they’d fall to their knees to have you. Tristan could even—”
“Have you gone mad?” cut in Enrique. “Turning into a god? That was your solution to your problems?”
“You have no idea what I saw or what I felt when I was in those catacombs. I had wings, Enrique. I had golden blood in my veins, and what I felt … it was like knowing the fucking pulse of the universe,” said Séverin. “You heard Ruslan in the dining room. The Fallen House had the means to do that, with their Midas Knife or whatever it was called. Imagine if there was more. Imagine what I could have given us if we had that book—”
He broke off when Enrique started laughing. Not a laugh of joy, but a laugh of hysteria.
“It’s not even a book,” said Enrique.
Séverin paused. Everything in his mind went still. “What?”
“It’s a lyre.”
“A lyre,” Séverin repeated.
Once more, something stirred to life inside him. Something that felt dangerously like hope.
“But I don’t think it will give you what you want, Séverin,” said Enrique sadly. “The writing on the wall talked about the instrument summoning the unmaking. It could mean that every Forged thing in existence would collapse.”
“It’s supposed to grant the power of God—”
“And God creates and destroys in equal measure.”
“So we make sure that only we play it—”
Enrique flung out his hand. “You’re not listening to me! What about Laila? The Fallen House has been searching for someone of the Lost Muses bloodline—a girl with an ability to read what others cannot. That’s Laila. If the Fallen House has taken her, what if it’s because they know what she can do? They might have even connected her to the lineage of the Lost Muses.”
Séverin’s head was spinning. Blood rushed through his ears. He had to get to her. He had to make sure she was safe.
“Then only we play it, guided by Laila—who might be the only person left who can use it—”
“No,” insisted Enrique. “Don’t you see how this could affect her if this instrument is played? She’s Forged, Séverin. That could mean that she—”
Séverin’s gaze snapped to him. “How do you know that?”
Two things hit Séverin at once. One, that he’d never even stopped to consider the nature of Laila’s … making. To him, something Forged was inanimate. An object. Laila was life incarnate. The second realization was that Laila had told someone else about her origins. Before, he was the only one who’d known. The only one she had trusted with that secret.
Enrique’s eyes flickered with guilt. He was hiding something. Séverin was sure of it.
“What aren’t you telling me?”
Enrique crossed himself, looked upward and murmured, “I’m sorry, Laila. But he has to know.”
“Know what?” demanded Séverin.
Enrique looked away from him. “Laila is dying.”
A beat passed. Then two. Those words poisoned the air, and Séverin didn’t let himself breathe as if one inhale might make those words true. And then, before he could speak, a hissing sound pulled his attention to the Forged net. The light quivered, flashing bright and dull. Just beyond it, the animals had lined up … tails whipping, hooves raking the frost-thick floor …
The net had begun to break.
32
ZOFIA
Zofia blinked a couple of times, her mind registering the unfamiliar surrounding in spurts: translucent floor, Lake Baikal’s gem-colored water rushing beneath the surface. Cold, slippery ice burned the skin of her palms. When she glanced up, light bounced off a sharp curve she didn’t recognize. Out the corner of her eye, she spied the tops of people’s heads, their scalps pressed up against the wall and eye level to her. Zofia turned away sharply and flung out her arms, only for them to slam into the walls encasing her. She was trapped. The word zipped through her skull, and she doubled over, nausea building in her throat.
Not again.
When she blinked, she saw the laboratory fires … the students screaming … the way her mind and body failed her when she reached to open the door.
No. No. No.
Zofia curled in on herself only for the sharp edge of Hela’s envelope to press against her skin, a stinging reminder of the people depending on her. Zofia forced herself to sit up straight, and remind herself of all that had happened. Her memories felt thready. She remembered the leviathan and the red candles, the writing on the wall … WE ARE READY FOR THE UNMAKING. After that, nothing. Zofia set her teeth and lay her palms flat on the ice floor, letting the cold shock her. She counted her breaths. One. Two. Three. She focused on the floor, counting the marbled trails left behind in the ice … fifteen, nineteen, forty-seven.
Only then did she finally lift her head.
Where was she? The room was long and rectangular, the width of it not sufficient to stretch out her arms. She could stand and turn easily in the space, and so she did, though she could not walk far, for she was not alone. Shoved against the western wall and propped at a sharp angle was the broken body of an ice stag. She remembered seeing it with Eva not two days ago. Eva had seen her discomfort and asked House Dazbog not to destroy the machine. The stag’s chest was torn out, and the ventricles of ice that had once pulsed through it were dead, leaving nothing but hollow wire. Finally, Zofia knew where she was.
The prison of the Sleeping Palace.
Except for the north-facing wall, her surroundings showed nothing but an expanse of packed snow. When she faced north, the glass walls revealed the atrium of the Sleeping Palace. Members of the Order of Babel lay propped against the atrium’s perimeter like strange dolls. A couple even leaned against one wall of her prison cell.
“Let me out!” shouted Zofia.
But they did not move when she tapped the glass behind their heads. They did not respond when she looked at the ones opposite the room, shouting once more.
No response.
Not even a blink.
She caught sight of something else. Two people dashing into the atrium from the western side of her cell: Enrique and Séverin. A pattern of shifting light sprawled out before them. From behind the pianos and tables, the empty stage and rows of people, ice creatures stalked to attack. A flash of silver caught her eye. Too late, she saw an ice cheetah dash toward Séverin’s unprotected right side:
“Séverin!” she called out.
&nb
sp; But he didn’t hear her.
Zofia pounded at the glass with her fist. Nothing happened. Frantically, she reached for her throat, only for her hand to meet skin.
Her necklace of pendants and folded weapons was gone. Bile stung the back of her throat. She patted down the front of her jackets and pockets. She had nothing on her person except Hela’s letter and—
Zofia stopped just as her fingers closed around familiar edges. Her matchbox. She drew it out, flipping back the silver cover: three matches. That was all she had. She looked at Séverin and Enrique, now trying to run to the ice grotto entrance, which was netted over with a Forged heat protectant. Her breath came quick. In Forging, her affinity had always been metallurgy. She had not been trained in the art of detecting and manipulating the presence of minerals in ice. The probability of success was low. But the probability of dying was higher.
Zofia lit one of the three matches against her tooth, then held it to the ice wall. If she could detect the minerals and ignite it with the presence of fire, she could create a hole within the wall. She pressed her hand to the ice, straining to feel the pulse of her Forging affinity … the thrum of ore within an object that responded to her touch. She pushed with everything inside her, but then the flame guttered out. Zofia scrambled to catch it only for her feet to slip out beneath her, throwing her to the ground. Her chin smacked into the ice floor, and she tasted blood. Wearily, Zofia forced herself to a stand.
Only two matches left.
Fingers trembling, she wiped the blood off her lips, then reached for another match. The sound of fire ripped through the air only for the match to slip out from between her wet, bloody fingers. A sob caught in her throat as the flame spluttered and died on the ice.
Zofia felt the rush of a thousand failures. She saw the blank expression on Laila’s face; the pity in Enrique’s eyes; Hela’s worry tugging down the corners of her mouth. A thousand expressions she had easily deciphered. All of it dragged out something deep within her. Her skin felt like it was burning. A low buzz gathered at the base of her skull. It wasn’t irritation. It wasn’t annoyance.
It was fury.
Zofia remembered one of the last evenings in the kitchens of L’Eden, when Tristan had still lived. He had been making a chain of daisies, letting them grow into bizarre vines that snatched Enrique’s book straight out of his hands. Laila had scolded them for making a mess, and threatened: “If you make a mess of my kitchen, I’ll unleash the fury of a Zofia who has not had her daily sugar cookie.” Zofia had frowned at that because she didn’t know that she was capable of fury. Fury belonged to those with fiery temperaments, but the longer she sat there, the more she felt as if she was seeing a new part of herself.
When she looked through the northern glass, she saw Enrique stumbling … an ice wolverine gaining on him, and she remembered the last thing he had said to her:
You’re a lot braver than most of the people outside. None of them could build a bomb with their eyes closed and wander into a metal monster and still want to name it “David.” Trust in yourself, Phoenix.
She would not make him a liar.
Zofia turned to the crystal stag, inert and glittering. Beneath its hooves, she noticed a spider-like fracture spreading out from the ice. She could not burn through the ice. But the stag was a Forged instrument, powerful enough that its hooves, if moving, could shatter through the barrier.
Her last match in hand, Zofia knelt beside the stag. Days ago, House Dazbog had dismissed the machine for its broken internal metal mechanisms, its failure to respond. She could not manipulate ice. But she could work with metal. And she could work with fire.
Zofia let her hands run over its smooth artistry. In the gaping mess of its chest, she felt the slim, hollow wires … their tangled shape. She felt where the machine had gone silent. She struck her last match. At her touch, the once dormant metal sang. It was a low, thready song. Slowly, the gears began to grind together, the fire working its way through the flammable metal oxides.
The ice stag shuddered to life, its hooves pawing at the air. Zofia bent her will to the creature, just as she would with any of her other inventions. The stag kicked out, shattering the glass wall. It scrabbled to a stand, righting itself and arching the frosted line of its throat. When it shook its antlers, small icicles shattered on the ground. It lowered its head to Zofia, its huge antlers sharp as weapons. At the center of its chest now bubbled a small inferno. A heart of fire.
For a moment, Zofia was awed. All the tools and objects she had Forged were not like this. This was the art of Forging that felt like she had granted life. This was the part of the art form that others called a sliver of God’s power.
It filled her with a sense of capability … as if she might go anywhere and not count the trees; as if she might talk to anyone and never know panic. It was power, she realized, and she quite liked it.
Zofia reached for one of its antlers and then hauled herself onto its freezing back.
“Go,” she commanded.
The stag reared up onto its front legs and then shattered the glass wall. In one smooth leap, it jumped over the heads of the frozen members of the Order of Babel. Ahead of her, Zofia could see the line of animals had converged into a knot at the entrance to the hall that housed the ice grotto. The Forged heat net flickered dimly. Soon, it would die. At the mouth of the hall, she watched as Séverin flung out his hand, his other hand pushing Enrique behind him.
The animals poised to strike.
Zofia urged the stag faster, her hand moving once more to her neck. Frustration gathered inside her. She needed a weapon, something that would push back the creatures. She cast about and saw an ornamental sword lying across the lap of a frozen member of the Italian faction. The stag halted to a stop in front of him, and she reached down, plucking the sword.
“Thank you,” she said.
She gripped the blade, finding the pulse of its metal that sang to her Forging affinity and then pressed it against the ice stag’s flaming heart. Fire erupted across the sword.
“Faster,” she whispered.
The stag galloped down the line of ice creatures, then skidded to a halt at the front of the Forging net. The net itself was made of metal, and when she reached out … letting her fingers skim across it, the thread felt cold to the touch. It needed fire. She looked behind her to make sure that Séverin and Enrique were safe. Séverin held a mirror shard in his hand and stared at her. Enrique yelped, hiding his face behind his arm. He poked his head up, his arm falling to his side. His jaw dropped, and he looked from her face to the flaming sword.
“Zofia?”
Indignation. Amazement. Confusion. It could be any of those emotions, thought Zofia, so she settled on the only reply that made sense to her: “Hello.”
Then she turned back to the line of ice creatures. She brandished the fire sword. A handful of the creatures skittered back.
“Séverin and Enrique, get behind the net,” she said.
She heard them step backward, and then she brought the tip of her sword to the net. Heat bloomed across it once more, and the ice creatures stepped backwards, hissing and growling. Zofia dropped the sword, then dismounted from her stag. It swung its head to her. Zofia patted its hindquarters once, and it took off down the atrium, far away from the fire net.
When she turned around, Séverin and Enrique were still staring at her.
“You rescued us,” said Enrique, heaving. He smiled weakly. “This almost feels like a fairy tale, and I’m the damsel in distress.”
“You’re not a damsel.”
“I am in distress, though.”
“But—”
“Let me have this, Zofia,” said Enrique wearily.
“Zofia…” started Séverin, and then he stopped.
If anyone appeared distressed, it was Séverin. He fell silent, his brows pressing together as he pointed to the ice grotto.
“I’m glad you’re safe, but we’re still missing Laila and Hypnos,” he said, looking up
at her. “Enrique said you’d gone to the leviathan. What happened?”
Zofia stared down the hall, unease creeping through her.
“I was attacked inside it.”
“Did you see your attacker’s face?”
She shook her head.
“What weapons do we have?”
Zofia touched her bare throat. Nothing. Séverin saw the movement and nodded. He looked to Enrique and then glanced down at the emptied arsenal of his belt.
“Stay behind me, and we’ll go together,” he said.
Zofia had hardly taken a step when she heard a low sigh from the end of the ice grotto. It was a sigh of reluctance, the sound she used to make when Laila would tell her to wash her hands before eating dinner or help tidy up the kitchens. But that sigh did not match the figure who stepped out of the shadows. A man wearing a golden bee mask … his hands steepled in thought, one hand pale and the other … the other gold.
She recognized the insect mask immediately. It belonged to the man in the catacombs, the man who the Fallen House had called “the doctor.”
“I know you’ll understand,” said the doctor. “It may not be easy at first … but you will understand. I will show you before the day is gone.”
“What—” started Zofia, just as three masked people stepped out from behind the doctor.
Séverin lunged at them, a mirror shard in his hand, but the man was too quick. He subdued him, forcing him to the ground. Séverin fought to turn his face toward them.
“Zofia, Enrique, run—”
The person kicked Séverin in the head, and he went still. A second masked man grabbed Enrique by the throat, holding a knife to his neck. Zofia raised her fists, fury gathering at the back of her skull when the doctor raised his hand.
“Fight back,” said the doctor, turning his masked face to her. “And I will cut his throat. I really do not wish to do that. First, it’s deeply unhygienic. Second, it’s such a waste of a person.”
The Silvered Serpents Page 30