No shit. “I’ll only be here for a few days,” Ronja replied, feigning regret.
Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Paxton pass her an inquisitive glance. She ignored him pointedly. “We have to go, Silas,” he said. “Rel’eev, Entalia.”
“Rel’eev,” Silas replied with a disappointed sigh. He saluted Ronja again, then stepped around them and continued on down the hall.
“Come on,” Paxton said, starting forward.
“What does that mean? Rel’eev?” Ronja asked as she fell into step beside him.
Paxton chewed on the question for a moment before responding. “There is no exact translation. The closest I can equate it to is may the goddess Entalia be with you. You can use it to refer to any god, though.”
Ronja found herself bobbing her head. “We have something like that in the Anthem. May your song guide you home.”
“May your song guide you home.” Paxton tested the phrase on his tongue. “What does it mean?”
Ronja paused, weighing her reply. “I guess it means something different to everyone.” Before he could ask her for more details, she changed the subject. “So, Entalia. Who is she, exactly? Jonah said she was the goddess of rebirth. What does that mean?”
“Depends who you ask.” Paxton scraped to a stop before one of the doors. She followed suit, eyeing it dubiously. It was considerably larger than the others lining the hall, its frame engraved with whirling Tovairin script. “There are many gods, if you follow Contravora. Entalia is the wife of Morde, the god of death.”
“Death and rebirth,” Ronja muttered. “Do all gods have temples?”
“They used to,” Paxton answered grimly. He pressed his palm to the face of the unremarkable door. “Most were destroyed during The Great War, the rest when Vinta attacked.”
“I’m sorry,” she said quickly. Uncertain as she was about the Kev Fairla, she was not blind to their plight. They faced the destruction of their culture and the loss of their autonomy. If there was anything she could understand, it was that. “That’s horrible.”
Paxton nodded. He dropped his hand to the wrought-iron knob, drumming his fingers on it. “I grew up here. My father was a devout follower of the Contravoran faith. My mother was more open-minded. They left Sydon before I was born, so I have never known another home.”
“My partner Roark, his mother was from Sydon.”
“I thought I saw that,” Paxton said, a genuine smile curling his full lips. “I’d guess she was from the northern territories.”
Ronja shrugged. Roark rarely spoke of his family. She understood why. His father was a psychopath, his sister a martyr, and his mother . . . his mother was a ghost in more ways than one. All Ronja knew about her was that she was Sydonian and that she had died when he was a child.
“This is my favorite place in the temple,” Paxton said, drawing her out of her thoughts. He twisted the knob and pushed the door open. Heat spilled over them. “I think you might like it, too.”
Ronja’s jaw hit the floor. Before her was an inferno. Twin rivers of lava cut straight through the black stone floor. The aisle between them was six feet wide. At the far end of the room was a shrine with engraved pillars and curved stone steps. At its core was a massive bowl of flame. The air itself shivered with heat, giving the whole space the feel of a mirage.
“This is the Contrav, the burning place.”
Ronja looked at Paxton, struggling to find her voice. She swallowed, smoke scraping her throat. “What is this?” Her instincts were screaming at her to run. Thoughts of elaborate interrogation tactics rattled around in her head. She took a step back.
“No, no, no,” Paxton assured her quickly, fluttering his hands to soothe her. “I should have explained. The Contrav is part of our faith.”
“Oh, great.”
“Contravoran means the burning ones,” he explained. “The Contrav, the burning place. You have nothing to be afraid of. Look.” He stepped into the heat-choked room, walking backward down the aisle.
Ronja stayed rooted on the spot. If the Kev Fairla was planning on torturing her, this was not how they would do it. It was convoluted and risky. The interrogator could easily end up in the lava himself. Paxton did not really have the look of a torturer, either. Neither did Roark, she reminded herself, thinking back to their violent first encounter.
“No one in this temple will harm you, myself included,” Paxton assured her from halfway down the aisle.
Pushing aside her better judgement, Ronja stepped across the threshold, leaving the door open behind her. The man turned and continued toward the shrine. She trailed him at a distance. The canals of magma hissed and simmered at her feet. They seemed to spill closer with each step she took. She sped her pace.
Up ahead, Paxton had already mounted the wide steps to the altar. He stood beside the flaming bowl, watching the fire as if it were speaking to him. Ronja tapped up the short flight of steps, pausing just before she hit the top. The basin was perched on a shockingly narrow dais. One nudge and it would surely crash to the ground.
“Here.”
Ronja started. Paxton regarded her expectantly, his hand outstretched. Pinched between his fingers was a blank slip of paper. She took it cautiously, as if it might bite her. “Uh, what is this?”
“Paper,” he replied unhelpfully.
“Thanks.” She snuck a peek over her shoulder. Beyond the flames, the door was still wide open. It was twenty paces away, give or take. Panic spiked in her gut. What the hell was she thinking, coming in here alone? Roark was going to kill her if Paxton did not do it first.
“Take this.”
Ronja turned back to him. He now brandished a sleek fountain pen. She accepted it gingerly. “Now what?”
“Now you write your deepest fear down and throw it in the fire. The ancients wrote them in blood, but that seemed unnecessary.”
“Yeah,” she agreed lamely. “So why would I do that?”
Paxton shot her a vaguely condescending smile “So you can let it go.” He stepped around her and retreated down the steps.
Ronja spun around, heart in her throat. “Oi! Where the hell are you going?”
“I’ll be outside,” he called. “The door will be unlocked, come out when you’re done.”
“But—”
Paxton breezed through the door and shut it with a snap. Ronja stood rigid before the shrine, listening, expecting to hear the thud of a deadbolt or the click of a lock. Neither came. Stupid skitzing pitcher. She imagined Evie punching her on the bicep, Iris shaking her head, Roark slapping his hand to his forehead. Have you learned nothing?
Focus. Ronja took a shuddering breath and began to analyze her surroundings. There were no other exits in sight. No cameras, no speakers or visible microphones. No assailants lurking in the shadows. “What are you playing at?” she muttered. What could the Kev Fairla possibly have to gain from her burning her fears in private? She looked down. Anxiety had crumpled the slip of paper into a ball. Fine.
She plunked down on the top step and smoothed the paper over her thigh.
What am I afraid of?
The Music. The obvious choice leapt to the front of her mind. But no, not anymore. It was no longer an invisible, insurmountable enemy. She could see it, she could beat it, if only she could access it.
Death, then. She had already conquered it twice. When it claimed her for a third time, it would just be taking what was owed.
The Conductor . . . was rotting in a shallow grave, if Maxwell had bothered to bury him at all. Maybe he was still rotting at the top of the tower.
Maxwell. Ronja weighed his memory. His deranged grin and explosive rage. His searing genius and grotesque imagination. She let her eyelids drift shut, centering herself. The very thought of the madman made her shiver, but it was not with terror. It was rage. The only fear she had regarding that monster was not getting the pleasure of killing him with her bare hands.
If not her enemy, than wh
at was she most afraid of?
She feared for her friends trapped beneath the palace. Maxwell would keep them alive as long as she was still breathing. She was almost certain he would not put them under The New Music, either. What good was bait that could not feel fear?
Ronja kept digging.
Losing Roark. That was a thought that kept her up at night. She knew she could survive without him, but surviving did not mean living. It sounded right to say losing him was her deepest fear, but there was something else cowering beneath it. An unexamined core so poisonous she had refused to look it in the eye until now.
Ronja scratched out a single word, then crumpled the paper and rose. She lobbed the ball at the bowl of flames like a brick at a window. With a hiss and a crackle, it was gone. She waited, her nerves singing. Nothing happened.
Ronja huffed, rolling her eyes, then spun on her heel and jogged down the steps. Her anxiety burgeoned as she approached the exit. Maybe it was locked after all. Bracing herself, she twisted the warm knob. The door opened at once. Fresh air and light spilled over her. Paxton leaned up against the opposite wall, his hands in his pockets. “So?” he asked.
“What are you playing at?” Ronja demanded, shutting the door with a crack. “Why did you leave me in there?”
“You could have followed me out.” He took his left hand from his pocket to examine his nails, which were extremely well kept. “You made the choice to stay.”
“For the last time, I am not a skitzing tourist.”
“You still chose to stay.”
“I am here to stop—”
Paxton raised a palm. “I am aware of your purpose here.”
Ronja folded her arms across her chest, drawing on her brewing anger. “I want to see Easton. Now.”
“The commander is occupied with other matters.”
“Fine,” she said, throwing up her hands. “Then take me to Roark and show me where I can get some food.”
Paxton laughed, catching her off guard. “I see what they mean.”
Ronja flushed. “What are you talking about?”
“Your eyes, your nose . . . ” He reached up a hand, then thought better of it and put it back in his pocket. The Siren glowered at him, daring him to come closer. “Even your . . . ” He stumbled over his words, chewing his lower lip contemplatively. “The stars on your face.”
Ronja touched her cheek, her brow wrinkling. “What?”
“The marks.”
“Freckles?”
Paxton dipped his chin. “Right, freckles.”
“What about them?”
“Your father has them, too.”
Ronja went rigid. A high pitched ringing built in her ear, so loud she wondered if Paxton could hear it. She took a step toward him, her lip curling. “My father is dead,” she ground out. “Which is none of your business anyway. Now either take me to Roark, take me to Easton, or put me in a bloody cell.”
17: Crescendo
Ito
Ito wound the cord of the headphones around her index finger, basking in the haze of the somber piano solo. The record was unnamed. She had discovered it years ago in the basement of a safe house in the outer ring. She had always believed music was meant to be shared, but she had never told anyone about this particular album. There was something sacred in the knowledge that she was the only person in the city who knew every note, every pause, every crescendo.
“Ito.”
The lieutenant started. She swiped her headphones from her ears, letting them ring her neck. “Charlotte,” she greeted the girl hastily. “I didn’t hear you come in.”
“I know, I said your name three times.” Charlotte stood a couple of feet from the desk, not even trying to hide her smirk. Her coarse curls were pulled into a knot at the base of her skull. She wore a loose black dress and an evergreen sweater with a missing button. “I was just reporting back to you.”
Ito gestured at the chair opposite hers. Charlotte obliged. She crossed one leg over the other, the picture of poise. The lieutenant felt her heartstrings tighten. She would never know just how much like her mother she was.
“Lieutenant? Are you all right?”
Ito blinked. “Yes, I apologize.” Music still crept through her headphones. She bent down and shut off the record player under her desk. The black disk coasted to a halt. Lifting her headphones from her neck, she set them aside and returned to Charlotte. “What do you have for me?”
“You’re a lot closer to command than you think.”
Relief wrapped around Ito, squeezing a smile onto her face. It was immediately followed by a burst of shame. Wilcox was one of her oldest friends and comrades. They had been inseparable and idealistic in their youth. So much had changed since then. She did not recognize the person he had become. “Go on,” she encouraged Charlotte.
“People are pissed, scared. Most of them think Wilcox is . . . ” She tapped her temple and made a clicking noise with her tongue. “Skitzed.”
“Unfortunately, I believe they are correct.”
Charlotte nodded seriously. “I heard Vincent Bell talking to Clarke Hartford about the emergency exits.”
Ito cocked an eyebrow. Both men were members of the council, which had not convened since their commander trapped them in the Belly. Hartford was sharp as a tack with a heart of gold. Bell was a bit of a wild card, but one hell of an agent. “What did they say?”
“Bell thinks they can dig through the rubble at the back of their bathhouse,” Charlotte said. “He reckons it would take a couple weeks.” Ito felt her expression harden. The girl tilted her head to the side. “Is that bad?”
“In theory, no. But if people start fleeing without a plan, they’re as good as dead.”
Charlotte nodded, a crease forming between her brows. “They were going to get to it soon. Do you want me to keep following them?”
“Yes, keep me informed.”
The girl bobbed her head again. “There’s more. You’re not the only one who’s worried about Wilcox. Cosmin overheard Kala and her crew debating a coup.”
Ito could not resist a smile. “I should have guessed. Roark rubbed off on them.”
“Yeah, maybe,” Charlotte replied, her voice abruptly cold. “Anyway, the main thing is, people want answers. They want to know why they’ve been buried alive and why being stuck here is better than taking their chances topside. Everyone knows something bad happened, but no one knows what.”
“What have they guessed?”
“They’re not idiots.” Charlotte reclined in her chair, folding her arms thoughtfully. “They know it was something to do with The Music. That doesn’t mean they’re willing to die without answers.”
Ito steepled her fingers, her thoughts whirring. None of this was unprecedented, she reminded herself. It was not even as bad as it could be. No one was panicking. Not yet, at least. “Stay on Bell and Hartford,” she ordered Charlotte. “You’ve done well, Romancheck.”
“Thanks.” The girl climbed to her feet, glowing with pride. “I’ll report back tonight.”
“Where is Cosmin?” Ito inquired.
“Wheeling around somewhere on the north end of the station, last time I checked. He’s getting pretty fast in his chair.”
“His nerve damage, is it permanent?”
Charlotte sighed, her aura dimming. “Wish I could tell you. Iris would know.” She cracked a dour smile. “But if the scrubbers give out, what does it matter?”
Ito made noise of agreement. She laid her palms flat on the surface of her desk. Charlotte was right. They could spy on the council members all they wanted, but it would not bring them any closer to freedom. “Bring me Kala Pent, Elliot Mason, and Sawer Gailes.”
“Sawyer? That crazy girl you picked up at Red Bay?”
“Yes.”
“What do you need her for?”
“Just do it, Romancheck.”
“Fine, fine. On it.” Charlotte saluted wryly and started toward th
e exit, her dress swaying around her knees. “I’ll bring them back as soon as possible.”
“Charlotte—”
Ito never finished her sentence. A high pitched scream sliced through her words. She shot to her feet, snatching up the revolver she kept hidden under the lip of her desk. Charlotte had gone rigid, her eyes round as saucers. “Stay here,” Ito ordered as she rushed past her. Before she reached the exit, a surprisingly strong hand shot out and snatched her forearm. She looked around. Charlotte regarded her intensely, fear and focus wrestling in her gaze.
“That was Georgie.”
18: The Trié
Ronja was relieved to step back into the bustling central corridors. Her skin was still coated in sweat from the blistering Contrav. Paxton tried heroically to strike up a fresh conversation with her, but she had mastered the art of avoiding small talk. Eventually, he gave up and they continued on in sullen silence. She busied herself observing the people around her.
Despite living in the middle of a war zone, the Kev Fairlans were a lively bunch. Even the soldiers dressed for battle chatted amongst themselves nonchalantly. Ronja had learned a lot about humanity since being freed from her Singer. Humans possessed the strange and remarkable ability to pull normalcy from the most desperate situations. The Anthemites were the same way. They drew art and beauty from desolation.
That was where the similarities between the two rebellions ended. Anthemites dressed in vibrant colors, pierced their ears, and wore their hair in a wide variety of styles. The Kev Fairlans wore thick dark garments and furs. The women wove their hair into elegant braids. The men either wore theirs in knots like Jonah or cut it short like Easton. Everyone was tattooed with unique white reshkas.
Ronja stuck out like a sore thumb: pale and freckled with a head full of curly hair that scarcely brushed her jaw. The Kev Fairlans had not lost interest in her overnight. If anything their whispers had intensified. Once again she found herself wishing she had a better grasp of their language and social cues. Then she would know whether to smile or scowl. She settled on lifting her chin and marching on with all the grace she could muster.
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