“Could be a fortnight by the looks of it,” a second soldier answers, grasping the reins in a gloved fist. “We’ve turned out this quarter already. Even Luna’s getting testy.”
“Ye named yer horse?” the third of the riders sneers. He spits on the ground and wipes a smear of wet blood on his cheek. “The rebel bestaes aren’t here. If they are, they’re using their unnatural magics. How’re we supposed to fight against that?”
The three of them make the symbol of the Father of Worlds over their torsos.
“Why can’t the king pay the ransom for the Bloodied Prince, eh?” Luna’s rider grumbles. Luna huffs in our direction, trying to course correct even though she can’t see us. Leyre reaches for a bow, Castian for his sword. But then a flaming bottle shatters against one soldier’s helmet. The spilled oil spreads flames across his tunic, and his screams scare the horse. I lunge away before it can trample me. The other Second Sweep soldiers gallop down the street, chasing rebels running atop the brown-tiled roofs.
“Run,” I say.
We don’t stop, zigzagging through alleys littered in filth and pyres of garbage. I want to scream as I leap over the bodies of fallen Whispers. Seagulls scavenge at the concave faces of young Leonesse soldiers. I force my legs to keep moving and remember Doña Sagrada, the innkeeper who pleaded for those drafted from her village. These are King Fernando’s men, children who sacrificed their lives for the lies of a mad king.
Shattered glass from the explosive bottles litters the cobblestones. Anything that can catch fire does—awnings, market stalls, delivery carts attached to horses and goats.
The way to the desolate square around the Tresoros cathedral is clear. A statue of the Father of Worlds looks down from the roof of the ancient church. He wears the sun as a crown and his hands hold orbs representing the unknown worlds. Every time I’ve been in a cathedral and listened to one of the royal priests speak, they emphasize that King Fernando’s reach over the continent is like that of their god. But beneath all that I see the knots carved into the stone, the patterns of what this place once was—a temple of long-forgotten deities.
When we’re sure the four of us are alone in the cathedral, Leo bars the heavy doors shut using an altar boy’s staff. He mutters, “Definitely going to the first hell for that one.”
I swallow the emotion that threatens to escape when I meet Castian’s stare. He relinquishes the glamour over his face so that he is Castian again. I grab him by the collar of his tunic and kiss him.
I love you.
I hate you.
We don’t have to say anything, in the end. I push him away and take my place at the altar. It feels like blasphemy to stand here in a place of the king’s priests. Outside, a series of booms make the air vibrate. Screams follow and then utter silence.
I unsheathe the Knife of Memory.
I remember the whispering cave in Isla Sombras—the power radiating in those crystals, in the hilt, in me. Thousands of threads appear all around me. Each one glows and pulses differently, and they crosshatch the air like the constellations in Castian’s alfaro. These are the threads of memory that can be severed by the Knife. The white crystal blade thrums with power. It wants to be used. But I am not here to cut someone from existence. I’m here to return the memory of one person, to show the kingdom who she was.
Light emanates from the blade. Castian watches me, and I shake my head, knowing what is going through his mind. A desperate, selfish part of him might want to stop me, but the king he is supposed to become won’t let him. I need him to complete his end of the illusion when it’s time.
I shut my eyes to draw on the memories of Fernando and Galatea trapped within the alman stone blade. The ringing in my ears grows, like howling wind trapped inside these walls. I thrust the Knife of Memory into the air, feel the heat of my own magics illuminating the whorls of my skin. Castian reaches for me, ready to make the connection.
Nothing happens. The blade goes dead.
“What’s wrong?” Leo shouts.
“I don’t know.”
The doors of the cathedral break open. But it isn’t the Second Sweep who stands at the threshold. It’s Dez and Margo, part of my old Whispers unit, along with a half dozen other rebels.
“Enough of this, Ren,” Dez says, extending his hand. “It’s time to come home.”
BOUND AND BLINDFOLDED, WE ARE MARCHED OUT OF THE CATHEDRAL. SOMEONE is fighting, and I recognize the sound of fists on bone, the pained grunts of falling. Others are running, their boots crunching on glass. There’s the cry of a child from up high. I try to listen for my friends, but we are all silent as the Whispers guide us through the dark.
“Look at the queen of Puerto Leones.” I recognize Margo’s voice beside me. “After everything, parading around with her Bloodied Prince.”
I hiss a curse at her. “You have no idea of what we’ve been through. You and Dez are going to get our people killed.”
She makes a sound of disgust and spits. “Do you know what I see, Ren?”
“Are you aware that you blindfolded me yourself?”
I feel a shove at the center of my back. “I see a traitor who left with the enemy.”
I throw my head back and laugh. “You used me as bait. You left me in Soledad to be taken prisoner.”
“We would have come for you,” she says.
It’s the lie that tips me over the edge. I heard her conspire with the remaining Whisper leadership to abandon me and hunt for the threat of Robári. I let the sound of her voice guide me and kick her. Margo fights back, knocking me to the ground, slapping me, then trying to pin my bound hands against my chest. I hear a muffled protest nearby.
Castian.
Argi was correct. In the back of my mind, I couldn’t let go of him. Is that why the Knife didn’t work?
“Enough of this,” Dez shouts. I can imagine him standing between us as he always had before. His honey-brown eyes cast to the ground as if he was disappointed in all of us, but especially the dirt.
I feel Margo yanked off me, then I’m hauled to a stand. Hands turn me and nudge me to keep walking. Though I can sense Dez’s presence close, no one puts their hands on me again.
“We’re on the same side, Ren,” Dez says.
I hold up my hands, the ropes scratching my wrists. “It doesn’t feel like it.”
I collide into him, and he grips me by my hands and undoes the knots. I remove the rancid cloth from my eyes and blink the night into focus. As I suspected, we’re away from the harbor, farther inland, where sprawling estates speak of wealth.
Dez and I scrutinize each other. His eyes take in my armor, lingering on the alman stone at the center of my breastplate. I note the new bruise blooming on his cheekbone. His black hair is loose around his shoulders, and his clothes are covered in soot. There’s a bandage around his forearm. He turns away and I track his gaze to three Whispers who create a blockade that separates me from Castian and Leo. Leyre, however, is nowhere in sight. A pang of nerves works its way through me. Where is she?
“Where are you taking us?” I ask.
Margo shoulders between us, removing a key from her inner pocket. “To the new Whispers.”
I arch a brow at Dez. “The new Whispers?”
“There is hope, Ren.” Dez pleads with me. “Let me show you.”
My heart races as we cut through the grounds of an abandoned estate. Most of the homes we passed were dark or boarded up. Either the wealthy merchants are hiding in their cellars, or they had the means to escape the city before the first of the king’s army arrived. Margo unlocks a door on the side of the house. The hinges squeak as she steps aside to let us in. How did the rebels find a place like this? Perhaps Lady Nuria is aiding them—she was Illan’s ally once, and this is the provincia of her ancestors. But if Nuria was helping them, we wouldn’t be bound.
I inhale the damp of cold stone as we descend into the cellar and adjust to the dim light of torches at the end of an archway. I tip my head back to get a full vie
w of the domed brick ceiling. Casks of wine are stacked along one wall, and bottles line the other. Crates and wood chips litter the floor.
Dozens and dozens of Whispers hurry in and out of other rooms and dark halls. The youngest Moria are cleaning the bloody armor and weapons taken from the Leonesse soldiers. Others carry crates of empty bottles, probably to make explosives. I scan their faces for Sayida’s luminous black eyes and Esteban’s familiar glower, but there are so many people.
All at once, everyone stops to look at me. A little girl runs toward me, pointing at my armor, but an older boy yanks her back. Their voices fill the room with speculation.
“Our fearless leader has returned with a great bounty,” says a familiar voice.
My body reacts before my mind does. I feel the ghost of magics against my skin, reaching for my Robári powers. I convince myself that I’m wrong. He can’t be here.
The Ripper. The Robári who had been held prisoner by King Fernando and Justice Méndez for decades. The one who tried to revive Galatea and failed.
“You were right,” Dez replies, though I notice the white knuckles on the hilt of his sword. “They were in the cathedral where you said they’d be.”
How could they have known? I fight the urge to hold the Knife, lest they think I’m going to attack.
“Come closer, Commander Andrés. We are all allies now,” Cebrián says.
Dozens of tapered candles drip wax in the nooks and crannies along brick walls. Behind a maze of crates and sacks of grain and flour is a table covered in maps, seals, and bread crumbs. Cebrián rises from a high-backed chair, his long nails scraping against the leather armrests. His strange Ripper marks are more pronounced than I remember. Silver veins extend around his eyes and along his throat, more like running blood than Argi’s delicate carvings. There’s a violence to it.
His silver eyes widen at the sight of my armor. “Aren’t you quite the warrior?”
“Aren’t you quite the rebel?” I ask.
But after what the justice did to him—the years of torture and experimentation on his magics—nothing can change his sickly gray skin, his ashen hair, or his eerie silver eyes.
I feel the unused power of the Knife of Memory through our connection, like a flint spark in my veins. In that moment, Cebrián’s eyes fall to where it rests at my side, and now Dez’s words make sense. I look up at him, but he won’t meet my eyes. “You said the Knife wouldn’t work because he told you it wouldn’t.”
Dez’s features tense. The way he looks at me I know he’s trying to tell me something, but it has been so long since we were united in our goal. I used to be able to know his every move, anticipate where he would attack. Now, nothing.
“Be angry with me, Renata,” Cebrián says, his voice cloying with practiced patience. But there’s an unsettling spark beneath his eyes and his placid smile. “We do not want to fight with you. On the contrary, ever since you ran away with Prince Castian, I have advised our leaders that now is the moment to unite.”
With a small wave of the Ripper’s gnarled fingers, one of the Whispers moves to undo Leo and Castian’s blindfolds and restraints. I notice the furrow of Dez’s brow—how many more orders has Cebrián given without Dez’s approval? If there’s a rift in this alliance, I can play on it.
“I thank you,” Leo offers the boy who’s freed him, but the niceties are a habit. He’s afraid, but not of the Whispers. We both notice Castian’s fury, the way his eyes ignite with rage at the sight of Cebrián. “Please, Cas, we are guests.”
Cas slowly surveys the cellar. The maps. The weapons. The scores of people who have gathered to watch us, though instead of a meeting of allies, it feels like another trial. Then Cebrián’s words settle in.
“He’s your adviser?” I ask Dez.
“Cebrián knows what we’re up against,” he says.
On the outside, Dez is still every bit the bloodied, bruised warrior I’ve always known. The beautiful, reckless boy who runs into a fight because he has no other choice but to win. The shift happens slowly. That stubborn lock of hair that always gets in his eyes, finds a way free. He goes to brush it back, but it’s like he suddenly remembers that his ear was cut off by his brother, that he did lose, that he gave up. That is the moment I see the change in him, the doubt that seeps in, that wasn’t there when we were together. I catch Margo’s concern as Dez defers to Cebrián and by the glee in the Ripper’s silver eyes, I know Dez’s insecurity is exactly what he’s after.
“Who is she to ask questions?” a voice hisses in the crowd. “She left us.”
“Please, my friends. I was not my best when Renata and I first met,” Cebrián says. “I’d been held captive by King Fernando for four decades. Though sometimes it felt like centuries. But after she so heroically freed me, I ran as fast as I could before I realized that there was nowhere for me to go.”
Is that what Cebrián thinks happened? He was the one whose brute strength tore open the windows. He’s lying to bring the Whispers closer, but why?
“The king took everything from me.” Cebrián raises one of his hands and lets his memories glide along his skin, the same way Argi showed me how. “And with your help, Renata, we will bring Puerto Leones to its knees.”
I take a step forward, turning so that the only people at my back are Cas and Leo. “My help?”
“Why, yes,” Cebrián says, voice like a snake in grass. “We were hoping to find you along your travels and retrieve the Knife of Memory together, but you kept slipping through Commander Andrés’s capable hands.”
Another slight at Dez’s leadership. Why is he standing by and letting Cebrián speak to him this way?
“If you want to work together,” I ask, “why stop me from using the Knife?”
“Did I?” Cebrián grins, and the effect is skeletal. “Or were you simply unable to command its power?”
“I—”
“You aren’t strong enough to do what needs to be done. But I am.” He steps forward, unclasping the robe to reveal his scarred, naked torso. He’s allowing the crowd to see the marks that cover nearly every inch of him, marks he carved by ripping the magic out of Moria. “I have wielded the Knife of Memory once, and I will do it again.”
Slowly, the Whispers move toward Cebrián, seemingly drawn to him. Dez used to have this same magnetism. Everyone wanted to cling to the power behind his words. Now that boy stands beside Cebrián, not like the commander of the Whispers, but a henchman.
“Félix, come, come, as we’ve practiced.” Cebrián extends his arm. I’m reminded of birch trees near my old home, bark so white it looked like a field of bones. The boy’s chest rises and falls like a trapped rabbit. His brown hair is pulled back in a knot, and white scars feather along the tawny brown skin of his face. I note the gold cuffs on his ears. Without hesitation, he latches on to Cebrián’s fingers, and images flicker around us. It’s the same memory Argi showed us, but from Cebrián’s perspective.
Fernando crawls away from Galatea’s lifeless body, the sapphire-blue water of the cave lapping at their feet. He sees the Knife of Memory glowing in the sand. A young Argi is bleeding from her forehead and coming in and out of consciousness.
Cebrián sees the Knife, too, but Fernando wraps his fist around the hilt first. They tussle in the sand until Fernando forces Cebrián into a chokehold. Fernando whispers something incomprehensible. Ribbons of light spill from the crystal blade, and then Fernando pierces Cebrián’s chest, again and again. There is so much blood and light piercing out of each wound.
“Impossible,” someone whispers.
“A miracle,” another sighs.
Cebrián releases his grasp from Félix, who tips his face in reverence of the Ripper. “As you can see, I am the product of Our Lady’s light. When King Fernando turned the blade on me, the goddess saved me. She and I are the only Moria to have survived its power. She gave me a second chance at life, but that was taken from me. I have made my way back to my kindred, my Moria. I simply needed you here, Rena
ta.” He waits for all eyes to turn on me. “Now, relinquish your bond with the Knife and turn over its power to me. Help me bring King Fernando to his knees.”
Cas watches the crowd as if he’s contemplating who is the biggest threat. I see what he does—we’re outnumbered and backed into a corner of the cellar with no way out.
“We are in this fight together,” I say. “Killing the king will not help our cause. Let me return the memories he’s stolen and expose his sins to the people.”
Cebrián’s laugh is a low rumble. “Return the memories? You’re trying to save a sinking ship when you need to let it go. The strong will swim to shore. The weak will drown. Which one are you, Renata?”
The Whispers nod in agreement. Dez’s fists tense at his sides. Margo touches her gold starfish necklace, which I know she does when she’s nervous. Is that fear I see in the blue of her eyes?
I hold the Knife’s hilt and feel for the connection. It’s still there, tugging at the power inside me. “This is not the way.”
“You have not been here, Renata. Look at all we have accomplished by taking the fight to the king!” Cebrián raises his hands in the air, and the crowd cheers, a dangerous spark buzzing among them. “Now that we have the goddess’s weapon, we can destroy any memory of Puerto Leones and its stain on the known world. We could start the world anew. Why would you stand in the way of that?”
His eyes dart to Castian, pinning the blame on him.
Castian, the Bloodied Prince who stands tall and faces them. He takes a calming breath, and closes his eyes, drawing illusions over his face. Will Otsoa. A Zaharian ambassador. Duque Arias. And then he’s Castian again. “I am not your enemy. I am one of you. Renata can do this. Help us. Help her.”
Cries of bewilderment and disbelief echo in the domed cave. I want to remember the surprise on Margo’s face for as long as I live. But it’s when Cebrián’s mask of peace falls that concerns me. The half-moon shadows under his eyes darken, and the veins of light glow as if reacting to his anger. Did he think Castian would hide forever?
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