Cassa’s arm was starting to shake, but she kept the gun level. Aden. Kira. Reed. Rowen. Nima. The names sprang unbidden to her mind, thrumming in time with her heartbeat, as they had ever since Vesper had passed the memory to her. Isn’t this what Vesper had wanted? As if knowing Ansel Dane’s loss so intimately could somehow alleviate her own. As if what had been taken from him could ever absolve him for what he’d taken from her.
“I’ve never cared about anything else—not since I lost them,” Cassa said. “I’ve never pretended otherwise.”
“You care about Evander and Alys and Newt.” Vesper took a small step forward. Her hands were clenched into fists at her sides. “You cared about me.”
Cassa dragged the back of her hand across her eyes, telling herself it was the rain and not tears that stung them.
“Not enough,” she said. “This has always mattered more. I guess I’m as bad as Solan.”
Vesper’s mouth twisted slightly, and her eyes flashed.
“You’re a stubborn little shit, but you’re not heartless, Cassa. You’re not a monster.”
Cassa laughed. It sounded hollow in her ears.
“Are you sure about that? There’s an infallible prophecy that says otherwise.” She leaned to the right so that she could catch Dane’s eye over Vesper’s shoulder. “Chancellor, you’ve always been so eager to treat prophecies as law. A hundred years ago the council slaughtered thousands because of one seer’s dream. Don’t tell me you’ve lost faith in their accuracy now. If the last seer in Eldra tells me that I’m supposed to kill you, do you think I have a choice?”
With an agility that belied his age, the chancellor moved around his niece and forward until the gun was only inches from his chest. He still held the lantern, and Cassa could see that he was shivering. She could see in his eyes that it wasn’t from fear. It was so cold that she was having trouble remembering what warmth felt like. Her jaw ached with the effort to keep her teeth from chattering. Her strength sluiced off her with the rain.
Vesper made a noise of protest and stepped forward, but Chancellor Dane raised a hand to stop her. He kept Cassa’s gaze. She couldn’t stop thinking about what he’d felt all those years ago when facing the executioner for the first time. Fear and disgust and desperation and shame. They all coiled in her chest like they were her own—and they were. The memories were hers, as if she’d been the one standing there, as if she’d been the one to wake in the middle of the night and find her world ripping apart at the seams. Boundless fury. Gaping despair. Those were the chancellor’s, but they were hers too. Something they shared.
“My hands are not clean in this, and they never have been,” said Chancellor Dane, his voice cracking. “I’d hoped that killing the executioner might atone for my sins and the sins of my predecessors, but perhaps it is too late for that. Perhaps it was always too late.”
He dropped his gaze, down to the barrel aimed at his heart. He didn’t move.
After everything, it all came down to one bullet. So simple. Cassa had spent her whole life refusing to believe that her actions were somehow predetermined, but surely this one was. Surely, she was meant for this moment. Surely this was the reason she was still here, when her parents and almost everyone she had known in her childhood was gone. Surely if it was in a seer’s dream, then she had no choice but to pull the trigger.
The fire inside of her burned so bright, so hot. Sixteen years and now it finally meant something. The chancellor had taken her parents from her. He and the council were corrupted, a festering disease at the heart of the city that was slowly infecting everyone. He and the council were everything that was wrong with the world.
The chancellor was, when all was said and done, just an old man, shivering in the rain, waiting to die.
Cassa swallowed hard. Her mouth was so dry, her throat so tight. Her every nerve, her every sinew, burned and burned, but she lowered the pistol.
There’s not really anything great about you, is there? A constant, aching refrain. Even before Solan had spoken the words, they had been waiting inside of her, a dark doubt for her darkest nights. Would her mother or father have pulled the trigger? She didn’t know. She just knew that she couldn’t.
“Why?” the chancellor asked, his eyes still lingering on the gun.
“It wouldn’t change anything.” Even as she spoke the words, she hated the truth of them. Pulling the trigger wouldn’t dissolve that fury and despair. It could only cause more. Nothing was ever so simple.
Her limbs ached. The cold had become a vise on her body, sending shooting pain from her head to her toes. Despite that, she felt strangely detached. Too exhausted to move. Maybe this was what it felt like when you ruined an infallible prophecy. A punishment that the Slain God administered from beyond the grave.
She was so tired that when the thundering of horses’ hooves rose beneath the rain and she turned to see a squadron of heavily armed guards surrounding them, she didn’t try to run. She couldn’t even make herself care. It was too late to escape the citadel’s clutches. Maybe it always had been.
THIRTY-EIGHT
NEWT
Solan’s chamber felt colder somehow. Newt had no idea how long they had been unconscious. Down here there was no way to keep track of time. Hours could have passed. His stomach growled with the realization. Solan was slouched in one of his armchairs, his sleeve still pulled away from the fresh scar. It took Newt a few seconds to figure out what was different about him. The strange shifting of his features had stopped—or, rather, it had slowed down. There was still an unsettling vacillation to his face, but his appearance was easier to pin down. Brown hair. Clear gray eyes. Sallow complexion. A narrow jaw and aquiline nose. He looked to be in his thirties.
Was that how he’d looked the day his alchemical experiment granted him immortality?
“Please,” said Solan, gesturing toward the sofa. His voice was strained, as if he was still in some pain. On the small table at his elbow was an elixir bottle, empty except for the shimmering remnants of mirasma streaking the glass. “Have a seat. Would you like some tea?”
None of them answered. Newt didn’t even want to sit down. His basest instincts were pulling at his muscles, begging him to flee. Cassa wasn’t here, at least not that he could see. Had Solan done something to her? Alys went to the couch first and sat down on the end nearest Solan. Her hands were clenched into tight fists in her lap. Evander sat down hesitantly beside her, his eyes never leaving Solan. Newt sank onto the couch beside Evander, his stomach sinking with him. If Solan wanted them dead, he would have killed them already like he’d killed Mira. But maybe he just wasn’t finished with them yet.
“How long were we unconscious?” Evander asked.
“I don’t see how that’s important.”
“How long?”
Solan frowned at him. Newt didn’t understand Evander’s insistence either. It hardly mattered right now.
“Only an hour. I am sorry it had to happen like this. I wanted to keep everything civil,” Solan said, steepling his fingers. “I did try.”
“You turned Mira’s father into a corpse with a pulse,” Evander said.
Solan flinched at his tone, then shook his head.
“An accident,” he said. “A fortuitous one, as it turned out, since it’s how I discovered a bloodbond could deliver me from this prison.”
“And what about all the others?” Newt’s voice wavered only slightly. “Were they fortuitous accidents as well?”
Solan smiled. Without the usual tumult of his features, it was easier to read his expressions. There was something predatory in that smile. A side of him that he hadn’t shown them before. Newt’s muscles itched again to flee.
“I learned a long time ago that the more memories I take, the stronger I become. My reach grows longer, my divinations clearer, and my dreams more vivid. The council wants me to supply them with more and more prophecies. I’ve only ever heeded their demands.”
“That’s why they made you the execution
er,” Alys said, not quite looking at him. “Performing the death rites, eating the memories—it was to make sure you kept dreaming prophecies.”
“Very good, Alys,” he said. “Although I must say, they weren’t very diligent in their supply. There aren’t many death sentences to be had in a peaceful, prosperous city. I had to take matters into my own hands with the rebellion. Those hundred years proved to be very fruitful, but as I’m sure you’ve noticed, all the rebels are gone now.”
For a long while, the silence in the room was palpable. Newt could feel Evander tense beside him. His own heartbeat was thudding in his ears.
“How?” Evander asked. His voice was low and trembling, not with fear but with anger. “How did you take matters into your own hands?”
Solan waited a long time before he replied.
“I’m sure the poor wretches in the lower wards would have risen up eventually,” he said, dragging a finger absently along the arm of his chair. “I just told the council it was coming sooner rather than later.”
The fatal prophecy. The citadel guards arriving in the dead of night. Thousands annihilated with flame and sword. Newt knew the history as well as he knew his own. It was the night that started the rebellion. It was the night that started everything. It was the reason they were sitting here. The reason the Seras were branded traitors. The reason his father was branded a coward. The reason Cassa’s parents were dead.
“Bastard,” Evander bit off, jumping to his feet.
Solan still traced circles on the faded floral upholstery, unmoved. He didn’t even look up.
“I think you should sit down, Evander,” he said softly.
“What did you do with Cassa?” Evander demanded.
“I didn’t do anything with her.”
“Where the hell is she then?”
“I believe I told you to sit.” All trace of Solan’s calm geniality had vanished. His voice was ice.
For a couple of seconds, no one moved. Newt saw Evander’s hand in a tight fist at his side. The silver tea service rattled. Solan kept Evander’s gaze with a cool poise that could only be a dare.
Newt grabbed his wrist and tugged gently.
“Evander,” he said, trying to sound reasonable and keep the urgency and panic from his voice. “Just sit down. Please.”
He could feel Evander’s pulse, so rapid, it was a steady thrum. Solan hadn’t so much as blinked. The world felt balanced on a razor’s edge. Finally, Evander’s hand loosened, and slowly he lowered himself back to the couch.
Solan was smiling again.
“Thank you,” he said. “There’s no need for the theatrics. I’m happy to tell you where your friend is. She’s probably reaching the Blacksmith’s cottage as we speak.”
“Why would she go there?” Alys asked, the skepticism so sharp in her tone that Newt could practically hear the question she didn’t ask. Why would Cassa leave us behind?
Newt realized that he was still holding Evander’s wrist. He started to release it but at the last second changed his mind and slid his hand into Evander’s instead. His skin was clammy, but the feel of their interlaced fingers was soothing. Evander’s leg, which had been bouncing up and down with frenetic energy, stilled.
“Any minute now,” he murmured, so softly that Newt wasn’t sure he’d even spoken.
Solan didn’t seem to notice.
“To fulfill the first half of the prophecy,” he said. “First, she’ll kill the chancellor, and then when my bloodbond takes full effect, I’ll leave this prison behind and serve the council the justice they so richly deserve.”
“And then what?” Evander asked. “A peaceful retirement in the countryside?”
Solan smiled that predatory smile again.
“I think that after all this time, Eldra owes me a few considerations.”
How could they have ever trusted him? How could they have ever thought that Solan’s appetite for vengeance would be sated with the council’s demise? Maybe there had never been a prophecy in the first place.
“Oh, I assure you, the prophecy is quite real.”
Newt blinked and realized Solan’s eyes were on him, finding the thoughts only moments after he had them. He’d heard that skilled sentients could read so quickly and thoroughly that they might as well be reading someone’s mind instead of just their past. His stomach curled at the notion.
“Why else would I have whiled away the years down here?” Solan went on, indicating his surroundings with a disinterested wave. “Perhaps you haven’t paid much attention to history, but infallible prophecies must happen the way they are seen. That’s the only way they can happen. When I dreamed this future, perfect and infallible, I knew that all I needed to do was wait.”
“Wait for us to come to you,” Alys murmured.
“Precisely.” Solan’s finger tapped a measured rhythm on his knee. “I needed Cassandra to kill the chancellor. I needed Evander to convince the Blacksmith to come, and I needed Alys because her seer’s blood makes it easier to communicate when necessary. And even Newt proved useful, runt that he is.”
As much as Newt hated to admit it, the comment stung. Solan hadn’t even glanced in his direction, but he could feel the blood rising to his face. Without turning his head away from Solan, Evander squeezed his hand tightly. Newt let out a slow breath. Worse than his words were the implications behind them. They’d been pawns from the start. Had their decision to help Solan even been a choice at all? Cassa had always been adamant that seers and diviners couldn’t dictate their future, only guess at it. But Newt wasn’t so sure—not anymore.
“What do you want from us now?” Alys asked, her voice admirably even.
Solan’s gaze swiveled to her. For a few seconds, he just studied her in silence. Then he leaned back in his chair, with a slight wince.
“I’m glad you ask,” he said, cradling his left arm. “I have need of your divination skills.”
“What—why?”
Solan huffed out a short breath and looked at the ground. Newt followed his gaze to the bone runes scattered across the rug.
“The infallible prophecy gave me many certainties but not everything. For the rest, I see too many possibilities,” he said. “Too much is uncertain. I need a second reading to make things clear.”
“Make what clear?” Evander asked.
For a long while, Solan only stared at the runes, his expression distant, his eyes glassy. Newt thought he was going to ignore Evander, but then he shook his head slowly.
“You can’t possibly understand everything I’ve done to get this far. I’ve been working toward this moment since before you were born. The rebellion was just the start, but even all those memories didn’t give me the power I needed to foresee my own escape. Four years ago, I thought Dane might be my salvation—and I suppose in a way he was. After I showed him what happens to those who betray me, it was his family’s memories that gave me the strength I needed. My next dream was the infallible prophecy. My true salvation.”
Newt shuddered. He couldn’t follow everything Solan was saying—he seemed to have drifted momentarily into his own private world—but Newt understood enough.
“I can leave nothing to chance,” Solan said, his gaze snapping back to the present. “I must be certain . . . It’s the only way I can be free.”
“Free to destroy more innocent lives?” Evander spit out the words like an acrid taste in his mouth.
Solan only smiled at him, slow and vicious.
“I’m disappointed in you all. So small-minded. Cassandra may not be anywhere near as useful as you, but at least she understands that sometimes unsavory means are necessary for a satisfying end.”
“Even Cassa wouldn’t go this far,” Evander said, but he didn’t meet Solan’s eyes.
Solan nodded thoughtfully, a trace of that wicked smile still hovering on his lips.
“Yes, I think the chancellor’s little niece probably thought the same thing when she gave Cassandra her uncle’s memory of the night I took my r
evenge. I’ve carried a lot of other people’s suffering in my time, but I imagine Dane’s must be particularly unbearable. Losing your wife and son and grandchildren in the same night is a very special sort of punishment.” He tapped his fingertips together in a ponderous rhythm. “Yet Cassa has gone to finish the job, and you’re all still here with me. Tell me, Evander, how much further does she have to go until she’s a monster as well?”
Evander was squeezing Newt’s hand so hard it hurt, but he didn’t pull away. A thousand thoughts ricocheted in his head, impossible to catch. He tried to tell himself that the Cassa Valera he knew would never do this. She would never help Solan after finding out what he really was. She would never abandon them here for the sake of her own personal revenge.
He tried to tell himself, but part of him suspected that the Cassa Valera he knew absolutely would.
“I think that’s enough about my sordid past. Alys.” Solan’s gaze flicked to her. “If you would kindly read the coins?”
His breathing was becoming more labored. A sheen of sweat had broken on his forehead. Alys glanced at Newt and Evander. If she was hoping for some direction, Newt certainly didn’t have any to give her.
“You’ve been in my head,” she said carefully. “You know I’m not any good.”
“And yet here we are,” snapped Solan, slamming his right hand down on the arm of the chair. The break in his composure was so abrupt that they all jumped. Alys’s breath had begun to quicken. “I won’t ask you again, Alys.”
Newt stared hard at Solan, trying to wrap his mind around the seemingly simple request. He reminded Newt of a dog, bristling and snarling because it was afraid. He wasn’t as certain of the future as he had led them to believe. Was he afraid the bloodbonding wouldn’t take? There was still a possibility his body would reject it. Or maybe he was afraid that he wouldn’t last long enough to find out. Vesper had seen all of Cassa’s memories, and so had Gaz Ritter—the chances of the council staying ignorant for much longer were slim. The bloodbond wouldn’t be complete for another five hours, which meant he still needed one more dose of elixir. He still needed one last thing from the council before he could take his revenge.
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