Eliana pressed her neck harder against the woman’s knife, felt the blade’s tip sink into her flesh. The pain thrilled her. I am here, it said, and I do not run from death.

I seek it out.

She laughed. “You’d die trying, I’m afraid.”

The woman made a scornful noise. “Unlikely,” she spat out, and then brought the hilt of her knife down hard against Eliana’s head.

15

   Rielle

“I no longer have a name. I relinquish my casting to its destruction and forsake the magic with which I was born. I dedicate my mind and body to the guidance of the Church and the study of the empirium. I no longer have a name. I am only the Archon.”

—Traditional induction vow of the Archon, leader of the Church of Celdaria

The voice followed Rielle back into the waking world, companionable and silent.

Strange, that a voice could be silent. If it wasn’t speaking, yet Rielle could sense it beside her, then it wasn’t merely a voice.

It belonged to someone—a body, a person—and whoever it was, they were close.

Who are you? She hoped the voice could hear—and that it couldn’t. Had she gone mad?

Gently teasing, the voice answered, I suppose I’ll tell you now. You deserve it, Rielle. You escaped the mountain after all.

A smile crept across her lips. Before, the voice had sounded vague, undecipherable. But now…

You’re a man.

Mmm. An affirmative, soft and playful. Almost purring.

Rielle’s smile grew, heat climbing up her cheeks.

Do you have a name? she asked.

Of course.

And then Rielle felt eyes upon her, though she could see nothing but the churning velvet black of her awakening mind.

Cool fingers touched her wrist.

Rielle stirred. Shifted.

Tell me? Her voice held an unfamiliar coy lilt. She had spent her childhood cautiously flirting with Tal, with Ludivine, even daring to with Audric from time to time, but this felt different. New—and immense.

Please?

The voice took a slow breath in, then blew an even slower breath out—a content, sated sound. Not quite a groan; not quite a sigh.

Rielle’s skin prickled, warming.

My name, said the voice, lips grazing the curve of her ear, is Corien.

• • •

“Lady Rielle, you’re awake. And quite pleased with yourself, it seems.”

Rielle’s eyes flew open.

A wall of windows framed with drapes in the colors of House Courverie admitted afternoon light. The painted ceiling above her, bordered with gilded molding, displayed Queen Katell in all her glory. First as a young acolyte in the Celdarian heartlands; then as Saint Katell, driving the angels through the Gate; and lastly, crowned and robed, the first queen of Celdaria.

Across from Rielle sat the Archon. His eyes fixed on Rielle, mildly curious.

Behind him stood ten members of the holy guard. The seven temple sigils decorated their gleaming gold armor, echoing the sigils sewn into the Archon’s robes. The holy guard owed no sense of allegiance to Lord Commander Dardenne, the kingsguard, the city guard; they belonged only to the Archon and the Church.

Ignoring the anxiety nipping up her arms, Rielle sat up and fixed the Archon with a look she hoped was as infuriatingly untroubled as his own.

“I am indeed pleased, Your Holiness,” she said, smiling, “for it seems I’ve successfully completed the first of my trials. If you had stopped an avalanche using only your two hands and the determination of your will, surely you would be proud of yourself as well?”

She paused. Would this be too much?

She couldn’t resist.

“But then,” she said, watching the Archon’s face, “it would be difficult for you to imagine such a thing, since you’ve given up all rights to your magic. And, even before you did, you had to use a casting to access your power. I am burdened by no such constraints.”

The Archon sat unblinking, his smile small and tight.

Rielle did not break her stare.

Good, said Corien. Make him sweat.

A door in the wall to Rielle’s right opened, admitting one of King Bastien’s pages. “His Majesty is ready for you, Your Holiness.”

“Excellent.” The Archon rose. “Lady Dardenne, follow me.”

Rielle obeyed, the holy guard forming a loose circle around her as she walked.

Do they really think I’ll lose all sense of reason and kill everyone in my sight? she thought darkly.

Some do, said Corien.

Something about his tone of voice—of thought?—startled Rielle. You’re not just saying that. You know what they think.

Silence, then.

Corien? Suddenly her heart was a rolling drum in her chest. The impossibility of what was happening felt abruptly, terribly clear. She was talking to a voice in her head, as if this were a normal thing, and had so easily fallen into doing so that already it felt like a long-formed habit.

That was…not good.

The truth returned to her: mind-speak was something the angels once did.

Repulsed—by herself or by the idea of Corien, Rielle couldn’t decide—she imagined stepping away from him, shutting herself behind a door, and turning the key.

What are you not telling me? she whispered against the lock.

Corien’s voice came thin and cold: Pay attention, Rielle. Your jailers await.

“Lady Rielle,” came the voice of King Bastien, pleasantly enough. “You look well, all things considered.”

Rielle blinked twice, coming back to herself. She stood before a long rectangular table of polished wood. Framed portraits of kings and queens of the Courverie line adorned the far wall. To her right, a wide spread of windows opened to a sun-soaked veranda.

This was the king’s Council Hall, where his Privy Council met.

And there was the king himself, with his closest advisers: Queen Genoveve beside him, staring at Rielle over the rim of her wine goblet. The Lady of Coin and the Lord of Letters. The judges of the High Court, appointed by the king.

Grand Magister Florimond, the most powerful earthshaker in Celdaria. The woman who had engineered the avalanche.

And Rielle’s father, his face drawn and unreadable.

She had not embraced him for years, yet now, oddly, she found herself craving it.

But only for a moment.

She raised a cool eyebrow at him and bowed. She caught sight of her ruined boots and realized she was still wearing the clothes from the mountain. Her body chose that moment to make itself known—every scrape and sprain, every bruise. Her wounds sparked equal parts pain and triumphant pleasure.