Then Navi disappeared.

A gloved hand came over Eliana’s mouth, pressing a reeking cloth to her face. She struggled, her scream muffled. Another hand caught the back of her skull, forcing her harder against the cloth.

As her vision dimmed, she saw a black-clothed figure—hood drawn, mask on—gathering an unconscious Navi into his arms.

The wrongness in the air swallowed Eliana whole. She wanted to be sick again, but the pressure bearing down on her throat prevented it.

A voice at her ear whispered, “And when the Gate fell, He found me in the chaos, pointed to my thirsting heart, and said, ‘You I shall deliver into the glory of the new world,’ and I wept at his feet and was remade.”

Then Eliana slipped into a narrow pit, where the fading world around her jolted sharply before folding her away into nothingness.

35

   Rielle

“The mountain falls under my fists

The sea dries at my touch

The flame dies on my tongue

The night howls with my anger

The light darkens in my shadow

The earth fades beneath my feet

I do not break or bend

I cannot be silenced

I am everywhere”

—The Wind Rite

As first uttered by Saint Ghovan the Fearless, patron saint of Ventera and windsingers

Rielle sat on a throne in the center of a dark room.

A narrow light illuminated her from above. Beyond lay a vastness of shifting shadows. She sensed that pieces of a world just beyond her reach were rearranging themselves, whispering to one another how best to play tricks on the foolish lit-up queen who thought she was something.

The throne beneath her was made of knobs and ridges that bit into her thighs. A voice whispered to her, Look.

“At what?” Rielle peered through the darkness. Doing so made her dizzy. “I see nothing.”

Look closer.

Rielle obeyed. Days passed. Her eyes burned; she did not sleep. Voices whispered from a distant realm.

She rose from her throne. Desperate unseen hands grasped at the hem of her cloak. She tasted a sour ancient rot on her tongue.

“There is nothing here,” she insisted. Time had shredded her voice.

Keep going.

She walked for centuries. The whispering voices grew bold. They became a conversation, then a din. They spoke in an unfamiliar language, but still she understood what every word meant and that all were spoken for her:

Maker.

Queen.

Liberty.

Rielle.

At last, she saw a spot of light in the distance and cried out. Was this finally the end? She had tired of walking alone. She wanted no more of these voices calling for her, of sensing the nearness of others, but not being able to find them.

When the light came into full view, she saw it was one she already knew—the illuminated throne.

And now she understood why it had hurt her to sit upon it.

It was made of bones.

Exhausted, elated, she sank down onto it. She clutched the throne’s smooth white arms and knew them for the bones of those who had once tried to cage her.

“What is this place?” Rielle demanded. “I deserve an answer.”

Shadows slithered around the bright solid wall of her throne, then coldly across her cheeks, her breasts, the curve of her scalp. She closed her eyes; her mouth fell open to receive a kiss.

The shadows became a man.

“This is where we have lived for an age,” he whispered. He pressed his lips to the curve of her ear. “And where we will soon no longer be if you have the nerve for it.”

“Corien,” she breathed. “I don’t understand what you mean.”

He inhaled deeply. His mouth moved against her cheek. “Don’t make me beg.”

Rielle brushed her lips along the line of his jaw. “What if I want to make you beg?” she whispered. “What if I want you at my mercy?”

“Then I shall happily obey.” He moved one white palm down her body, across the flat of her stomach. His knuckles grazed the tops of her thighs, and she leaned back to make room for him—

Rielle awoke with a choked gasp, her fingers already working between her legs. Three quick strokes, and she came apart, quietly pulsing around her hand. She turned her face into her pillow, seeking relief for her flaming cheeks, but the pillow was drenched in her sweat.

She sat up, her body trembling. Eyes squeezed shut, stomach in knots, chest tight around her heart. Fear chasing pleasure, pleasure chasing shame.

Then she realized how strange it was that she would have woken up in such a state, and Evyline would have said nothing.

“Evyline?” Her voice sounded like it had been run through with razors. “Evyline, are you—”

Something hard struck the back of her head.

She crashed to the floor. Pain throbbed through her skull and coursed through her body in waves. Cheek pressed against the plush carpet, she found the prone form of Evyline across the room.

Hands yanked her up from the floor. A dark heavy cloth came around her eyes. Someone tied it behind her head, too tightly, then fisted a hand in her hair, pried open her mouth, and forced a bitter liquid inside. She choked, tried to spit it up. Her attacker clamped her mouth shut. She was forced to swallow, coughing up as much as she could. Her nose burned; her eyes watered behind the blindfold.

People were talking above her head. Whispered instructions, distorted and monstrous. Bizarrely, she was upside down. She could feel her head lolling and large arms cruel around her body.

Wake up!

How strange that anyone would tell her to wake up. She was awake; she had simply been poisoned. She tried to speak, made a terrible inarticulate noise. A gloved hand struck her hard on the temple. She hardly felt it. She was a girl made of fog.

“Don’t kill her,” came a voice. Rielle thought it sounded familiar, but the poison was clogging her ears and her brain and every pore of her skin. “I want her to feel it when she dies.”

• • •

It was very cold, wherever they had gone. Cold and howling.

Strong hands pinned Rielle’s arms behind her back. Her teeth were chattering; her nightgown was nothing against the wind. Under her bare feet was frigid, rocky ground.

For God’s sake, Rielle, wake up!

“I am awake,” she managed to mumble.

“Not for long.” A thin, nearby voice whispered, “I’m sorry to say you won’t be able to save yourself this time.”