“And will give our people hope,” she countered, flinging off her mask. “They’ll see my light and run toward it, their courage renewed.”

“And then every angel standing will know exactly which boat you’re on.”

“I’ll sink any boat that follows us. I’ll summon a storm. I’ll summon ten storms.”

“You’ll exhaust yourself. We’ll be attacked somewhere else on the water, and you’ll have no defenses left.”

She took his face in her hands. “Trust me. I can do this.”

Beyond his mask, his eyes were cold and flat in a way that frightened her. For a moment, she couldn’t be sure that it was truly him standing there before her.

“Eliana, please,” he said, his voice pulled thin with an emotion she couldn’t name. “We’ll find another way. We’ll retreat and regroup.”

“There is no other way,” she said, and then she turned and ran down the grassy dune to the shore. When she stepped onto the sand, she clapped her hands together, her castings sparking, and then flung her fingers up to the midnight sky, clenched them into fists, and pulled sharply down.

Her palms filled with sunlight, twin blazing gold stars. She tossed them into the air, and they flared to enormous life, lighting up the beach as if it were midday. Then she knelt and slammed her fists against the ground. A bolt of energy sprang to life beneath the sand, flying fast across the beach toward the Dovitiam. It knocked everyone it touched off their feet, human and angel alike, clearing a path for her.

She ran, heard Simon following her. “Stay close to me!” she cried over her shoulder.

Gunfire chased them toward the water. Flaming arrows came arcing out of the crowd. But her eyes were trained on the Dovitiam, and the sight of it pulled her inexorably forward. Remy, Remy. She thought his name with each pump of her legs. She flung up her fists as though blocking punches, knocking every bullet and arrow out of the sky. An angel flung himself into her path, fired his gun. She thrust out her fist, launching a shield of energy that sent him and his weapon flying twenty yards away, into the foaming shallows.

And then they were at the Dovitiam’s dock. May God forgive me, she said and sent a gust of wind racing across the crowded planks, knocking every citizen running toward the boat toppling into the water.

“Are our people coming?” she shouted to Simon. They were almost at the boat, the gangplank free and open. A figure stood on the deck, waving them frantically on. “Are they following us? Do you see them?”

But Simon did not respond. She heard a grunt of pain and whirled to find him.

It was Jessamyn—Jessamyn, impossibly, and Simon, locked in combat. Daggers flying, bodies whirling fast. Simon had dropped his gun. Jessamyn stomped on his foot, then knocked him in the jaw with her elbow. He staggered back, stunned.

Then Jessamyn turned and saw Eliana. Her left arm and right leg were bleeding; sweat slicked her face. And yet her eyes sparked, and when she ran at Eliana, she was fast, swift with fury, and Eliana, in her shock, didn’t have time to properly react.

She barely managed to avoid Jessamyn’s jab, ducking just in time. But then Jessamyn’s boot caught her in the stomach. She stumbled back, nearly blacking out, and reached for her castings, but Jessamyn was relentless and fell upon her too quickly. She punched her in the jaw, jabbed her hard in the throat.

Eliana fell to her knees, choking—and then she looked for Simon and saw the impossible.

He had recovered from Jessamyn’s attack and was standing a few paces from her, facing the beach. He had retrieved his gun and was shouting something at the angels still on the shore. Not in Venteran, nor in the common tongue, but in one of the angelic languages.

She recalled Zahra’s instructions from the Nest, those frantically memorized words, searching for the unfamiliar lettering in that basement room full of drugs. She recognized the cadence of what Simon shouted, the harshly lilting syllables.

Lissar. He was speaking Lissar.

And the angels on the shore were listening to him.

They gathered around the pier’s entrance, shooting their arrows, unleashing volleys of gunfire. Not at Simon, but at a crowd of people trapped between him and the angels.

Gasping for breath, her vision blacking in and out, Eliana at last understood what she was seeing. Time slowed, an endless push and pull between the life she had known and the life she would now lead.

There were Dani, and her three boys, and Ester. Darby, Oraia. Patrik.

They had followed her light to the pier, ready to join her, desperate for the ship that would bear them away to safety. Remy would be somewhere among them.

And now they were being slaughtered.

Each one of them fought desperately to the last—Dani, shielding Ester with her body. Patrik, charging at Simon with a roar. And each one of them fell. Ten. Twenty. Thirty. Red Crown soldiers who had helped plan her escape, who had fought through the city to protect her for as long as possible. Some ran, making a break for the broader beach. Angelic arrows caught them in the back. Any who slipped past the angels’ line of fire were picked off by Simon’s efficient gunfire.

And Jessamyn kept on, kicking Eliana in the ribs, in the stomach, yelling furiously over her head. Words Eliana didn’t understand, and one word, over and over: Varos.

Her vision tilting, Eliana called out Remy’s name. Vainly, she searched for him in the darkness. She tried reaching for her power, but it was like trying to navigate the froth of a nightmare. Her mind wouldn’t focus, shattered by pain. She shouted for Remy, screamed for Simon to stop.

Then swift footsteps crossed to her. She heard the meaty slap of a fist against flesh, and Jessamyn’s abuse abruptly ended. Her head spinning, her lips hot with blood, Eliana lay there half-alive, listening to Simon utter something in furious, rapid Lissar.

Jessamyn fell to her knees before him. She whispered a few reverent words. An apology?

Eliana reached out blindly, her arms trembling. She tried weakly to summon her power. But Simon had been right. She wasn’t entirely recovered from fighting Rielle.

And now, after her flight across the beach, her head pounding from the fall of Jessamyn’s fists, she could barely make her castings spark.

And now, Simon had done this. The pier and the water were littered with the corpses of those who had trusted her to save them.

Harkan? She tried to find him once more. She reached for Zahra, her head throbbing. Harkan, where are you?

Someone was lifting her, shoving her to her feet. She decided she would make it more difficult for them to move her and gave into the rising tide of her pain.

53

   Harkan

“Papa once told me that, when I lay dying—because someday I will, as will we all—I must not think of the things that frighten me, and I must not think of my pain. I must think of everyone and everything I have ever loved, for if I do that, those thoughts will follow me into death, and that far black place will turn bright and golden, as the world long ago used to be.”