“Mother,” he began. “That’s not how it is.”

Genoveve smiled at him. “I don’t need comfort. I only want you to sit with me. I want you to come to me when the weight of this becomes too heavy for even your shoulders. I cannot take it from you, but God help me, I wish I could.”

She cradled his face in her hands, touched his cheeks, pushed the curls back from his eyes.

“My brave boy,” she whispered, and then brought his head down to kiss his brow.

They sat in silence, hand in hand, and waited for nightfall. Audric watched Atheria spin slow shadows through the trees.

I fear no darkness, he prayed. I fear no night.

I ask the shadows to aid my fight.

35

   Eliana

“Sometimes it’s strange to think of them together and in love, even after all the stories I’ve read—the Lightbringer and the Blood Queen. One kind, one cruel. One good, one evil. I wonder what their daughter would have been like, if she’d ever been born. I wonder which parent she’d take after.”

—Journal of Remy Ferracora, dated May 24, Year 1014 of the Third Age

The nightmares were shapeless and vast, but Eliana let them sweep her along on their savage current. She held herself carefully within a fraying net. If she fought too hard against her bindings, if she tried to turn against the nightmares and swim through them to shore, the net would break, and she would fall.

Eliana.

She turned away from the voice. It was him again. He had returned to bash her head in, and this time she would let him.

Eliana, please, wake up!

The voice calling her name was not Corien’s. It was familiar, soft, urgent. Beyond it soared music carried high on strings, punctuated by the brassy blasts of horns.

Slowly, Eliana opened her eyes—and saw, crouching behind her chair in Corien’s private theater box, a lanky boy with dark, mussed hair, his face shining with sweat.

Remy.

She stared at him, breathed in and out slowly. It was an illusion. It was a lie. She held herself still, waiting to awaken.

But the orchestra played on, and Remy was beckoning to her, and her mind was clear. Corien had said nothing—no taunts, no cruel laughter. Eliana stared at Remy, her blood roaring. She recalled the voice that had called her name only moments ago and recognized it.

It had been the Prophet, urging her awake.

Only her long weeks working with the Prophet could have prepared Eliana for such a moment. Though her mind was battered, her every muscle pulsing with pain, she reached for calm and found it. She thought of her cool little river and stepped quietly inside it.

Then she held Remy’s eyes for a moment, telling him not to move, telling him to hold every part of himself still, and turned carefully in her seat to look at Corien. She remained slumped, her eyes half-lidded. Her vision tilted even at that slight movement. Pain stabbed her temples.

There he was, standing near the polished railing with his drink in hand. The music on stage was deafening, and still he yelled for more.

“I can’t hear you!” Corien cried, then gulped down the rest of his drink and flung his empty glass at the stage.

In the rows of seats below, the citizens of Elysium echoed his disdain, throwing jeers at the musicians sweating on the stage, tossing shoes and half-eaten food, whatever they could find.

But the musicians did not dare stop, the conductor’s arms were tireless, and the sweetness of the music continued—triumphant and joyful, perversely incongruous with its audience.

Eliana watched Corien lean against the railing, his shoulders hunched, his hands white-knuckled. He shook his head in fury; he looked ready to burst. Any moment now, he would reach for another glass to throw.

He would reach for her.

Eliana could not move, frozen with indecision. What should she do? Feign sleep? Offer herself to Corien once more so Remy could run?

Then the choir in the grand curving loft above the stage stood as one. Four soloists dressed in long glittering coats began to sing in an angelic tongue they had no doubt learned at swordpoint.

To Eliana’s left, beyond where Corien stood, two adatrox dragged up the stairs a man Eliana did not recognize. His head lolled; his black-eyed expression was listless and fuzzy. An angel, but who?

Corien threw up his hands, overjoyed. “Ravikant! What a delight that you could join us this evening. And just in time for the finale too. What luck!”

Ravikant. Eliana looked hard at the admiral. She had not seen him since he lived in Ioseph Ferracora’s body. He had found a new body, it seemed—a short, skinny man with smooth brown skin and a shaved head. The adatrox released Ravikant, and he fell to his knees. He had dressed for the occasion in an immaculate suit of soft cream.

Corien knelt beside him, placed his hand on Ravikant’s sweating cheek. The admiral began to sob.

The orchestra quieted. The music became a playful march, chirpy and sly, accompanied by tiny rhythmic chimes.

“Did you think you would get away with it?” Corien asked softly, cocking his head. “Did you think I wouldn’t find out that you meant to ruin me? And here I was, thinking we were friends.”

Ravikant gasped, twitching on the floor, and Eliana’s body jolted with remembered pain. She breathed in and out through her nose and kept her hands relaxed on the arms of her chair.

Only then did she notice the floor of their lavishly appointed box.

It was strewn with corpses.

Corien stood, and Ravikant’s body grew still. Instead, another body nearer to the door began to convulse. A young, pale girl in a silken gown, perhaps selected from the audience below.

Eliana watched her body shudder as Ravikant’s screams, his pleas in Lissar, tore free of her throat.

“So easily I can toss you from body to body,” Corien mused, standing over the girl. “Could you do this? I don’t think you could. I think all of you are rats next to me. I think you ought to feel ashamed of your own stupidity.”

“The city…my lord…” Ravikant tried next in the common tongue. “It is overrun…”

Corien snarled with fury. The girl’s body stilled, and that of a white-haired, dark-skinned man sitting propped up in a chair began to twist in agony. His voice was deep; his words were Ravikant’s. The orchestra below played on, frenetic strings pushing a melody higher and higher.

Eliana tensed in her chair, fighting for calm. Corien was not watching her. He was distracted, drunk on wine and violence. She could run. Remy still waited behind her; she could feel his tension, how he ached to reach for her. If he had somehow gotten inside, there was a way to escape. If he was real, that is—if she could believe anything she saw.