But Eliana was not afraid.

“You are the Prophet?” she whispered.

The woman smiled softly. “You may call me Ludivine. I knew your parents.”

She lifted the sword from her lap. The weapon’s strength pulsed against Eliana’s skin. Her power rose in greeting, making her teeth ache and her castings flare with heat, and she knew, though she had never seen it before, exactly what sword this was. Her blood knew its flavor, knew each engraved line of its hilt.

Ludivine held up the sword, the sheathed blade flat on her palms. Above it, her black eyes shone. A strange sight: Eliana had never before seen an angel look upon anything with love.

“The last surviving casting of the seven saints,” said Ludivine. “It has belonged to your family since Saint Katell used it to strike the angels from the sky. It survived the death of your mother. And now, little one, it belongs to you.”

36

   Rielle

“We have done all we can do. The watchtowers stand tall in the mountains. Earthshakers and waterworkers have deepened the lake. The forges burn day and night, churning out weapons by the dozens. Hundreds of civilians have fled the city, making for Luxitaine. Everyone able to stand and fight has stayed behind to bolster the Celdarian and Mazabatian armies. The angels are approaching. Well, let them come. We’re as ready as we’ll ever be. For crown and country, we protect the true light. And may God, or the empirium, or whatever damn thing is out there urging these dark tides—may something, anything, help us.”

—Journal of Odo Laroche, merchant and member of Red Crown, dated April 24, Year 1000 of the Second Age

Rielle knew she was alive. She knew she was standing. Beyond that, she knew very little of her body.

Her thoughts careened through the stars. Each one brought her back a new piece of information about the mountains on the western continent, the endless black space beyond the clouds, the other worlds residing within it. Her skin was afire, her blood bubbling hot. The empirium insisted on pouring a million pieces of the world into her mind. It was too much and too fast, but Rielle could not stop herself from drinking. Her ears ached, her temples boomed like drums, and still she consumed.

Corien arrived at her side. His presence pulled her thoughts back to her human body, which rankled her. She stared at the horizon until her irritation subsided. She could see things now—close things—that she hadn’t been interested in before.

There were the mountains surrounding Âme de la Terre. Twelve mountains, carpeted with pines, and the highest of them—fearsomely huge, snowcapped—towered over the castle at its feet.

There were the armies she and Corien had made over the past weeks and months. Ten thousand gray-eyed adatrox, puppeted by angels. Countless angels remained bodiless, their only weaponry the cunning power of their minds. And five thousand more walked the countryside of Celdaria, exquisitely crafted by her own hands and tethered solidly to the human bodies that housed them. Some flew; others strode. Scintillant and giddy, ravenous for revenge at last, their angelic glory would be obvious to the people watching their approach—the soldiers trembling nervously in their watchtowers, the children looking wide-eyed over their parents’ shoulders as they fled the city for the sea.

There was the soft light of dusk, amber and tangerine to the west, violet to the east. There were the farmlands rolling in neat lines toward the capital. Spring seedlings turning quietly in the soil.

And there was the roundness of her belly and the little life growing inside it. Rielle regarded it askance, this tiny assemblage of lit-up fibers kicking hard against her palms. Maybe allowing it to live after all was unwise. Two queens will rise, Aryava had said. One of blood, and one of light.

She scratched her stomach, her nails catching on the delicate threads of her gown. It was a dramatic garment. Unadorned blood-colored sheer silk from collar to hem. Long slits to her thighs left her legs free to move. The skirt began high on her waist, falling loose around her belly. She wore no shoes; she didn’t need them. The night air of spring was cool, but her blood was high summer. She curled her toes into the dirt. The soles of her feet were black from traveling.

She had designed the gown herself the morning before they left the Northern Reach. The first five sketches had ended in a frenzy. Each time she recreated the lines of her protruding stomach, a wildness came over her. That girl on the mountain. Audric’s eyes in a frightened face. Skin lighter than Audric’s but darker than her own, a light brown like the sweep of pale sand. Dark brown hair in a thick, messy braid, uncertain power trembling at her fingertips, her hands adorned with thin gold chains. My name is Eliana.

Rielle had blacked out each scribbled drawing until the girl vanished from her mind and ink stained her fingers. The nib of her pen scored harsh grooves into Corien’s polished desk. Once she had managed to complete a design, she watched the tailors work frantically through the night to finish the gown, gratified to see the sweat painting their brows.

Would her own daughter be the queen to rise up against her? Her palms tingled against her belly.

Corien put his cool hand over hers, scattering her thoughts.

“Look at them,” he whispered, sweeping his arm through the air to encompass the staggering ocean of their troops. There were the orderly lines of angelic soldiers. The generals wore black velvet cloaks hemmed in gold. There were the beasts Corien and his physicians had engineered under the northern mountains—crawlers, cruciata imitations, deformed and bulging. Their flapping, fleshy wings, armor embedded in their feathered, scaly hides. Controlled by angelic minds, the blank-eyed elemental children sat astride the beasts, their wrists and necks bound with castings.

Rielle examined the beasts’ inner workings, blazing gold and complex. There was the muscled might of the Borsvallic ice-dragons; there were the scars left behind by the knives of Corien’s mad underground surgeons. The power of the elemental children encircled the crawlers and their forged armor like nets, ready to tug and whip, summon and blast.

“You’ve done remarkably well,” Rielle said serenely. “But I can see where improvements could be made.”

Corien lifted her hand to his lips. “In due time, my love. Worlds, remember? We have entire worlds to make our own after this.”

“To unmake and remake as we see fit,” she whispered. An insatiable appetite stirred in the marrow of her bones.

“Rielle the Kingsbane.” Corien turned her face to his. “Rielle the Unmaker.”

“I held a world in my hands,” she whispered, closing her eyes as his mouth brushed against her jaw. Her thoughts sang as they returned to that endless glittering sea, the girl in the white gown pulling her into the stars. “I want to do it again. Tell me we will. Tell me it won’t be long.”

“Soon, you will have everything you desire,” he said, his breath hot on her mouth, “and so will I. You will pluck worlds from the stars and set them spinning to please you. You will find God and demand something better than what we have been given.”