Other times, she felt such a tenderness for the child she carried that it left her faint. Absently, she traced her fingers across her skin, wondering how it was faring after such wild days of travel. She wondered too if she should see a healer—and that made her think of Garver Randell, his little shop that smelled of herbs and resin, and Simon, looking up at his Sun Queen with shining eyes.

What they must think of her, sitting at their dinner table back in Âme de la Terre, wondering how they had been so thoroughly deceived.

How they must have come to despise her.

Head in her hands, Rielle blinked to clear her burning eyes, and suddenly, though she had not commanded it to, her vision flickered, and when it settled, the forest around her had been redrawn in shades of shifting gold.

An exhausted sort of dread washed over her body, even as her mind came alive with desire.

this power is yours

“No,” she moaned, covering her ears. “Not now.”

I wake

The empirium’s presence was cold and infinite, its whisper ageless, its might unthinkable. It rose to her surface like a behemoth of the sea coming up for air. Rielle shut her eyes against it, willing her vision to be small and pale once more.

this power is yours

take it

take me

I RISE

“I can’t,” Rielle whispered, tears rimming her lashes. “It’s too much.”

Her hands crackled with heat, and she flattened them against the dirt, hoping the press of the earth would satisfy their hunger.

Then there was a shift in the air, a thickening of the world’s quiet that muffled all other sounds. The rush of the waterfall softened to a dull rumble; the wood’s chatter hushed.

Rielle looked up and saw a faint vision: an airy room lined with fluttering curtains. Windows framing a white city. A terrace piled high with flowers.

And standing before her was Ludivine, faint but smiling. Golden-haired and pale in a gown of soft rose. Beside her stood a man in a green tunic, his dark curls mussed, his brown skin warm with sunlight.

Rielle’s breath caught. “Audric?”

19

   Navi

“May your ship sail true

and your fires burn bright.

May your heart think of me

while the stars shine their light.”

—Traditional Vesperian traveler’s prayer

Malik had been gone for five days, two more than it should have taken him to travel to the island of Laranti and return with Ysabet, the Red Crown leader Hob had arranged for them to meet. A woman, Hob’s contacts in the underground had said, whose influence in the Vespers was unmatched.

But Malik had not yet returned. Navi couldn’t sleep for worrying about him.

Instead, she sat up late in her shabby canvas tent, staring at the damp, curling sheets of paper on the table she and Hob had fashioned out of an old tree stump. Beyond the tent flap, clouds of angry flies swarmed, kept at bay by the foul-smelling oil their guide, Bazko, had sold to them for what Navi suspected was an exorbitant price. But she had gladly spent it, even though the coin they’d managed to smuggle out of Astavar—and exchange for Vesperian currency before word of the invasion spread—was disappearing fast. The bog’s flies were ravenous, each the size of a thumbprint.

“Forty-seven,” Navi breathed, looking over the encoded list of names before her—the latest count of everyone they had recruited to their little army of strays. Red Crown loyalists, refugees, orphans. “It isn’t enough.”

“No,” Hob said simply. “It is not.”

“We have to move faster, somehow. I hate being stuck in this awful place.”

“It was the right decision, to stay and keep watch over the fissure.”

Navi drew in a long, slow breath, hoping it would bring her some semblance of calm.

It did not.

The tent’s canvas and some hundred yards of swamp stood between her and the fissure to the Deep, but Navi could still feel it pulling at her. The shape of its dark, jagged eye had stamped itself on her vision, as if she had stared too long at a bright light. Nothing had emerged from the fissure, and the tear had not grown larger.

But the swamp had grown eerily quiet since the fissure’s appearance. Navi had the sense that she wasn’t alone in holding her breath, waiting for the next quake and what it might bring.

The tent flap opened, and Miro ducked inside, looking miserable. He dragged his sleeve across his grimy face. “My lady, may I sleep in here until my next watch? The flies are eating me alive.”

“Yes, of course.” Navi gestured to a battered leather tarp that served as a bed for anyone who needed it, and once the boy’s breathing had evened out, she returned to Hob, wiped her brow with a rag from her pocket, and then hid her face against the damp cloth.

The only sounds were Miro’s light snores, the buzzing flies, soft shuffling and clanking noises as others moved around the camp, everyone’s voices hushed as if afraid to disturb the swamp’s unnatural silence. Somewhere nearby, those on watch were slowly patrolling the water.

“What was I thinking, Hob?” Navi whispered. “This is madness.”

“I think I would call it rash courage, perhaps,” Hob said evenly, “but not madness.”

She looked up at him, exhaustion making her eyes sting with tears. “An army to crush the Empire. That’s what I said I would build. That’s what I told Malik as we fled Astavar. And now I have forty-seven people in a bug-infested swamp, waiting for me to do something extraordinary while a door to the Deep stares at us day and night, and Malik, who has gone to meet our supposed ally, has been gone for far too long. Have I sent him to his death as well?”

“There is no supposing. Ysabet will help us.”

Navi let out a tired laugh and rubbed her eyes, willing her tears to dry.

“You trust me, don’t you?” Hob said gently.

“That you have told me what you think is true? Yes, I trust that. But a woman I’ve never met?” Navi stared bleakly at her list of names. “I have failed Eliana.”

“We’ve done nothing yet. You have not had the opportunity to fail her.”

Navi made a soft, frustrated sound. “And that inaction could be the thing that kills her, the thing that kills us all. Or maybe…” She sighed, wiped her face once more. She had never sweated so much in her life. “Maybe it’s arrogant, even idiotic, to think that whatever I could do would be of any help to her.”

“You’ll drive yourself mad thinking coulds and maybes.”