Chapter I
Awakenings
In which Nensela is in Murena’s lair
It has come. Oh by the Seeker! Sweet death would be a mercy.
Nensela regretted the very moment she had opened her eyes. What they rested upon, she could not unsee. Memories of the grotesqueries she beheld would haunt her dreams for as long as she lived.
However long that would be.
She did not dare close her eyes.
Sounds came to her. Whispers. Screeches. Screams. And a wet, horrible shambling that grew louder with every beat of her heart.
Something was below her. Something hard. Something of the material world, then? Or a construct of Murena’s will? Could anything exist in his demesne if he did not wish it to?
Nensela sat up. She felt no pain. She felt little of anything, except terror, and that was sufficient.
For so long she successfully evaded him. For so long he’d stalked her. Only one chance had availed itself to her, the one opportunity to appear before Selàna. Had she used it well?
I did the Seeker’s bidding, she reminded herself, and banished her doubts. Here and now of all places, doubt would not serve. By the Seeker’s command she carried out her orders. And in doing so, exposed herself to Murena. The solstice favored him as well as her, and he captured her with ridiculous ease. Resistance had not been within her power.
Was it he who approached?
Nensela looked down. Still wearing the violet gown she put on, lo, how many days ago? A silken battle dress, or so it would serve for her now. At least this ethereal version did not bear the blood stains she inflicted upon the version she wore in the temporal realm, when Archelaos had confronted her. The stains of her own heart’s blood.
Sandals, laced up to her mid-calf, encased her feet. They, too, were as she willed. No part of this infernal place should touch her, not if she could help it.
She stood, drawing herself up to her full height. Defiant, she crossed her arms and raised her chin.
The source of the shambling came into view.
Mouth. The dominant feature of the creature, obscuring its body. Mouth and fangs, with small eyes peering out of a red mass the shape of which she could not decipher.
“You awaken,” the mouth said. “What moved you?”
Lips. The creature possessed lips, which never came together. The bottom lip flapped and flopped against the oily floor, but never once came in kissing distance of its top half.
Nensela stared. Drool pooled in the bottom lip of the creature.
The creature’s top and lower jaws snapped together, unsettling her. The thing’s top lip rippled slightly, and a small noise came from behind its teeth.
By the Seeker —
“No! You will not call upon Her here. Your mistress can See nothing that passes here, lackey!”
Nensela jumped.
The jaws clamped together again. Was it a smile? Was this thing smiling?
It read her mind. How—
“You do not recognize me, do you? You’ve seen me before. Allow me to reintroduce myself.”
Light flashed. The red mass vanished, and in its place—
“Archelaos,” Nensela said.
Fine linen served for his tunic, of a quality worthy of his role as governor of a Rasena Valentian province. A role he once served in his human form for some dark purpose of his own.
He bowed mockingly. “Your Highness.” He straightened up and smiled at her. A mouthful of crooked yellow fangs gleamed at her.
Archelaos leaned against the doorway and crossed one leg in front of the other. “Did you think yourself clever, lackey? Did you think you were escaping possession when you drove that arrow into your heart?”
Nensela made no answer. What was the point? He could read her mind.
“I can,” Archelaos confirmed. “You’re in my realm, Highness. You’re nothing here. Before, your status was best lapdog. Here you’d be lucky if we turned you into a snail.”
“But you won’t,” Nensela said mildly.
Archelaos glared at her.
They always gave the game away, she found. Unsavory humans behaved predictably in certain moments. Particularly those moments when they believed they had triumphed over her. They would utter long-rehearsed prattle, telling her a great deal of themselves in the process. Were infernal Erebossi any different?
Here now was Archelaos—she met his gaze—here he was gloating, but the very fact that she was here was an indication in and of itself.
The war was not yet won.
Not by Murena.
Not by their queen.
«And nor will you win, Archelaos,» Nensela declared.
Archelaos advanced. Unfazed, she stood her ground.
“Strategy is not your gift,” she insisted. “You have miscalculated in bringing me here.”
Archelaos approached slowly, until he stood within arm’s reach of her. Swiftly, and subtly, his hands rippled. Then suddenly he sported sickle-shaped claws. So quickly did he raise his hands she only saw a black blur before something hard and sharp came down upon her shoulders. Claws. Long and black, his claws curved over her shoulders.
Surprisingly, his touch was gentle; he would not have broken her skin or slit her dress if they were on Thuraia. Yet the claws could have sheared her head from her neck had he swiped higher.
But she was not in her body. There was nothing he could do to her physically.
“You think that matters?” Archelaos purred. “Tell me, lackey, do you truly not know that in this realm I could extinguish you utterly? Do you not know, lackey, I can sever your soul from your body?”
“My soul does not belong to you,” Nensela pointed out.
Murena could only hold her in his demesne because her body lived. If she were dead, he could no longer hold her soul, for she belonged to the Seeker.
«True. Remember that.»
Nensela froze. The voice was not her own. Nor did it belong to Archelaos.
But she had heard it before.
Archelaos froze. His eyes grew small, and at a blink his pupils became elliptical, and the whites turned a sickly yellow.
“Who interferes?” he demanded. Like a great and savage cat he retracted his claws and reared back, his shape melting slightly before he vanished in a puff of smoke and brimstone.
Nensela stood motionless, contemplating the voice. The same voice once warned her of Archelaos. Warned her she would meet him. Warned her she must die rather than fall into his hands. Thus, she obeyed. Yet here she was, literally in his hands, albeit in Murena’s lair.
«Yes. Murena’s lair. Archelaos has no authority here. He cannot hold you.»
«With whom do I speak?» Nensela demanded.
The voice was as a whipcrack.
«The one who will free you. Follow my instructions, Nensela.»
Wherever the voice would lead her, whatever the intellect behind the voice intended, nothing could be worse than remaining in the lair of Murena, within reach of Archelaos.
«Touch nothing. Step out of this room. No one shall impede you.»
Nensela ventured forward. The screams echoing in the distance slowed her steps. Whatever caused those screams couldn’t touch her, because she yet lived. This much she knew. The voice … could she trust that voice?
“Relentless One, hear your servant, I beseech you,” Nensela whispered.
The Presence couldn’t be interdicting the gods from here, could it? Not from this side of Erebossa, surely? From here nothing would stand between her and the Seeker? Unless…could the Seeker hear her from Murena’s lair?
«Follow me, if you want to hear Her voice. Follow me, Nensela.»
What she beheld in the corridor made her recoil. Revulsion made her gorge rise, and she reflexively slammed her eyes shut. But even with her eyes closed the horror burned itself into her vision. Only the certainty that screaming would bring worse upon her kept her silent.
“One,” she whispered. “Two. Three.”
Slowly she opened her eyes again. Paneled in flesh and blood, the walls pulsed in rhythm to an unseen heartbeat. Each pulse revealed that which mortared the patchwork of flesh on the walls: the spirits of the once-living.
Ugh. Not for a brief time must she look upon this grotesquerie; the corridor was long, bespeaking the age upon age of Murena’s dealings with humans.
If only she could shut out the screaming.
On cue, as if taunting her, the screams grew louder. So loud that she drew back when she recognized one of them. A familiar rough voice, speaking in Adamantean.
Icy horror bloomed within her.
“Gallo?” she said aloud.
The leader of the Kyanopolis division of the Red Daggers, a sorcerer allied with Murena. Out of rote duty she had revealed her prophecy to him: if he abducted Edana, he would die. And it was so.
“You!” he screamed, the tenor of his voice changing from agony to recognition. “You! You ruined everything.”
Inwardly, Nensela marveled, though she remained silent. In life, did she not warn this man the Destroyer would see to him? Never did she expect to encounter anyone who had failed to heed her warnings from this side of Erebossa. Blessed Seeker, how many more might she meet?
While Gallo deserved his end, Nensela considered others who did not listen to her messages. Others it would grieve her to meet in such a place as Murena’s dungeons. Imagining the more misguided individuals found repentance, and a better fate in Erebossa, kept her hopeful when she might have otherwise quit in despair during her missions.
«Forward,» the voice said sternly. «This man is damned beyond your aiding him, even if you wanted to aid him. Murena will return soon. Do not be here when he does. Straight down, Nensela. Straight down this corridor.»
Nensela launched herself forward, imagining herself as a gazelle with the requisite speed. Things peered at her, from chambers to her left and right.
Determined, she avoided looking, avoided taking notice of anything not directly in front of her. She ran and ran. With each step the walls seemed to recede from her.
«An illusion. Trust it not.»
Nensela hurled herself forward. She screamed, feeling herself falling, falling, falling…
And then suddenly she was no longer falling.
Her knees locked as she landed, in the midst of a room of many doors. Some stood open, revealing a starry void or a roiling sea. The rest were all closed, with no handle or means to open them.
Was this how Murena—?
«Do not think of him! Especially not here.»
«You gratify me with your warning,» Nensela replied. Instinct warned her to show deference to the mysterious voice. When she first sensed Halie trapped in Gallo’s fortress, her keenly honed senses told her she was speaking to someone not human. Now she sensed the same of the Voice’s owner. Neither malice nor evil did she detect in its aspect. But here in—here in this place she would not take anything for granted.
She turned, surveying the room carefully. Doors surrounded her, enclosing the room entirely. Going back the way she came was not an option, as she did not know which of the doors she’d come through.
«Are these doors safe to touch? Will I be compelled to enter the one I open?»
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«Your Sendings require a powerful memory. Think of one, with a place you visit even as you dream.»
Nensela arched an eyebrow. The voice read her skepticism, and replied,
«Call your sanctuary into existence, here in Erebossa. You have the power to do this. Accept it.»
Did she? Fascinating. This claim she would put to the test. Choosing a door at random, she fixed her attention upon it. At once it flew open. Before her arose marble stairs, flanked by either a golden sphinx or a silver phoenix. On every fifth step stood a gold-plated censor that brought the scents of nasturtium and violets and galbanum wafting into the place where she now stood. At the top of the stairs stood two twisted columns. Yards of cloth-of-silver hung between the columns. Subtle star patterns woven into the curtains shimmered as an unseen breeze fluttered them. Occasionally, the curtains lifted and shifted, yielding glimpses of the splendor beyond.
«Hurry,» the Voice urged.
The marble felt solid beneath her foot as Nensela probed it gingerly with one toe. She took another step, committing herself. As soon as she reached the second step, the door slammed behind her with a resounding bang.
Nensela didn’t look back.
Late afternoon sunlight shone down on her, warming her skin and glinting off the silver curtains.
Giddiness made her hurry up the steps, eager to see how much of her memory she made manifest in this strange place: The Seeker’s temple.
In the temple of the Seeker she spent the first fifty years of her life. This was where her parents brought her after the Seeker sent her a prophecy for the first time. In these halls the lorekeepers trained her in knowledge of the Seeker and Her ways. Again and again she returned to this temple over the course of her long life, seeking at times guidance or refuge. She knew every corner, every shadow, every nook.
When she did finally reach the top, she gently grabbed hold of one of the curtains and peered inside.
A marble statue of the Seeker awaited her at the end of a long portico. Flanking the goddess at Her feet were the peacocks—Her familiars. In Her right hand the Seeker held the Staff of the Radiant Eye, for the Ta-Setians were so ancient they still recalled the days when She carried the staff, in the time before She set the Eye amongst the stars.
Everything looked as it should. Everything looked as she remembered. Nensela approached the altar in the center of the portico. From a bowl of flowers she took a measure of spikenard and myrrh and nasturtium. She laid them carefully atop the dragon ivory surface, and with flint and stone she set them ablaze.
The Voice spoke to her once more.
«This, Nensela, is your abode. This place alone is your redoubt. Remain here you must, until I return.»
She jumped, whirling around. He—was it a he? Yes. He sounded as if he were right behind her.
She was alone.
If only she could breathe! After so long, so very long, her breathing exercises had become akin to a walking stick, a support she needed. But…why complain? Whoever he was, her unknown benefactor had helped her. By his own will, for his own reasons, he set her free from a ghastly prison and its abominable warden. Gratitude, she owed him, not suspicion.
She strode down the colonnade, to a room she knew would be at the opposite end. The burnished silver doors opened before she reached them. Inside, the white marble walls of the oraculum were shot through with lapis colored veins. The crystalline waters in the pool in the center sparkled as any of the waters in Aletheia’s temples.
“Elamis. I must know what passes there.”
Nensela did not have to use the gears and gadgets of the Unseeing. She was a seer, and as such she could use any mirrored surface to communicate. However, she was not a scryer, and Seeing the present was not within her power.
In ordinary times.
“Sorcha, the EverBright, ally of the Seeker, hear the plea of Her servant, Nensela, who calls upon You now. Allow me to see what happens in Elamis.”
The waters frothed and rippled. Shapes and shadows appeared, then resolved to fluffy clouds that became a startling blue and white marble. Gigantic green and brown masses appeared. Nensela jumped back. Were these the places of the world? One of them hurtled up, up, until she suddenly saw mountains in sharp relief. It was as if she saw everything through the eyes of an eagle swooping down to catch her prey.
She lurched forward, pinwheeling her arms before catching her balance again: a city was rushing toward her.
Nensela straightened.
Here, at last, was Elamis. Its spires, domes, and grand citadel announced its identity to her. She remembered it of old, when it was but a stop on a journey, a shelter from the desert wind.
Here, also, was Selàna.
In this furnace the bel nakri and her wicked servants stripped and melted down Selàna’s sweet innocence, reforging her anew as something twisted and horrendous.
Heartbreak chilled Nensela, deep in her spirit. The evil Selàna had wrought marked her out in a special way, for special punishment. The little girl who once skipped gaily beside her on her hillside walks, who got into mischief with her little dog, who needed to sleep with a glowlight at night because she feared the dark … that girl needed intercession. But she lived in the same body as the one who desecrated the daughters of the Huntress, and for her what redemption was possible?
“I will not forsake you, daughter,” Nensela vowed.
Folding her arms, she gathered her strength about her. Murena could not interfere with her. Nor could the Interceptor, or the so-called queen of the shadow court.
“Relentless One, hear my vow: all that is in my power to aid my daughter, I will do. All that is in my power to aid my friends, I will do. I will deliver Your enemies into their hands. This I swear.”
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Bessa slept for hours, though not entirely with peace. Her dreams twisted, evolving one into another with a fearful logic, dreams she could not recall when she awakened with a start.
They had a goal.
And six months to reach it.
Six months to figure out where the Atta’u would appear. Six months to stop Rahqu. Six months to turn Selàna into the Restorer’s servant, as diligently as she had been Rahqu’s.
The precinct of Aletheia’s Fane included a tower that housed the priests; the high priest gave Bessa and her friends shelter there. An honor, he said, in recognition of the role she and her friends had played in saving the fane and the city.
Bessa stared at the ceiling, grey now in the afternoon light filtering in through gauzy curtains. Her bed was still toasty, and the pillows carried the faint scent of wildflowers. Fires blazed in three braziers set at intervals in the large room, tended to by a slave who had come and gone while she’d dreamt.
Safe and secure. That was the main point of remaining in the temple—the other reason, of course, was that Selàna was imprisoned in the temple. Although, the high priest seemed willing to leave the girl in her hands.
Bessa looked to her left. Edana lay curled up on her own bed, her eyelids flickering. Across from them, Alia slept on her stomach. The women breathed softly, and other than the snap and crackle of the logs in the braziers the room was quiet.
She sat up, and for the first time took in the appearance of the room. For what she and her companions had done in saving the city, the temple keepers honored them with a beautifully appointed room. Soft, luxuriant rugs of cerulean, with intricate patterns woven through in cream, carpeted the floor. Anshani rugs, she noted, a costly import in Silura. Fleetingly, she wondered if she might acquire such treasures for her future home with Lysander.
A beautiful home she might make for him … if they survived.
Thick blue curtains of silken wool, edged in cloth-of-gold, covered the windows. Their weight aided in keeping out the cold, but one pair was parted enough to let a sliver of white shimmersilk peek through. This, then, was the source of what little sunlight filtered into the room.
Bessa eased out of her bed and crept to the window. From her grand height four floors up, she saw Selàna's tower at her right. On the left, the citadel of the king of Elamis peeked at them through the mists. A shiver went through her. What would the watchmen do with the palace? For certain they would not allow the Star Dragons to secure it, even if the Star Dragons revealed their presence in the city. But were the city’s watchmen up for the job? If the palace needed to be destroyed, would they do so?
Every instinct in Bessa’s body told her the palace’s shadow gate may be needed later. Thus, as much as she would like for the grand edifice to come crashing down, it must remain standing.
For now.
After all, Murena’s keystone belonged to a door not of this world…
She looked over to the tower again. Had Selàna slept? Last night had been grueling enough; none of them made it to bed until four hours past midnight. Bessa tore her gaze from the window. Someone thoughtfully placed sandals beneath her bed, and neatly folded a heavy shawl on the chest at the foot of her bed. The shawl turned out to be long enough to use as a cloak, which she did now for the sake of modesty.
Bessa started for the door, then hesitated. She looked at her companions again. Sachets of valerian, spikenard, thyme, and rosemary flowers protruded from beneath their pillows. Some sweet person wanted to help them fight off nightmares. A kindness, for the women had fought a horrific battle, risking their lives and their souls to do so. If no bakhtak dogged their sleep, nor would Bessa. They deserved a rest. She opened and shut the door behind herself as quietly as she could.
The halls were not so cozy as her room. With every exhale Bessa’s breath showed itself as a puff of white. She wrapped the shawl more tightly about herself so that only her feet knew the cold now. If only she wore her socks—but they were tucked away at her room in the inn, where they would do her no good whatsoever right now.
Bessa hurried down the hall. She passed a few guards on her way to the tower, but they recognized her immediately and made no attempt to impede her. The one guarding Selàna's door let her in without comment.
Selàna was already awake when Bessa slipped in. She was curled up, facing the wall, her eyes open but unblinking.
Though a fire roared in a large bronze brazier, the tower room was quite spacious, with a high enough ceiling to leech the warmth from the room. This left the bedchamber less comfortable than the one Bessa had left. The windows were arranged in a semi-circle in the curving wall of the turret. However, only a thin ray of sunlight lanced across the gloom, because thick curtains covered the windows. Selàna's furnishings were plain, serviceable. The temple keepers had not mistreated her, but they clearly weren’t going out of their way for her, either.
Motionless, Selàna looked at Bessa from the corner of her eye.
Bessa paused. Where to start? “I’m sorry I must disturb you so early.”
“You know my mother,” Selàna said.
Bessa blinked. Oh, of course, Selàna was Lady Nensela’s daughter. Now it dawned on her that for Selàna, she was only a day removed from the shipwreck that killed her father and separated her from her mother.
“I do,” she answered.
Selàna sat up. The covers rustled as she drew her knees up to her chest and clasped her arms about herself. “Why didn’t she come with you?”
Again Bessa hesitated. Intense longing laced Selàna's voice, sending a pang of regret through Bessa. With a hard swallow she steeled herself.
“Because she’s in the Restorer’s hands now. During a battle an eidolon cornered us. Cornered her, seeking to possess her, I believe. But she fought back.”
She studied Selàna's face. The girl looked so guarded, in the way of one bracing herself for bad news.
Lowering her voice, Bessa continued, “She stabbed herself with her own arrow. A poison arrow, which made her fall into a deep sleep. Only the gods know if she will awaken, but I pray everyday for them to grant us her company and counsel again.”
Selàna's hand flew to her mouth. She stared intently at a spot on her blanket.
Aborting her approach before she took even three steps, Bessa reconsidered her next move. The shadows the feeble light cast in the room were long, but dull. Nothing was hidden, just darkened, and discernible to those who chose to see. So may it be with Rahqu’s plans.
“Your mother told us to find you. She said you would save us all. I wonder if she didn’t mean to include herself as well.”
Haltingly, Bessa told her everything she could of Lady Nensela, of the seer’s visions and her attempts to ascertain what the giants were doing and whom they were working for. Next she spoke of Edana, and emphasized the grief and sorrow that bound her and the seer together.
“Your mother misses you,” Bessa said gently.
Tears coursed down Selàna's cheeks. She roughly wiped them away and looked up at Bessa. When she spoke next, her voice rang with bitterness.
“So my mother may be one more thing Rahqu has taken from me.”
Instinct told Bessa the poor girl needed a hug, but she dared not approach her. The girl’s body language radiated a simple message: Stay away from me. Instead, Bessa strode to the brazier and rubbed her hands over the fire.
“Your mother isn’t dead,” Bessa said sharply. “Do not speak of her as being taken, because she’s not. When we were in the home of another eidolon, Lady Nensela admitted to me that she knew the agents of Erebossa were trying to trap her. That’s what they said over here, when we couldn’t mess up their plans. The fellshade she took poison to escape from? Even he complained about needing to plan around her. Your mother is far too wise to let herself be taken so easily.”
Selàna sighed, and collapsed back against her pillows. “Rahqu wanted my mother in particular. When he was dying, Amavand showed me his memories. In one of them, Artostes said Rahqu was seeking to destroy my mother. Because Mama was too formidable a bane for them.”
Bessa nodded to herself; the statement confirmed what she already suspected. “This war we’re fighting began before you and I were born, before your mother was born. The Aeternity War. Did you know your mother is so old she used different stars to navigate than we do now? If she was always as she is now, I can believe she was thwarting their plans long before this skirmish.”
Now she turned away from the fire to look Selàna head on. However, the girl didn’t meet her gaze, which was fixed at an empty spot on her blanket.
“I’m sorry,” Bessa said.
Selàna's head jerked up. The confusion on her face served as Bessa’s invitation to continue.
“Sorry for striking you. The truth is, I would have slain you if Sheridan hadn’t been there to stop me. Poor payment to Lady Nensela for her hospitality is only a small reason I feel ashamed. Fury got the better of me, and I would have shed the blood of an innocent. More, I would have frustrated all hope of winning this battle, and in doing so brought about the destruction of this world and everyone I care about. I am profoundly sorry.”
Selàna flung the covers off and slid off her bed, revealing the simple woolen shift she slept in, nearly a twin to Bessa’s. The garment cascaded to her ankles as she stood up.
“I don’t need your apologies,” Selàna said as she shoved her feet into sandals. “If you knew the extent of Zephyra’s evil, all that would have checked your hand is that she deserved a slower death.” She began pacing, her steps soft against the fur rugs insulating the floor. Unshed tears made her eyes shimmer, but she quickly looked down, as if to hide them.
Selàna continued, “But I almost pity her. Do you know how it shocked her, the discovery that her father was not her father? And then to watch Amavand’s memories of Artostes call up a storm that killed my father? How she felt watching the soul wraiths carry the spirit of the man she once believed to be her father? The man for whose sake she committed abominable acts? And when she thought herself at the end of terrible revelations, an army of bloodthirsty monsters saluted her, and treated her as if she were their queen. In that moment she learned she was evil.”
“In a sense the nakri and fellshades were right to treat you—Zephyra—as a queen,” Bessa ventured. “We think Rahqu gave you some part of her power.”
Selàna's eyes flashed, a spark extinguished in an instant as her face became a mask again. “How astute, as my mother would say. Rahqu gave Zephyra her power. Making Zephyra her vessel was how she sidestepped her inability to enter Thuraia directly. I was not supposed to use the ichor—her blood—because having her power and her blood would spring the trap. The trap set by either the gods or the dryads, I am not sure. I did not know until recently that there was a trap at all.”
She clasped her elbows, exposing the electrum bracers inscribed in silver with the spells that bound her to the world. Spells that kept her from using her death powers. The Eitanim had exchanged it for the handcuffs she had previously worn.
“If there’s a way to expel her power, I would do it,” Selàna added.
“I have never heard of such. Which means nothing, because I’m not a lorekeeper. But what if you could re-purpose her power?”
“No. You don’t know what I am capable of. Vile, evil powers are all I have, and there is no turning them to good. There is no redeeming that power. If I died, Rahqu would be defeated. While I live she will send her servants after me, to reclaim me. Reclaim her power.”
A chill rippled through Bessa as Selàna's words sank in. She hadn’t considered Rahqu would seek revenge, or to recapture her precious handmaiden. What means would she use? More infernal-possessed humans, like Escamilla? Fell beasts, like the controlled jackals that attacked her and Edana?
Bessa clenched her jaw. What use was fear to her? Didn’t she have an army of her own? Blooded and battle-tested, and worthy of the faith she put in them? Letting her fears ride her now would be a foolish waste of time, and would accomplish nothing.
Time to collect another head, Edana once said to her.
“Coming after you would be logical,” Bessa said finally. “But you’re assuming your death won’t accomplish the same objective. I was warned that one should not kill an eidolon. It unleashes the abyssal inside the host. How do you know that when you die, the power of Rahqu won’t return to her? Or enter another willing vessel?”
Selàna's sharp gasp told Bessa her arrow struck home. The young woman spun on her heel and strode over to the window. She flung open one of the curtains, with perhaps more violence than necessary. Sunlight streamed in, banishing the oppressive shadows. With sunlight came warmth, lessening Bessa’s shivers.
Cold or warm, Selàna appeared impervious to her surroundings. Every part of her attention fastened on what she saw outside her window. If she wished, she had an excellent vantage point to view the citadel.
Don’t look back. Bessa held her tongue.
“Why?” Selàna demanded. Still looking straight ahead, avoiding Bessa's gaze “Why do you want to use this power? Why do you think you can control it? Why do you think I should use it? I’m tainted. Maybe not as bad as I would be if I had drank her ichor, but I am her vessel all the same.”
“You were supposed to be a Restorite. You have innate powers. Or if you didn’t before, you do now. That is the power I want you to access: The Restorer is Rahqu’s enemy. Why else would she have wanted you to go to the haoma? So you could taint it like the naiads’ springs were tainted, and the dryads’ groves. The Presence has cut off all the sorcerers who could help. But you can still use your powers. And if you changed your allegiance to the Restorer, you can undo what you did.”
Selàna's features softened. She unclenched her arms and studied her cuffs.
“What do you want me to do?”