What’s happening to me?
Fearful of being found out, she dismissed all but one loyal servant: a devout man named Day, who swore to keep her secrets.
The dreams began to come in the daytime. Vivid, insistent. Until Skyweaver could smell the piney scent of juniper berries and taste the tender flesh of cod and feel the sting of the northeast wind on her cheeks.
The more she dreamed, the more the baby grew, and the more she changed. Until one day she looked to find that her hands were not those of a god but of a human. Callused and coarse.
Skyweaver locked herself in her tower until Skye’s Night. On that night, Skyweaver had no choice but to descend the steps and join the empress of the Star Isles for Leandra’s yearly celebration of her defeat of the Shadow God.
Skyweaver wove herself a flowing gray gown for the occasion. One that would hide the bump of her belly.
The Shadow God was supposed to be dead. She wasn’t supposed to be carrying his child.
Skyweaver descended her tower and entered the citadel. She sat at the queen’s table and smiled when they toasted her. She clapped when they reenacted her defeat of the Shadow God. But on the inside, she wondered: Can they see my lie?
It started when they brought out the wine: a sharp pain in her belly that came like the tide. Ebbing and flowing. Contracting, releasing.
She knew what it meant.
The baby was coming.
Pain stabbed her like knife. She reached for the table to steady herself, gripping it hard, waiting for the ache to subside.
It didn’t. Instead, it gave her one last dream.
Leandra’s citadel disappeared. Skyweaver could taste the salt of the sea on her lips. Could feel the wet wooden oars blistering her palms. Could hear the crack of thunder.
You remind me of her, the Shadow God’s voice rang through her mind.
They weren’t dreams, she realized, clutching the bump of her belly. They were memories.
I am the fisherman’s daughter.
And this was a memory of the day she died.
Skyweaver saw the wave crash down on the boat—her boat—turning it over, pushing her out. She felt the shock of the ice-cold sea, the force with which it sucked her under. Chest burning. Lungs filling.
And dragging her down were the hands of the one who’d come for her.
Just before she drowned, Skye opened her eyes. And there in the water’s dark depths, staring back at her, was the face of her murderer.
Leandra, god of tides.
Thirty-Nine
When the mist cleared, Eris stood before a black tower rising high enough to pierce the sky.
The Skyweaver’s tower.
Its base was a raised platform where a locked door barred the citizens of Axis from entering. Not that anyone ever dared. The platform was guarded by Lumina, who were currently doing their rounds.
All Eris had to do was elude the guards, climb the tower, and steal Crow’s soul from under the Skyweaver’s nose.
Easy,she thought with a confidence she didn’t feel, studying the steps from the ground to a wide platform. Bits of grass and moss were pushing up through the cracks, gently reclaiming the stairs for themselves.Stealing is what I do best.
She watched the guards circle it twice, counting heartbeats each time they disappeared until they reemerged from the other side. When they disappeared a third time, Eris bolted for the steps, took them quickly to the top, then tugged the pin fromher hair and used it to pick the door’s lock—all the while keeping count in her head.
Her hands were so slick with sweat, she nearly dropped the pin.
