I don’t desire any battles.
“Make him remember.”
But maybe...I can stop them before they begin.
I lift my arms toward the Leonitian skyline, all iron and angles on its hilltop. I picture Gomorrah’s smoke—the thickness of it in the air, in every mouthful we breathe. The towers of the castle twist into the spires of the Menagerie. The gates bend as if, bit by bit, someone is twisting them into a new shape: a skull. Its mouth gaping into a scream.
With everything I have, I push the illusion from my mind until I feel it seeping into reality. The dark clouds descend over the city as if falling from the heavens, cloaking its buildings, and its angles and contrasts disappear into shadow. The castle twists like a top spinning until the Menagerie tent spreads open wide and covers it completely, semitransparent.
I imagine Exander stepping to his window to look outside at the city below him, only to find Gomorrah. The churches of Ovren have vanished into the smoke. His people disappear entirely. I don’t grace him with the smells of licorice cherries and kettle corn—I bring the rot, the manure, the tobacco smoke.
There’s an obvious disturbance in Leonita. The gate falls shut. Horns blare out in the distance.
Luca squeezes my shoulder, and I focus on his touch. I don’t know anything about charm-work—Villiam stole that knowledge from me. But I sense a presence in the city that reminds me of Luca in a way I cannot describe. A presence in the tower.
I’m so far, so incredibly far, but I grasp hold of that presence and use it to propel me closer. Whether or not my vision is real, I picture him at his window. With the smoke surrounding the city, he cannot see Gomorrah retreating in the distance. He might not understand. I’ll have to show him who is responsible.
I allow the scene to continue for another thirty seconds before the next illusion comes to me. Beside that window on the tallest tower, I picture myself: maskless, in my performance robes. I hover in the smoke several feet from him, my hands stretched out menacingly like they are now. The image of me burns and flickers like the faint glow of fire within the city below.
I beckon to him, as if urging him to jump. I know he won’t.
But I inch toward him. The wind stirs, and I turn around for a moment to admire what Leonita has become. When I meet his gaze again, my skin cracks. White grains of salt fall from my hands, my cheeks, my lips. The lord of Leonita watches as my remains are scattered across his city.
All at once, the illusion vanishes. The castle returns, the gate, the dark stone, the angles. All the lord sees is the smoke of Gomorrah in the distance. But even as we leave, he still catches the faint smell of burning in the air. Our ghost remains.
I drop my arms and lean against Luca to steady myself, entirely exhausted. That was all I have.
“Marvelous,” he whispers.
He picks me up to carry me back to Gomorrah.
“I can walk,” I say.
He ignores me. “I think I felt his fear, when you focused on him. I trembled in my soul.”
“I have that effect on people.” This earns me a hint of a smile, and I allow myself to relax. Maybe he doesn’t hate me, after all. He can carry me if he likes. He isn’t that strong—he will only tire himself out—but I don’t mind the feeling of my cheek against his chest, and I’m tired. I won’t argue.
“I’m sorry,” he says. “I didn’t mean to be harsh earlier.”
“I deserved it.”
“No, you didn’t. I wish I’d seen through Villiam earlier. It was all there, right in front of me.”
“It wasn’t all in front of you,” I say. “The puzzle pieces, they weremypuzzle pieces. The mystery was my mystery. The problems were—”
“All of those were mine, as well. We’ve both avoided asking the tough questions.”
We enter the edge of the Downhill. For a moment, we pass through a flicker of heat. It is only a moment, so quick it feels as though I imagine it, but it burns like Hellfire. I think back to the proprietor who supposedly stored the souls of Gomorrah in our gates so that we would forever burn, how the memory of heat still lingers at the edges of the city. The Festival’s proprietors have always had a fondness for theatrics.
“My memories have always been fuzzy,” Luca says. I don’t know if he even noticed the heat. “I assumed it was the change of scenery, from a place like that to a place like this. Turns out I have eighteen years’ worth of memories and only a year of them are real.”
“I’m sorry—”
“For what? Creating me?” he asks, his face painfully emotionless. “I’d rather you not apologize for that. I like being alive, you know.” He closes his eyes. “It’s just—my father, my mother, I still remember them. I remember losing them. I remember running away. And now that I know none of it was real, I can’t help but revisit it all again, in my memories. I can barely picture his face anymore...”
“Luca...”
“I’m not done,” he says. “I’ve rehearsed my little speech several times. At least let me perform it.” His voice cracks. Luca’s voice never cracks. “I considered leaving, going to Raske, visiting the place I never grew up in. But I’m not going to do that. I can’t leave Gomorrah. I can’t leave you.”
