“It’s not working. I’m not strong.” She gives a third heave but to no avail.
“Don’t hurt yourself,” I say. “You need to move him. I won’t last more than another minute or so.”
“Sorina, I can’t,” she snaps. “It’s not working. I’m not working.”
I curse under my breath. When my illusion fades, if I’m found out, I won’t be treated with mercy. Nicoleta, perhaps, can flee. She looks like an Up-Mountainer. Her abilities aren’t so readily apparent on her face. I am the obvious freak, and I am desecrating a sacred house of Ovren.
We both grab one of his arms and pull him over our shoulders to drag him. The massive weight of the man on my back strains everything I have left, even with his feet dragging across the stone floor behind us.
“I can’t do this,” I grunt.
“It’s not that far.”
It’s all the way out of the church and then to the carriage. It’s far enough to fail.
We make it halfway across the church before I need to stop. When I let Dalimil fall to the floor, it is only a half rest. I still need to maintain the illusion. The weight of the constant pushing presses against my mind, and I feel as though I am drowning, too exhausted to fight against the currents.
“The breaks won’t help,” Nicoleta says. “You’re only extending the illusion.”
She’s right. I’m depleting our time.
We hoist him up again. This time, we make it out of the cathedral’s doors and into the packed square. People dart around us, searching for their respective parties. They don’t see us. They don’t see the man we carry, though more than one person trips on Dalimil’s ankles and mistakes them for a cobblestone.
I spot our carriage among many others huddled together at the street’s corner. The sight of the end propels me forward and, despite my blurring vision, I quicken my step.
As we cross the street, a carriage darts out in front of us. Obviously, the driver does not see us, and we’re directly in the path of his horses. “Push,” Nicoleta pants, and we both lunge forward. The wheels of the carriage, however, nick Dalimil’s shoes and roll over his ankles with loud cracks I’m not prepared to conceal. We stumble and fall, Dalimil landing on top of us.
For a moment, the illusion flickers.
“What was that?” the driver calls. He stops the horses and jumps out of his seat.
“Sorina,” Nicoleta hisses, “I think I’ve sprained my ankle.”
The driver comes closer, not realizing he’s about to walk over us. I let out a long curse and cast an additional illusion, a bird swooping down in front of his horses. The effort feels like I’m stretching my muscles to the point of tearing. The horses shriek, pulling the driver’s attention away.
“Get up,” I snap. I’m ready to scream or cry; I don’t know which. “Get up. We’re nearly there.”
We hobble the rest of the way. I have no strength left, but still I manage to move forward, to maintain the illusion. The strain comes at the expense of breathing. I nearly collapse against the carriage door and then gasp as I release the illusion on Nicoleta.
“Hirohito,” she says to the driver, “help us.”
He startles at her sudden appearance and then leaps to our aid. He, Nicoleta and I push the limp body of Dalimil into the carriage, and we collapse in afterward.
We have succeeded, but we don’t waste time on self-congratulation. Hirohito snaps the reins, and we exit the gray city toward the comforting smoke of home.
CHAPTER TWENTY
Villiam embraces me, and I allow myself to relax, inhaling the warm scent of his cologne. I’m in Gomorrah. Safe in my father’s office. Back in my regular clothes. The tower of the Cathedral of Saints Dominik and Zdena is behind me, and it cannot see me through Gomorrah’s smoke.
“I’m so proud of you,” he says. “And so, so relieved.”
“I felt like such a...” I search for the word, but that feeling of helplessness and ugliness I felt in the church is difficult to articulate. “A bug. An ant.” Like, if they saw me, they could squash me at any moment, without the slightest bit of thought.
Villiam smile softens. “Who has carried more than her fair share of weight, as I understand.” He brushes my hair behind my ear. “You have never looked more beautiful.”
I don’t feel beautiful. I don’t even feel victorious. Only tired.
In the corner of the office, a healer braces Nicoleta’s sprained ankle. She doesn’t wince as he pulls the fabric tighter. Her gaze is fixed on the floor, and I can tell she’s troubled. She wears the sort of expression she usually has before snapping at Hawk that she has a headache.
