It was odd to see them listed there with names, not just the numbers by which Jacen had known them. Wetness pricked his eyes. He blinked it away.
And then, there he was:
99—Male, Zal, Lun—Age 6—Tier 6—Jacen—ORDAINED BROTHER KHERIS
No original surname was listed for him, onlyJacen.And beside his name, those two words.Zal. Lun.
He had heard tell of Lun, less a city than a trading post, located in the habitable zone of the Scar’s northern foothills. He had heard of trees with leaves like flames, kirikil with multicolored shells, and a vast, golden lake where the river Esh had its source. But he had no memory of it. Only the snowy version of Alendal that Ogden told him did not exist.
If Jacen was Zal, why didn’t he look it? His coloring was all wrong, and his eyes . . .
The realization hit him like a fist to the gut. He didn’t know. He had been unusually young when his eyes turned, and had no recollection of what their original color had been.
He clutched the open book as though it had taken something from him and, if he stared at it long enough, it might give it back. Helpless anger rooted him in place, gods knew for how long, until he sensed someone outside the archive.
He slammed the book shut. The door opened.
If it had been Brother Lev again, or anyone else, Jacen could have handled it. But he knew as soon as he recognized the presence that he was in the deepest trouble of his life. A sick throb of panic speared his chest.
Lev had not returned alone. He stood at Chief Inquisitor Jarak’s shoulder beside four city Guardsmen and Mother Akkani.
“Oh, Jacen.” Her voice was quiet, almost pitying. “What have you done now?”
The prison at the bottom of the labyrinth was a vast, gloomy pit, lit by distant pale lights on a vaulted ceiling. Its dozen cells were square indentations in the floor, eight feet deep and twelve wide, with metal hatches that left an occupant in pitch blackness when shut. Tonight, all sat empty. This place was reserved for the vilest of criminals, and few lasted longer than a cycle. None left alive unless it was without a tongue, bound for a life sentence along the darkest parts of the deepriver.
The guards escorted Jacen to the edge of a cell at swordpoint and hauled open its rusted hatch.
“Search him,” ordered Akkani.
They patted him down and rummaged through his robes, confiscating his flask, his knife, a handful of birdseed, and the pages he’d torn from theRite of Exorcism.Akkani beckoned for the pages and examined them, face expressionless as a mask.
She instructed the guards to wait outside and faced Jacen at the edge of the cell. Chief Inquisitor Jarak flanked her with a hand on his weapon.
“Go on.” Jacen spoke over the ringing in his ears. “Let’s get this over with.”
Akkani ignored him and turned to Jarak. “Make sure Brother Lev understands the consequences of his error.”
Lev hovered near the door. He had the look of a man whose whole life had just slipped through his fingers. Jacen almost felt sorry for him. He knew the feeling well.
Brother Jarak gave a stiff nod and steered Lev toward the exit.
They left Jacen and Akkani alone.
Akkani brandished the torn pages at him and asked, “Did Ged Semira send you after these?”
“No one forced me to come here,” Jacen made himself say—the truth, technically. She would know if he lied.
“You took out your tracker.” Her pale eyes skated over his bandaged arm. “How much do you know?”
“I know the gods can die,” Jacen said. “I knowyouknow they can die, and you’re trying to cover that up. They’re not gods, are they?Whatare they?” He lifted his wounded arm. “What is this?”
Akkani was silent for a long moment. Her eyes were bright and old as the stars. “You’re right. They are not gods—at least, not in the sense that you were taught. They did not create the universe, they do not answer prayers, and they are not immortal. Not . . . quite.” She heaved a deep sigh, shoulders rising and falling as though she had shrugged off a heavy burden. “The device in your arm was a tracker. They use them to monitor everyone in the city. They study us. To what end, I do not know.”
Jacen was sinking, drowning beneath the magnitude of her words, but she gave him no time to process.
She tapped the pages. “You believe you’ve encountered an archdemon, don’t you? For your sake, I wish you hadn’t.” Then: “What did you do with the body?”
Of course, she already knew. Which meant that thing inside the corpse, surviving far longer than it had any right . . . that was anarchdemon.
