Chapter 27
“See?” the Lupa Nox says, the arch of her dark brow visible in the glow of the candlelight.
I don’t—can’t—answer, because in truth I barely understand what I’m looking at.
After walking for what felt like ten bells, we’re beneath the sands of the Sundered Lands, down in some buried place Nyatrix navigated to with unerring accuracy. And even though this place is painfully empty, even though I’ve never been here before, it is strangely and horrifically familiar.
Before me, an elegant white arch curves up into a carved ceiling, decorated with faded frescoes. Swathes of sand grace the tiled floor like tiers on a gown, but the gold-threaded marble is the very same I’ve trod upon all my life. I sweep my gaze around the chamber, spying moth-eaten velvet bunting in a deep burgundy I know all too well.
Nyatrix watches me, her eyes glittering. Only two large lamps by the arch are lit; I fear the additional familiarity I would find with the help of more light. I swallow hard, my mouth dry as the Sundered Lands’ deadly, undulating hills. I stand in the middle of a ruin, in the far reaches of abandoned soil, and yet everythingI see could easily be found within Lumendei. No, more than that—itisLumendei.
I dare not speak this thought aloud. Instead, I shuffle forward, leaning heavily on my cane, once again mindful of slipping on the marble. Nyatrix follows me like a specter, snatching one of the lanterns from its hook on the wall as I make my way through the arch.
On the other side is a larger chamber, its floor a stunning mosaic. At home, there are a few mosaics here and there, mostly in the Saints’ sacred grottos. But I’ve never seen such an enormous one. The time and cost it must’ve taken to create such a thing boggles my mind.
“Look,” Nyatrix instructs as she walks out ahead of me, her long strides carrying her to the middle of the chamber. My palms go slick, my heart a drum in my throat, as I force myself to follow. I watch as she kneels, putting her palm flat to the mosaic, swiping away dust and sand. Then she holds the lantern aloft, head cocked toward me.
I know that I am about to see something that might destroy me. I wonder how different it would feel to walk to the stake, or if it would be exactly like this. If there is perhaps no difference in the undoing I would face from the High Ecclesia or the Lupa Nox—if both would just as readily bring me to my end, only by diverging paths.
I could turn away, refuse her, go back to the chamber where she pulled bedrolls and water casks and dried meat from a hidden trunk. Perhaps I could lie down, close my eyes, and wish all of this away. Maybe when I open my eyes, the only thing I’ll see is my mother’s face as she removes that false panel in our cottage, her smile bright as she tells me it’s all over now and there’s nothing to be afraid of anymore.
But I can no longer be a child cowering in the dark, seeking the simple mammal heat of another. Freedom is a knife sinking deeper and deeper into my flesh with every step I take.
When I draw even with Nyatrix, I pause, my breath too heavy for having taken a few simple steps. Her gaze meets mine and holds it for a long, stretched moment. Then she casts her attention to the floor, to the mosaics lit by the sputtering flame of the lantern.
There, in large, ornate lettering, each glyph the length of my arm, is a single word: LUMENDEI. Beneath it, in a looping font that gracefully hooks into the letters above, reads another damning phrase—THE HOLY CITY OF SEMPITERNUS.
I clench my jaw so hard that pain lances through my mouth, my fingers clutching at my cane. It is not enough to keep me aloft. I sway, dark spots clustering across my eyes, but before I can slam into the hard tiled floor, powerful arms catch me.
“No,” I whisper, the single syllable strangled and desperate. It must be a trick, I tell myself, though I clutch at Nyatrix’s forearms anyway, tears beginning to blur my vision. My breath comes shallow and fast.
“I’m sorry,” the knight tells me, one hand smoothing over the back of my head, her fingers hesitant. “Truly, Ophelia. I am sorry.”
My mind races as I stare, open-mouthed and gaping, at the mosaic. But not just the lettering—also the stained-glass ceiling above me, sand blowing to and fro across its surface, the weak moonlight illuminating all-too-familiar shapes. I stretch my neck, glancing down the corridor, which is studded with black iron candelabras, the old ghosts of beeswax candles dripping from each arm.
“There was . . . another?” I finally manage to ask. That chasm in me—the one that opened in my chest when the truth of the Saints emerged—widens, hungry and fathomless.
“Yes,” the Sepulchyre warrior tells me. The heat of her floods through my garments, bringing warmth to my face. “The First Son built this city when the Fatum split. It was a long time ago. Those who did not wish to follow His quest for eternal life stayed in Liminalia. The rest came with Him here.”
I am almost too weak and weary to process her words. I want to grab onto a kernel of the old world, clutch it tight against my chest. But everything falls through my hands—there are no garnets or beeswax or swathes of velvet or dew-studded blooms here. Just sand and dust, trickling through my fingers, formless and lost.
“You’ve been lied to your whole life,” she continues, stroking my hair in a way that makes my blood pound harder. “It’s not your fault.”
“What if all ofthisis the lie?” I demand, pushing her away with both hands, though my effort barely sways her. “A monument to falsehoods, built by the Creatrixes to fool their followers?”
Nyatrix inhales sharply against me, her chest heaving into my back. She’s silent, like she’s actually considering what I’ve said instead of immediately dismissing it. “I suppose that could be,” she finally says, and there is no mockery in her tone. “Though it seems like a lot of effort, especially during war.”
We were always told that the First Son begged the goddesses and the Sepulchyre to leave His holy city at the edge of the world alone, and war only broke out when they refused. There was never any talk of an old Lumendei. AfirstLumendei.
I force myself to glance around, huffing a tear-strained breath. Everything I see is damning evidence. Just like the rotten, ruined thing my beloved city became when Nyatrix pulled the blade from its cage.
“I can’t even trust my own eyes any longer,” I whisper, tears dripping down to my lips. “Nothing feels real.”
“I know,” Nyatrix says, surprising me. “I’ve seen a few escapees from Lumendei go through this process. It’s awful. And I’m sorry you have to do it.”
My heart nearly stops at her words—othershave gone through this? People haveescapedfrom Lumendei, the place I thought a paradise? I dig my fingers into her forearm, my mouth agape as I try to form the words to ask the questions hammering away at my ribs. No—none of this can be true. I have fallen headfirst into the wiles of the Lupa Nox, corrupted by diaboli. There can be no other explanation.
Suddenly, Nyatrix pins me to her chest and pivots, graceful as anything, to face the archway. I do not trust myself, so I dismiss the mad, foolish vision of six Host Knights, their armor gleaming in the lamplight, framed perfectly by the sweep of the white arch.
