“A new age,” Renault replies with all the conviction of a devotee. “The First Son’s return to His former glory.”
Nyatrix scoffs, and I half-expect some burst of fury and violence out of her, but she just keeps walking, her sword at Renault’s back. When we reach the small, sloping tunnel that leads to the surface, our strange party pauses. I can hear the Godwinds again, their song filling the emptiness of my ears. It must be daytime, for a weak light leaks down the ruined corridor, and my mother’s voice does not pry at my heart with pleading fingers.
My betrothed turns to face us, Nyatrix’s sword at his chest now. She tightens the grip on the hilt, watching him carefully, like she’s trying to make a decision.
“Enjoy Liminalia,” Renault spits at me, his eyes wild beneath his helm. He edges toward the mouth of the tunnel. “I pray the First Son gives you all that you deserve. I wish I could be there to see your face when you find out the truth. When you learn of the Tithe.”
Even in the low light, I can see Nyatrix tense, her attention suddenly returning to its razor-sharpness.
Renault catches it, too, and a terrible grin spreads across his face. “Yes,” he continues, raising his voice to be heard over the roar of the Godwinds. Then he laughs, a terrible thing. “Enjoythe city of the dead, Ophelia. I hope nothing but horror finds you.”
“Wait,” I call, stepping forward. “What Tithe? What are you talking about?”
“On second thought,” Nyatrix says with a frown, all her attention leveled at Renault, “perhaps we should keep him. See what else he knows.”
Renault’s face pales and his eyes gleam in the gray light. All the world slows to half-pace as he dives toward me. Nyatrix reacts immediately, but her first strike only glances off his armor. I desperately try to scramble away, but it’s inconsequential—at the last moment, Renault changes course, turning on his heel to bolt for the open corridor.
Nyatrix charges after him, a hound with the scent of blood in her nose. My heart races furiously as I watch Renault sprint toward the mouth of the corridor where the Sundered Lands await, moving as fast as a man in full armor possibly can.
Nyatrix is so much faster.
She’s nearly upon him when a great shadow rises from the ash-gray sands. I can do nothing at all as an enormous Hexen—part equus, perhaps, with the head of some great reptilian and a forked tongue covered in steaming saliva that drips poisonously from massive fangs—leaps toward the corridor’s opening.
Before even the Lupa Nox herself can intervene, the Hexen lunges at Renault. It happens so fast. He’s there, a solid thing of bronze armor and bottomless arrogance, and then all at once, the man whom I thought saved my life is gone, vanished into the gaping maw of an ungodly beast.
Chapter 31
Istand frozen to the spot as Nyatrix turns and races back toward me. The Hexen reaches a scaled limb into the corridor, its massive claws just missing her. My body finally reacts and I turn to limp away, but the knight scoops me up into her arms without breaking stride.
She sprints headlong into the twisting, winding corridors as I cling to her, treated to the terrifying view of the Hexen thrashing its leathery, armored body against the tunnel’s entrance. Even as we gain ground, the beast brings rubble raining down upon us. With an ear-splitting cry that sounds far too much like the High Ecclesia, it begins to tear at the sandstone with its claws.
My heart pounds viciously against my throat, so furious I fear it might tear through my skin, as Nyatrix takes us deeper into the ruined citadel. She all but leaps down twisting stairs, curling her body around mine as she races through passageways. Eventually, the sound of the Hexen’s pursuit disappears beneath her steady breaths and the blood pounding in my ears.
She only comes to a stop when we reach the bathing chamber again, gently releasing me from her arms and then leaning her shoulder against the stone wall, her chest rising and falling with long, deep inhales.
It’s a long time before either of us speak. Nyatrix straightens and looks up at me. Her eyes meet mine only briefly, but her expression is haunted, ghastly—not like she’s seen a phantom but as if she’s become one.
“Are you all right?” she asks, one hand gesturing toward the direction from which we came. “It can’t follow us, I don’t think. Too many narrow passages.”
My hands shake as I try to grasp my cane and something deep inside me trembles. “I-I . . .” I swallow hard and squeeze my eyes shut. “He might have survived.”
Her eyes bore into mine. “Perhaps.”
I hold her gaze, and it’s only then that I realize how deeply unsettled Nyatrix is. The pulse in her throat flutters madly even though her breathing has returned to normal. She takes a step toward me, opening her mouth, only to press her lips together.
“The Tithe,” I begin, my voice coming out tight and unsteady. “The High Ecclesia’s plan for me. He . . . he may have only been trying to upset me.”
“No,” Nyatrix says, hoarse, haunted. “No, I’m afraid . . . I’ve known something is happening, and I could never . . .” She pauses, squeezing her eyes shut. And then her gaze meets mine. “Ophelia, I’m worried he’s not lying about a Liminalian Tithe.”
I want to be strong for her. Just once, I want to be the one who holdsherup, who carries her across a ruined land and finds something soft and sweet on the other side. But fear lashes at me, sure as any flail, and I tremble.
“What?” I ask, my voice a tiny echo in the vastness of the first Lumendei. I haven’t given more than a fleeting thought to what might await me in Liminalia. I assumed, I suppose, that the city would be like Nyatrix—principled in its own way despite a feral exterior—and that it would make me feel safe.
No place that cannot protect its people could ever make me feel safe. I grew up in such a place, the sole survivor of aslaughter that took everyone else—babe and crone alike, and of course the life of my own mother. I cannot live in another place that devours its own, that feasts from the inside out.
With a glance over her shoulder, Nyatrix sheaths her sword and then closes her eyes, bringing her hands to her face. Her shoulders round forward, and suddenly she is so small, like her future is as fragile as mine. Her grief reaches for mine, a call-and-response I cannot resist.
Hesitantly, I walk toward her, my trembling fingers brushing her shoulder. Her hand finds mine, our palms pressed together. She raises her hand, taking mine with it, and presses the back of my palm to her cheek. I tingle all over despite the fear, despite the weight of my decisions threatening to crush me into little more than windblown sand, lost forevermore to the Sundered Lands.
