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The picture was of the horseman, but not the fearsome version Zan had plastered across alleyway walls in Achleva. There was no billowing cloak, no mighty pose. His horse was not rearing back, hooves scraping the air in front of him. This horseman, his face still obscured by his hood, sagged under the weight of his cloak. His horse was weary. They were both battle-worn. Broken.
And yet they were still moving forward.
At the bottom of the page, Zan had written once more, Si vivis, tu pugnas. And I understood: this message was not a call to arms for the bold or the strong, or those burning with zeal to fight. It never was. It was meant to reach the hearts of those who are so tired, they can barely take another step, but they take that step anyway.
Like me.
I laid the drawing in the top drawer, alongside the rolled-up blueprints of the fallen Humility and the money I once thought would buy me passage aboard it. Then I took out Zan’s ring, slipping it onto my finger, and the hand mirror. It was one of the less exciting prizes from my days of playing Betwixt and Between—small and brass-handled, cheaply made and tarnished on both metal and mirror—but it was exactly what I needed right now.
With the mirror in one hand and a lamp in the other, I tiptoed down one flight of stairs, then another, ending in the cellar. I was pleased to find that Jessamine hadn’t sold all of my sombersweet wine; there were still a few bottles left on the table in the innermost alcove. I set my lamp down on the table and the mirror beside it while I grabbed one and popped the cork. The dank room was immediately filled with the smell of sombersweet, and for a minute, I could almost imagine myself back in the field at the Cradle.
The first swig had little effect. With the second, I began to feel a tingle in my fingers. I swallowed a third to make sure it was truly working, and I was about to lift the mirror when I asked myself, What if my theory is correct? What if this really works?
And then I downed a fourth drink.
It took a minute after I lifted the mirror for the reflection to change. When it did, it was a slow transition that started with my eyes. One minute they were mine, and the next, they were not. This time, she didn’t even bother to match my braided hair or my linen shirt. She was wearing my coronation dress: red-violet, shot with silver threads.
One or the other, she whispered.
I spoke to her aloud. “Who are you, really? I know you’re not me.”
Daughter of the sister, or the son of the brother.
“Are you the Malefica?”
She made a strange hissing sound in response before continuing, The firebird boy or the girl with star-eyes.
“You’re not the Ilithiya,” I said, “because she died creating the world.”
If it is he, the crone will be free. If it is her, the crone is no more.
I brought myself to the final question. “Are you the Empyrea?”
Her stare hardened. Instead of finishing her rhyme, she rasped, Let the bell ring for you, Aurelia. Take up the mantle. The Ninth Age is yours.
The mirror began to shake violently, the handle growing hot in my hand. Then the glass broke, and the only reflection left in the shards was mine.
28
“Are you sure about this?” Jessamine asked, the cold morning wind catching her auburn hair. She had walked with me to the crossroads outside the Quiet Canary and was now shivering in her thin shawl; the Day of Shades had begun beneath an iron-gray sky. “You don’t have to do this alone.”
I hooked my foot into Mad
rona’s stirrup and swung my other leg up over her saddle. “I do,” I said, smiling softly. “But I wish I didn’t.”
“Be careful,” she said. “The stories the children have been telling about Greythorne are . . . monstrous. If they’re even a little bit true . . .”
“They’re all true,” I replied. “That’s why I have to go.” My eyes moved to the plaster-and-timber building still slumbering behind her. “Take care of my brother?” I asked.
“Until you return,” Jessa replied.
“Don’t let him bully you into giving him candy.”
“I am a loyal citizen,” she said with a wry shrug. “I’ll do as my king commands.” Then her smile faded. “When will you be back?”
I looked at the road stretching out ahead of me. “I don’t know.”
“Will you be back?”
