35. Zariel
Chapter thirty-five
Zariel
I was going to die.
Either the High Artist was going to successfully sacrifice me, or my plan would work, he’d be the first one dead, and then I’d be killed by the guards.
Either way—I was going to die.
The room was packed now, filled with Artists and a few archivists and scribes who were apparently loyal to the High Artist. Where was Cael? Was he really going to allow this? He had to know what was going on. He wouldn’t just let me be killed. Or maybe he’d be standing in the corner awkwardly and refuse to meet my gaze, just like every other angel in this room I used to be friends with. Cowards.
At least Cat wasn’t here. She was safe, and out of the High Artist’s reach. The rune only let me sense Aniela, though the sensation felt…odd. Stronger than normal. Maybe the rune st opped working correctly with Cat outside of the ashen clouds. That wasn’t how things worked back home, but the rules could be different here. The important thing was that I didn’t sense Cat die, I didn’t feel the rune’s connection to her abruptly end.
I closed my eyes, drowning out the sound of chanting around me in forgotten languages, the songs meant to stir the base powers of the universe. Angels trained for years to hit the right pitch and tone required to work magic. It was unnerving to be on the receiving end of the chants, as opposed to trying to satisfy an irate choir master.
“Finally,” the High Artist said from next to me, making me jump. I wasn’t ready to act, the feather too far from my hand—I couldn’t strike. Instead, I froze and gave into the panic that I barely contained. As if savoring the moment, the High Artist bent over and whispered in my ear, “I’ve waited so long to do this.”
“ Why ?” I asked. “You gave both of us the references to come here. You had the connections in court to make it happen. We both grew up with Cael. You were Father’s friend. Why? What could I possibly have done to you?”
The High Artist smirked, the one I had long ago learned meant that he was going to enjoy my reaction—whatever it was. “I gave you the references because that was the best way to gain access, without him getting involved. And also to make your father think I had forgiven him.”
“Forgiven … for what? ”
“Have you ever wondered why I am trapped in the mountain, while he is at court, whispering his plans into the queen’s ear? Me, whose family was destined for greater things?”
“Being here is an honor.”
“It’s a tomb,” he said. “Sure, we made it beautiful, but there is no power here. None that follows outside of this mountain, at any rate.”
“That’s not true. You cannot tell me that this library is insignificant to our people. That’s—”
“Your father is on the queen’s council. He has access to riches and influence that I can only dream of. And your mother—don’t pretend that she isn’t using this to her advantage.”
“So that’s why you hate us.” I swallowed. “You want to punish Father. But Father didn’t do anything.”
The High Artist grimaced. “Didn’t he? And I just happened to get attacked the night before the exam that decided so much? Not enough for me to get an exemption, of course, but enough that I did worse than him, and that was what mattered.”
“Father would never.”
“No? And it was just a coincidence that the very day he met our now-queen that I was sent here? And that’s not counting the hundreds of little barbs and slights through the years.” His eyes narrowed. “You boys were lucky that our positions set yours higher from the start. You didn’t have to betray your friends for the slightest chance to better yourself. You didn’t have to scheme as well as study.”
Alright. This was starting to seem suspicious. Would Father have done such a thing? Angels were brutal, our court a nest of intrigue, and I had long ago abandoned the notion that my parents were beyond such things. They had rank at court—of course they played its games. But they weren’t like that …right?
“So,” I said, “all of this is just to punish Father?”
“Partly. And part of it is that somehow, both you and your sister have managed to be very difficult for me all on your own. Your sister never minded her own business, and then there’s you and that human. You and your questions and endless opinions. I guess I should be grateful—you’ve made it very easy to get rid of you.” He patted me on the back. “Don’t worry, Zariel. You’re second to be sacrificed. So you won’t have the suspense of waiting to die for much longer.”
Wonderful.
The High Artist went to the middle of the room and clapped his hands, bringing everyone to attention.
“Angels of the Ashen Mountain,” he said, “we are called here tonight to do our duty, to fulfill our obligation to take us home. We who have endless knowledge of the worlds around us have the answer—a ritual overlooked for generations.” The High Artist paused for dramatic effect, accepting the accolades. He was lucky that the ritual room captured sound, otherwise the entire mountain would have heard their cries. “I shall offer myself up for this ritual, and take us home, after which I shall surrender myself and everything I have become.” Another pause for dramatic effect. “For the good of all.”
Praise met the High Artist’s proclamation. Angels cried out, tears streaming down some of their faces. They wanted to go home, wanted it so much that they were willing to risk everything. The High Artist bowed as if humbly accepting a great honor, and not that he was taking advantage of everything to become a god. Idiots. Did they really think that anyone would be able to resist the temptation of power? One did not choose to become a god and then immediately abandon it. And this was an angel who was not satisfied with having one of the most prominent positions amongst our people—he wanted more . Nothing would be enough.
A row of angels focused their attention on the leshi next to me. He was going to be first.
Fuck. I was going to see a leshi die, for nothing.
Heart threatening to break out of my chest, my vision focused on the knife that emerged from one of the angel’s robes. My bonds felt tighter, the leather tearing into my skin, making me unable to let me reach what I needed. That feather. Could I save him?
No. I couldn’t do anything.
The High Artist took his place behind the leshi, head bowed as if in prayer. I knew better—he was savoring this moment, the thrill of power about to be his. The condemned creature held his head high, even as the High Artist accepted the knife from the angel and stepped behind the leshi, the slick blade pressed against his exposed throat. There were no murmurs from behind the gag, nothing other than glaring hatred for the High Artist. For us.
We deserved every bit of it.
The angels chanted and the atmosphere in the room changed with each word. As if they were lit on fire, the runes drawn on the floor illuminated around the leshi, bathing him in an unearthly glow. The air became electrified, my hairs standing on end.
I was next. I was going to be next.
Moments later, the High Artist slid the knife across the leshi’s throat with a grunt, sending a spray of blood across the onlookers while the light left the leshi’s eyes. No one flinched, though a few angels’ lips curled. We had seen enough sacrifice—this was nothing new to us. It was merely the focus of the ritual that was different. The fact that the condemned did nothing to deserve this.
Was that it? Were they done with the leshi? Was it my turn to die?
No.
As if embracing a lover, the High Artist bowed his head to the leshi’s fatal wound, taking gaping mouthfuls of the hot, curdled sap-like liquid into his mouth. It dripped down his garments, sticking to the flowing fabric like honey. He drank as if it was a sweet nectar, to be savored and enjoyed .
This was my only chance.
While all attention was on the leshi and the High Artist, I moved my hand under my tunic, working at the bonds, sawing them against the metal feather. Did I have enough time?
“Stop fidgeting,” Gadriel muttered from near me. “Face your death with some dignity.” He paused. “Not that I should’ve expected anything else.”
When had Gadriel arrived, making a point to be next to me? No matter. I should’ve known that there was no chance he’d miss this. We were creatures of pride, and stabbing him was something he’d never forget. No matter how much he deserved it.
“I’ll spend my moments as I wish,” I snapped, though I stopped the taunt rising on my tongue. Last thing I needed was him getting suspicious.
Finally, the bond snapped and I paused. Did he hear? Did anyone? I didn’t dare turn to look at him. Silently, I let out a long breath—I had cut enough that I was able to slip a hand free. That would do.
Doing my best to avoid attracting attention, I adjusted my hand and gripped the base of the feather, wincing as the sides lightly sliced my hand. When I used this and shoved this metal into someone’s flesh, there was no doubt it was going to hurt. A lot .
But it would hurt them more. I was not going to just sit back and let the High Artist win. Someone would die with me.
And then I noticed a movement high above the crowds, on the narrow walkway that surrounded the room. An angel and a human. Cat.
Cat?
Oh. Fuck.