Chapter 28
Twenty-Eight
Aweek later, I emerged from Airen’s kingdom alone.
He wanted to come with me, but this was something I had to do on my own.
I walked the length of the tunnels, wearing a silk dress that fell to my knees and shoes that melded to my feet.
I felt refreshed. Healed. As though I’d been given a new life.
And best of all, I felt confidence, a new surety.
I went over the plan in my mind. I would confront Sacred Mother and take back my place as Lead Dancer.
But this time, when the full moon came, I would dance a new dance.
I wondered if I could convince the other dancers to join me.
If we were a united front, it would be easier—easier still if I hadn’t been disgraceful, if they didn’t see me as mad.
I wished I had learned to lead them instead of selfishly only thinking of myself.
I’d seen the way King Airen cared for his people, how he led the Hollow Ones.
They did not question his rule, his leadership, or his judgment.
They looked to him with respect, and he did not oversee them so closely that it crippled them.
There was mutual trust between him and all the Hollow Ones.
I did not believe they would come out to cause mischief, at least not right now; they were grateful for the gift of life.
I could be grateful, too, and look beyond myself. That was the lesson he’d taught me without intending it to be a lesson: how to fix my purpose on something larger than my own gain, my own wounded feelings.
I stepped out into the cool air. It was night, and the chill warned of the winter months to come, although I was never ready for the cold.
We danced through all kinds of weather, but winter was particularly tough, even though the fires burned, and we gathered around them, trying to keep warm before we braved the biting cold of the amphitheater.
Yet I wasn’t cold. I carried a warmth in my body as though I’d been dancing for a week, my blood running quick and bright.
But it was more than that. It was a week with him, in his kingdom, of being healed, loved, wanted.
I had never in my life felt so powerful, and nothing in the palace could frighten me anymore. Of that I was certain.
I crossed the stones, noting there were no signs of the fight between demons and demigods. The stones were dark as usual, no stains, no blemishes.
Then I was standing at the foot of the stairs.
My breath came hard, as though I’d been running or dancing.
My right hand ached. I flexed it, but my fingers were stiff and my palms sore as though I’d gripped something too hard.
My hands were dirty, and the silk of my dress weighed down by a wetness.
It made sense. The tunnels were dark, damp, and dirty; I should visit the pools before I drifted to sleep.
Something white flapped on the stairs, distracting me.
As I drew near, bile rose in my throat, and I swallowed hard.
Another body.
This one wrapped in white garments, blood staining the stairs. Not as much blood as when Rift Mother was killed, but there were the words, written again. The dancer bleeds so the dark one feeds. And the same symbol—a full moon sprouting thorns.
Horror surged through me. Still, I went closer. I needed to know.
Recognition came in waves. Those white garments. The only person who wore white was Sacred Mother.
The veil, torn from her head.
Those hands…
That terrible mouth.
It was Sacred Mother. She was dead.
Emotions rippled through me. I didn’t know what to feel. Relief that she was gone and would haunt me no longer? Fear that she wasn’t the person behind this all after all…unless…unless she’d pushed someone else too far, and they’d turned on her. I almost had, but I’d been weak. I’d been with him.
My conscience was clear. There could be no misunderstanding. I had not killed her.
Another thought came, cold and clear. The murders had started before she ever came to the city.
Rift Mother. The Vestal in the kitchens.
The Warden at my door. All of it before Sacred Mother set foot in the palace.
Which meant she wasn’t the killer after all, just a cruel and ancient person who’d ventured into our midst and made everything worse.
The killer had been here all along. Among us. One of us.
But who?
And then I was running up the stairs, shouting for help. Crying out that Sacred Mother was dead.
I burst through the doors, and the Wardens turned toward me.
“Sacred Mother is dead,” I shouted. “On the stairs—she’s on the stairs.”
No one moved. They were looking at me. My hands. My dress.
I looked down.
In the half-breath before anyone spoke, I realized what it looked like. What it had looked like once before.
I had been missing. I had found a body. I had raised the alarm.
None of it helped me.
It made me the prime suspect.
Again.