Chapter Thirty-Nine
“BEWARE OF SELFISH DESIRES. WANT NOTHING FOR YOURSELF BUT WHAT THE HERALDS HAVE DESIGNED FOR YOU. FOR THERE CAN BE NO GOODNESS OR PEACE OR TRUE HAPPINESS OUTSIDE OF THEIR DIVINE PLAN.”
—THE SACRED LAW OF THE HERALDS
Glittering shards of red and green and blue glass slice through the air as the Archangel and I plummet downward.
New cuts burn on my arms and body, across my forehead and cheeks.
I wipe blood from my vision, and as soon as I can make out a solid surface below, I phase toward it, leaving everything else behind—the naphtha heart and veins, the devices caged to my feet, all of it.
I land on my feet on a burnished gold floor but almost immediately drop to my knees, curling in on myself and throwing my arms over my head as the wreckage of the Archangel smashes to the ground in a mess of smoke and fire and melting metal.
I stay there for a long moment, wrapped around myself, my breath gradually slowing and deepening.
The air isn’t nearly so thin in here, and I can feel my whirling lightheadedness start to settle.
My body aches from the beating it just took—I’m pretty sure I’ll have an array of black and purple bruises to go with the rest of my injuries if I make it to tomorrow—but I manage to get my feet underneath me and pull myself to a stand.
My first thought is of the other Archangels, but when I tilt my head back to the shattered hole in the ceiling far above me, all I see is the stormy sky and their distant, winged silhouettes circling. None of them seem to be pursuing me, and that is not nearly as comforting as I’d wish.
Where in every version of hell did I just land?
The room is enormous, almost the size of a small homestead, circular in shape with a domed roof that soars overhead, supported by polished arches of bronze and gold.
As big as it is, the Gate itself is even bigger, so this must be one of many rooms up here.
Along the curved walls, illuminated from behind by warm, glowing amber lights, are stained glass mosaics so beautiful you don’t want to stop looking at them, some of them depicting traditional religious scenes and symbols of Trinity, others just woven into beautiful patterns.
Twelve Archangels stand dormant in arched recesses all around the room, but they don’t look like the Archangels I’m used to.
Their frames are bigger and rougher, much less sophisticated, with blank, featureless masks where their faces should be and no light glowing inside them.
If they have naphtha hearts like Sorcha’s, they must not be powered on right now.
Beneath my ragged boots, the floor is covered in gold with ornate, enameled paneling in a design too detailed for me to fully make out.
Embedded in the very center, not far from the smoking remains of the Archangel, is what looks like a pool of liquid light.
It blazes blue-white, thrumming with an energy so loud it vibrates painfully inside my chest. It’s so close, so overwhelming that I have to plug my ears and breathe—breathe—until I can finally recognize the sound for what it is.
Trinity’s song. It’s coming from here. And as soon as that realization hits me, the pain in my body ebbs, and the melody curls around me like an old friend.
I hear it so clearly right now that I realize I’ve never truly heard it my entire life.
There are thousands of layers to it. Hundreds of melodies.
It’s dark and gentle and joyous and sweet, and there’s so much of it that my heart feels swollen, too big for the space between my ribs.
That pool of light pulls at my gaze, drawing me to it until I’m half transfixed, my heart beating in time with its rhythm.
My throat aches as emotions swell inside me, sudden and unbidden.
It’s the same feeling I had when my sisters were born and I’d stared down at their tiny, squished faces—that fresh recognition, that love so intense that it made you feel powerful and afraid, vulnerable and fierce, all in one beautiful, painful moment.
I feel it again now, as I stare into this light.
Slowly, I step up to the edge and crouch down, reaching out to dip the tips of my fingers into the pool—
hundreds of voices calling
a song, a story, an ancient pain
pieces of myself tearing away, transforming
unmaking
—I pull my hand free, staggering back, fear sharp and prickling all over my body. Whatever is down there, it’s calling me into it …
I don’t want it. I’m not here for that. I just want to put an end to the Archangels coming after me and get back to Kelda, like I promised.
Shivering, I put my back to the light and try to focus instead on the strange Archangels asleep in their alcoves, making my way to the nearest one so I can study it more closely.
It’s taller and wider than the angels I encountered outside. There’s a name, too, in colored tile, decorating the arch above the recess.
VICAR.
A shudder ripples down my body, and even though I know what I’m going to find, I still have to see. With a shaking hand, I reach up, searching around until I find a panel high up on the frame that flips open like a door, revealing what’s beneath.
Louise Vicar.
Herald Vicar.
If I hadn’t seen the photograph of her—the real, human her—on the plaque, I’m not sure I would’ve even recognized her now.
Wan and wasted away, a desiccated figure with eyes open, empty and solid, cloudy gray.
The bolts and pieces attaching her body to the automaton are big and ugly and the skin around them is black with old, dried blood.
How there is anything left of her at all, let alone something even recognizably human, is completely beyond me.
I close the panel over Louise Vicar’s face and glance at the alcoves on either side of hers.
BISHOP. PARISH.
And then a little farther down the wall:
DEAN. GRACE.
Twelve alcoves. Twelve Heralds who became the original Archangels.
Probably a good thing I have nothing left in my stomach to throw up right now.
The back half of the space is dominated by a massive, raised dais, set with an elaborately gilded desk and chair, both of which are framed by a towering piece of stained glass artwork.
It’s three stories high at least, a kaleidoscope of colors depicting the Heraldic creation of Trinity.
The bronze sphere of our world sits in the middle, with the familiar faces of the Twelve Heralds standing around it, their palms out like they’re offering something.
There’s an extra figure, though, at the very top, his arms raised in triumph, his blocky, stylized features depicting golden hair and a tall, looming frame.
Thirteen founders in that photograph. Thirteen people responsible for creating the naphtha that destroyed us. The last one, the one with his name scratched out—
This has to be him.
The Thirteenth Herald of Trinity.
As I’m studying the scene, I start to make out a shadow behind the glass, like something is hidden behind it.
Stepping up onto the dais, I search all along the edges, the frame, anywhere I can reach until I finally find a small, sapphire crystalline panel.
Wiggling one of my gloves off, I place my bare palm against it, and almost immediately the stained glass display splits in two, sliding apart.
I jump back into the center of the dais, my head craned back so I can see …
My stomach churns, and I gag, wanting to look away and yet not being able to.
It’s a child, around Kelda’s age. Pinned against the wall by some invisible force, their eyes closed, their arms and legs spread wide, floating in a suspension of liquid light the same blue-white color as the pool behind me.
Thin, bright threads of it weave through the liquid and into the child’s body, slipping beneath their skin like veins.
He’s aged several years, but I still recognize his face. I know that his eyes are hazel, and that they get even bigger and rounder when he’s scared.
Gabriel Cirillo. The saint discovered when I was twelve. The storm-touched boy I’d watched get ripped from his family while I’d whispered to myself: Better him than me.
Tears burn in the corners of my eyes as I stare at him, at how small and frail he looks.
The fear on his face when the Archangels took him away is painted so vividly in my mind, and I can’t help imagining what he’d felt when they’d brought him here.
Confused. Terrified. Had he been awake when he’d been placed in that stuff?
Had he known what was happening to him? Or maybe whoever had done this had put him to sleep first.
My eyes are still fixed on Gabriel’s face when I hear the sound of strong, steady footsteps behind me. My fingers wrap around the hilts of Wrath and Reason, and I turn, sucking in a sharp breath as the man approaching me steps up onto the dais.
Tall, with light hair swept back from his forehead and a smile that’s more like a challenge than a greeting.
Wearing a dark coat buttoned over light-colored striped pants and a light-gray vest, the golden fob of a pocket watch gleaming on his chest. He looks exactly as he did in the photograph on the plaque, and he spreads his arms and hands wide in welcome as he comes up to me.
“My lost saint has found their way home at last,” he says in a rich, gentle voice. “I am so glad we can finally meet, Valene Bruinn. I understand you might be feeling a bit anxious, but it’s all right. There’s nothing to be afraid of. My name is Horace Cooper. I am the Last Herald of Trinity.”