Chapter Fourteen #2
If time is reckoned here as it is in the mortal realm, fifteen days have passed since the Syndicate issued its decree, and my time before they return for me is halfway gone. I’ve had no luck in the Abyssal and even less with Anton. My desperation is mounting.
Maia takes notice of me swiftly. “Come to stir more dissent, dancer?”
“Is that such a bad thing?” I hedge. “Seems there’s little else to occupy the time.”
“How astute you are.”
“Does anyone else not find it strange that Moranya designated a new Sovereign and simply…left?”
“She was never here much to begin with,” Maia says, shrugging.
“And you don’t find that odd?” I keep pace with her with no small amount of effort, my heartbeat a rabbiting thing.
“As much fun as our little debate was,” she says, lowering her voice, “I would not say such things aloud again. You never know who might be listening.” She nods to a nearby Aegis.
“She really doesn’t care about us souls, does she?” I press. “She isn’t even here, and yet she would have her minions punish anyone who questions her?”
To my astonishment, Maia whips a hand over my mouth.
“Did your guide not tell you to respect Her Mercifulness? We all know better. She is beyond our comprehension, and I was a fool to question her choice in designating a Sovereign. Besides, such talk could send us right into the Sands. Do you know what the Sands really are, dancer?”
She removes her hand, and my own chest heaves. “Are they not what they sound like? A wasteland?”
“The Sands are the ash of corroded souls,” she says, her eyes wide. “Every stir and flick of wind burns a spirit away until it altogether ceases to exist. There is no escape from it. There is no reprieve. No one from the Sands can ever return, because there is nothing of them left.”
So that’s why Anton didn’t cast Illian into them.
He wants to witness his suffering.
Then something else occurs to me. “The rips in the air,” I say. “Does that also have to do with the Sands?”
“The chasms, you mean?” When I nod, she says, “How should I know? This lair exists because of Moranya’s power. Some suspect they are ways for her to watch us. Others think they are portals that we are not permitted to use. In the end, what does it matter? They do not affect us.”
But that doesn’t make sense. How does no one question it?
“I see that look in your eye,” Maia says. “Whatever you are doing here in our lair, I suggest you make it less obvious. Or better yet, give it up now. None of us will take any part in it. None of us will risk the Sands.”
“You know,” I say. “That I am mortal. How?”
“Why else would His Gloriousness entertain some Fates-forsaken agreement? Souls here can offer him nothing beyond momentary entertainment. Besides, you should make sure you are alone when you’re dressing yourself with the aurora blooms.” At my dazed expression, she blows a huff.
“I will not spill your secret. In turn, you will never approach me again. You are too great a risk.”
With that, she walks away.
It is on the eleventh day of this routine that things finally change.
Once again, the Abyssal yields no results, and evening comes far too soon.
I trudge up the stairs, exhaustion making a mockery of my muscles, and head to the Modiste’s Hall.
I select another ensemble—a simple ivory dress, heart-shaped, with a corseted waistline the only structure to the piece.
Knowing I can’t use flour yet again—I can’t risk Anton tiring of me to the point that he might dissolve our agreement—I yank a handful of sashes off the other gowns, a loose idea braiding together in my mind.
As always, he is the first thing I see when I enter the pavilion, like the moon poking through a patchwork of clouds. I command his gaze when I enter, as if I could force his attention away from the others.
Stay with me.
But I know it won’t last. I know the moment I turn, he’ll give me a passing glance or two then resume his merriment, even with the variation I’ve planned tonight. When will he decide I’ve lost his interest altogether? Will he dismiss me from Morta’s Lair for good?
This time, there’s barely a few feet of open space.
As I always do, I sweep a gaze over the congregation of souls, dimly hoping to find Emilia’s familiar face, her blond curls. Though there are thousands of Exalted—perhaps more—I find it strange that she isn’t at the center of the most lavish and lucrative party there is, night after night.
Which is this one. In the presence of His Gloriousness.
I roll my eyes and make for the fountain. This time, settees linger in front of it, a cluster of souls lounging on each. Politely, I ask for them to move, which garners me snickers and little else.
Friendly bunch.
It’s then that I spy Sorrell, whose lavender robe drifts in the open breeze, and Maia, whose scowl is a fixture I feel to my bones. She avoids my gaze. I return the favor.
Sorrell abandons her to stride over, catching me when I sneak another glance in Anton’s direction. This time, Dahlia is braiding a strand of hair off his temple.
“If you ask me,” he says, planting a kiss on my cheek, “leave the mortal king to his indulgences and entertain your own. You’ll get your shot eventually, but longing is not a garment that favors anyone.”
He is right, of course. At the heart of it.
But still my pride, wounded as it is, becomes an ugly, insufferable thing.
It heats to a boil, and suddenly I’m sweeping past Sorrell to the long table, silver and gem-encrusted platters sitting half empty along its length. So be it, if I must make my own stage.
I yank the tablecloth until its contents slide past me to shatter on the floor.
The crash renders the room silent—along with the music. Ishu pads over, sniffing at the spilled food.
Carefully, I climb onto the now-empty table, the gathered sashes in hand, each knotted together.
After the dizziness passes, I position myself, and I don’t bother to ask for the music to resume.
I don’t look at Anton, either. I can’t bear witness to his disinterest, and so I decide that here and now, I will do this for myself. My own triumph.
I toss the sashes into the air.
The fabric is something like gossamer but even lighter, and with the weight of the atmosphere, it floats, almost hovering where I threw it. With a twirl, I use my hands to shape it into a spiral that cascades around me.
Like a monsoon.
A whirlwind, funneling back into the ocean.
Another dip, spin, and I lift my leg, kicking the sashes adrift into the air once more.
With each movement, I repeat the notion. Twist, arc, bouncing the thread of sashes upward each time. I never let one touch the floor, never let one fall past my knees. I tested the idea briefly in the Modiste’s Hall, though I didn’t have time to choreograph much of anything.
So I let my instincts guide me, allow flow to dictate my moves. Eventually, the music resumes.
I don’t even listen to it.
I toss, whirl, bend, and stretch, the sashes flowing with me like ribbons of water.
Like a wyvern from a tale, coiling in the air like a snake.
And even as fatigue sets in, my muscles protesting, I press on, the music slow and undulating.
Another flick of a sash, and then I let it fall, ready to twirl it up once more.
Except the moment it clears my line of sight, a familiar face—a face that is not Anton’s—slams into focus, there near the edge of the table, his figure swathed in an iridescent plum robe.
Sundar?
It startles me so much I lurch, lose my balance, and only just manage to steady myself. Even so, my heart thuds wildly as I blink at him, sure my mind is playing tricks on me. But Illian wasn’t a trick.
Neither is Sundar.
The final sash sinks in a flourish, and this time, I don’t flick it up again.
“Sundar,” I breathe the second I climb down. Around us, the soirée has resumed; perhaps I haven’t drawn much attention. But right now, I don’t care.
He looks as dazed as I feel. My heart swishes between my ribs, as if caught in the sea beneath a squall.
And then he says, simply, “I…died.”