Chapter Seventeen

I race to the end of the staircase to flee Reshar, only to be stopped short by a glass door that leads to the rooftop.

Behind it is a grassy courtyard where statues of the seven holiest Diwata cast long shadows beneath a purplish sky. A familiar woman in a pure white dress paces under Omu’s stone gaze. Kalena’s long hair falls around her shoulders as she bends low, but she does not appear to be praying.

I’ve heard what the Interpreters do, but I’ve never seen it. I’ve only witnessed their proclamations passed out: when to plant, what to sow, what prayers must be offered, what tithes must be given. Here, papers scrawled with orasyons flutter at the base of Omu’s statue. Kalena waves her hands as if embroiled in an argument with the Diwata herself. Though the statue’s stone lips do not move, a whispering sound fills the air.

Kalena turns her head in my direction.

I fling myself flat against the curving wall, hoping she does not come out to investigate. With Reshar in the stairwell and Kalena on the rooftop, I am trapped.

Reshar’s footsteps seem to stop a floor or two below me. I cannot see who he is with, but he is not alone. I whisper pleas to the Diwata that neither he nor his companion continues upward.

“Do not underestimate the old woman,” Reshar says. “Nanay Oshar has the support of the families, and she is cunning. Never trust an easy smile.”

Oshar? I blink. She’s the kind old woman who invited my sister and me to sing for her and sent us home with more food and money than we asked for. I inch toward them to hear better. What does she have to do with anything?

“You are paranoid, Datu Reshar,” a woman replies.

“Either way, you are for or against us. Choose, because Arisa is getting bolder. Every day more people go missing in the fortress, and Tigang is vulnerable until we choose a ruler. The cultists are recruiting more to their cause, and Arisa’s creature is testing its freedom.”

The hairs on the back of my neck lift at the memory of the moonlit hallways. It’s true, then. There was something outside my door, so close I might have reached out to touch it, and the only thing between us was a flimsy flap of cloth.

“We should have left it in that cell where it’s been rotting.” Reshar’s voice trembles.

“Let Arisa’s hubris be the end of her,” the woman replies calmly. “She cannot keep control forever. I am more worried about Omu’s cult. Their devotees multiply with every drought, and I have heard them calling for violence…”

A door shuts behind them and cuts off the sound of their conversation.

Creature? I wasn’t dreaming. I shudder because I saw nothing—I felt it. Liquid darkness. Something huge and angry that could snuff out my life in an instant.

The buzz of magic crawls up and down my arms like an army of marching ants, and I glance out the door. Magic whips the air around Kalena, but she continues to argue with some unseen being. The feel of it makes me want to tear my skin off.

I hurry down the stairs and emerge onto another level of the fortress. A short passage leads me to a narrow and smooth-walled hallway, stretching in both directions. Everything here is silent. I decide to go left and walk along until I find a door to try, but the lock rattles loudly. Freezing Hells, I’m going to get caught.

Footsteps echo in the hallway as someone comes toward me. I scramble straight back, down the corridor and away, but overshoot the staircase entrance and reach the hallway’s end.

In front of me is a door with no handle. I see it two times at once.

In one eye, there is nothing remarkable about the door. It’s not as beautiful as the mahogany of the great hall. It is a door of simple polished oak, hinged with brass.

In my other eye, the mahogany is carved with braided patterns. A split runs clear through the center of the wood, and half of it hangs askew, revealing a pool of moonlight and tall windows beyond.

I have not been here. I have been here. Go on, my ghosts whisper with a sound like moths’ wings beating gently against glass.

Time spins for a moment, and I ground myself, palm to the wood. It is smooth under my fingers, and when I open my eyes, all trace of the broken door is gone. A breeze whispers of the ocean through the crack under the door, but there is no latch or keyhole by which to open it.

I shove my shoulder into the oak, but I bounce off the door with a dull thud.

“What are you doing?”

I jump. Reshar lifts the lid off a lantern. The darkened corridor fills with dancing shadows, and I flinch away from the light.

“You should be in your room. It is not safe to be out after nightfall.”

I smell fresh grass upon his tunic, and the air around him shimmers like candle smoke. Like Kalena on the rooftop, he must have done magic just now: the kind that requires blood and sacrifice and shortens your life. Instead of his usual loose robes, he’s covered up his tattoos with a tunic and long malong. Strands of gray hair frame his face, where I noticed none before.

“I was lost,” I say, aware how feeble the lie sounds in my mouth.

“Come with me,” he growls.

I pray to the Heavens that my transgression is not worth dying for, because if he were to shove me off a balcony, my body might never be found.

We pass through empty passages. I glimpse the great hall, but Reshar keeps walking. He leads me into a large, warmly lit room and shoves me in front of his body like a shield.

“I found this child wandering where she should not be, Astar Arisa,” he says with the proper courtesy. I do not think he’s in the mood for a fight tonight.

Arisa looks up from a desk laden with bottles filled with blue and black ink. Teloh leans his elbows on his knees at the foot of her table, cross-legged on the cold floor. He wears a long-sleeved tunic that covers his arms and hides evidence of his bruises. His expression goes carefully blank at the sight of me.

“Why hello, Kuran Jal,” Arisa says. Her voice sends a cold spike down my spine. I’ve heard many stories about Astar, but none of them painted her as cruel.

Her smile is so empty of warmth that I prefer Reshar’s glowering.

I fight the impulse to cower. Reshar must be twice her age, but the Seeker flinches behind me as if he does not want to be here either. Impostor, Alen warned me once. It makes me wonder if Arisa is who she claims—the Astar who defeated the Demon, who built the fortress, and founded Tigang from ashes. But I’ve heard stories that do not call Astar innocent in the destruction of Arawan. This Astar, Arisa, is not the Builder but the Destroyer. The two Astars do not fit together at all.

I hide my clammy hands behind my back.

“Why are you wandering in the halls when you were instructed not to?” She swallows me with her eyes, from my head to my slippered feet and back up again. Her gaze lingers on my scarf. I dare not move, afraid to give away anything at all, including how much she intimidates me.

“I have never been to Bato-Ko before. I wanted to see the ocean.” The words are jumbled, whispered, and hasty. “And I lost my way.”

Reshar snorts, but Arisa’s mouth curves into a wide smile. “I’m sure it was just a mistake, but if you wish to stay in the competition, you must prove your loyalty to Tigang.” To me, the unspoken words say. She sets down her pen and folds her hands together. “Promise to do as I say, child, and I will keep you safe.”

Could she be more condescending? I squirm, but Reshar holds me tight.

“Shall I have someone escort you home?” she asks.

Heat races up my neck. I need to stay. I still need to get to my mother.

“No, Astar Arisa.” I bow my head. “I promise.” The words taste sour in my mouth.

She nods. “Then all is well between us, but I cannot let you leave without punishment for breaking our rules.”

She turns to Teloh, who is busy carving a divot into the stone of the floor with the tip of his knife and avoiding us both. Strands of his hair have come loose and cut across his fine features.

“Teloh, my pet, why does this child upset you? Your line of questioning during the test was…unusual.” She purses her lips. They are plump and petulant. She has the look of someone who has always known power.

The assassin refuses to look up, but tension lingers in the set of his shoulders. “Do you remember the party at the Toso house? She was one of the entertainers. That version of Astar and Chaos is appalling.”

I bristle because that was no fault of ours. Oshar asked for it specifically.

“You say this about all the stories. That can’t be all!”

“The singer was pretty, but she had the gall to try and foist this one on me.”

Now I’m the one burning. How could I have ever wasted a moment of thought on him? I fume in silence. Before the Sundo, I thought I had nothing left to lose. How naive I was. Bato-Ko could strip away even my pride.

“Oh, Teloh, how little you know of village girls.” Arisa brays with laughter, unable to contain herself. “Break a finger, then take her to the healers. That should suffice.”

She moves back into her chair, and before I can protest, Teloh is in front of me. There is a flicker of hesitation in his eyes. I don’t even register the moment my left index finger slides out of place until I look down and find it bent at a strange angle. Then the pain hits me all at once, and every curse I know spills from my lips. I rue the day I ever laid eyes on him and ever thought that there was more to him than cruelty.

Teloh drags me out of the room and resists my attempts to shrug him away. He only releases me when not a soul remains around us.

“I’m sorry,” he says quietly. The sullen mask is gone. His face is now awash with contrition and guilt, his eyes dark and pained. “I did not want to do that.”

“Sorry?!” I spit. I am not okay. My hand continues to throb, but I bite back any screams. I refuse to let him see me struggle.

“The finger is dislocated, not broken. I will set it, wrap it, and you must be careful with it for a few weeks. You should not go to the Healers, because I’m not sure who’s loyal to Ari—”

“Enough of this.” The pain isn’t the reason I am furious. “I don’t understand you, Teloh. One moment you are all polite concern, and the next you treat me as if I disgust you.” My voice shakes. “You don’t even know me.”

He lifts his hands so I can see that there are no weapons in his sleeves, and he turns so that I see he only wears the ceremonial kris tucked into his belt. “You’re right. I owe you answers, but first let me fix your finger. Please, Narra.”

At my name, the anger deflates. He hasn’t told Arisa the truth, though he could have if he truly hated me. The only other people who might tell me the truth are locked away in the dungeons, and I am tired of secrets.

“Fine,” I mumble and follow.