CHAPTER

37

Quarrah stared at her reflection in the tall easel mirror propped in the corner of the staging tent. In a way, it was like looking at her past. Thick-rimmed spectacles, ringlets in her red wig, and makeup caked so thick that her skin looked like it was sculpted out of wax.

Stepping back into the heeled shoes of Azania Fyse came with a wide array of emotions. But hidden among the anxiety and uneasiness, Quarrah couldn’t help but recognize a significant dose of nostalgia. Being Azania Fyse had never been comfortable, but the last time she’d been onstage, the world hadn’t been so complicated. She hadn’t worried about time travel or evolved human transformations. It had been a simple game of staying ahead of the Regulators and fooling the king to steal his Regalia.

“I’m surprised the mirror hasn’t cracked, the way you’re glowering at it,” Kercha Gant said from behind her.

Without turning around, Quarrah looked at the woman through the mirror. Kercha was lounging on a padded chair, both legs draped over one arm. Quarrah wasn’t wearing a gown for this rehearsal, but her green dress was much finer than the black shirt and pants Kercha was wearing. Their apparent uniform swap left Quarrah with a twinge of envy toward the soprano’s role. Quarrah would much rather be the one lurking under the stage, just as she was sure Kercha would rather be posing on it.

“I’m not glowering.” Quarrah leaned toward the mirror, scraping at the red line of her lipstick. “Just concentrating.”

“Don’t touch your lips,” said Kercha. “You’ll only make it worse.” The woman swung her legs down and stood up, crossing the tent with a lackadaisical gait. She grabbed Quarrah’s shoulder and yanked her away from the easel mirror.

“Ugh. What did you do?” Kercha pinched the hem of her black sleeve and used the edge of the fabric to wipe the smear. “I told you not to bite your lips. Teeth?” Kercha bared hers, prompting Quarrah to do the same. There must have been a smear there, too, because Kercha promptly gave them a scrub.

Quarrah had developed an interesting relationship with Kercha Gant in the last ten days. The two women had seen each other every single day, rehearsing in the privacy of the Be’Igoth so Kercha’s voice would line up with the movement of Quarrah’s mouth.

As teachers went, Quarrah actually preferred Kercha Gant over Cinza Ortemion. Obviously more passionate about music than anything else in her life, Kercha had started her coaching with tips about rhythm and timing. Eventually, it had turned to diction, expression, and physical poise. And when the snooty woman had seen Quarrah’s first attempt at applying her own makeup, Kercha had been compelled to intervene.

Quarrah had been pleased by how quickly the mannerisms of Azania Fyse had come back to her. It was a good thing, too. She’d had half a year to master it the first time, but this concert had given her less than a cycle.

“And I don’t know why you were concentrating so hard,” Kercha said, stepping back to examine Quarrah’s makeup. “Looking glum comes naturally to you.”

The insults were the constant, regardless of the teacher. Kercha made it continually apparent that she and Quarrah were not to consider themselves allies, let alone colleagues, or friends. The soprano was helping her out of a sense of loyalty to music and her son. That was all fine with Quarrah Khai. She certainly wasn’t looking for a friend at such a critical time as this.

In a few moments, she would walk onto that stage for Azania Fyse’s first public reappearance. In Ardor Benn’s absence, she’d been forced to come up with a story about what had happened to Azania in her years-long disappearance. To be honest, Quarrah was having a hard time keeping those details straight. Hopefully, Ard would bail her out of any verbal corner into which she might paint herself.

But that was only if Ard decided to return from whatever personal outing had taken him away from their world-saving ruse. The fact that she hadn’t seen him tonight was unnerving, but Quarrah didn’t lose hope. Ard was notorious for being late, but he always made it work. His new conductor persona—Conques Fabley—would probably show up in the nick of time, leaping onto the podium with a smile that would charm everyone.

“I was concentrating on the lyrics,” Quarrah replied. “I’ve been stumbling over the fourth song in the cycle. Can we go over the second stanza?”

Kercha cleared her throat and began to sing, the tempo quick and the melody bouncy.

I despise when he’s out in the rain,

All my patience I try to maintain,

When he drips and he shakes,

I point out his mistakes,

Then he whines to break free of his chain.

Quarrah waved her hand. “I’ve got that one. I guess it’s the next verse.”

She didn’t find the lyrics overly humorous or clever, playing for cheap laughs more often than not. Kercha had told her that, as the performer, the song would come across more sincere if Quarrah secretly decided which she was singing about—a husband or a dog. Quarrah couldn’t imagine having either in real life, so she had come to terms with the fact that her performance might be seen as insincere. What did it matter anyway? The morning after the concert, the world would wake up Moonsick and no one would be talking about Azania’s song.

“I’m talking about the verse with the nonsense words,” said Quarrah.

“Ah.” Kercha launched into it without hesitation.

Bow wow biddy boo biddy ruff-ruff,

He thinks he is so very tough-tough,

His logic is patchy,

His kisses are scratchy,

And he cries when I tell him enough-nough.

The tent flap parted and Wysar Stone appeared. The stage manager was notably young for such a prestigious position. Quarrah had only just met him two hours ago, when her private carriage had delivered her and Kercha directly into the dressing tent at the edge of the stage. The young man had already popped in a dozen times to update Azania about the progress of the rehearsal. But this time he seemed more anxious than usual, his left eye visibly twitching.

“Swayla Tham has gone home,” he reported with a degree of finality in his voice.

“Wasn’t she going to rehearse the orchestra on the instrumental pieces?” said Quarrah.

“She did,” squeaked Wysar, “for the last hour and a half. She could not be persuaded to stay any longer, considering that she already feels insulted for not being allowed to conduct the song cycle with you.”

“You know it is customary for the soloist to bring her own conductor,” replied Quarrah.

“With all due respect,” said Wysar, “that seems to be a custom only you observe, Miss Fyse.”

“Maestro Fabley will be here,” Quarrah assured him.

“Eventually, I’m sure,” said Wysar. “But how long can we make the orchestra wait? Sixty of the most respected musicians in the Greater Chain are sitting on that stage out there, waiting for instruction.”

“Then give them some,” Kercha interjected. “You are the stage manager, are you not? Why don’t you manage the stage?”

“Yes. I’m happy to relay any message you would like, Miss Azania,” said Wysar. “Or you could deliver it yourself. I believe your appearance would go a long way toward keeping everyone content. Despite my assurances, I have heard murmurs among the musicians. Some think it possible that your name is merely being used as a publicity scam to draw a large number of people to the Moonwatch Festival.”

“Ha!” Kercha laughed, dropping into the padded chair again. “Imagine that! Some people don’t believe Azania Fyse could possibly be back from the dead.”

Quarrah stiffened awkwardly. “Well, I’m not going to parade myself across the stage just to satisfy their curiosity. They’ll see I’m alive when we begin our rehearsals.”

Wysar cleared his throat. “And when will that be, exactly?”

“You can tell them I am quite exhausted after my travel from Dronodan—”

“You told Wysar you’d been in Talumon,” Kercha interjected.

Quarrah squirmed. She couldn’t even remember where Azania had supposedly come from, let alone all she’d done in the last four and a half years. Quarrah felt a sizzle of indignation rise in her chest. This was Ard’s stupid ruse. If he didn’t care enough to be here for it, then Quarrah wasn’t going to put her neck on the line and cover for him.

“You know what,” she exclaimed hotly, “send the blazing orchestra home. Conques Fabley can reassemble them whenever he chooses to show up.”

Wysar Stone swallowed the bad news, nodding reluctantly as he escaped through the tent flap.

“Well, that was a bit out of character for Azania, wouldn’t you say?” Kercha remarked.

“What do you know about it?” snapped Quarrah.

“I know enough to say that you’re going to get swarmed by curious musicians the moment you step out of this tent.”

“Then I’ll wait them out,” said Quarrah. “I can dress down and slip out after the excitement has died.”

Kercha Gant stood. “I hope you’re not expecting me to wait with you…”

Quarrah flicked her wrist in Kercha’s direction. “Get out of here. You can take my carriage. That might draw some of them away.”

“You’re a gem,” Kercha droned, helping herself to a shot of liquor on the side table before ducking outside.

Finally alone, Quarrah let out a long sigh and plopped herself down on the soft chair, feeling one of the wig pins prick her scalp as she leaned her head back. What did dressing up provide a woman, besides making her easier to notice? Ha. The very thing Quarrah Khai always tried to avoid.

She found a comfortable position and closed her eyes. If Ard really wasn’t back, she might have to drop by the palace to bother Raek about it tonight. Or maybe she’d check the Be’Igoth. Raek was there most afternoons, helping San keep his Grit supply stocked.

Sparks. Knowing Ard, he was probably getting himself into trouble. Strange that he hadn’t taken Raek. Didn’t Ard know better than to wander off by himself where no one could watch his back?

For the first time, Quarrah wondered if Ard might not come back at all. What if the Moonwatch Festival ruse was exactly that—a trick to keep her and Raek busy while he slipped away on his own? She knew Ard had a penchant for starting his life over. The number of times he had faked his own death was proof of that. What if he had decided that their fight against the Glassminds and Moonsickness was beyond hope? Maybe he had a plan of his own that didn’t involve even his closest companions.

The rustle of the tent flap caused Quarrah to sit up swiftly. A gray-haired woman wearing servant clothes startled at the sudden movement, the canvas falling closed behind her.

“My apologies,” the woman said, bowing her head and wringing a damp rag in both hands. “I was asked to tidy up in here. The carriage wasn’t outside, so I’d assumed you’d gone. I’ll come back at a more convenient time.”

“Thank you,” Quarrah said dismissively. But the servant didn’t go.

“You’re the singer everyone is talking about…” She ventured an admiring step closer. “Asinine Fyse?”

“Azania,” Quarrah corrected, grateful that she hadn’t been in the process of taking off her wig during the intrusion.

“Such an honor,” the servant exclaimed. “I used to clean the dressing rooms at the Conservatory of Music in Octowyn. I left in ’28, but everyone there spoke so highly of you.”

“That’s good to hear.” Something about this woman made Quarrah’s skin crawl. Her steady approach seemed more predatory than adulatory, and the twinkle in her eye wasn’t altogether friendly.

“I’m surprised to hear you say that,” the woman continued, the wringing of the rag growing more intense. “Because Azania Fyse was not at the Conservatory of Music until ’29.”

All at once, Quarrah realized what was happening. She tried to sidestep, springing for the exit, but the woman’s rag was suddenly replaced with a thin gold knife. She caught a fistful of Quarrah’s dress and pulled her off balance. With the gracefulness of a trained fighter, the servant spun Quarrah around, restraining both arms and dropping her to a knee on the tent floor. The cold blade touched her throat, its razor edge held with a determined steadiness.

“Cinza,” Quarrah hissed through clenched teeth. She should have seen it coming.

“You may be a fine thief, Quarrah Khai,” the woman whispered, “but nobody steals from me.”

Really? She was worried about a theft? Maybe this was all just a big misunderstanding. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” said Quarrah. “I haven’t seen you since—”

“You have stolen my soprano!”

“Kercha Gant?”

“No, you idiot!” cried Cinza. “I’m talking about this.” She reached up and yanked off Quarrah’s red wig, the pins and clips ripping free with chunks of her own sandy hair. Quarrah held in a howl, trying to wrench free. Somehow Cinza managed to regain her grip and the knife pressed even tighter.

“Azania Fyse is not yours to flaunt and display as you see fit,” Cinza continued. “She is the property of Elbrig Taut and Cinza Ortemion, professional disguise management. And I demand that she be discontinued and returned immediately.”

“You accuse me of theft,” said Quarrah. “We bought Azania five years ago.”

“Incorrect,” Cinza cried. “You bought the exclusive rights to impersonate Azania Fyse for the period of two years. Didn’t you read our agreement?”

“I did…” Quarrah muttered. “I think.”

“Oh, that’s good,” said Cinza. “At least you’ve started thinking. If you care to dig up the signed papers and read the fine lettering, you’ll see that there was an option to buy the rights to the persona at the end of the lease period. I don’t recall you paying that.”

“Azania was dead!” Quarrah cried. “And I didn’t think I’d ever use her name again. Sparks, you think I want to be here? This was Ard’s idea.”

“Elbrig and I are well aware of his fingerprints all over your face,” she said. “Which is the only reason I have not put this blade into your windpipe.” Cinza’s breath over Quarrah’s shoulder smelled faintly of citrus. “Where is he?”

“If I answer, what’s to stop you from killing me?”

“Ardor betrayed us!” Cinza’s spittle flecked across Quarrah’s cheek.

“That was a decision he made alone,” she answered. “Raek and I tried to stop him.”

“After everything we’ve done for him!”

“You’re angry,” said Quarrah. “I get it. If you put down the knife, maybe we can talk about it.”

“Where is he?” shouted Cinza, not any closer to relinquishing her position.

“I don’t know,” said Quarrah.

“If you lie—”

“I’m telling the truth,” she insisted. “He left in the middle of the night. Ten days ago. He was supposed to be back for the rehearsal tonight, but… he’s not here.”

“Why have you brought back Azania?”

“For the festival,” Quarrah said. “We’re trying to draw as many people into the Char as possible.”

“Why?”

“To protect them from Moonsickness,” Quarrah answered. “The dragons are dead.”

Cinza finally let go. Quarrah dropped forward, catching herself with both hands on the rug.

“When you see Ardy,” Cinza said, “tell him we’re going to kill him.”

Quarrah stood up, rubbing her neck. “You’ll have to get in line. The Trothians have it out for him, too.”

“We will also kill you,” continued Cinza, “if you insist on going through with Azania Fyse at the concert.”

That certainly added some unnecessary pressure. “What if we pay you the final amount?”

“I’m afraid bribery is out of the question.” She picked up her fallen rag and moved toward the tent flap. “This is a matter of principle now.”

“Cinza,” Quarrah said as the old woman reached the exit. “Three days until the Passing… Ard’s not going to stop.”

Cinza Ortemion smiled, her false teeth crooked and discolored. “He never does.”

Ardor Benn pressed through the crowded Char, mindful of the orange hues of sunset that clung to the broken storm clouds to the west. There was a crisp coolness in the autumn air—slightly offset by the warmth of so many gathered bodies.

Ard was pleased with the turnout for the festival, especially considering the day’s poor weather. People seemed to be camped in every available open space, regardless of mud or puddles. Ard wished he could say that everyone had come unsuspectingly, merely hoping to be entertained by the concert and festivities. But the truth was abuzz through the congregation, almost louder than the music itself.

People had come in fear.

Ard didn’t waste time wondering who had leaked the information about the coming Moonsickness. Each one of the council members was an equal suspect. Despite his warnings to keep the truth under wraps, someone had likely spilled it to convince a hesitant relative to come to the Char. From there, the gossip would spiral out of control until it swept every island.

Citizens and nobles had arrived as early as five days ago, pitching tents and trying to make themselves at home in the last safe place on earth. By dawn this morning, all roads leading into the Char had been utterly clogged, a perimeter of Regulators working tirelessly to dispel rumors and keep the peace.

From the snippets of conversation Ard had picked up, the people didn’t really understand what was going to happen. Some said the Moon would be more powerful tonight and the Islehood would be burning a special torch in the Char. Others claimed a dragon would arrive in the nick of time to shield them. In a way, they were both right. Evetherey was both dragon and Holy Torch, and tonight she was the only hope for humankind.

Ard ducked around the back of the grand outdoor stage, the orchestra swelling in a dissonant chord. Swayla Tham’s instrumental portion of the concert seemed lackluster, but hopefully it would hold people’s attention until the main event.

Ard spotted San Green and a troop of Regulators standing by a Trans-Island Carriage anchored to the muddy ground, its sailcloth balloon straining upward. Instead of the usual large carriage designed to carry multiple passengers, a pilot, and plenty of equipment, this balloon would only be hauling a small basket with room for one.

Ard was almost to the carriage when a cloaked figure appeared from a cluster of trees where night’s shadows had already taken root.

“Sparks, Evetherey!” Ard grabbed his chest, reeling back a step. “We need to hang a bell around your neck.”

“You are startled?” Her glowing eyes narrowed under a hairless brow furrowed in confusion. “Did we not agree to meet here at sunset?”

“Sure, we did, but…” Hadn’t Evetherey ever felt startled? Wasn’t the pressure of tonight prickling her nerves? “Never mind.” Ard glanced around the quickly darkening area. “Where’s Raek?”

“I grow faint,” she said. “The Moon is near. I will be quite incapacitated until sunrise.”

“I know,” Ard replied. “We’ll try to get along without you. How much time do we have?”

“It will rise in twenty minutes,” she answered. “At that time, the sickness will begin outside my reach.”

“Then you’d better get to your perch.” Ard moved toward the anchored basket, Evetherey following close behind. Her figure looked strangely shapeless with her broad wings confined under that cloak. In the twilight, it reminded Ard of the shrouding cloaks worn by the Faceless in the Realm.

“Ardor!” San stepped away from the line of Regulators and waved him over anxiously. “Everything’s ready.” The young man couldn’t pull his eyes from Evetherey.

“Good work.” Ard proudly slapped a hand on the wicker basket secured beneath the balloon. “This is it.”

Evetherey studied the vessel, obviously unconvinced. “I am trusting your people to keep me aloft… in this?”

“San and Raek ran all the calculations,” Ard assured her. “These Reggies know their jobs. And they have plenty of Heat Grit to keep it up.”

One of the Regulators stepped forward, eyes glued to Evetherey’s unique face. “Our orders come directly from Her Majesty, Queen Abeth Agaul. We will protect this vessel with our lives.”

In silent response, Evetherey shrugged out of her long cloak, feathered wings suddenly unfolding as the black cloth fell to the damp earth. The Reggie swallowed visibly, a look of under-qualification displayed as plainly as if she’d written it on her forehead.

San opened a little woven door on the side of the basket. “Whenever you’re ready, Madam Drothan.”

Evetherey stepped into the basket, San latching the door behind her. Ard thought her perch looked just large enough for her to lie down for the night. He nodded to the reptilian woman as San moved away, shouting commands at the Reggies to begin the ascent.

“Thank you, Evetherey.”

The Drothan goddess turned her glowing eyes on Ard. “The real work will begin in the morning.”

He nodded in understanding, suddenly hit with a measure of fatigue equal to his coming responsibility. Keeping the survivors separate from those who would be inflicted by the Moon, fighting off the growing number of Glassminds… In the morning, they might look back on this night and consider it quite relaxing.

Ard watched as the balloon rose straight upward, tethered to the earth by nothing but a thick rope. Evetherey would sail to the optimal height of three hundred feet, hovering there all night as the Regulators used strings and a simple pulley system to administer more Heat Grit into the balloon as needed.

By the look of it, Evetherey would have no problem getting to altitude before the Moon rose. Good thing, since every inch counted. Any lower and the effective perimeter of her shield would shrink. Any higher and the spot directly beneath her would be compromised.

“This isn’t meant to be a reptile pun,” Raek’s voice chimed from behind Ard, “but I feel like we’re putting all our eggs in one basket.”

Ard spun around to find his enhanced friend standing a few yards away, red eyes watching the balloon rise.

“You’re late,” Ard said.

“Hey. That’s usually my line for you,” replied Raek. “There was a little kerfuffle at the southern entrance. Had to give the Reggies a hand.”

“Everything okay?”

“Depends on who you ask,” Raek said, sobering. “Some lord and lady from Strind showed up with half their property in a caravan of wagons.”

Ard shook his head. They knew the truth, obviously. “Let me guess,” said Ard. “They threw a fit because the Regulators wouldn’t let them bring it all in.”

“It was the opposite problem,” said Raek. “They did let them.”

Ard grunted in frustration. “They had orders! No more than a night’s possessions per family. A tent and some blankets is one thing, but… we don’t have the space!”

It was a limitation they had instigated this morning when it became clear that the turnout was going to explode. They needed people to survive the Moon Passing. Goods and possessions, even livestock, would weather the Moon rays with no effect. And the queen had ordered enough rations for everyone inside the radius to survive for a week. By then, it would be terribly obvious who was Moonsick and who wasn’t.

“I know.” Raek rubbed his chin. “But the goods were already inside by the time I caught wind of it. When I got to the entrance, the Reggies were turning away a working family who looked like they’d brought everything they owned in a pair of handcarts.”

“Sparks,” Ard cursed. “Does everyone know what’s really going on tonight?”

“I don’t think anybody really knows,” said Raek. “But the hearsay almost makes it worse. Things are getting pretty bad on the edge of the Char.”

Ard steepled his fingers against his forehead, sighing. “It’s time, Raek.”

“You want me to go through with it, then?”

Ard nodded sullenly. “There’s no way the Regulators can keep everyone out once the Moon comes up. Sounds wrong to say it, but I guess I was hoping the festival wouldn’t be quite so popular.”

“It’s the right thing to do,” said Raek.

“It’s going to cause a panic.”

“We’re getting close to one out there anyway.”

Ard glanced up at the darkening sky. “Where do you need to be?”

“The eastern entrance is closest,” said Raek. “Once I get it started, I should be able to control it from anywhere along the edge.”

“We should hurry.” Ard checked to make sure that San Green had everything under control with the carriage. Then he struck off, quickly realizing that he was turned around and unsure which way was east.

“Don’t you have a song to conduct?” Raek asked.

Ard waved his hand. “I’ve got time. Quarrah might be stuck in that tent, smothered in makeup, but all I have to do is slap on a wig and mustache. Besides, they’re not going to start without me.”

“I’ll lead,” Raek said.

Ard had to jog every few steps to keep up with his partner’s gait, but he wouldn’t have wanted to go any slower, with mere minutes remaining. They moved down a small overgrown path, passing throngs of pedestrians. Ahead, a crimson glow was creeping into view on the eastern horizon, not warm like the rising sun, but a sickly scarlet that bled into a blackness awakening with stars.

The Char’s eastern entrance was a wide plaza with a single road leading from the neighborhood beyond. The Reggies were doing exactly what they’d been told, closing the Char the moment the sunset faded. They had squared off, holding their position in front of the tall archway entrance, wooden shields raised and helmeted heads bowed. Little did the Reggies know they were guarding the new Redeye line. Most of them were likely to escape the sickness tonight, but beyond that point…

The crowd stretched into every intersecting street—hundreds of citizens still pushing to get in. Ard could sense that the situation was on the verge of hostility. If the citizens decided to charge, the Regulators wouldn’t stand a chance.

That was why Raek needed to do this. As definitive and absolute as it seemed, it was their only real shot at containing the situation.

Ard was close enough now to hear what the Reggies were shouting.

“Return to your homes!”

“The Char is closed!”

“You are trespassing!”

Ard flinched as a gunshot punctuated the returning shouts from the citizens. One of the Regulators staggered backward, the line suddenly breached.

“Raek!” Ard shouted. “Now!”

Raekon Dorrel reached out his pale blue hands, the ends of his long fingers sparking. A stream of detonated Grit flowed from him, rushing out to form a Barrier wall between the Regulators and the advancing mob. But it didn’t stop there. He pushed his hands to both sides, and the Barrier Grit continued to stream out, racing along the perimeter to encircle the entire Char, just as Raek had planned it. The wall stretched upward, doming in a gentle inward curve until it met at the top, the whole area safely sealed beneath.

Ard looked at his friend, eyes wide at the power he exuded. A detonation this size was unprecedented! Raek’s hands remained outstretched, coaxing and manipulating the massive Barrier.

“Evetherey?” Ard asked.

“She’s enclosed,” he answered. “As are all the Regulators at each entrance point. They’re all safe.”

But no one outside. Ard stared through the transparent wall at the countless faces they had just doomed to Moonsickness. The Reggies were backing away in confusion, but the excluded citizens were hopelessly assaulting the Barrier with anything they had.

In just a few days, those same attackers would be voiceless, blind… their fury driven beyond anything they could now muster.

Or they’d be Glassminds.

“The bad news is,” Raek said, his concentration remaining on the wall, “I’m going to miss the rest of the concert.”

“The dome won’t hold itself?” Ard asked.

“It might look like a perfect dome from where you are,” he replied, “but this thing’s as dimpled as an old lady’s backside. I had to weave around people and plants. Even now, I can sense somebody on the north side trying to dig under.” He flexed his hands, the result seeming to send an extra burst of Barrier Grit to patch the weak spot.

Raek glanced over his shoulder at Ard. “Tell the crazies hello from me.”

“Too soon, Raek,” Ard muttered. Quarrah had told him about the threat. Cinza and Elbrig were a complication, yes, but he’d planned for those.

“Just remember,” Raek added, “you’re the dog in Quarrah’s song.”

But Ard barely heard his friend’s jibe. A face had caught his eye. A face on the other side of the Barrier.

“Lyndel,” he whispered.

Flanked by a group of Trothians, the priestess was pounding her fist against the Barrier wall, screaming something into the face of the nearest Regulator.

Ard stepped forward, touching Raek’s elbow to get his attention. “Raek. It’s her.”

“Lyndel. I see her.”

“She’s going to die out there.” The realization was like a knife of guilt. Lyndel had been at the beginning of everything. She and Isle Halavend had taken the first steps toward knowledge that had forever changed the world. How was it that she was now standing on the wrong side of the wall?

“Drop the Barrier,” Ard said.

“What?”

“You have to drop the Barrier and let her in.” Ard’s eyes flicked to the eastern sky. It was redder now, and significantly brighter. But from where he stood, it didn’t look like the Moon had crested the horizon yet.

“Ard,” snapped Raek, “she’s been trying to kill you for cycles.”

“I know,” he replied. “But she won’t see me. By the time she gets her bearing, I’ll be back in Oriar’s Square dressed like Conques Fabley. You can do it, right? Let them through the Barrier like Evetherey did in the council chamber?”

“I mean, yeah, but…” Raek shook his glass head. “This isn’t right, Ard.”

“How can it not be right?” he cried. “It’s thanks to Lyndel that we’re here!”

“She didn’t make it into the Char in time,” said Raek.

“You’re afraid she’s already Moonsick?”

“The Moon isn’t up just yet.”

“Then what?” Ard shouted above the tumult of the panicked mob.

“How do we decide who lives and who dies?” Raek said.

“We already did,” he insisted. “That’s what this whole plan is about.”

“But we didn’t handpick them,” said Raek. “They came, or they didn’t come. It wasn’t up to us.”

“Well, now it is.” Ard’s voice was low and serious. “And I’m telling you to let her through.”

“She’s going to kill you, Ard.”

Ardor Benn sniffed. “Someone has to.”

Raek studied him for a moment with his glowing red eyes. Then a portion of the Barrier wall seemed to blink. Lyndel stumbled through, the detonation quickly resealing behind her.

“You might want to run,” Raek said.

Without another word, Ard sprinted toward Oriar’s Square.

Under the great orb of the Red Moon, Azania Fyse walked onto the stage to thunderous applause. Quarrah had forgotten about the thrill that came from the roar of approval. She’d remembered the nerves and the discomfort—and what she was feeling tonight certainly lived up to those memories.

At the moment, her mind was totally blank, lyrics and phrasing blanched from her thoughts. But the sudden boost of adrenaline from the massive crowd was like a long-forgotten friend. Her body was ready to spring into action at the first sign of trouble. With this gift from the spectators, she felt like she could outrun any foe and jump to impossible heights without the aid of Drift Grit.

Walk to your mark without looking down. Cinza’s coaching from years past rattled through Quarrah’s thoughts. She kept her chin up, striding across the stage with confidence while silently cursing the uselessness of her high-heeled shoes.

Ard was approaching from the other side of the stage, a smile pasted beneath that hideous drooping blond mustache. She was sure he was reveling in the applause, despite knowing it wasn’t intended for him. Conques Fabley had already received numerous complaints from the musicians about his confusing conducting patterns and inability to cue entrances. He was a no-name conductor with a shallow past—nothing like the rich complexity that had accompanied Dale Hizror’s character.

The thought only made Quarrah more aware of the reach and power of the disguise managers. A new wave of fear rose in her throat. Suddenly, the precautions they’d taken against Cinza’s threat seemed wholly insufficient, though it was too late to do anything about it now.

Quarrah and Ard met in the middle of the stage, just in front of the conductor’s podium.

“Here we are again,” he whispered.

She didn’t reply, too afraid that she’d lose containment of the small detonation of Silence Grit that she’d already ignited in her mouth.

Ard winked at her in understanding. “I can think of nothing better to keep twenty thousand eyes focused than your poise and beauty, my dear.”

She didn’t blush under his praise like she once had, even knowing that his words were sincere. Quarrah couldn’t think of anything worse than having ten thousand people staring at her, but she understood the need to keep the citizens happy and distracted.

Ard’s quick report before changing into his conductor’s costume had been worrisome. The way he’d made it sound, the rest of Beripent was pounding at the Barrier wall surrounding the Char. Raek would be able to hold them, but that meant she and Ard would have no backup if things went wrong onstage.

Cinza and Elbrig hadn’t shot them from the crowd yet, so that was a good sign. Still, why was Ard taking so long to offer his hand?

She stuck out hers instead, adjusting her thin, lacy glove. Ard took it in a gesture of respect and acknowledgment, but Quarrah squeezed with a firmness that Cinza would have deemed very unladylike. At the impact of their hands, Quarrah felt the Slagstone spark in Ard’s palm, a slight tingling singe. At once, the Grit in her white glove detonated, rushing around them and encompassing the entire stage.

They were doubly protected now. Raek’s outer wall had drawn the Redeye line, but the stage was now enclosed in its own protective Barrier—a dome within a dome.

Ard released her hand and turned to the crowd, the applause quickly dying to hear what he had to say. Quarrah saw Queen Abeth’s tent prominently placed at the edge of the stage along with several that belonged to members of the noble council.

“Ladies and gentlemen from across the Greater Chain!” Ard was affecting his voice with a slight Talumonian accent. One more thing to get people to dissociate him from Dale Hizror. “On this historic night, the Royal Orchestra is proud to present Rous Kenette’s comedic Song Cycle Number Three, sung for you by our inimitable, transcendent, unparalleled soloist. A woman of mystery and allure who some claim cheated death itself. I give you… the beautiful Lady Azania Fyse!”

Ard stepped back and the crowd cheered louder than before. Quarrah tried not to wriggle under the praise, gaining no additional adrenaline from this round. Doing her best to maintain elegant poise, she glided a few steps to the side as Ard took the podium.

His baton came up and the crowd quieted even faster than before. It was almost an eerie silence, following so shortly after cacophony. As the first notes rolled out of the orchestra, Quarrah dared part her lips just a little. The tiniest bit of the contained detonation in her mouth leaked out, and not even her breath made a sound.

The first short song in the group was set to a fast tempo, but Quarrah was confident in her entrance. She counted the beats, the lyrics coming back to her in the heat of the moment.

She opened her mouth and began to sing at full volume, trusting in the Silence Grit to mask her lackluster voice.

My troubles began on the first day of fall.

I found him curled up at the base of a wall…

Not a sound.

The Silence Grit was doing its job perfectly, but Kercha Gant wasn’t! What the blazes? Quarrah had seen her crawl beneath the stage not fifteen minutes ago. The soprano had missed her entrance!

With a wave of his baton, Ard cut off the confused orchestra. Without stepping down from the podium, he turned to Quarrah, who silently widened her eyes to show that she didn’t know what was happening. He put on a confident smile and spoke to her loudly so the bated crowd could easily overhear.

“My dear Azania, the song is a comedy, not a prank. Must you toy with me when you know this is the biggest concert of my life?”

His words got a chuckle from the front rows of the crowd, but the musicians were shooting him glares, murmuring about the unprofessionalism of being cut off mere measures into a piece.

“Now,” Ard continued, tapping his baton on the podium stand, “let us start again from the top.”

He marked the downbeat and the brisk tempo resumed in what felt like a loop in time. Every passing note raised Quarrah’s anxiety, but when her entrance came, she hit it with full voice, her mouth clearly articulating the words. This time a beautiful soprano tone pealed forth from beneath the stage. But it wasn’t Kercha Gant.

That voice belonged to Cinza Ortemion.

Keeping her chin up, Quarrah flicked her eyes to the podium. Ard was staring back at her, obviously coming to the same chilling conclusion. With Ard’s attention turned away from the orchestra, Quarrah saw one of the cellists suddenly rise from his seat. The man was pale, with a round face and a head of curly black hair. He let the expensive instrument fall to the side and she saw the glint of a blade—a thin knife fixed to the tip of his horsehair string bow.

“Ard!” Quarrah shouted, abandoning her lyrics for a warning. But any sound that would have escaped her throat was muted by Silence Grit.

At the same time, the stage beneath Quarrah’s feet heaved upward. She staggered backward, rolling an ankle on those blazing heels and tumbling into the violin section.

A trapdoor in the floor banged open. Hadn’t they removed the trapdoor from the plans for this stage? As Quarrah righted herself, Cinza Ortemion sprang through the opening, her jump clearly assisted by Drift Grit as she landed squarely on the stage.

She was in a physical state like Quarrah had seen her in only once before—hairless, toothless, wearing tan long underwear that was splattered in fresh blood. Cinza clutched a long knife in one hand and a Roller in the other.

Without hesitation, she snapped off a shot. The lead ball ripped through the puffy sleeve of Quarrah’s red gown, grazing her shoulder, but finding a deadlier mark in the violinist behind her.

The musician slumped from his chair with a groan, instrument clattering to the floor as the rest of the players erupted into screams and chaos. Quarrah dove forward, snatching up the fallen violin and pouncing at Cinza, who was cocking the Slagstone hammer for a second shot.

Quarrah brought the violin around like a club, slamming it into the side of Cinza’s bald head. It exploded into scraps, splinters of wood floating lazily through the cloud of weightlessness that mushroomed up from beneath the stage.

The panicked musicians had retreated as far as possible, abandoning instruments in their haste, only to realize that they were trapped onstage by the detonation of Barrier Grit. Outside the protective dome, citizens and nobles were screaming and retreating from the sudden violence. A few Regulators had fired on the Barrier dome before taking to a more sensible plan and scouring the perimeter for some way in. Beyond the stage, the audience stumbled away from the danger like a crashing wave of fear and confusion.

From the corner of Quarrah’s eye she saw Ard and the man grappling on the podium, the bayonetted cello bow on the ground at their feet. At some point in the fight, the man’s hair had come loose, revealing it as a wig with an artificial forehead attached. The rubbery skin was folded grotesquely back as if his face had melted in a hot blast. It was clearly Elbrig Taut, and he was screaming in Ard’s face.

“You sold us out, Ardor Benn! You were a trusted client, and you sent the queen’s own Reggies hunting for us!”

Ard began to articulate a response, but Quarrah’s attention was stolen by Cinza, who was coming around with the Roller, a trickle of blood dripping down her pasty forehead.

Quarrah jumped backward, catching the pocket of Drift Grit and sending her higher than Cinza had expected as the second shot sounded. This time the ball ricocheted off the inside of the Barrier dome, chipping into the stage.

Glancing through the trapdoor as she passed over, Quarrah saw the dead figure of Kercha Gant lying facedown in the mud. The responsibility for her death struck Quarrah like a Roller ball. She and Ard had taken precautions for themselves, but they hadn’t considered for a moment that Kercha would be in danger. And their precautions were turning out to be more of a detriment since Cinza and Elbrig had managed to get themselves inside the Barrier.

Quarrah landed adroitly on the edge of the stage, her spacious gown swishing around her legs. She lunged forward, only to find that her right heel had come down between two boards, wedging itself impossibly tight from the extra weight of her landing.

“You thought a simple detonation of Barrier Grit would keep us from fulfilling our word?” Cinza squawked, moving toward her with dread determination. “We warned you, Quarrah. You didn’t have to throw in your lot with him. Now you’ll die unarmed, dressed like the lady you could never hope to be.”

But Cinza was wrong. Quarrah wasn’t unarmed. Whipping up the front of her gown, she plucked a mesh teabag of Grit from a strap around her thigh. She pitched it as Cinza raised the Roller.

Sparks flared on impact and the Void Grit erupted at Cinza’s feet, throwing the woman forcefully backward. The gun went off in a harmless direction as it left her hand, half its balls now spent.

“Elbrig!” Ard shouted. “It doesn’t have to end like this!”

The two men were standing ten feet apart among toppled chairs and music stands. Elbrig was holding his bow knife, but Ard had something in his outstretched hand as well. A small glass Grit vial.

“Our kind of trust cannot be rebuilt,” Elbrig said.

“And that’s worth dying over?” Ard asked. “If I drop this vial, it’ll snuff out the Barrier. You’ll have two dozen Regulators swarming you and Cinza in seconds.”

“I only need half that time to kill you,” he sneered.

Ard hurled the vial at the stage, thin glass shattering as a flash cloud erupted from the sparks. At the same moment, the Barrier around the stage was extinguished.

Elbrig thrust, but Quarrah was faster, throwing a small bag of Drift Grit in his path. He lost his balance in the unexpected weightlessness, kicking helplessly as he floated forward. He exited into the arms of two Regulators, one of them breaking the bow as they wrested it from his grasp.

“There was another,” Ard informed the Reggies. “A woman.” He moved to Quarrah’s side, breathing heavily, but otherwise looking uninjured. His mustache had fallen off, but that unflattering blond wig was still intact.

Quarrah scanned across the stage. “Where did she—”

Cinza leapt up from behind the podium, rushing Elbrig’s captors in what looked like a hopeless rescue.

“Look out!” Ard shouted.

The Regulator with the knife bow whirled, bringing up the broken weapon in self-defense. The sharp tip skewered Cinza’s neck, drawing along a string of bloody horsehair as it passed through.

The bald woman reached up, gasping, gurgling. The Reggie let go and she staggered backward, pawing at the fatal wound. Cinza stumbled into a music stand and fell to her knees, the life fading from her eyes.

Quarrah felt her own breath stolen away by the gory shock of it. Her gaze turned to Elbrig, who stood in horrified silence with both arms pinned behind his back. He stared at Cinza—his mysterious other half. His face shone with a look of unspeakable sadness, twinged with visible disappointment. Then he nodded resolutely to Cinza, his curly wig accentuating the gesture. Straining against his captors, he kicked something across the stage.

Cinza’s Roller skidded directly to her. With one bloody hand, she picked it up, her thumb pulling back the hammer. One of the Regulators shouted, “Gun!” and then the shot sounded.

The ball took Elbrig through his wrinkled false forehead, the curly wig slumping off as he fell against the Regulator holding him. Everyone stood rigid, but by Quarrah’s count, there were still two more shots in that gun. Just enough to carry out what Cinza had threatened.

The dying woman clicked back the hammer, turning the barrel toward Quarrah. There was a puff of smoke and a loud crack. Quarrah flinched, but the shot had come from the Reggie behind her. Cinza Ortemion fell backward with a hole in her chest. Her gun went skyward, lifeless finger pulling the trigger.

Then everything was still.

Ard reached out for Quarrah’s hand and she felt him trembling. She was having a hard time comprehending what had just happened. For some strange reason, the next lines from the blazing song cycle were stuck in her head.

He looked at me helplessly, big eyes imploring,

And I thought his life looked pathetic and boring.

The man standing beside her was certainly neither. She clung to his hand, wondering how she had gotten here again. Wondering why she was still beside him. Then someone shouted a warning and all eyes turned upward.

The Trans-Island Carriage was coming down.

The thick rope that was supposed to be keeping it tethered had gone slack and the whole thing was dropping steadily toward the stage.

“Sparks.” Ard released her hand, eyes to the sky.

Quarrah saw what Cinza’s final shot had done. The ball had struck one of the curved wooden slats that formed the balloon’s frame. It had splintered, rending a long tear in the side of the sailcloth.

“Keep it up!” Ard bellowed, sprinting across the stage. Quarrah took off after him, ducking around the acoustic shell to the area where the flying carriage was tethered.

San was standing as still as a statue, the limp rope in his hands, a coil of it at his feet. Around him, the Regulators were in full panic, some of them hopelessly hurling clay pots of Heat Grit at the falling balloon.

“We’ve got to keep her up!” Ard screamed.

“There’s nothing…” San muttered, staring upward. “We can’t do anything for her, sir! She’s coming down.”

“The trees…” Quarrah muttered, an idea coming to her. She raced to San, ripping the rope from his shocked hands without an explanation. Throwing it over one shoulder, she sprinted in the direction of the tall trees that bordered the area like walls of shadow.

Ard was at her side in a heartbeat, dragging against the weight of the settling balloon. In moments, Evetherey’s basket caught the treetop and nestled out of sight into the darkness of the upper branches, the sailcloth balloon collapsing over the top. Quarrah and Ard eased off the rope, hoping the tree would hold the basket’s precious life-saving cargo.

“I’m guessing you didn’t finish the song?” Raek’s voice cut through the darkness. Quarrah turned to see his glowing eyes drawing toward them at a run.

“She’s dropped too far,” Ard cried. “The outer edge of the Char won’t be protected. Flames! We’re lost, Raek!”

“Not yet.” The Glassmind slid to a halt in the mud, his eyes flashing upward at the tree. “Every foot counts, and she’s not on the ground. The population is most dense in front of the stage, and the basket is secure at a height of fifty-three feet. Considering the maximum range of her absorption at three hundred feet, we’re looking at an eighty-two percent decrease…” He trailed off, sprinting away from them.

“Where are you going?” Ard shouted. “We need to get her back up there!”

“Too late for that,” replied Raek’s booming voice. “The Moon has touched too much of the Char now. Redeye line is much closer. It’s time to cut our losses and put up a new Barrier.”

Quarrah felt her stomach sink. A single shot fired in senseless revenge had reduced humanity’s sole chance at survival from a square mile to… what? Mere yards?

“Well,” Ard said with a weary sigh. “I guess this means you don’t have to sing that stupid song.”

Quarrah scoffed at how trivial it all sounded now. What would the morning bring? The world wouldn’t know for sure about the spread of Moonsickness until the symptoms started showing up. That gave people most of tomorrow to worry and stress.

Then their voices would be silenced.

Then their sight would fade.

Then the world would tear itself apart in a mindless rage.

When the music swells around me, I am nearly deafened by the choices I’ve made.