Chapter 18

IT WAS a strange feeling for Colivar, entering Farah’s palace as a guest. Stranger still for Farah’s servants, who didn’t know quite what to make of his sudden arrival. How deeply did one bow to a visiting Magister? Weren’t the sorcerers at war with one another? Should they be worrying about that? Colivar had never been visited by Magisters while he had lived in the palace, so Farah’s servants had no experience with this kind of thing.

He should have warned them he was coming. Or Sulah should have warned them he was coming. Oh, well.

Finally one flustered guard offered to bring Colivar to the king. Then he became even more flustered when Colivar said it was not the king he had come to talk to. Finally they got it all sorted out, and with a pair of guards flanking him—presumably to do him honor, since it would have taken an army of guards to do anything more meaningful—he made his way to Sulah’s apartments.

Farah had set aside one wing of the palace for the use of his Magister Royal. Since Colivar had rarely made use of it, and accordingly had never invested any time or energy in its appearance, he was curious to see what Sulah had done with the place. It was certainly not what he’d expected. The border between Farah’s realm and that of his sorcerer was all but indiscernible; even the gauze curtains were of the same cut and color in both parts of the building. Sulah’s main chamber was appointed with classic Anshasan furniture and art, and Sulah himself was dressed in the long flowing robes of a desert chieftain. It was a strange juxtaposition with his pale northern features. The robes were black, in deference to Magister custom, but bands of different textures suggested the broad stripes of tribal fashion: a subtle homage to his new homeland.

“Colivar!” He rose from his chair as Colivar entered; the book he had been reading vanished from his hand. “Thank you for coming so quickly.”

“No request of yours has ever wasted my time, Sulah.” He studied the younger man’s attire with a bemused expression. “I see you are going native.”

Sulah shrugged. “I thought if I was going to do the Magister Royal thing I should get into the full spirit of it.” His tone was light, but his expression was solemn. “Wine?”

Colivar nodded. He wasn’t thirsty, and he might have turned down the offer if it had been voiced anywhere else. But Anshasans took their hospitality seriously, and some of the locals would view a refusal to drink as an insult. He didn’t want to try to second-guess just how native Sulah had gone.

And, in truth, he mused, it was genuinely refreshing to fall back into his old patterns of behavior. He had served in Anshasa for a very long time, and there was a curious kind of comfort in the familiar rituals of southern life.

He waited until the wine had been poured, tasted, and praised, with all the appropriate social trappings, then said, “I’m sure you didn’t call me here just for a wine tasting. What’s on your mind?”

Sulah sighed and put his cup aside. For a moment he just stared at it, running his finger around the rim. Then he said, “Siderea came to me.”

Whatever Colivar had expected from him, that certainly wasn’t it. “When? Where? Do the others know?”

“She came in a dream. And no, no one else knows. You are the first I’ve told.”

To say that such a confession startled Colivar would be an understatement. The fact that Sulah was offering him this kind of information was nothing short of remarkable. Of course, Sulah had always valued Colivar’s counsel—perhaps more than he should—and now that the four Magisters had their “alliance,” it was not inconceivable they would share information with one another. But rivalry and mistrust still ran strong in their blood, rooted as it was in their ikati heritage. If Sulah was revealing something like this to Colivar, it suggested that the situation was so disturbing to him that he felt he could not resolve it on his own. But that would hardly be something he’d admit to, and Colivar knew that if he pressed him for details he didn’t want to reveal, the man’s defensive instincts might kick in, and he’d close up like a clamshell.

“What did she want?” he asked, trying to sound as if they were discussing nothing more significant than the weather.

Sulah drew in a deep breath. “She wanted me to share her throne,” he said. “To join her circle of Souleater vassals and help her rule the world.”

Colivar opened his mouth, but no sound would come. He was dimly aware that his own attempt not to show any emotion had just failed miserably, but he was not sure exactly what his expression revealed. Whatever he had expected to hear from Sulah, this was certainly not it. “I take it you said no?”

“I haven’t said anything yet. As soon as I turn her down, she’ll make the same offer to someone else. Yes? So my silence buys us time.” He sat down heavily in an upholstered chair and rubbed his temple wearily. There was an air of physical tension about him that was unlike anything Colivar had ever seen in his student before . . . but he had seen it in other Magisters, long ago, and he recognized its source.

She spoke to the Souleater in him. And awakened its hunger. Does that mean she knows what we are? Has she guessed the truth? The thought of Siderea teasing Sulah’s nonhuman instincts to the surface and then playing them like a finely tuned instrument was disturbing on more levels than he could count. And the sudden surge of jealousy that attended the thought was surprising to him. Unnerving. Clearly the presence of a Souleater queen in their world was starting to break down the mechanisms Colivar normally used to hold his more primitive instincts at bay. The other Magisters might suffer a similar fate in time, but they were not vulnerable in quite the same way that he was; the breakdown would not come as quickly for them, nor was it likely to hit as hard when it did.

Dark times were coming, to be sure.

“Someone will say yes,” Colivar agreed.

“Probably one of her past lovers. And when that happens, the Magisters may turn against one another, not in petty squabbling but as prelude to some greater conflict.”

“Which is no doubt what she wants. Morati would be hard pressed to destroy us. Even Souleaters would have a hard time of it. Magister against Magister, on the other hand . . . .”

Sulah looked up sharply “You think she wants us all dead?”

“Whatever she felt about us before, we are rivals to her now, and a threat to the empire she apparently means to establish.”

Sulah nodded. He had never been the most guarded of sorcerers, and Colivar had been his teacher for long enough that he could normally read him like a book, but there were depths right now that were veiled from his scrutiny. That worried him.

“The one who accepts her offer will not be viewed as a threat.” Sulah pointed out.

Only if she means what she says, Colivar thought. Only if this offer is legitimate, and not some sort of trick. Sulah was equally suspicious, of course. Why else would he share this with Colivar? He asked quietly, “Were you tempted?”

Sulah exhaled sharply. “Of course I was tempted. What Magister wouldn’t be tempted? Forget about the power. Forget about the woman herself. We stand upon the cusp of an age in which the very nature of the world may be altered, and she offers the chance to ride the crest of that transformation rather than be drowned by it.” He looked sharply at Colivar. “Were you not the one who taught me that novelty is the ultimate temptation to a Magister? I didn’t really understand you back then. I was too young. Now that I have a bit more time under my belt, I do.”

But Siderea does not, Colivar thought. If she did, she would have approached one of the older Magisters first. Those who would be happy to see the entire world destroyed if it bought them five minutes of novelty.

Which did beg the question: Why Sulah?

“Would you be willing to show me the dream?” Colivar asked. “Its setting, at least?” He knew Siderea well enough to know that her dreams were meticulously crafted, and it was rare they did not communicate on multiple levels. Sulah probably did not know her well enough to know what to look for. Colivar did.

Sulah hesitated. The request was a highly intimate one, and not one a Magister would normally indulge. But these were not normal times. Nodding, he began to concentrate. The room itself seemed to shimmer as images from his dreamscape began to form in front of him, detail by detail. Desert, tent, rugs, furnishings, and finally the Witch-Queen herself. The vision was not wholly opaque; it was possible to see the shadow of an Anshasan sideboard behind one wall of the tent, and Siderea’s left leg co-existed with the ghost of a chair leg. But it was a detailed and realistic conjuring, and Colivar’s eyes narrowed as he studied every detail, leaving Siderea herself for last.

How familiar she looked, yet how changed! Even in this static vision he could see the alien energy that now blazed in her eyes, a force that was simultaneously more and less than human. The rugs she was standing on looked familiar, but he could not remember where he had seen them before. And the jewelry. That looked familiar as well.

And then it came to him.

“Tefilat,” he muttered.

“What?” Sulah asked.

“Tefilat. A city in the southwestern desert, near the border of Anshasa. Abandoned long ago. The Great War all but destroyed it.” He indicated Siderea’s necklace, the rugs, the goblets. “These designs are all based on tribal patterns of the Hom’ra, a tribe that makes its home in that region. The original designs were meant to ward off evil spirits. Tefilat is supposed to be full of them.” He paused. “Which is not without some grounding in truth.”

“Meaning?”

“The landscape there is ideal for Souleaters. Wide sandstone canyons scoured by the wind, with deep natural alcoves for shelter. Tefilat was built into the walls of one particularly large canyon, originally by constructing homes inside the natural alcoves, later by carving buildings out of the rock itself. It is . . . remarkable.

“It’s also a region the Souleaters favored, to feast upon the tribes that lived there. One of the greatest battles of the south was waged in and around Tefilat. It’s said that hundreds of witches converged upon the city in its final hours. Their spells still resonate in the sandstone.” He nodded. “I’ve been there. You can feel it.

“Such power plays strange games with the mind. The Hom’ra speak of a city of wraiths, and of fearsome demons who emerge from the canyon at sunset. They believe the place is cursed.” He paused. “There were no demons there when last I visited, but the ‘cursed’ label may not be that far off the mark. I would certainly hesitate to use sorcery in Tefilat without first testing to see how reliable it was. Especially as we are kin to the very creatures those witches were trying to destroy.”

He gazed down at the illusionary carpet. “She is there now,” he muttered. “Or she has passed through there recently. Or her people are there now, and are bringing back artifacts to her. Any way you look at it . . . .”

“There will be clues in Tefilat,” Sulah said.

He nodded. “Exactly.”

“I assume we need to go there, then. Just Magisters, do you think, or bring along some morati as well? I’m sure Farah would support an expedition if needed.”

“Farah would provide an army if it was needed,” Colivar agreed. “But first we need to know exactly what’s out there.”

“Our sorcery’s of limited value in such a place, according to what you just told me. Can we rely upon it for reconnaissance?”

For a long moment Colivar was silent. Long enough that Sulah shifted his weight impatiently and coughed softly, as if to remind him that someone else was still in the room. But he would not interrupt Colivar’s contemplations. The habits of a long apprenticeship were too deeply ingrained in him. Some portion of his soul would always recognize Colivar as his Master . . . no matter how much Colivar urged him to do otherwise.

“I have a means to determine if she is there,” Colivar said at last. “Once we know that, the rest can be decided.”

“I thought you said she could hide herself from us. That our sorcery was incapable of piercing a queen’s cover. Didn’t you?”

“Yes,” he said quietly. Solemnly. “I did.”

“You have other methods, then?”

He said nothing. Just reached out to put a hand on the other man’s shoulder for a moment. It was a strangely amicable gesture, which stirred memories of another life, lived long, long ago. When men were merely men, and the souls of terrible beasts did not claw at their souls from the inside.

“I will let you know when I have answers,” he promised him.

Kamala circled her target area several times before deciding to approach. She could pick out a spell that Colivar had established to detect any incoming Magister, and she stayed well outside its boundaries. True, it looked as if it were merely a token effort, not meant to defend the place so much as to make sure that Colivar knew when visitors were arriving. But old habits were hard to break.

Finally, when she was satisfied that all was as it should be, she landed and reclaimed her human form. For a moment she just stood there, the hot summer breeze ruffling her hair as she took in the alien landscape. Red stone and red sand, washed in sunset’s orange sunlight. It was both barren and beautiful, a vision from another world.

There was a small building atop a nearby rise, built in the style of a temple. Gleaming white columns held up a roof of the same color, from which panels of white gauze depended, taking the place of walls. As the breeze passed by, it rippled the gauze like water, making the whole structure seem insubstantial. Magical.

Which it well might be, she mused. It was much easier to create the illusion of such a place than to conjure that much mass. But its appearance was pleasing to her, and since she sensed that Colivar had created it just for this meeting, she decided to take it at face value and simply appreciate his work.

She walked up the white stone staircase and felt the shade of the building’s interior envelop her as she passed between its pillars. Inside, she could see that carved alabaster couches with white silk cushions had been arranged in a perfect square. Colivar’s presence on one of them, in his black attire, was visually dramatic.

But she was dressed in the same color now, and provided an equally arresting contrast.

“Kamala.” He stood as she approached. There was a subtle tension about him that she could taste, and instinctively she knew that whatever was bothering him had some kind of sexual undertone. She had serviced enough men in her youth to read those signs loud and clear. “Thank you for coming,” he said.

“Your note made it sound urgent.”

“Events move quickly these days.”

He nodded toward a glass decanter set on a small table between two of the couches; the red wine in it gleamed like fresh blood in the ruddy sunlight. She waved aside the offer and entered the seating area instead, choosing a couch opposite his own and settling herself on it. Jet black on pristine white. She could feel the room settle into perfect symmetry as he sat down directly opposite her, and she knew that the furniture had been positioned so that the light of the setting sun would set her red hair ablaze.

“I need your help,” he said.

She nodded. “I assumed as much.”

“I have a lead on where Siderea Aminestas might be. Or else a trail that may lead to her. I need to know which it is.”

She raised an eyebrow curiously. “So I’m your queen-tracker, now?”

He chuckled softly. “Do you know someone one better suited to the task?”

“No,” she said. A faint smile flickered across her own lips. “I do not.”

“There’s a city to the south called Tefilat. I need to know what’s out there.”

“You mean, you need to know if she is there.”

He nodded. “Can you do that?”

She remembered how hard it had been to enter the territory of the northern queen, even in a vision. If Siderea possessed that same power, then she could lose herself in the vastness of the desert, and no one would ever be able to find her; there weren’t enough clear landmarks in such terrain for Kamala to focus on. But in a more structured environment it was possible. Not likely, but possible. “Perhaps,” she said.. “Do you have a map for me? I don’t know this region.”

“Something better than a map.”

He reached out to hand her something; when she opened her hand beneath his to receive it, he poured a thin stream of reddish sand into her upturned palm. “This is from Tefilat.”

She closed her fingers over the sand, feeling its fine gritty texture. Then she extended her senses into it, where the hidden traces of its past history might be found. Its locational energy was strong and clear, and she knew she would have no trouble using it as an anchor to connect to its point of origin.

Briefly she thought of retiring to some private place to begin, but then she remembered how he had come to her while she’d been searching the Spinas. The memory brought a strange rush of warmth to her cheeks. He hadn’t hurt her then, when she had lain helpless before him. It would make no sense for him to do so now.

“One thing,” he warned her, as she sat back on the couch and prepared herself for the mental journey. “Sorcery may not work properly there.”

Again the faint smile appeared. “Have you ever asked me to go to a place where sorcery did work properly?”

She shut her eyes without waiting for his response. Apparently Tefilat was not far away; she required no more than a few seconds to establish a clear focus for her sorcery. Then it was a simple act to send her senses outward, as she had done in the Spinas, to explore the place. It was a safe enough procedure, providing one did not mind leaving one’s insensate body in the hands of another Magister.

A strange ruddy landscape took shape around her. In some places the earth was molded into sweeping shapes, patterned with stripes in orange and rust, as if a layer of cloth had been draped over the terrain. In other places there were wind-carved monuments that were both beautiful and strange, with shapes that played tricks upon the mind’s eye, seeming to shift from one form to another as her mind moved past them.

Guided by the traces in the sand, her sorcerous viewpoint shifted to a vast canyon with a dry riverbed coursing down its center. The walls on both sides were high, with shadowed alcoves large enough to contain a house. Some of them had actually had houses in them, which had been abandoned long ago. Their walls were crumbling as time and wind reclaimed them, and in some places it was hard to tell where a house ended and the natural debris of the canyon began.

Then she came around a turn and saw Tefilat itself.

It would have been a breathtaking sight for anyone. For Kamala, raised in the slums of Gansang, it was nigh on overwhelming. Here there were not simply dwellings tucked into the natural shelves and alcoves of the canyon walls, but tall and elegant buildings, in some cases several stories high. Across their intricate façades sandstone stripes rippled and eddied, as if the buildings had somehow grown there organically rather than having been carved by the hand of man.

It was beautiful in its grandeur. Eerie in its emptiness.

And it was tainted.

She could feel the warped power that resonated from the ancient stone, could see it shimmering darkly about the richly carved walls, could taste its wrongness in her very soul. Fragments of shattered spells clung to this place, along with memories of human fear and echoes of terrible bloodshed. No, she would not want to stand here in her real body, subject to these dark, fragmented energies. It was little wonder people now avoided this place.

But someone had been here recently; she could sense that clearly. She struggled to get some sense of identity. At first she could conjure only hazy images, echoes from the distant past. Armies gathering. Spells being cast. The shadows of vast wings coursing along the valley’s floor. Bodies left behind in the wake of those shadows, living flesh from which the human consciousness had been sucked dry.

Then she began to pick up clearer impressions, from more recent events. She saw desert tribesmen passing through the place, and her power provided the proper label: Hom’ra. Then others appeared. Witches. She narrowed her eyes instinctively as she struggled to make out details, even though her physical eyes were not required for this search.

Just then a wing-shadow passed overhead. She saw a few of the Hom’ra look nervously upward, but most of them seemed to be unaware of the Souleater’s presence. She could sense the creature’s power licking at their souls, sipping from the essence of their lives to feed upon as it passed overhead. Then, as quickly as it had come, it was gone. The tribesmen continued their work of bringing supplies into the city as if nothing untoward had happened, until a woman approached them. She was dressed in a white sleeveless gown and shrouded in so many layers of protective sorcery that Kamala could not see through them to determine her identity. The Hom’ra bowed to the woman as she passed, not as one did to an earthly ruler, but with a sense of fearful reverence.

Focusing her concentration to the utmost, Kamala tried to break through the power that surrounded the woman, to get a clearer view of her. But she could not focus directly on her, no matter how hard she tried. The sensation was a familiar one, and it sent a shiver coursing through her soul. This had to be Siderea; there was no other explanation. Thank the gods the Witch-Queen herself was not present, and all Kamala had to contend with were conjured images, crafted from the residual energies of past events. Those had no consciousness of their own.

But something here did, she realized suddenly. Something was watching her. She could sense its scrutiny like a chill breath on the back of her neck, and she whipped about suddenly, using her sorcery to take in the entire panorama, all at once. Yet she could not identify any focus for the strange sensation. Was this some trick of local metaphysics, like Colivar had warned her about? The sensation grew more intense even as she searched for the source. It seemed to be coming from all directions, as though there were not one source point, but many. A circle of source points, gradually taking shape around her . . . .

As they slowly resolved themselves, she realized what they were.

There were dozens of figures surrounding her now. Ghostly images, human and half human, and a few that were something else entirely. They emerged one by one from the air, as if drawing their substance from the very landscape. And one by one they took up position around her, forming a perfect circle with her at the center. There were three ranks of them visible and more were forming behind those, circle after circle of impassive figures, their expressions unreadable, their bodies motionless—

She broke contact and fled the scene. Her mind slammed back into her body with such force that it left her breathless. For a moment it was all she could do to breathe steadily, and she struggled to maintain sufficient composure that Colivar would not realize what had happened.

Gods. Those were the same gods who had been watching her when she began her search for the northern queen. She hadn’t actually seen them back then, but she had sensed their presence. And these felt like the same entities.

But who were they? What did they want with her? She could not begin to fathom an answer.

It could just be the power of Tefilat playing with her mind, she told herself. Maybe the sorcerous effort of this search had triggered memories of the other one, and the city’s strange resonance had caused the two efforts to get all mixed up in her mind. But that still begged the question of why gods had been watching her the first time. Did they have a vested interest in this Souleater war? Or did they consider a female Magister an unnatural creature, perhaps, whose sorcery disturbed the natural order of things? Their stoic expressions had offered no clue.

When she thought she had enough control of herself to handle human conversation again, she opened her eyes.

Night had fallen during her search, and a series of torches had been lit. Colivar was watching her closely, tiny reflected flames dancing in his eyes.

“Well?” he demanded. “What did you see?”

Did he know that something had gone wrong? She would operate on the assumption that he did not until he indicated otherwise. “She’s not there now,” Kamala rasped. The startling vision had caused her throat to seize up She coughed lightly, trying to get the muscles to relax. “But she was there previously, along with the Hom’ra. Not very long ago. And her Souleater was there also.”

“One will not travel far without the other,” he said. Then: “Tell me everything.”

So she described her vision in as much detail she could, conjuring images when words failed her. Only when it came to the final vision, that of the gods themselves, did she keep her silence. The message of that part might be personal, and she had no reason to share it.

When she had finished her recitation, Colivar was silent for a moment, digesting all the information she had given him. “Clearly they’re using the city as a staging ground of sorts,” he said finally. “But for what? Tefilat is out in the middle of nowhere. It’s too far from any potential target to be of use in morati affairs, and distance has little meaning to a sorcerer, so there’d be no point in going out there.”

“There’s a point,” Kamala said.

Colivar raised an eyebrow.

“You said it yourself,” she told him. “Sorcery isn’t reliable there. Magisters don’t like to go to places where they can’t trust their power. Like with the Wrath. Remember? Nyuku took shelter right by it, because he knew no Magister was likely to come calling.” It seemed to her that Colivar stiffened slightly when she mentioned Nyuku’s name, but she couldn’t be sure. “And any spell that detected his presence would have been taken with a grain of salt, because sorcery couldn’t be relied upon there.”

It had been a brilliant plan, she thought. If Ethanus had not suggested she go there herself to escape the other Magisters, Rhys would likely have died in that secret prison, and the invasion of the Souleaters might never have been detected. Until it was too late.

Colivar walked over to the small table where the wine glasses sat and picked one up. “It’s not impossible,” he muttered. The crimson wine glowed like fresh blood in the torchlight.

“But Tefilat isn’t the Wrath,” she said. “I didn’t sense any disruption on that scale. There’s no reason a Magister couldn’t function there, if he was careful enough.”

“No,” he agreed. His expression was thoughtful. “I visited there when I first became Farah’s Magister Royal. It’s an eerie place, and sorcery doesn’t always work quite right, but it’s not a major threat to anyone.” He nodded. “But you’re right. Magisters generally avoid such locations. If I wanted to hide something from sorcerers, I would definitely seek a place like that to do it in.”

He took a deep drink from the glass. A slow drink. She could see the muscles in his throat ripple as he swallowed. Then he lowered the glass, gazing thoughtfully into its depths. “Whoever your Master was,” he said, “he taught you well.”

A flush rose to her cheeks. Did he really think that, or was he just trying to ferret out some clue about her origins? Knowing his great age and the breadth of his experience, even the second question was a compliment.

“Clearly we need to learn what’s out there,” he said, when she did not respond to him. Then he chuckled softly. “We. What a strange concept that is! I suppose now I must deliver this information to my allies. How the world has changed.” He sighed melodramatically, then sipped from the glass once more.

She drew in a deep breath, gathering her courage. “And what about me?”

“What about you?”

“I’m part of this now, Colivar. You know that. So how long do you think you can hide me from the others without someone catching on? Sooner or later the others will ask where your information is coming from. If they haven’t already. They know that a man’s sorcery can’t find Siderea. So if you don’t tell them about me, they may start asking questions about you.” She thought she saw a muscle twitch along the line of his jaw. “Is that what you want?” she pressed.

The dark eyes were unreadable, as always. “Kamala . . . you know the risk.”

“I passed for a witch in Kierdwyn.”

“By the skin of your teeth, my dear. I guessed the truth.”

”But you’re not like the others,” she dared.

He turned away from her so that she could not see the expression on his face.

“The gift of the female Souleater is obfuscation,” she persisted. “If she doesn’t want to be found, then the males of the species can’t find her. Yes?” She walked up behind him, close enough that he could feel the heat of her body radiating against his own. As she could feel his. “What if I possess that same gift?” she whispered. “What if that’s the reason that no one but you has ever asked the right questions about me? What if the others can’t focus their suspicions on me the way they normally would because of that gift? Because instinctively I know how to turn their attention aside, without even being aware I’m doing it?”

He said nothing. The tension in his body was palpable. She had to hold herself back from placing her hand on his arm, knowing what a shock it would be to him. How much power it would give her over him.

“Is it possible?” she pressed.

He was silent for a moment. And then nodded. “Aye. If you are what I said you might be, that day on the mountain . . . it’s possible.”

He turned back to her. The expression in his eyes was strangely haunted; looking into them made her breath catch in her throat. “You’re playing a dangerous game,” he whispered.

She whispered back, “Is there any other game worth playing?”

He almost reached out to touch her. His body didn’t actually move, but she could sense the movement within him, muscles balanced on the knife edge of commitment. She held her breath, waiting.

And then the moment passed.

He chuckled softly. “Whoever your Master was, do give him my regards.”

“Does that mean ‘yes,’ Colivar?”

“There’s a lot to think about, my dear. Let me talk to the others. See where things stand. The moment for this must be perfectly right.”

“I could meet with them on my own,” she said. A faint note of defiance entering her voice.

He smiled slightly. “No, Kamala. You won’t do that. Because I know these men well enough to guide you along that road with some hope of safety, whereas without me you would not know where to begin. Trust me on that.”

“Is that what you mean to do?” The words left her lips before she could stop them. “Guide me to safety?”

A strange, unnamed emotion flickered in the depths of his eyes. He put his glass down on the table and moved closer to her. Tension shivered in the air between them, a strange admixture of desire and defiance. Of all the ways this moment might end, she did not know what resolution she wanted.

And then he stepped away from her.

“When we’re done with Tefilat,” he said quietly, “we’ll talk about it.”

He walked to the western boundary of the room, not looking back at her. A breeze lifted the gauze curtains out of his way. For a moment he paused at the head of the staircase, and then he stepped over the edge. His flesh transformed so quickly, so perfectly, that his wings captured the breeze before that first step was completed. White wings. Framed by the white marble archway, curtains rippling to both sides of him, he set off into the night sky, moonlight gleaming along his feathers.

Not until he was out of sight did Kamala begin to breathe steadily again.