To pass the time on the ship that was carrying us along Ishti’s great Mohasi River, Professor Baranyi told us the story of Haizea, Ishtan goddess of vengeance, and Tisis, goddess of mercy, arguing over a bereft mother after a battle. We asked him, “So what did she choose?” and he said, “Isn’t that the whole of the human story? That choice?” This earned him a blank stare from Wyn, an eye roll from Bianka, and a chuckle from Frederick. I was struck less by the story than by the illustration he showed us in a book of the goddesses on their holy hill, watching the battle. Tisis was lovely, her hair like a river, stars on her skin, holding out a cup that overflowed with light. Haizea’s hair coiled around her head like snakes, and her eyes were black caverns dripping blood. In one hand she held a whirlwind like a sword. Her hands and feet were clawed.

It was the hands that made me shiver, reminding me of the glimpse I’d had in that other place, high above the burning city, of a hand that was not my own at the end of my arm, holding the gun I would use on Casimir’s witch, Shey. While Professor Baranyi pontificated on the parable of the goddesses, why they so often appear together in stories and in art, I stared at the picture of Haizea, looked into her bleeding eyes, and saw something I recognized. Today she will be my inspiration and my disguise.

There is a gap between the Hall of Abnegation and the monastery’s north wall, where I’ve smelled tobacco early in the evening. I go there now and tuck myself against the wall, vanishing. Monks are not meant to smoke, of course. The Shou-shu monks practice something called selflessness, which is not exactly what it sounds like, but maybe that’s just the poor translation. They strive to transcend the physical world, all of their bodily needs and worldly attachments. It is said that those who achieve selflessness live for hundreds of years, and that they do not eat or feel pain or desire—although somebody is eating those swallow’s eggs and the vegetables in Gangzi’s garden. In any case, the goal is immortality without the need for sustenance—the triumph of the spirit over the body. The greatest leader of Shou-shu was a man called Li Feizi, who is said to have lived a thousand years before one day walking out of the monastery to the holy mountain Tama-shan, where he perhaps remains to this day. Gangzi claims to be four hundred years old. I have my doubts, and anyway I can’t imagine what the point of living forever would be if you’re just going to stay shut up in a monastery not eating or feeling anything. I am not in the least surprised that out of three hundred monks, there are a few novices who are doing their time here for prestige, with no intention of taking the lifelong vows, and for whom a secret smoke break is a welcome reprieve from trying to transcend all desire and whatnot.

I hold the image of Haizea in my mind, half hoping that my smoking monk will not come tonight. But eventually he does, squeezing into the gap against the wall and trying to surreptitiously light his little pipe. He is young, and I suppose that can only make it easier. Then again, if he is too new, he may not know anything. I ease myself back into the world next to him, and his features come into focus. He gives a little squawk and drops his pipe.

“Oath breaker,” I say in what I hope is passable Yongwen. I practiced it with Frederick this afternoon, once he’d recovered a bit from Mrs. Och’s draining him. Even if I can deliver my lines, though, I can’t be sure that I’ll understand whatever this young monk might have to tell me.

He turns to flee, and I grab him by the shoulder. Here it is. I take a deep breath and yank him with me. One step—two—three—four—oh Nameless, help me—five: it feels like falling—back through the membrane of that edge-of-the-world space, back to the void in between, back to the place I swore I’d never revisit.

Kahge. That’s what Mrs. Och’s youngest brother, Gennady, called it—the hell of Rainist cosmology. But the idea of it is older than that. Whether he was right or not, it is farther than I remember. In Casimir’s fortress, it felt as if that place and the world were almost overlapping—I could see them both at once, could slip from one to the other and back again in an instant.

But this is different. I feel as if we are spinning in nothingness for a long time, the monastery and the city and the sky all around us at odd angles, and the monk screaming and then silenced, voiceless. For a horrible minute or two I think we are lost in the void, lost.

Then we are through. The boiling river is swollen, and Spira City, half formed and in flames, lies on either bank. Still Spira, no matter where I am—and I wonder why. We are standing on a boat that moves fast through the water, its ragged sails full even though there is no wind, only the still air steaming. The young monk falls to his knees, gibbering. My hand on his shoulder is a hooked, dark thing with black claws.

I am shaking with horror at the world transformed, myself transformed, but at the same time I feel a rush of something like triumph. Maybe just because I can do it. Not only by accident or in the madness of mortal terror but on purpose, with intent: I can pull another person right out of the world with me. Oh, what am I? And also, what power!

I spit the Yongwen words out, my voice hoarse and unfamiliar: “Where is Ko Dan?”

He stares at me, uncomprehending, and I think I’ve overdone it, terrified him beyond usefulness. I give him a shake, not too hard, but his bones in my grip feel absurdly fragile. I am afraid I might snap him in two by accident. Easy, Julia. Focus. I repeat the question: “Where is Ko Dan?”

He stammers an answer that I can barely hear over the roar of flames sucking up the air, over the roar of my heart.

“Again!”

He is telling me he doesn’t know. Hounds, what a waste this will be if he knows nothing at all. Now he is talking, but so fast that I don’t understand.

“Where? Where? Where?”

He repeats his answer over and over, wringing his hands, and this much I do understand: Ko Dan is gone. Disappeared. My heart sinks. The monk is weeping, pouring sweat. I think he has pissed himself, and frankly I’m not far from doing the same. I manage the bit I memorized this afternoon, though:

“I am Haizea, goddess of vengeance, and I will drown the world in blood and fire if you betray me. If you speak of this, the first blood will be yours. Do you hear me, human? Secret, secret, secret!”

He promises, sobbing loudly. Even if he does tell, he’ll be thought mad. When I look up, the boat is moving in slow circles. On the shore, a tall, cloaked figure with the face of a fox and enormous antlers reaches an arm toward me. Shadows gather behind him, monstrous shapes taking form through the smoke, tusks and snouts and curved teeth.

“Lidari,” crows the fox-faced figure, pointing right at me with his human hand. What the bleeding stars are these things? The other voices join in with awful screeches and roars: “Lidari! Lidari!”

I yank the whimpering monk back, away, spinning through emptiness and at last falling hard against the monastery’s north wall, behind the Hall of Abnegation. The monk’s knees give way instantly, and he sits, huddled and damp, staring up at me. I watch my hand pick up his pipe, stick it in his mouth, fetch his scattered matches, light it for him.

“Good man,” I hear myself say in my own voice, putting a finger to my lips. “Not a word.”

At first I think that I am all right. I can go to Kahge—or wherever it is—then come back to the world and be on my way. I’m just a little wobbly. But as I round the corner of the Hall of Abnegation, I start shaking so hard I can’t walk anymore. I lean against the smooth wood of the hall, clenching and unclenching my fists, struggling to breathe. All I can hear is the rush and buzz of my blood.

My dirty fingernails bring me back to myself. I stare at my shaking hands—but they are just my hands, a girl’s callused hands, broken fingernails. The image of those great hooked claws clutching the monk rises up in my mind, and my gorge rises too.

A basic rule of spying is to leave nothing behind—no sign that you have been there. But I leave the contents of my stomach on the path by the Hall of Abnegation before I can gather myself up and make my way home.