Attraverso la Finestra Divina, la luce riduce i demoni in cenere.
Through the Divine Window, light burns demons to ashes.
Three weddings.
Three funerals.
A better person would have been devastated, but Alessa bowed her head to hide dry eyes as she knelt before the jewel-encrusted coffin on the altar. The temple beneath the Cittadella smelled of mildew and death, the air thick with dust motes drifting like the ghosts of fireflies.
She would cry. Later. She always did. Being widowed at eighteen was tragic, after all, and none of her partners had deserved to die. Still, it was difficult to muster tears for yet a third time.
Hugo, her third Fonte and the unfortunate body before her, had insisted it was only nerves when his hand trembled in hers. She should have known better. She had known better. But the gods had chosen her, and she’d chosen him. So, even knowing her touch might be his last, she’d reached for him a second time.
Alessa Paladino, divine weapon of the gods.
Her latest wedding dress was packed away, traded for a mourning gown and knee-high boots, with a black mantilla over her hair. And gloves, of course. Always gloves. Still, the dank chill reached for her bones. Even on a sunbaked island, the sun couldn’t warm what it never touched.
Cupping her hands as though in prayer, Alessa brewed a minuscule wind funnel between her palms. The faint echo of Hugo’s gift only lasted a moment, but she offered it back to him anyway. The empty space it left behind felt like penance.
Her knees ached, but she didn’t stand until the last stragglers found their seats. It wasn’t easy. Every minute spent mourning was one she didn’t get to spend choosing her next Fonte, and she didn’t have time to spare. Or Fontes, for that matter.
On one side of the aisle, the twelve members of the Consiglio watched her with inscrutable eyes. Always watching. Always waiting. First, for her to be old enough to choose a partner. And then, for her to choose another. And another after that. Soon, they’d summon her next victim.
Partner. Her next partner.
She had to get it right this time. The Consiglio would have her next choice dragged to the Cittadella at sword-point if needed, but she wanted someone willing.
On her way to her seat, Alessa paused to curtsy before Renata Ortiz, the previous Finestra, whose power had winked out the day Alessa’s blossomed five years ago. Renata nodded, cool and aloof, while her Fonte, Tomohiro Miyamoto, offered a sympathetic smile. They were a good pairing. A great pairing. Exactly what Finestra and Fonte should be.
A familiar pull of envy threatened to drag Alessa under as they laced their hands together.
She’d give anything for a hand to hold. Or a hug.
She would kill for a hug.
Literally.
Alessa took her seat, pressing a fist to her mouth before a sharp inhalation became a giggle, or worse, a sob. Stiff, black fabric pulled across her chest as she steadied her breathing. If she’d known how often she’d need one, she would have asked for a new mourning gown after the first wear.
Adrick slid in beside her, tugging his lapels and doing his best to look forlorn. “No weeping for good old Hugo, little sister?” he murmured, barely moving his lips. “Lucky for me, there was an open seat beside you.”
“There’s always an open seat beside me.” Alessa squeezed her gloved hands together in a vain attempt to warm her fingers.
Renata shot Alessa a look of warning from across the aisle.
It wasn’t her fault Adrick didn’t respect rules. He might even be willing to hug her, but she’d never ask. A Finestra wasn’t supposed to touch anyone but their chosen Fonte until after Divorando. And it was too dangerous to chance. The thought of her twin brother laid out on the altar turned her stomach.
He should’ve sat somewhere else. The Finestra was expected to sever all ties from her previous life. Above and apart. Always. She wasn’t even supposed to think of him as her twin anymore, and she definitely wasn’t supposed to speak to him.
“Picked the next one yet?” Adrick signed as the choir began rustling in place. Sort of. Their Nonno was Deaf, so they were fluent in Sign language, but the “whispered” half-signs he’d shaped in his lap were a bastardization of language only she could interpret. Papa would be mortified. But Papa wasn’t there. And he wasn’t her papa anymore.
“Still deciding,” she signed back.
“Better hurry,” he said, switching to a hoarse whisper. “A dozen fled Saverio in the past month.”
Dread pooled in her stomach. She’d lost track of how many eligible Fontes remained on the island, but she couldn’t afford to scare off more. She resisted the urge to turn and see who was left.
All Fontes were blessed at birth with defensive magic—fire, wind, water, earth, electricity, and so forth—and thus they were respected and revered, considered a precious resource whether they were chosen to serve or not. Each Fonte received a generous annual stipend, was exempted from military duty, and was protected from harm.
Until they weren’t.
“Good riddance,” Alessa hissed. Anger was safer than panic, and she knew her duty, which meant not falling apart where someone might see. “Anyone who’d abandon their people isn’t worthy of being my Fonte.”
Without a Finestra to absorb and magnify their power, a Fonte’s gift was fairly weak, but at least they had useful powers. Not like hers, which was basically worthless without a partner to draw from.
So she couldn’t argue with Adrick’s response of “Better an unworthy Fonte than none at all.”
She risked a quick glare. Aside from his eyes—green on a good day, hazel on most—her brother was nothing like her. Tall and lanky, with tanned skin and golden curls, Adrick strolled through life with an easy charm, while she had their mother’s dark waves and creamy skin that burned easily, and her ease and charm had been snuffed out by years of rules and isolation.
“You could be more encouraging,” she whispered.
Adrick appeared to consider the possibility. “Someone has to laugh about it.”
“It isn’t funny.”
“Of course it isn’t.” There was a slight tremble to his voice. “But if I think about it too seriously, I’d never get out of bed.”
Alessa swallowed. When her first Fonte, Emer, died, Adrick had stood outside the Cittadella’s walls belting out bawdy sea chanteys in his best pirate voice for hours until her sobs became hiccups of laughter. Adrick was never serious, no matter how dire things became, but after years of wishing he’d take her situation seriously, she wasn’t sure she could handle it if he did.
A soloist began the Canto della Dea in the common tongue, soon joined by another in the ancient language, then others, until a dozen languages wove a harmony as intricate as the community.
Together, we protect. Divided, we falter.
Wizened old Padre Calabrese shuffled up the stairs as the last note died, clearing his throat repeatedly even though no one was speaking.
“The gods are cruel but merciful,” he began.
Easy for him to say.
“In the beginning, Dea created humankind, but Crollo insisted we were too flawed, too selfish, to endure. When Crollo sent fire, Dea made water to quench it. He brewed storms, and she granted shelter. And when Crollo vowed to cleanse the earth and begin anew, Dea challenged him, because she had faith in us. ‘Alone,’ she said, ‘a person is a thread easily snipped. Intertwined, we are strong enough to survive.’”
Alessa squirmed on the unyielding bench. It would be her luck to lose feeling below the waist and topple over when she stood to leave. Dea really should have sweetened the deal by throwing in some tolerance for discomfort with the great and deadly power.
Sensing the Padre’s attention shift her way, Alessa sat up straighter.
“And so, Dea and Crollo made a wager: Crollo could send his devouring minions, but Dea would raise sanctuary islands from the sea where the faithful could strive to live in harmony, proving their worthiness and defying Crollo’s cynicism. And because she loves us, she armed her children with gifts…”
Alessa tried to look as gift-like as possible as furtive glances flicked her way.
While it was all true, and obviously they owed Dea a debt, the goddess could have chosen a simpler solution. An impenetrable shield, perhaps. Or made the islands invisible. Maybe she could have negotiated Crollo down to one planetwide scourge, and they would’ve been done with this nonsense a half a century ago. But oh, no, in her infinite wisdom, Dea decided to teach her children about community and partnership by creating saviors who couldn’t save alone.
The divine pairing existed as a constant reminder that shared strength was their path to salvation. Hence, a Finestra could only magnify someone else’s gift.
Hand in hand with an opera singer, a Finestra could bring the harshest music critic to his knees. For a few minutes after touching an archer, a Finestra could hit every bull’s-eye. And paired with a Fonte, a Finestra could defeat an army of demons sent by the God of Chaos.
At least, that’s how it was supposed to work.
When Alessa first stood before the Consiglio, the row of wizened elders had made it sound as easy as one, two, three.
1. Choose a Fonte.
2. Do not kill them.
3. Amplify their magic to save everyone and everything on Saverio—or become the first to die.
Alessa’s gaze slipped to the glittering coffin.
Well, not the first.
Even now, some insisted the deaths were a good omen. Terribly sad, of course, but reassuring. A Finestra so powerful she accidentally killed her first Fonte? They would be well-protected in the siege. And her second? Well, accidents happened. Besides, she was young, and these things took time. Surely, she’d be more careful with the next. But after three funerals, Alessa’s strength didn’t feel like a promise of victory anymore, and time was running out.
The service concluded with, “Per nozze e lutto, si lascia tutto, però chi vive sperando, muore cantando.” In weddings and mourning, one lets go, but he who lives with hope dies singing. It might have been the saddest thing she’d ever heard. Hugo certainly hadn’t left the world mid-note.
As the pallbearers made their way down the aisle, guests reached out to brush the glossy surface of the coffin.
Alessa did not. Spirit or ghost, surely whatever was left of Hugo would prefer she kept her distance.
As the casket passed beneath an archway of carved stone gods, the crowd murmured, “Rest in the company of heroes,” and he was gone.
Hero was perhaps a bit of a stretch—all he’d done was die—but she had no right to talk.
People stood, straightening jackets and gathering skirts with slow hands, brushing invisible dust from their clothing.
Alessa recoiled at Adrick’s elbow jab to her ribs, her heart racing at the rare sensation of physical contact.
Oh. Everyone was stalling. And she wasn’t taking the hint.
She flashed a rude gesture at him behind her back, then rose and made her way toward Dea’s shrine in the front of the temple. Everyone could flee while she pretended to pray.
Such a dutiful Finestra. So devout. So obedient.
Shielded from curious eyes within the alcove, Alessa sat beside the stone Dea on the altar and rested her cheek against one cold, marble shoulder. Her chest ached, hollow with everything she didn’t have.
Family, forsaken.
Friends, none.
Even the fortress carved into the bedrock of the island wasn’t for her. When Divorando came, other people—people who had families and friends—would huddle together in the darkness, thanking the gods they weren’t her.
When the nave rang hollow, she climbed the wide stairs alone to the piazza above, straining to breathe past the constriction of her gown. The temperature rose with every step, and the fabric clung to her skin, damp with perspiration. At least the Consiglio had finally let her remove her veil during private events after a brush with heatstroke at the last Midsummer’s Gala, and the current fashion of cape skirts—full and long in the back but with overlapping panels that crossed at knee-height in front—saved her from falling on her face daily in the City of a Thousand Stairs.
Alessa stepped out, blinking in the light, to take her place beside Tomo and Renata. The red-faced guards lining the wide steps to the Cittadella saluted, sweating through their uniforms, and the waiting crowd hushed to bow and curtsy.
From her usual vantage point—a balcony off the fourth floor of the Cittadella—the stylish young women of Saverio often looked like flocks of peacocks strutting around the city in jewel-toned skirts. Now, clad in shades of black and gray, they huddled like dirty pigeons around the margins of the piazza.
No one looked directly at her, as if she was too horrible to view with the naked eye, yet, somehow, the weight of their stares pressed in from all sides.
Go ahead. Bow before the blessed savior who keeps killing your friends and family.
At Renata’s pointed look, Alessa flushed, as though she’d spoken aloud the blasphemy in her head. Despite the two decades between them, Renata looked young enough to be Alessa’s sister, with an amber complexion, golden hair, and rich, brown eyes, but to Renata, Alessa was a duty, not family or even a friend. It was painfully clear in moments like this.
Tomo’s expression warmed with encouragement. “Remember, frightened people crave certainty.”
“You are confident,” Renata said under her breath. “You have matters under control.”
Alessa bared her teeth in a “confident” smile that made one guard flinch. She eased it down a bit.
Honestly. If she were to rank every possible description of herself, “confident and under control” wouldn’t make the list.
When she’d first been presented in this piazza, everyone had crowded close, eyes sparkling with hope, smiles heavy with promises.
One day, she was an ordinary girl. The next, Dea’s chosen savior. Beloved, important, and so popular she hadn’t known where to look first.
Not anymore. Now no one vied to become her Fonte. No one wanted to share their gift with her. Although it wasn’t really sharing, was it? Sharing implied they’d get something back. That they’d both be alive at the end of the transaction. That was a promise she couldn’t make.
But she’d try. She always tried.
Even in such a restless crowd, it was easy to find the Fontes, draped in a visible miasma of gloom. She’d met them dozens of times, but they were still nothing more than strangers with familiar names:
Kaleb Toporovsky, whose eyes slid away a bit too fast as he smoothed his burnished copper hair with a look of perpetual boredom.
Josef Benheim, impeccably clad in midnight black, his gaze so steady she could almost hear him reminding himself not to blink. He looked so much like his older sister that Alessa’s heart caught in her throat. Families rarely had more than one Fonte, but when they did, it was seen as a sign of strength, of the gods’ favor. He should have been one of Alessa’s top candidates, but she’d already cost his parents one child.
Other Fontes reluctantly met her searching eyes: Nina Faughn, Saida Farid, Kamaria and Shomari Achebe.
Most tried to blend in with the crowd. She couldn’t blame them. While she’d barely known the people she’d killed, they’d all grown up together.
Now they were expected to act like they were desperate to be chosen by a girl whose power was useless without theirs.
Dea, give me a sign.
What she really needed was a push. Hours upon hours watching from high above the city, longing to be amongst the people, but every time she escaped her golden cage, her wings forgot how to fly.
She only made it three steps before a sudden commotion in the crowd stopped her.
A woman shoved her way through the tightly packed wall of people to burst into the clearing.
In stark white robes, she stood out like a star on a moonless night. What kind of person started a shoving match at a funeral?
The woman’s gaze landed on Alessa, and her eyes blazed.
For a bizarre moment, Alessa was embarrassed. It had been a few years since anyone had been overcome with religious fervor at her presence, and it was an awkward time for a fit of rapture.
The woman’s face twisted, the gleam in her eyes turning dark, and she broke into a run.
Alessa’s pulse raced to the beat of footsteps against the stone.
The robed woman didn’t slow, didn’t flinch, heedless of the guards rushing at her from all sides. Without breaking her stride, she drew her arm back.
And threw.
Something whistled past Alessa’s head with a whine so high-pitched it was painful.
Guards tackled the woman, wrestling her to the ground, their bodies muffling the words she tried to scream.
Alessa reached a hand to her neck, and the fingertips of her glove grew warm and wet with blood.
“Dea,” she breathed. Not that kind of sign.