Ilyria stared up at the sky. Impassive and beautiful, it was streaked through with magenta where dawn’s light broke through the darkness. Yet it augured no hope in her, only sadness as to what would become of them all. Astrapi, if he were even still alive, would he be condemned to life as the Lightning Bird, forever at the outskirts of life and love? Zlo would rule with cruelty, of that she had no doubt. Her mother’s destruction would be complete. Madame Skia? Thassa? Nicos? They had survived since the One World. But would they survive this? She shook her head, thinking of the companions. Bonbon—did she even know what Thassa was? Loulou and the Mogul would never have a chance to fight for a love that the Palace would probably never tolerate. From what she now knew of the Princess, Ilyria felt certain that she would never allow her son to marry someone she herself had not selected. Ilyria had glimpsed the cold cruelty that lay beneath her enchantment. Miasma? Miasma could not survive
The guardians had abandoned the city gates. The stood wide open, the iron carvings depicting the long lineage of Moguls now looked ominous. Each Mogul looked the same as the last. Each with their own version of the Princess. Ilyria shivered. She had to remind herself that the Princess had helped her. So why was she so chilled by their last encounter. What had she said? That she was proud of her creation. Ilyria had assumed she meant the garden of the enchantment where they had last met. But was that what she had really meant? And it scared her to the bones to see the man that Nicos had once been, gone, replaced by the milky-eyed pet to the Princess. The guardhouses at the gates were empty. Ilyria glimpsed through the window that the table had been set as for dinner. A jug was on the table with drops of condensation still forming. Ilyria licked her lips and skin flaked off under her tongue. She looked around. The streets around the gates were deserted as well. She could still
The water coalesced around the familiar features, forming shadows where his skin was etched with scars. The aqua blue of the rippling water gave way to flesh.“Thassa?” said Ilyria, wondering at the mad sequence of events that saw her flung from her lonely terror in Idixat to the peace of water in Yakip with Miasma and Thassa.Thassa was perfectly dry, and not surprised to see her. His expression was grim.“It is lucky that we found you when we did, Ilyria,” said Thassa, “Idixat is not safe. Nowhere is safe.”"How did you find me?" she turned to Miasma who was looking dreamily about her. "How did Miasma bring us here?""I had been watching for you after Fierce left to find you. But I had expected you to come straight to Madame Skia's House. You didn't though. So it was Fierce who alerted me when she came back without you. The collar was gone. I hoped that it was because you had it." Ilyria felt in her tunic pocket where the collar still lay."It was you who sent Fierce
“Now, we find the relic and go back,” said Thassa.“But I don’t have the other relics,” she said, her shoulders sagging with the memory. She quickly ran through the events on Benguzi, Thassa listening attentively.“That means Zlo has the relics you and the Light … Sul …” he shook his head, “I mean, Astrapi found?”“Yes, he does," she said hearing only failure in her acknowledgment. But then why was Thassa looking less despondent? "That's good news, Ilyria," said Thassa, "Because it means they are still in one place. Even if that place is with him. We just have to figure out how to get the relics back from him." Ilyria was not convinced this was such good news, though she felt a small ember of hope warming her. "Thassa, how do we know that he doesn’t already have the Yakip relic? And the Izben one? We didn't even make it to those places. And the Nemachi one? If it even exists.” She remembered that final image of the Nemachi fortress, the smoki
Ilyria had the dizzying impression of being in two places at once, which—in a way—she was. She was here, with Miasma beside her but also there, inside the whirlpool, with Thassa, feeling his thoughts and seeing what he saw. She watched herself reach out and pop one of the kaleidoscope bubbles that floated past, but it was Thassa’s scarred hand that did it. She looked around her and saw Miasma’s tranquil, untroubled expression beside her outside of the whirlpool. She even felt some of Miasma’s ease. It was going to be alright, of course it was, Ilyria felt Miasma thinking. It was not yet the end and who could tell if anything ever ended anyway. Comforted by Miasma’s thoughts she returned her attention to Thassa, feeling him cross his arms over his chest as the memory was released from the bubble he had just popped. His mother sitting cross-legged with little Thassa’s leg pulled over hers, carefully pulling long spiny thorns from his flesh. Thassa’s face was smooth and tear-streaked b
Ilyria had already grabbed Miasma’s hand, before she realized she had no idea where they would run to. And what about Thassa? She felt Zlo’s amusement. He enjoyed her panic. It was like watching ants trying to save the ruin of their nest, not knowing that their inconsequential lives could be snuffed out in an instant … Wait. … she could feel Zlo. In the same way as the water gave her access to Thassa and Miasma, she could feel the flow of Zlo's thoughts. It was like being trapped in a dark tower. The walls were cold, impenetrable, there was no light. In this cold dark space he was invincible. Nothing could stop him. He was the most powerful. Yet. There was something else. Behind the door to this room at the top of the tower, down the thousands of stairs that wound their way to the bottom, through the cellar door and deep into the earth waited the something that was very, very, hungry and very, very patient. It waited for him. But if he stayed in this room, wi
Ilyria finally let go of Miasma’s hand. They stood in the middle of smoking black ruins beneath a cobalt sky in which the brother full moon and sister waxing moon were clearly visible. The Twin Moons were nearly reunited. From the streets around them came noise of fighting and still that infernal procession with its drums and cymbals, though they were moving farther away. Somehow they were back in Idixat. Ilyria’s heart thudded with joy and relief. Solid ground and a disrupted burning city were still preferable to that strange watery place that was Thassa’s home, and Zlo. Thassa lay at their feet, groaning. Ilyria dropped Miasma’s hand and fell to her knees. She lifted Thassa’s head. His eyes—thankfully, mercifully—fluttered open. “Ilyria,” he whispered. Then he saw Miasma and his eyes widened. “You…” he said. Ilyria turned to Miasma and only then understood what he was seeing. Miasma silver-gold hair fluttered around her as static sparked and crackled up and
Thassa found the third piece and Miasma the fourth and final. They laid the pieces together. The sky had lightened which only made the ruins among which they knelt look worse. Ilyria tried not to think of the life that had seemed so much like a home for her here. She tried to believe it was just a place that she had temporarily stayed. But it was not. The three of them stared down at the epoch clock. “Ilyria …” said Miasma softly, “Maybe …” “It will work,” said Ilyria, not meeting her eyes. “It will.” It had to. She knew the aeon clock in her father’s study as well as she knew and loved his face. The nooks and crannies of his face still lived under her fingertips, the smell of his crisp tunics still lingered as a scent-memory in some deep part of her brain. Yet she had difficulty recalling the exact colour of his eyes or what his feet had looked like. Memory was a strange creature. So it was with the aeon clock. Each one was unique in a way kn
Miasma looked at Thassa who lifted his shoulders in a tired shrug. "The last time we saw Fierce was after Thassa gave her the collar and she went to find you,” she said to Ilyria. “She wasn’t there with you I think.” Ilyria shook her head. “No, she took off when I left the guardhouse at the gate.” “Ilyria,” said Miasma, she put a hand on Ilyria’s shoulder and Ilyria had a brief half-memory of happy smells, of home and rest and kindness. She sighed and allowed herself to be comforted by Miasma. “Fierce will be okay. She is … Fierce,” Miasma smiled and Ilyria felt a little less anxious in spite of herself, “But now we really must go.” The three hurried along the dark streets, the sounds ahead of them becoming louder and more disturbing. Ilyria had though the procession was never ending with its clanging cymbals and drums and the odd trumpet. But as they progressed along the streets and the sun’s rays illuminated their path, she saw signs that the proces