by Laini Taylor
EPILOGUE
A slash in the sky, that’s all it was, nothing like Brimstone’s cunning portal with its aviary doors. There was no door at all, and no guardian. Its only protection was its nowhereness, high above the Atlas Mountains, and its narrowness, less than a seraph’s wingspan.
It was remarkable that Razgut had managed to find it after so long.
Or, Karou thought, looking at the creature, perhaps not so remarkable, that the worst moment of one’s life could be seared into the memory, brighter than any joy. She understood now why pain was the tithe for magic: It was more powerful than joy. Than anything.
Than hope?
She saw the pyre in Loramendi as if she’d been there herself: chimaera corpses fed to the flames like scraps of flung cloth, and Akiva watching it all from a tower, breathing the ashes of her people. She tasted ash, and imagined it had still lingered on his flesh when she’d kissed him.
Because of her, he had lived to do this.
And still, she hadn’t been able to kill him, though he had brought her knives from Prague himself, and would have fallen to his knees to make it easier for her.
She left him, and even after everything, the distance between them felt like a sphere pulled out of proportion. Wrong, that growing distance. Aching, the void that had been her new fullness. A miserable part of her wanted to unknow Akiva’s treachery, go back to before, to the incandescent happiness before it all came crashing down.
“Are you coming?” Razgut asked, shouldering his way through the gash in the world, so that half his body disappeared into the ether of Eretz.
Karou nodded. The rest of him vanished, and she breathed deep of the raw air, gathering herself to follow. There was no more happiness. But under the misery, there was hope.
That the name Brimstone had given her was more than a whim.
That this was not the end.
… to be continued
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
My first thanks are for Kathi Appelt, Coe Booth, Carolyn Coman, Nancy Werlin, and Gene Luen Yang, for changing my life as a writer. Deepest, deepest thanks, forever.
To Alexandra Saperstein and Stephanie Perkins, for reading every inch of this book many times over, and managing to stay excited about it. Every writer should have readers like you. But they can’t have you. You’re mine. Mwa-ha-ha-ha-ha!
To Jane Putch, who is so much more than an agent: Thank you. Thank you. This one is for you.
To my darling Clementine, for being an easy baby — I dare say, a perfect baby. If it weren’t so, finishing this book would have been a very different experience.
And of course, for Jim Di Bartolo, my wonderful husband. For everything from reading and encouragement, to making playlists and coffee, to sharing the baby duties and holding down the fort while I was “Elsewhere.” My cherished partner in things both creative and mundane — books, laughing, travel, diaper-changing — I couldn’t do it without you, and wouldn’t want to.
Mountains and fountains of gratitude for Alvina Ling and the whole amazing crew at Little, Brown, my new home. This has been so amazingly fun so far. Your creativity and enthusiasm brighten my horizon. Thank you. In every language real and imaginary: Thank you.
Lastly — and this is kind of goofy, but so what — thank you to the world for being a wild and inspiring place, full of odd creatures, strange people, and mysterious cities. I hope by and by to know you better.
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