by Amanda Foody
“I’ll see you tomorrow,” I say. “Afterward.”
“Tomorrow.”
* * *
The limit of my illusion is nine minutes and twelve seconds.
“You will need to enter the cathedral quickly and find a place to conceal yourself while Nicoleta finds Dalimil,” Chimal says.
Nicoleta nods. I’m accustomed to seeing her fatigued, with dark circles under her eyes, complaining of a headache as she hunches over to do our laundry. But this week, she holds her head high and is fueled solely by excitement. I wish I could enjoy the thrill of this as she does. As much as I adore performing, I prefer when I have control. But the success of this mission depends on too many random factors.
“You’ll be entering with the other guests through the main entrance, but they will only see Nicoleta. The guards outside will ask you to produce your invitation, and we have a copy of one here.” Chimal slides Nicoleta a piece of golden parchment. “Your name is Lady Michala, the daughter of a distant count. The real Lady Michala has the snaking sickness, so she will not be attending.”
Nicoleta hands me the parchment, and it’s nearly impossible to read the intricate Up-Mountain calligraphy. An embellished yellow sun of Ovren glints at the top of the page.
“Sorina, once inside, you will conceal yourself somewhere and give yourself time to recuperate. Because of this, we think it’s best if you are dressed as a nun, someone who, if seen, will still escape notice. It’ll also allow you to keep most of your face covered.”
I don’t love the idea of dressing up as an Up-Mountainer. I don’t want to wear their clothes. I don’t want to look as if I belong in such a terrible place.
“Dalimil will likely be seated near the front. Repeat again what he looks like.”
“He’s six foot two, approximately sixty years old,” Nicoleta says, barely hesitating a moment to think. “Fair features and a crooked nose. His most notable characteristic is his one blue eye and one green eye.”
“That will require Nicoleta to get rather close,” I say.
“You’ll have several opportunities to do so. First, when he is entering. Second, in Up-Mountain weddings, every member of the congregation must throw flower petals into the water the priest shall bless. And third, while leaving.” Chimal studies me. “Sorina, you’ll need to cast an illusion to conceal Nicoleta when she makes her move. Then you must quickly get the three of you out. Dalimil is a large man, but Nicoleta should have no difficulty carrying him. There will be a carriage waiting for you outside.”
I stare at the blueprint of the cathedral in front of us on the table. The congregation appears massive, easily several thousand people. I don’t have that sort of range. Or endurance.
“I have a horrible feeling that this isn’t going to work,” I say.
“Three fortune-workers have already prophesized that we will be victorious.”
As Luca would say, you shouldn’t put too much stock in fortune-workers.
“We cannot lose, Sorina,” Chimal says.
“We cannot lose,” I echo. I certainly hope he’s right.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
The two-hundred-and-four-story Cathedral of Saints Dominik and Zdena is fabled as the tallest building in the world. Constructed of solid black stone, it towers over the skyline, not unlike the spires of the Menagerie. It appears like a giant spindle, though it is meant, when the sun is positioned directly over its peak, to resemble a torch. I now understand why Chimal was so eager initially for Hawk’s help, as Hawk could easily enter from above and descend the likely thousands of steps below, completely unnoticed.
It’s difficult to imagine that, in a mere hour, I’ll be in that cathedral.
Four of us approach the city from the hillside road, our carriage freshly painted to appear more regal than anything owned by Gomorrah. Chimal has shed his normal red and black captain uniform for the clothes of a passing peasant. Villiam wears his usual suit, as elegant as any of the other wedding guests. The many layers of Nicoleta’s gown take up nearly an entire seat in our carriage, leaving me only a foot of space in the corner. With the peach fabric, the peachier rouge and her pale complexion, she resembles any Up-Mountain patron who visits Gomorrah. Her transformation is nearly unnerving, especially when she speaks in her practiced accent.
Where Nicoleta is all beauty and elegance, I look—as Venera would say—frumpy and old. The black clothes of a postulant cover every inch of my skin, complete with gloves and heavy leather boots. I’m thankful I told Luca not to come. I feel ridiculous. But at least the absurdity of the costume makes the situation feel lighter.
We’re about to risk our lives.
In the distance, toward the city, a hillside fire clouds the sky with the smoke of Agni’s jynx-work, meant to distract the guards as guests arrive. That, too, is a comfort, even if it’s blacker than the smoke of Gomorrah behind us.
Villiam kisses my forehead. “Be strong.”
“I will be,” I say.
“I love you so much. And I’m very, very proud of you.”
His praise strengthens my resolve, and I smile at him. “I love you, too.”
Even as we grow closer to the city, the cathedral’s tower still seems far in the distance. I don’t believe in Ovren or any Down-Mountain god, but it feels as though a higher power is observing us from that tower, aware of our ill intent. I am no fortune-worker, but I sense doom.
The carriage pauses so that Villiam and Chimal can leave. I hug my father once more, but I don’t say anything. I want to appear strong. I am Sorina Gomorrah, daughter of this city, and this is my destiny.
We abandon them on the hills.
Our driver, a member of the Gomorrah guard, says nothing. He has instructions to remain in the vicinity of the cathedral and await our return, no matter what.
We enter the city gates. They aren’t as impressive as the gates of Cartona, yellow and gleaming. Just as Cartona was the golden city, Sapris is gray, blending into the stone of its hills, silent and shrouded. Even with all our preparation, I’m not certain what awaits me there.
“You look tense,” Nicoleta says. “You need to relax.”
“I’m trying to,” I say.
“It’s just another performance.”
“A performance? My job is to be invisible.” I fiddle with the edges of the nun sleeves, which, on close inspection, are the darkest shade of navy, rather than true black. I hope it will go unnoticed. “Nothing about this is certain. We aren’t even sure that Dalimil is the Alliance’s leader.”
“We’re mostly certain. And if he isn’t, he’ll have information. It will be of value, nonetheless.” She peeks out of the window. “We’re nearing the cathedral. It’s best to remain silent. I’m supposed to appear alone in this carriage.”
It’s impossible not to dwell on what’s coming as the voices grow louder. A church organ plays a somber ballad that sounds inappropriate for a wedding. Other than the musical accompaniment, the atmosphere reminds me of the moments just before a Freak Show. The hushed whispers and chattering of anticipation. I imagine the feeling of our tattered velvet curtain in my hands, the voices of my family behind me.
Our carriage pulls to a stop.
Nicoleta nods to me.
The show is about to begin.
I cast my moth illusion as soon as the liveried attendant opens the carriage door. “My lady,” he says, his eyes on Nicoleta. She grasps his arm for support as she descends to the cobblestones. Just as her foot touches the ground, she makes a show of losing her balance and then, with her other arm, braces herself by keeping the carriage door open. I climb out, invisible, into the city.
“My lady, are you all right?” the attendant asks.
“My shoe merely slipped,” she says, her accent lilting heavily from practice. In the Freak Show, her lines required constant repetitio
n. It took her months to perfect her persona. Here, she seems a natural. I suppose she performs better than me under pressure. They say pressure can turn even a grain of sand into a pearl under the right circumstances.
As Nicoleta joins the queue of pastel-colored guests, I follow in her shadow. My form is gone. My smell, gone. The sound of my footsteps is replaced by the slight flutter of the moth’s wings. I am a ghost.
The tower above us extends endlessly into the overcast sky, turning my stomach even as I admire it. This tower has stood for hundreds of years, and it will likely remain for hundreds more in the same spot. I can imagine why such a landmark would appeal to people: such a rigid sense of home. But then I turn behind me, where the Gomorrah smoke is slightly darker than the afternoon clouds, and the spire of the Menagerie is just barely visible, the flag above it a speck. For the common people of Sapris, that represents excitement. Something new.
I’ve always preferred change to tradition.
After three minutes, the fatigue of the illusion is already setting in. I fix my gaze on Nicoleta’s beaded slippers in front of me to keep my focus.
Nicoleta presents her invitation to the attendant, who allows her to enter the cathedral. I squeeze in past her, careful not to brush shoulders with any of the guests who cannot see me.
Once we enter the cathedral, I immediately adjust my illusion to expand to the crowds and adapt to the dim lighting. Candelabras glow from the edge of every stone pew, and it almost reminds me of the flickering torchlight of Gomorrah. Nicoleta speaks her name to an usher, who directs her to her seat. It’s early enough that the pews are only a quarter of the way filled, and we have nearly a half hour before the ceremony will begin.
While Nicoleta walks to her seat, we both scan the front for someone matching the description of Dalimil. There are many blond men in the crowd. Many tall men—Up-Mountainers are shockingly tall, or at least they seem so to me. I feel like an ant roaming unknowingly in their midst. Nicoleta shakes her head nearly imperceptibly. He isn’t here.
Next I scan the room for other nuns, but there aren’t any. It’s been nearly seven minutes; I need to find some place to conceal myself, somewhere I can still see Nicoleta. Along the edges of the cathedral, behind a row of columns, are individual prayer rooms separated by a gate. Each features a unique piece of artwork, all depicting the artistic prowess of Up-Mountain prodigies: warrior saints cleansing the world of the jynx-work, through such choice weapons as fire, sword or rope.
Sneaking inside proves a complicated task. Not only do I need to continue to conceal myself, I need to make it appear as if the gates are not moving at all. Once inside, I slip myself within the shadow in the corner, angled away from the wandering eye.
And now we wait.
The air smells of incense, which I associate with Gomorrah’s mehndi tents or fortune-workers. Here, however, it doesn’t feel sacred, warm or safe. Despite the summer heat, the inside is kept cool from the thick stones walls of the cathedral. It feels sterile.
Minutes pass as I scan the entering crowds for Dalimil. I briefly make eye contact with Nicoleta, and it’s clear from her expression that she hasn’t seen him, either. What if he doesn’t show? What if all of this danger was for nothing?
With a handful of moments to go before the ceremony begins, Nicoleta temporarily excuses herself from the pew by saying something to the man beside her. I take this as my cue to follow her, and I rush to slip out from the prayer room. We walk side by side, though I am concealed again. She should not gamble with my endurance. I need my illusion-work to last us.
“I don’t see him. There are so many men,” she says. “When everyone forms a line to bless the couple, you will need to be close. You’ll need to find him, if he’s here.”
“I can’t get so close to the altar. Someone could notice my silhouette.”
“We need to find him, Sorina. Gomorrah needs him.”
I sigh. “Fine. But I don’t want to die in this church.”
Nicoleta returns to her seat, and I to my prayer room.
The cathedral doors open, and the wedding procession begins. The bride, a young girl not many years older than myself, wears rose-pink. Her dress trails out nearly three meters behind her, and there are more flowers on her head than there is hair. The groom is nearly two decades her elder, with a beard already touched with gray. He smiles at her in greeting rather than with love.
People have joked and called me Gomorrah’s princess before, but I’m not a political pawn like this girl. I’m not a prisoner of my role. I’m a warrior, at least in this moment.
The priest opens one of the five books of Ovren to begin a reading about how the union of two souls brings them closer to Heaven. Love cleanses one another.
I’ve never heard a religious text of Ovren lacking the usual fire and brimstone.
After the reading, the couple exchanges their vows. It’s then that the procession begins.
I slip out of the prayer room and hurry to the front of the cathedral. It’s so large that it takes me nearly a minute to reach the altar. The line grows behind me as every individual finds a place, and I keep to the steps, facing them. They are an endless line of lemon and apricot and lavender. Men, women and children. I’ve never seen so many Up-Mountainers directly in front of me, without the darkness of Gomorrah behind them. I’m horribly out of place. I don’t belong here.
I look straight at them, but they do not see me.
While in the seating area of the church, I didn’t see the construction of the ceiling above the altar. Directly above us is the tower, which is hollow and black and endless. The tip of the tower must be glass, as a pinprick of light shines down from above, like a single star. It’s horribly eerie, as if I’m staring into the eye of Ovren Himself.
The altar is a simple wooden desk, but the mural behind it catches my eye. A saint of some sort—perhaps St. Dominik, one of the patrons of this cathedral—stands on top of the body of a man, whose face appears disfigured. Bile rises in my throat as I realize how determined the Up-Mountain artist was to depict the man’s ugliness: his blotched skin, his broken limbs.
To Ovren’s disciples, he is impure. Deformed. A freak.
Like me.
My heart races as each of the Up-Mountainers pass through to pick up a flower petal from the basket. One by one, they toss them into the basin. I nearly hold my breath as I struggle to maintain the illusion. I crouch on the white steps, close enough to the passersby to feel the wind of their dresses swishing past. Though I’m invisible, I feel exposed.
I falter for a moment as one man approaches. He wears the white uniform of an officer, ornamented with tassels and medals. He’s almost taller than Chimal told us—six-five, perhaps, and broad, taking the space of nearly two people. His one blue eye and one green eye stare over me into the distance of the church, and he doesn’t look to see if the petal he tosses lands in the basin.
It does.
This man is responsible for the deaths of Blister and Gill, I tell myself. I’m not sure if I believe that, but it will help me to focus in this moment. This man is evil. A sort of fury stirs in my gut.
Dalimil walks past me, and my gaze follows him so I can find his seat. His pew is at the edge of the church, much farther to the right than Nicoleta and I had anticipated.
I search for Nicoleta in the line, and she’s approaching the front. I run to her side as she returns to her pew and then tug on her sleeve.
“He’s here. In the sixth pew on the far right. We must catch him as he leaves.”
I’m out of breath, practically panting. My head aches from all the focus, the constant pushing, the constant creating. I scamper to the edge of the cathedral, to the comfort of the shadows, and gradually release the illusion. The pressure in my mind eases, but my brain feels flimsy, like a muscle overworked. I don’t know how I’ll manage to cover the t
hree of us while we escape.
Now comes the most difficult stunt of our performance: finding an opportunity to lure Dalimil away. It’s unlikely, even if Nicoleta beckoned him, that he would come to her. She’s a stranger. I need to think of something appropriate.
Because I’m in a church, I could play on the surroundings. He could see candles going out, prayer doors opening and lights shining from above. But would he attribute this as an act of Ovren, or would he run?
I could conjure the image of a child alone. If he saw the child, wouldn’t he feel obligated to ensure he found the child’s parents? I remind myself that this is the man who could be responsible for Blister’s death, so perhaps not.
Then I think of the simplest thing. Calling his name.
As soon as the organ plays its final notes and the newly wedded couple exits the church, Nicoleta finds me. Fortunately, Dalimil is in no hurry to leave. He talks to the man beside him, also dressed in a white military uniform.
“Archduke Dalimil,” I call, using a sound illusion to conceal my voice so that only he and I can hear it. It’s such a simple illusion, but the effort of it hits me with a jolt of dizziness. I use what strength I have left to conjure my moth, and then I lean against the column to catch my breath. Every part of me is tired.
He glances at us, or, rather, simply at Nicoleta. She curtsies to him to show her respect, but her calling out to him would not be considered particularly gracious. Still, he says goodbye to the other officer and strays toward us. The crowds of those departing walk behind him, away from our secluded space.
Nicoleta freezes, trying to come up with something to say, I imagine.
“It has been...a while since we last spoke, Your Grace,” she says.
“Forgive me. I don’t recall our last meeting—”
He doesn’t even see her move. To him, seeing my illusion, she is still. Nicoleta slices him on his forearm with a knife, coated in the diluted juice of the black maiden flower. Without a viable explanation for the sudden pain, he merely stands there in stunned silence. The next moment, he collapses to the ground, silent and now invisible to the rest of the congregation.
