9
Walking into Starside is like stepping into a diamond. Everything glimmers.
The sheen of magic is a paint, a lustrous stroke over us all. Even the sun feels different—the heat revitalizing, instead of draining. I tilt my face up to the sky to revel in its warmth, only to be met with a shock of the brightest blue I’ve ever known.
My lips part in wonder. The sky isn’t gray on this side. It’s the color of the morning glories my mother had in her book of dried flowers, collected over generations.
With a world-shuddering tremor, the gates begin to close behind us.
There are challengers still on the bridge. Most are bleeding out. Screaming.
“Fifty days,” Zane says, watching the intricate designs of the metal as
they perfectly lock together.
“What?”
“That’s when they’ll open again. At sunrise. They’ll close at sunset.”
I knew the quest usually took around two months, but an exact timeline is the type of knowledge I had hoped Stellan might share with me.
Zane’s from a Great House. I should ask him a hundred more questions about what he knows, but one spills from me before I can think of anything else. “Why did you save me?” He risked his own spot to secure mine.
He just shrugs a shoulder. “You’re less likely to kill me than one of Cadoc’s friends.” His gaze dips to my ruined clothing. “And I saw what you did with the blood. It was smart. I want to work together.”
I don’t pretend that my new sword doesn’t also have something to do with it. He knows I’m stronger with it … Or maybe he’ll kill me, to try to claim it.
I consider his words. Now that we’re not fighting for fifty spots, we aren’t rivals.
Even so … we all want to make it to the Land of the Gods. He might betray me in a second, if it meant reaching the end of the journey.
My eyes drift to the rest of the Fifty. Teams are being formed. The only person who is striding into the unknown alone is Harlan Raker, the black cape of his hood curling in the wind.
I can’t trust anyone. But to make it to the other side, and to survive possible encounters with these teams … I’ll need one of my own.
I face Zane again. “Only if Kira can join too.”
Zane frowns. He seems to be considering the same thing I already did, that Kira could slow us down.
But she’s survived this far. And Kira is here for her sister. That motive alone, knowing she will do anything to succeed … it’s valuable.
“Fine,” he says.
“I’m going to pretend you didn’t hesitate,” Kira says, glaring. She looks him up and down. “What exactly do you offer, other than wielding that ax?”
Zane reaches into his bag. Uncurls a scroll. We all watch as ink spills across the blank parchment, shapes and letters forming before our eyes.
A map. Part of one, at least. It’s just a single path, all the way from the gates to the Land of the Gods.
“Fuck. Okay, that works,” Kira says. I nod in agreement. It’s a huge advantage.
He quickly puts it back in his bag. The last thing we need is other competitors taking it. But before he did, I saw a mess of mountain ranges, rivers, and something called the Storm Woods.
Fifty days total. Anyone making it back to the gates will have to do the entire journey to the Land of the Gods in twenty-five. Seeing the landscape … I’m not even sure that’s possible.
Kira has a clump of green in her hand. Grass, she ripped from the ground.
She sighs deeply. “At least we get to die in a beautiful place.”
Ever the optimist.
Yells sound to our left. Cadoc’s group is huddled around someone covered in blood. One of the Enders. The eldest. She must have been wounded by the beasts on the bridge. She’s screaming out in pain. I watch as Cadoc lifts his blade—and drives it through her heart. She goes still. Her
siblings … they did nothing to stop him. They don’t do anything now either but stand still, as if waiting for instruction.
Forty-nine Questral challengers remain.
“Let’s go,” I whisper, hoping Pagnus or Cadoc doesn’t turn our way.
Zane nods. He leads us southeast, to where his map starts. The same path someone successfully made the journey on.
We walk the first few steps—and then we run.
Hours later, the blood on my face has dried into a painful crust. My energy begins to wane.
The sun dims, and so does the brilliance of everything around us.
Just when I’ve started to think this entire side’s ground is made up of one color, the grass gives way to a shimmering pool of blue.
“Finally,” Zane says, and he runs into the water, ax still on his back. Kira is right behind him. She dives forward, soaking the crown of her head, before angrily scrubbing her face.
I glance down at my clothes. If the material gets wet, will they see my skin?
Do secrets matter anymore, on this side?
I take a careful step forward and gasp at the coolness of the pool. My canteen was drained a while ago. I swallow, throat rough with thirst, knowing I can’t drink this. It isn’t running water. But do the same rules from the other side apply here? I’m not sure. Best not to test them so soon.
I walk until the water is up to my waist, feet firm against the bottom.
Water.
So much of it.
Clear water. Not the cloudy liquid from the well. Not the rare bucket of bitter rainwater.
“This can’t be real,” I whisper, letting it pool in my hands.
“It certainly feels real,” Kira says, sighing as she dips her head back and then shakes her hair, droplets spraying all around us.
I slowly lower myself back, and relax. The cold is a welcome relief, weaving across my scalp.
What would it be like to sink into it? I close my mouth, plug my nose, and slowly, hesitantly, bend, until my knees reach the smooth bottom.
And the world goes dark and quiet.
Underwater is thoughtless, emotionless, problemless. Nothing can reach me here, I think, until my lungs constrict, and I have to surface again.
I break through the water, sputtering, blinking too many times, before my vision settles. My eyes meet another pair, across the pool.
A pair that glimmer like gemstones.
My hand immediately goes to the sword on my back, though my muscles are so spent, I doubt I could even take it out of its scabbard. There’s a scraping as Zane’s ax leaves its sheath.
The man only inches closer. And when he’s at the edge of the pool, I see that his skin is too smooth. His limbs are lithe and just slightly too long.
The way he moves is almost feline.
And his eyes … They are a sparkling violet, like an amethyst.
He doesn’t have a weapon. He doesn’t seem too concerned about Zane’s
ax. Does he not need one?
I wonder which of the legends are true.
Are immortals faster than us? Stronger than us? Could he, unarmed, kill us all?
His body is lanky, devoid of muscle. He isn’t in a defensive stance. He’s wearing a gray robe made of rough fabric. He takes another step forward, and I stand very still. He stops just short of the water.
Silence. None of us makes any move. We just stare at each other. I hear Kira swallow behind me.
“You’re … immortal,” I finally say, stating the obvious.
The immortal grins, showing white teeth. His eyes are gleaming with excitement. His voice is practically quivering with it. “And you … you are not.”
I finally unsheathe my sword, arms drooping with its weight. I can’t imagine ever being able to hold it without both hands.
Still, I ready myself to fight this creature, to learn through battling him the extent of immortals’ mysterious abilities.
That only makes him grin wider.
“What do you want?” Zane demands.
The immortal motions behind him. “To extend an invitation. My dwelling is just beyond the forest.”
I was so focused on the water, I barely looked at the trees. Now I see that they’re ancient and twisted, roots knotted together.
“You’re … offering us a place to stay?” Kira says, sounding the words out slowly, as if she still can’t make sense of them.
The immortal nods. “You’ll die out here,” he says matter-of-factly.
“Why?” Zane demands.
“Night is a deadly time, even for us.” What does that even mean?
Nothing in life is given freely, regardless of which side of the gates we’re on. I know that for certain. “And in exchange?”
The immortal’s purple eyes twinkle in the growing darkness. “Let me see your clothes. The contents of your pockets. Tell me about the other side.”
I blink, having expected anything but everything that just left his mouth.
Also—why would an immortal care about our pockets?
“I’m not letting you see my clothes,” Kira practically spits at him.
The immortal shrugs. “Have it your way.” He turns his back to us. “I’ll search your bodies tomorrow. If there’s anything left.”
Then he makes his way back into the forest from which he came.
Zane looks over at us.
“He could be lying about night being deadly, just to get us to go with him,” I offer.
“Yes, but what if he’s not?” Kira retorts. “We aren’t close to the first village on your route, are we?”
Zane shakes his head. “We won’t reach it for days. I assumed we’d camp outside.” Because we didn’t know about the threat of night.
The person who made this map clearly didn’t face the same challenge, given their path. It could be proof the immortal is lying … but the last Questral was half a century ago. Things could have changed. I turn. The sun
is almost touching the horizon.
My stomach twists with hunger. Already.
I wonder if the strange immortal’s offer comes with food. They don’t eat, do they? Would he have anything for us?
Evening wind whips the strands of hair that have gone loose. Chills
ripple down my arms.
We all look at one another.
Without another word, we rush out of the pool and into the forest.
We catch up to the immortal quickly, and he brightens. “Good. Yes, good.
Alive is better. I have so many questions for you.”
I frown. “Why?”
He glances at the sinking sun and hurries his pace, making me think the threat might actually be serious. “I’m a scholar, of course. Do they have those on the other side?”
I almost laugh. We don’t study—we survive. But historians did exist, once. I know, because Stellan had a book that he kept in his room, with a dusty cover and yellowed pages. About a year after he found me, I snuck in and started to read it, hoping it would be entertaining.
It wasn’t. I promptly slammed it closed and never opened it again. Maybe I should have.
The thought of Stellan makes my throat tight.
“No,” I say simply.
“Then my work is even more important,” he says, almost to himself. “I’m
Pelas. Level Five.”
“Level Five?” Kira asks.
“At the Tower of Knowledge.”
He offers his hand to each of us, his expression a mixture of disgust and curiosity as he considers having to touch us.
Even after washing in the pool, red is soaked into our clothes. Our hair is dripping wet.
Kira shakes his hand first and recoils. When it’s my turn, I realize why.
His skin is freezing and too smooth, like touching stone.
“Warm,” he says excitedly, taking a notebook and a quill from his robes.
He looks at us as he writes while walking. “Warm everywhere?”
He reaches out as if to touch us more, and Zane snarls at him.
The immortal simply laughs before writing something else. “Territorial about warm skin. Fascinating.”
“Are you all not territorial over your skin?” Kira demands.
He blinks. “For knowledge, I’m not territorial over anything,” he says.
“We are not. How old are you?”
“Twenty-two,” Kira says warily.
The immortal chokes on an excited laugh. “How short. How insignificant! I’ve been training to be Level Five for fifty years. You will be
dead before I reach Level Ten.”
Kira is glaring at him.
“What happens at Level Ten?” Zane asks, and I don’t miss how his hand is scratching the back of his neck every few seconds in a ruse to be closer to his weapon, should he need it. And we might.
Pelas is an immortal. As lanky as he looks, he could likely turn around and kill us at any moment.
“Level Ten gets access to the peak of knowledge,” he says, eyes wide, as if entranced. “The forbidden floor. Enlightenment you couldn’t imagine.”
The light from his sparkling eyes dims as he turns to look at us. “Fewer questions from you. More from me.”
By the time the trees part, he’s already asked dozens of questions, and Zane looks close to burying his ax into his back.
I wonder what would happen. How hard is their skin? How are immortals killed? I want to ask my own questions, but I stay silent.
Then a great cone-shaped tower comes into view, the size of a mountain.
It’s the tallest building I’ve ever seen.
“This … is your castle?” Kira asks.
“Oh, no. This is the Tower of Knowledge.”
“You live … in the Tower of Knowledge?” I ask.
He gives me a withering look. “Not in it. Next to it. All scholars do. At least the ones not on expeditions,” the immortal says, scribbling something that looks like not very intelligent in his notebook.
He thinks we’re idiots. Good.
A plan begins to form.
“Are we going into the Tower of Knowledge?” Kira asks, staring up at the structure in amazement.
Pelas spins to face her, and for the first time, he looks almost violent. “Of course not,” he spits. “Only scholars are allowed inside.”
Instead, he takes us to a building at the base of the tower. Before we reach the entrance, the door swings open, and a tall immortal walks through. He’s wearing similar robes as Pelas, though his are almost silver.
“I thought that color wasn’t allowed here,” Zane says.
Pelas sucks in a sharp breath. He almost looks like he’s going to hit Zane.
“How dare you question—”
The tall man places a hand on his shoulder. His voice is deep and resonant, as if he’s speaking inside a well. “Pelas. Remember. Sometimes we learn more from the questions asked than the answers given.”
He turns to Zane. “You are correct. Silver is the color of the gods. Only those of us who are given permission from them are permitted to wear anything that approaches it.”
The color isn’t silver, really. More like a very light gray.
“You—you speak to the gods?” I ask, trying my best to sound casual.
The immortal looks at me as if I’m a foolish child. “Of course not. The texts are the closest we get. But the first scholar. He … he was a friend of the gods. Level Ten wear robes from his own collection.”
Pelas looks at the other immortal’s robes with something like longing.
“I’m Ellis.” The tall immortal moves to the side and motions us forward.
“We’re always pleased to have guests pass through. Shall we prepare food?
Drink?”
“You … eat?” Kira asks.
Behind her, Pelas shakes his head and angrily scribbles IDIOTS in his notebook.
“Not often,” Ellis says. “For pleasure, mostly. How often do you eat,
mortals?”
I frown. “You don’t know?”
His smile is almost pitying. “Our study is typically reserved for … our own kind.” A gentle way of saying that our short, mortal lives don’t matter.
Not to them. “And your knowledge was taken to your own land during the Great Divide.”
The Great Divide. Is that what they call the period when the gates were erected? Our side might have books, but there are hardly any people who can dedicate their lives to reading them. Knowledge has been kept within certain families. And all information about Starside faded away—literally— a long time ago.
Ellis leads us down plain stone hallways with just a few cressets holding flames for light, and into a dining room, with a long oak table, and simply carved seats. A small group of immortals with darker robes scurry to meet him, their heads tilted in reverence. “Get our guests food,” he commands.
They bow, then run back into another room with hardly a glance in our direction.
Ellis positions himself at the head of the table. Pelas sits five seats to his right. He roughly motions for us to sit at the other end.
We do, even though we’re still dripping wet. Word of our presence must have spread, because a few more men in robes walk in and take their seats.
They all look expectantly at us. Then the questions begin in earnest.
“What does the other side look like nowadays?”
“Barren, mostly. There are hardly any fertile patches left,” I offer.
Desperate scribbling.
“What do you eat?”
We turn to one another. “It varies based on where we live,” Kira says.
“My side, to the west … we eat mainly fish. We’re by the coast.”
“I’m from the mountains,” Zane says slowly, studying them, hand not far from his ax. “We eat pheasants. And roots that grow up high.”
“Fascinating. And you? Where are you from?” Ellis is looking right at me.
I swallow past the knot in my throat. “I’m from a place that doesn’t exist anymore. But—we used to eat mostly grain. And there was a single, giant fruit tree. It would feed our whole village, during infrequent blooms.”
I grip the side of my chair as an image flashes through my mind of that fruit tree on fire.
“I … moved to another village as a child. There, I ate scraps. Pieces that were handed out at the town square.” Or that I stole. “I foraged too.
Mushrooms and such.”
None of their expressions change.
“Do people die of hunger on that side?”
All the time, I want to say. Because all the magic is here. Because you all are in a fancy tower, studying books and looking down your noses at us
while we are dying.
“Yes” is all I say.
“What does hunger feel like?” one of the other scholars asks, his voice devoid of any emotion.
“It feels like desperation,” I say, a bite in my tone.
There were seasons when no one was buying anything from the forge.
When Stellan would go without food for weeks so that I would get both
rations of scraps.
Even that wasn’t enough.
Hunger is a knife, twisting, carving.
These immortals … they’ve never been hungry. They are disgusted by us and our lives. They eat for pleasure, mostly.
My hands grip the chair harder, and Zane gives me a warning look.
Before I can say anything else, the doors burst open, and steaming bowls of broth are brought out. They are placed roughly in front of us, liquid sloshing onto the table.
Mysterious pieces float inside. Kira sniffs the bowl and nearly retches.
“Eat,” Ellis says, before taking a spoonful of his own soup.
It could be poisoned. Though the other scholars continue asking questions. We aren’t much use to them dead.
I take a sip and fight not to twist my face. The soup is bitter and acidic.
The pieces are hard.
Still, it’s food. And I don’t doubt I will know hunger on many days during this journey to the gods.
The questions keep coming. About our climate, about our limitations, about our birth rates.
Finally, I fix a big smile on my face, and say, “We would love to know about you. Are you truly immortal? Can you not be killed?”
The table suddenly goes silent. Pelas is glaring at me.
Ellis humors me. “We can be killed, of course. We don’t die of old age, however.” He looks closely at me. “Our bodies are more durable than yours.
We don’t have disease here. Only high metals can wound us.”
He doesn’t even glance at our swords, as if not considering for a moment
we could be carrying strong ones.
“Do you bleed?”
Pelas’s look is nothing short of withering. “Of course we bleed,” he says, and there’s a legend that has proven to be false. He continues with a string of mumbled insults I only partially make out.
“If your people rarely die … are there many of you?” Kira asks.
“Far less than there are mortals, I assume. Recently … more have perished,” Ellis says simply, and I don’t miss how the other scholars seem to hunch forward with serious expressions. “Births are rare.”
“Why recently?” Zane asks.
Silence.
I wonder if it has anything to do with the pure fear I saw on Pelas’s face as he glanced at the moon and the incoming night.
Night is a dangerous time, even for immortals.
Ellis stands from the head of the table. “We’ve kept you long enough. It seems like you have survived … a great ordeal. Perhaps you would like to retire for the night. We can continue our questions in the morning.” He nods at the other scholars, and they begin to stand one by one.
Pelas blinks too many times. He looks from his notes to us. “But I—I had more—”
“I’ll stay with you,” I offer. “While they rest. I can answer your questions.”
Zane and Kira look at me as if I’ve lost my fucking mind. Maybe I have.
I only smile tightly at them and hope they trust I know what I’m doing. Or, at least, I think I do.
“Very well,” Ellis says. “Level Ones will escort you two to your rooms.”
The dark gray–robed men scuttle out again, leading Kira and Zane away.
I turn back toward Pelas. “What is it you want to know?”
Two hours later, Pelas has asked me an endless stream of questions. The latest was about how he compares to a mortal man.
“You’re … fine,” I say, careful with my words. “Most mortals have more muscle, if they aren’t starving. But … your face is … not revolting?”
SUFFERS FROM VISION PROBLEMS, he writes.
I fight to mask a laugh, and his eyes dart up to my face. His demeanor completely changes. “Were you reading my notes?” he demands.
Fuck.
I blink quickly, then divert my gaze to the floor. I hunch my shoulders and will red to stain my cheeks. “Oh, no—I … I can’t. I was just marveling at how quickly you make the shapes.”
He reaches a finger out to touch my cheek. His touch is clinical as he studies the rush of color in pure fascination. I wonder if immortals’ durable skin means a blush looks different on them.
He tilts his head. “Mortals do not read?”
I smile weakly. “We have no use for such things.”
His aggression melts away, replaced by something worse: conceit. “Of course not.” He shakes his head. “Of course you have no use for such things, simple creature.”
I smother the urge to bury my sword in his skull. “Where do the words
live?” I ask innocently.
He blinks. “The books, you mean?”
I nod quickly, eyes as wide as I can make them.
He sighs. “You simple, simple creature,” he says, stroking my cheek, and I have to stop myself from recoiling. “Stand. I will show you.”
And I wonder who the simple creature is.
It’s the middle of the night, and the corridors are quiet. Pelas looks around before lighting a candle. I watch as he takes a quill with a sparkling metal
point out of his pocket. Starside steel. Though here, I’m guessing it’s called something else. The quill has a jagged edge. It almost looks like a key.
Pelas slips it through a crack in the wall and turns it. A door punches out of the stone, then we’re in the tower.
He frowns at my dirty clothes. “You’re not worthy of being in here, mortal. Be grateful I have charitable instincts.”
Charitable. I know men like him. Men who are treated as if they are lesser, then take the first opportunity to do it to others.
I nod deeply, almost bowing. “You have my gratitude.”
I’m not a threat to him. He thinks I’m too stupid to lie. He’s too eager to feel important.
My boots click over a mosaic that makes up the entire bottom of the tower. Its pieces form a ring, with a much smaller silver circle at its center, filled like an orb. I stop right atop it, frowning, studying the two thin lines of silver erupting from the middle to the outer ring, shooting from opposite directions.
Before I can ask what it is, Pelas turns, motioning around him. “This.
This is half a century of work,” he says. “Being able to walk in here whenever I wish.” His pride is a drug. He looks up and points at the levels overhead, floors and floors of shelves all visible from the center of the hollow cone-shaped tower. “Half the library. I can access half of it. You wouldn’t understand. You have no idea how rare this is.”
I do. And it’s getting hard to mask my excitement. I force my voice to be casual as I say, “Do … do any of these books include accounts from those
who have completed the Questral?”
I swallow, waiting, hoping he answers.
Pelas only frowns. “I haven’t encountered one yet. But it wouldn’t be from a mortal. It would be an immortal’s account, of course.”
I blink. “Immortals used to make the quest?”
He scowls. “Of course. Before it became a death sentence.” He laughs,
then stops himself.
“What do you mean?” I ask.
He sighs. “Immortals used to journey to the gods to ask for favors. Or to win a cup of magic. Some even drank it.” His lip curls in a sneer. “Most turned into beasts, of course. Cursed by their greed. The gods have only deepened their cruelty, as is their right. Only the truly desperate would ever try to visit them now.”
He looks over at me with unfiltered disdain and perhaps a bit of amusement. I want to ask more, but his eyes begin to narrow.
“Come. You’ve sullied this place long enough.” He drags me back through the door. His grip is punishing, his nails digging into my shoulder.
He’s so close, he spits the words, raising his voice as he says, “You are not
going to tell anyone you were in here.”
I nod slowly.
Only then does he release me. I’m led back to the dining room and Pelas relishes commanding a Level 1 to show me to my quarters. I follow, head bent.
When the hallway is quiet again, I sneak back toward the tower. And slip the quill I stole from Pelas between my fingers.
The scholars don’t visit at night. The structure is windowless, save for a large skylight that takes up the entire pointed ceiling. Daylight is clearly preferable for reading. I have nothing but the light of a candle I took from the hall.
The shelves are positioned in rings, with the stairs going around and around. Each level up is smaller than the last, leading to the peak—Level 10. Just a small circle of books.
I don’t waste a moment. I run up the spiral stairs to Level 1 and begin with the first book. As I go to pull it off the shelf, it pulls back.
Shit. The books are chained to their shelves, making it impossible to steal them—and hard to open at all. I can only view them if I’m hunched over at an awkward angle. Each chain is locked.
I try Pelas’s quill, and it works. The book is freed.
There’s nothing inside but half-empty pages. Something about plants,
with detailed drawings of leaves.
I move on.
I open book after book, flipping through each quickly, looking for anything that might help me complete the quest.
I reach toward another text, but I stop just short of it. There’s an energy … a thrumming inside.
Something is contained in that book. I’m not sure what it is, but I move past it. A few others have that same strange feeling. I finally pick one up and read its cover. It has to do with magic.
Useless to me right now. I just need any information that can help me get to the gods—and kill them.
Level 1 doesn’t have anything relevant. I go to Level 2. The books here are about history. War. Great Houses rising and falling.
Level 3. Creatures. Endless books about beasts and beings, most of which I’ve never heard of. It could be useful, but I don’t have time. I need to find something that can specifically help me on this quest.
The darkness begins to fade.
I look up. The first rays of light are gleaming through the peak.
Shit.
Pelas said he had never encountered an account from someone who had completed the Questral. It must be because it’s on a higher level.
I skip Level 4 and Level 5 and go straight to Level 6.
Here, most of the books are thrumming with that strange energy. It makes it easy to pass those. Only a few don’t have it, and I hurriedly turn their pages.
Orange rays spill down from the ceiling, slowly illuminating the mosaic below. As soon as the sun hits that silver circle at the center of the ring … it glows, producing its own column of light that shoots right up through the center of the tower.
Beautiful. But it means my time is almost up. Scholars should be walking inside any moment now. I look around, frantically, knowing I don’t have time to go through each book. This level has hundreds.
That’s when I see it, across the way. A book that looks more worn than the others, as if it wasn’t written in a place like this.
I walk around the ring of shelves until I’m standing right in front of it.
It’s absent that thrumming energy. I pull it from its shelf, and the chain pulls
it back.
A Quest of Life and Death.
I sink to my knees, not bothering with the lock this time, knowing Pelas’s key won’t work. I flip through it as light completely fills the tower, sun pouring in through the skylight like wine entering a goblet.
Some of the pages have been torn out. Some of the ink has smudged, as if the pages got wet.
My quest starts at the Beast Tree. Some of my group hits the ground.
Others are luckier. They say you won’t survive without a creature. Most
don’t survive the tree at all.
I will report back.
My quest did not end there, I am happy to say. I survived the tree. Many did not. My beast is stubborn, but strong. With him, I feel confident that— Voices sound below me. My hands tense around the worn cover, the book’s chain rattling.
Pelas. He’s with a group, which is why, I assume, he hasn’t noticed his quill is missing. His voice is full of excitement. It echoes up the tower.
“They’re sleeping now,” he says.
A voice I don’t recognize says, “Good. And the poison you’re making will keep them alive?”
“Yes, yes. I’d rather study their insides while their blood is still flowing.
We’ll keep them alive for as long as possible while we conduct our tests.”
I go still.
He’s going to slice us open and study us … while we’re still alive.
Of fucking course he is.
I flip through the pages faster. I had hoped I could read the entire text and commit it to memory, but there’s no time now. My fingers pause at one of
the last pages.
The author … he drew a map.
Unlike Zane’s, it’s complete, and strikingly detailed, showing all the way from where we are now to the other edge of Starside, where the gods live.
Every town. Every mountain range. Everything he encountered.
This is invaluable.
Pelas is only Level 5, but still, desperately, I try the lock, just in case. The quill gets stuck then drops against the wood.
The voices go quiet.
Then—“Who’s here?”
I remain very still.
“Scholar?”
I take a slow breath. Another.
The stairs groan as they begin climbing.
They’re going to find me. The tower is hollow. There’s nowhere to hide. I don’t even try. They spot me immediately, from several levels down.
“Mortal!” one yells.
Pelas starts running, his gray robes furling around him.
No use being quiet. I pull the chain, clumsily unsheathe my sword—drop it—then begin slamming my blade down against the metal with all my might. The chain is sparkling Starside steel. But so is my sword.
I start banging and banging at it, watching the metal slowly chip away.
Too slowly. Fuck, this sword is heavy. I’m already panting. My arms burn.
The scholars are on Level 3. Then they’re on Level 4.
They’re yelling for help. I bang my blade over and over and over, but then they’re on my level.
There’s no time. I rip the map out of the book, stick it in my pocket, and run.
Pelas is right behind me. The rest of the scholars block the stairs. I feel the magic all around, humming, thrashing.
Pelas might not be muscular, but he’s fast. He’s on my heels in a moment. I turn around and raise my blade high.
His eyes widen in fear.
Not for his own life, apparently. “Put that away, you simpleton,” he cries out. “You’ll harm the books. Some of them are fragile. Some are filled with things you won’t want to unleash.”
I should kill him for what he planned to do to us.
Instead, I slice my blade along the spines of books closest to us, the ones
boiling with magic.
And the world explodes.
I get thrown back and nearly fall over the railing as black, sparkling smoke erupts, each text bursting apart in quick succession. My ears ring. A metal taste coats my tongue. My knees nearly buckle as I stand, then I’m off again, using both arms to slice my sword across another row of texts.
Some books break off their chains, some howl like beasts, others burst into flames. I hear screaming somewhere.
Then Pelas’s voice: “Stop! Stop!” I do no such thing.
The tower is filled with different colors of smoke, and I use its cover to run down the stairs, past coughing scholars who have spent their lives holed up in this place.
Chaos meets me in the hallway, but the yelling immortals press themselves to the walls when they see my weapon. I turn a corner, and
someone grips my wrist—I lift my blade.
Kira and Zane.
“What did you do?” Kira asks, eyes wide.
I wince. “Far too much.”
We race down the steps toward the front door. There, in front of the towering oak stands Ellis, wielding a thin sparkling sword of metal slightly
different from my own. It has an intricately carved hilt and a pearl in its pommel.
I lift my blade, ready to fight. Kira and Zane raise their weapons too.
The immortal glances at my metal and pales. “Where did you get that?”
My chest is burning, lungs filled with the mysterious smoke from the tower and constricting from all the running. “I think we’ve had enough questions, don’t you agree?”
I wait for him to advance. I plant my feet, readying myself, blinking quickly so as not to miss any sharp movement.
But he only lowers his sword. “I underestimated you, human,” he says.
Then he steps away from the door.
It doesn’t make sense. There’s no time to question it. The sounds of yells and running surge behind us. The scholars might have scurried away at the first sign of a weapon, but all together, who knows what they’re capable of?
Zane inches toward the door, eyes fixed on the immortal, and opens it.
“It’s clear,” he yells back at us.
He steps through. So does Kira.
The immortal pays them no mind. No. He’s staring at me—at my hand. I lower my gaze, and my chest goes cold. While I was flipping the pages, I folded my sleeve up and never lowered it.
Just the smallest bit of silver is showing, but those immortal eyes miss nothing.
Slowly, his gaze meets mine again. I keep my grip on my weapon, waiting for him to strike me, or yell out his discovery— But he doesn’t say a word. And as I back away and flee into the morning, I realize his silence wasn’t the most surprising part.
It was that he didn’t look surprised at all.