“The veil,” Lady Bellenet said, draping a gold-spun swathe of lace over Ru’s head, “represents innocence. The unsullied heart, offered up to Festra.”
Ru said nothing. The words were nonsense in her ears.
The world seemed to be drenched in fog, drifting past and eddying about her. The dress, the veil, the chapel; they were all figments of a nightmare. She wondered if Lady Bellenet missed Lord D’Luc. If she had lain awake at night wondering where he’d gone, or whether she had pushed him to it, had been the hand that tipped him over the edge. Had she, too, looked upon hiscrumpled body in the snow? Knelt and spoken words of comfort to a man who couldn’t hear?
It didn’t matter.
Taryel had been quiet that morning. Ru had wanted to tell him about Hugon's body, its shape in the snow. But she didn’t know how to explain it to him, her need to find him or the subsequent grief, not when she should have been relieved by the discovery of her dead jailor.
There was, Ru believed, no such thing as an evil soul. Monsters were made, not born. Taryel had murdered thousands. She had murdered dozens. Some had lost their souls because of Ru’s failings. If this was a just world, no one would mourn them when they passed — Ru, Taryel, Hugon D’Luc, Dulcinea Bellenet. And if absolution truly did wait at the Isle of the Sun, through the gates of paradise, Ru felt sure it wouldn’t be enough.
It would never be enough. Not for Ru. Could she ever be redeemed after this? Would she, standing in a blackened crater that stretched out and out across the world, have any desire to draw another breath?
She doubted it.
Before Ru left for the chapel, Taryel had pulled her to him. He kissed her, held her reverently. “It’s not over,” he had said, his voice firm. She supposed centuries of life gave a man a sense of confidence. “Don’t give up, Ru. All you have to do is fight it. There will always be a way out. Always a choice. I know you’ll make the right one. Lady Bellenet is not all-powerful.”
But Ru knew the truth — she could no longer fight Lady Bellenet. The woman held a card, the highest in the deck, and when she called it, Ru would fold. She hardly dared to think of the possibility, refused to worry in the superstitious fear that it would come to pass. Because as long as Taryel was alive, as long as he could be hurt, Lady Bellenet held Ru suspended like a fly in a web. Caught, enraptured as the spider approached.
“The sun is almost at its zenith,” Lady Bellenet said. “Come, my child.”
It was suddenlymychildtoday, as if Ru were no longer held at the end of a blade. As if she were now pressed to the bosom of Festra’s most devoted follower.
Ru followed the lady into the chapel, obedient as one of the Children. Her guards had departed, taking up their stations at each entrance to the chapel, leaving Ru at the mercy of Lady Bellenet. Ru considered asking where Gwyneth and Archie had gone, where the rest of the Children were, but thought better of it. They were all no better than dead, and to pretend any different was to twist the knife in her despair.
The chapel’s sanctum glimmered brightly. Sunlight streamed through its multi-colored windows and glanced off the myriad of white-robed figures that were crammed into the room. Children filled the pews, pressed against the walls, and crowded the aisles. They were everywhere, watching as if with one set of eyes, and utterly silent.
Unable to look at them, Ru turned to Taryel, where he waited at the dais. He stood leaning on the golden throne, one hand hooked over its sunlike spires. He caught Ru’s eye and smiled. She couldn’t understand his lightness, the faith he had in her. How had she earned it? Why had he ever believed in her, loved her? She was weak, cowed by her own fear. Look how easily she’d given in.
But even as she wallowed in self-loathing, some tiny speck of defiance still flickered in her, and she pointedly pushed it away, pleading with it to leave her alone.
There is nothing I can do. I want this to end. Maybe we really will end up in paradise. Maybe she’s been right all along.
“Sit,” said Lady Bellenet, holding out one hand, fingers outstretched.
A ridiculous surge of amusement rose in Ru as she drifted forward in her veil, her vision obscured by gold lace. She sat on the throne, which was fit for an empress or a true god, not some half-starved, horror-stricken academic. The throne was as uncomfortable as it looked, cold and unyielding. She glanced up at Taryel, who laid a comforting hand on hers. She imagined how they looked — Taryel Aharis, the Destroyer, clad in black, consort to the woman on the throne. And Ru, sickly under the weight of her veil, of everything — the Keeper of His Heart. The new Destroyer.
Lady Bellenet knelt before them, producing the artifact from the depths of her robes. Like Ru, her raiment was simple and white. The artifact was wrapped in a bundle of cloth, but Ru saw it so clearly, its black shape beneath the fabric.
“Beloved Festra,” Lady Bellenet intoned, “we entreat upon you. We call upon the sun and the stars, the fires of the souls that love you. In this cleansing fire, we declare our devotion, our unending loyalty. And in return, we beg that you show us to the Isle of the Sun, that you open the gates of paradise. We beg that you welcome us into the after with loving arms.”
Ru waited, her gut in knots. She might have retched, had there been anything in her stomach to eject. She turned her hand so that her palm faced upward, twining her fingers with Taryel’s. She could not stop shaking.
“And now,” said Lady Bellenet, rising, “the conduit, Ruellian Delara, the glorious Keeper, will you take the Heart? Will you set it alight, let it consume you, and bring forth a rebirth, the likes of which has never been seen before?”
“Sure,” said Ru. She hadn’t been taught any lines, or if she had, she recalled nothing of them. Hesitantly, she held out her free hand.
Lady Bellenet’s eyes narrowed in disapproval as she set the artifact on Ru’s upturned palm. “And now,” she said, turning to the dead-eyed congregation, “we raise our voices in prayer.”
As one, the Children began to chant. It was the same droning words they had sung at Prayer, an eerie sort of tune that made the hair on Ru’s neck stand up. She wished they would hurry. Midday was only minutes away. All she wanted was for all of this to end.
Something in the sea of Children caught Ru’s eye then. A flash of golden curls amid the white. And squinting against the light, Ru saw that it was Gwyneth. Archie sat beside her, his freckles visible even from the dais. A surge of nausea passed through Ru, and she remembered the way they’d held hands before Lady Bellenet’s blessing. She had to see. She stood slowly, craning her neck to stare over the rows of expressionless Children. Blood drained from her face. Between them on the pew, partly obscured by their robes, Gwyneth and Archie’s hands were clasped tightly together.
Ru sat again, her legs giving way beneath her. The chanting continued, loud and sonorous. Her ears began to ring.
They were holding hands. Ru had seen Lady Bellenet’s power, had seen them lose their souls to her. But here they were, together, skin to skin. And they’d danced together at the ball. Surely, this meant that they weren’t all gone. Some part of them remained, however small. What if Hugon had been wrong? What if the change wasn’t irreversible?
Gripping the artifact in her palm, vice-like, Ru tried to keep her breaths steady as the possibility took hold.
