Cathrynne relaxed a bit at the sight of a haughty archangel bussing the dinner table. Then she nodded to them all and went upstairs. Once in her bedchamber, Cathrynne unwrapped the bandage around her left hand. Three of her fingers were still eggplant purple, but the swelling and pain were minimal. Her angel blood made her heal twice as fast as a witch—which was still faster than a human.
Cathrynne took a long, hot bath. Then she rewrapped her hand and lay down on the canopy bed, enjoying the ambience of the Iskatar Room. She fancied that it smelled of warm cardamom and fragrant smoke from water pipes. If she concentrated hard enough, she could hear the roar of the crowd as the winners knelt to receive laurel wreaths.
At least the artist hadn’t painted any blue emperors or great northerns darkening the skies. No reminders of the monsters her womb would produce if she ever . . . Well, it didn’t bear dwelling on. She and Mercy were different that way. Cathrynne did not like to think about the Sinn, nor to talk about them.
The quiet murmur of conversation downstairs made her drowsy. It reminded her of the dinner parties her mother used to throw with lots of fabulous people, witch and human. Another thing Cathrynne rarely thought about anymore.
After a while, she drifted into disturbing dreams.
A boy floated in water, a wine-colored birthmark branding his pale, bloated cheek. His eyes opened and the river around him darkened with blood.
The scene shifted to a windy hilltop. A witch with a scarred hand held up a card. It bore an image of The Scythe, one of the thirty-six symbols she saw in her foretellings. A harbinger of violent change. A reaping.
“He comes,” the Morag said, her voice harsh and guttural. “God-killer. Dark-bringer.”
She stood in front of a kloster. Cathrynne saw dirty faces pressed to the windows. They were staring at her, lips moving, though she could not hear their voices.
Isbail Rosach laughed grimly. “It is the end of an age. The Summerlord will fall. And you, Cathrynne Rowan, are the Witch of Winter.” The Morag reached out, seizing Cathrynne’s jaw in a bruising grip. “He comes!”
She woke with silk sheets tangled around her legs and the taste of river water in her throat. Trembling, Cathrynne whispered a prayer to Minerva. Then she switched on all the lamps and waited for Mercy to fetch her for second watch. What the dreams meant, she didn’t know. Only that sleep would not return this night.
Chapter 8
Kal
She kept her head down as she hurried along Rua Capitolana, the collar of her peacoat flipped up to hide the ship tattoo on her neck—an impulsive decision from happier days that only made her stand out.
Blustery morning rain had left the gutters choked with wilted paper idols. No one touched them, not even the street rats who scrounged coins cleaning the sidewalks in front of shops. Everyone knew it was bad luck.
Kal could write a damned book on bad luck. How she wished they had never gone into that abandoned mine. Durian would be with her right now, arguing about whose turn it was to brew a pot of kopi over the campfire. They’d watch the sun rise and then they’d go searching the canyons for Sinn artifacts. Collectors paid big money for a scale or claw.
Instead, she was stuck in Kota Gelangi and witches were hunting them both.
Seven days had passed since Durian went into the river. A week of repeating the same desperate mantra: He’s alive. He knows how to swim. We’ll find each other.
Kal’s gut tensed as the crowds parted for a tall witch walking his caracal. The massive cat padded beside its master, its green eyes sweeping the street. He wasn’t one of the pair they’d tangled with, but maybe they were all looking for her now.
Travian’s bones!
Kal almost panicked but forced herself to keep walking. If she crossed the avenue, she’d just draw attention to herself.
Act casual. Don’t make eye contact.
She turned to a shop window, catching a glimpse of her bouncy halo of dark brown curls and long, rangy stride. The caracal’s ear tufts twitched as she passed, but the witch didn’t pay much attention to her. She released the breath she’d been holding only after rounding the next corner.
Ten more minutes and she reached Liberty Square, with the Red House on one side and ornate office buildings on the other. They had rooftop billboards advertising the city’s gossip rags. Kota Confidential, The Provincial Gazette, Rumor Has It, and The Daily Mumble.
Kal slipped into a park next to the square, which offered the best view while providing cover. It was her and Durian’s meeting place. If they were ever separated, they’d come to the monument dedicated to the Trinity, wait until sunset, and repeat daily until they found each other.
The bronze statue sat atop a slab of black marble in the center of the square. Valoriel stood on the left, broad wings unfurled, gazing outward with stern authority. Durian referred to him as the “tasty beefcake” of the Trinity, which was true but almost certainly some kind of heresy.
Beside the father of the angels, the witch goddess Minerva held a pick in one hand and a handful of gems in the other. And on the right, Travian, sire of the humans.
Unlike the other gods, whose forms were unchanging, Travian was sometimes depicted as male, sometimes as female. This particular statue was long-haired and androgynous. Travian strummed a lute, face caught in a moment of sardonic amusement, as if they alone understood some cosmic joke.
Durian had been raised in the Cult of the Bard, a loosely organized offshoot that claimed Travian had never left Sion and was still around, walking among his children in disguise. Durian was an avid believer, unlike Kal, who cared less about absentee gods and more about getting out of Pota Pras. But every day, she had prayed to Travian to keep an eye on her best friend. To help them find each other.
She sat down against a tree whose leaves were turning to autumn gold. There were hardly any trees in Pota Pras so she couldn’t say what kind it was. That’s the sort of thing Durian would know. His mother had moved around a lot when he was young, and he loved to tease Kal for being a provincial rustic, while he was a sophisticated man of the world.
