“I’m just glad it’s here,” Sarai breathed, swallowing her fear. “Let’s go get it back.”

They flew toward it. In Weep, it had been full daylight, but here it seemed a gloaming time, maybe dusk, maybe dawn. Or maybe there wasn’t night or day here, but only perpetual half-light. Sarai couldn’t shake the feeling of having slipped not through a cut in the sky, but into a stranger’s dream—or nightmare, more like.

There was the sea with its lurid blood color, its violent froth and roar. Silhouettes of great beasts moved dark beneath its surface, vying and clashing in savage attacks that seemed to make the water roil redder. The massive bristling white stalks were awful for their sheer improbability, and the ceiling of mist seemed as much a barrier as the sea, too dense, too dark to navigate.

The silk sleighs were quiet, making only a low, steady shhhhh as air streamed from the propulsion bladders on their undersides. The warriors held their swords at the ready. Thyon drew his dueling blade and felt like an impostor. Ruby conjured palmfuls of fire, and glanced more than once out of the corner of her eye to see if the humans were impressed—the golden one, especially. She couldn’t get enough of the sight of him, which had not gone unnoticed by Feral.

Minya held the mesarthium shard; they had passed it around, taking turns holding it to keep their magic fresh, but she was never easy until it was back in her possession. She stood in the prow of the sleigh, small and straight, and looked into the face of the seraph as they approached it.

She felt a strange kinship for it. The rage in that frozen scream spoke to something deep within her. As she had lived inside the citadel, so, too, had she lived inside her rage. Every thought she had and every feeling had been filtered through it. But now it was as though she had taken a step backward and could see it there like a red haze. And she saw the fear at the heart of it, too, like a thorn deep in a festering wound. Everything looked clearer now. She was even able to understand that what she saw on that immense metal face was a reflection of the woman who had altered it, whether consciously or not.

Which meant that the flutter of kinship Minya was feeling was for her.

Where was she, though, the real woman? They approached the citadel with caution, coming up from behind, over the wing to the left shoulder. Their options for entry were limited by the seraph’s huddled pose. With its arms clutched around itself, the doors in the wrists were cut off. And even if they’d been able to get in that way, the corridors would have become vertical shafts, too smooth to try to climb. There was only the garden and its arcade.

They were afraid to approach directly, lest there be guards on watch. They would have to ease around from the back and try to get a look in without giving themselves away. Sarai was afraid the sleigh wouldn’t be able to reverse quickly enough if someone was there. With its bright red pontoons, even a glimpse of it would draw any remotely vigilant eye. Still, they would have proceeded, had Calixte not proposed another solution.

“Let me off,” she said. “There.” She pointed to the seraph’s shoulder. “Let me climb around and scout it out first. I’ll be much less conspicuous.”

“Climb?” The godspawn were astonished. “It can’t be climbed,” said Feral with authority and the lightest whiff of disdain.

“Maybe not by you,” replied Calixte in kind. “We all have our strengths, and that’s mine. That and assassination.” She winked over her shoulder at Thyon, who had never given any credence to that claim, but was now rather wishing it were true. He wouldn’t mind if Calixte were to slip away for a few minutes and quietly solve their problem.

Sarai knew who Calixte was, both from her dream explorations and Lazlo’s descriptions. She knew all about the tower and the emerald, and even her practice climbing the anchor in Weep. Still, she looked at the place Calixte indicated, and the thought of her climbing overboard onto sheer mesarthium was terrifying, especially since she knew all too well what it was like to slip over that surface and not find a handhold. But Calixte insisted. “Furthermore,” she added, “I can finally win my bet with Ebliz Tod.”

Her fellow delegate and countryman had wagered that she couldn’t climb the anchor. Well, the anchors were no more, but the citadel itself seemed a suitable substitution, especially considering the risk of sliding off into a red sea filled with monsters. “And anyway,” she concluded decisively. “This is why I’m here.” She paused and sketched a quick glance around. “Well. Not here here. But in Weep, at least. Eril-Fane brought me along in case I might come in handy. I haven’t yet, so let me.”

And so it was decided. Sarai looked to Tzara in case the warrior might object or at least look alarmed, but she only embraced Calixte and kissed her and stood back to watch with fierce pride as Calixte did what she had, after all, come halfway round the world to do: climb.

Feral, somewhat chastened, maneuvered the sleigh closer to a spot on the wing that Calixte indicated, near the shoulder blade. She climbed over the railing, her slight weight not tipping it at all, and...stepped off. None of them were expecting it. Their breath caught in a unified gasp. Sarai rushed to lean over the railing and look down, sure she would see the young human reeling down the metal, scrabbling desperately for a handhold.

But she wasn’t. She was scaling it as easily as an ordinary person might walk across a street.

For a moment they just watched in awed silence. Then Ruby asked simply, “...how?”

“She’s part spider,” Thyon said, remembering she’d told him that.

“Come again?” said Ruby.

Tzara smiled, her eyes never straying from Calixte. “It’s quite scandalous. Her great-grandmother apparently fell in love with an arachnid.”

“Well, that makes us seem positively normal,” said Sparrow as they all watched Calixte make her way up the curvature of the angel’s shoulder and lower herself over the other side, vanishing from their view. They stayed out of sight, and could only stare fixedly at the last place they’d seen her, waiting for her to reappear and either motion them nearer or...perhaps not reappear at all.

But she did, after five minutes that felt like an eternity. Her head popped up, followed by a beckoning arm, and they all let out their breath as one. How easily, Sarai mused, they’d all fallen into rhythm. Adjusting her valves, she set the silk sleigh to scud gently forward, and followed, full of trepidation, as Calixte led them over the edge and all the way down into the garden. Their garden. Their home. Their plum trees and kimril patch.

At first it was a surprise to see it crowded with metal creatures, but then Sarai remembered—this wasn’t Nova’s doing, but Lazlo’s. He had brought their guests up on the beasts of the anchors, and here they were with Rasalas.

Her hearts were pounding as she made her descent, expelling enough ulola gas to bring the silk sleigh down to rest on the very same patch of anadne flowers where her body had been immolated. She was conscious as she did so that they would be unable to re-ascend, and could not now reach the portal to make the return journey home. They were committed.

“Aren’t they here?” she asked Calixte in a whisper, looking all around, furtive.

“Ye-e-es,” Calixte said, the word unfolding like an accordion. “They’re here.” And, with a hushing gesture, she led them to the arches of the arcade.

Sarai, following warily, caught a glimpse of movement from within and flattened herself against a pillar, gesturing to the others to halt or hide.

“It’s all right,” said Calixte, then reconsidered her words. “Well, no, it’s really not. But anyway, you’d better look.”

Sarai peered around the pillar, and the whole ungodly scene was revealed.

Chapter 58

A Dying Wish

The gallery wasn’t empty. As Calixte had said, they were here, all of them: Nova, Werran, Rook, Kiska. And Lazlo.

Lazlo.

He was in a cage far too small for his long frame, his head bent and his legs shoved into an agonizing crouch. Sarai longed to run to him, to wrench the cage open, but there was no chance of that. The mesarthium cage would yield only to Lazlo’s gift—whoever possessed it—and anyway, she wouldn’t be able to get to him.

A faint iridescent bubble enclosed him, like the one that had held Eril-Fane and Azareen as they endured their deaths over and over. Kiska and Rook were trapped inside it, too, and this was the movement Sarai had glimpsed. Lazlo, in his cage, was still. It was Kiska and Rook who were in motion—the same motion, the same few seconds repeated, so that Sarai and the others were witness to the moment of their mutiny.

It could only be that.

Kiska was in profile. Sarai saw her hand clench into a fist as she lowered her chin. There was intense focus in her one visible eye— the green one—and then it was gone as her head snapped back and she was thrown off her feet to collide with Rook, who caught her with one arm, the other reaching out in the same spell-casting gesture Nova had made earlier, as though he had tried—and clearly failed—to create a loop of his own.

His target was still right where she must have been then: at the head of the table.

“She’s in my chair,” Minya whispered with stiff displeasure.

And she was. She was asleep in it, slumped forward over the table with her head cradled in one arm and the other hanging limp, as though she had finally succumbed to an exhaustion so profound she could do nothing but sink down where she was and lay down her head.

After neutralizing the threat of her own people who had turned against her.

Werran too. He wasn’t caught in the time loop. He was just outside it, the worse for wear, because he was caught in a serpent’s mouth.

The beast was mesarthium, like Rasalas and the others in the garden, but it was inchoate, half formed out of the metal of the floor, from which it appeared to emerge, like a breaching sea creature, to capture its prey in massive jaws. Werran’s feet hung out one side of the beast’s mouth, his head and shoulders from the other. One arm was free and had fallen still, as limp as Nova’s, and blood-encrusted from an earlier wound. When he caught sight of them in the arch, he renewed struggling, though feebly.