The divine pairing existed as a constant reminder that shared strength was their path to salvation. Hence, a Finestra could only magnify someone else’s gift.
Hand in hand with an opera singer, a Finestra could bring the harshest music critic to his knees. For a few minutes after touching an archer, a Finestra could hit every bull’s-eye. And paired with a Fonte, a Finestra could defeat an army of demons sent by the God of Chaos.
At least, that’s how it was supposed to work.
When Alessa first stood before the Consiglio, the row of wizened elders had made it sound as easy as one, two, three.
1.??Choose a Fonte.
2.??Do not kill them.
3.??Amplify their magic to save everyone and everything on Saverio—or become the first to die.
Alessa’s gaze slipped to the glittering coffin.
Well, not the first.
Even now, some insisted the deaths were a good omen. Terribly sad, of course, but reassuring. A Finestra so powerful she accidentally killed her first Fonte? They would be well-protected in the siege. And her second? Well, accidents happened. Besides, she was young, and these things took time. Surely, she’d be more careful with the next. But after three funerals, Alessa’s strength didn’t feel like a promise of victory anymore, and time was running out.
The service concluded with, “Per nozze e lutto, si lascia tutto, però chi vive sperando, muore cantando.” In weddings and mourning, one lets go, but he who lives with hope dies singing. It might have been the saddest thing she’d ever heard. Hugo certainly hadn’t left the world mid-note.
As the pallbearers made their way down the aisle, guests reached out to brush the glossy surface of the coffin.
Alessa did not. Spirit or ghost, surely whatever was left of Hugo would prefer she kept her distance.
As the casket passed beneath an archway of carved stone gods, the crowd murmured, “Rest in the company of heroes,” and he was gone.
Hero was perhaps a bit of a stretch—all he’d done was die—but she had no right to talk.
People stood, straightening jackets and gathering skirts with slow hands, brushing invisible dust from their clothing.
Alessa recoiled at Adrick’s elbow jab to her ribs, her heart racing at the rare sensation of physical contact.
Oh. Everyone was stalling. And she wasn’t taking the hint.
She flashed a rude gesture at him behind her back, then rose and made her way toward Dea’s shrine in the front of the temple. Everyone could flee while she pretended to pray.
Such a dutiful Finestra. So devout. So obedient.
Shielded from curious eyes within the alcove, Alessa sat beside the stone Dea on the altar and rested her cheek against one cold, marble shoulder. Her chest ached, hollow with everything she didn’t have.
Family, forsaken.
Friends, none.
Even the fortress carved into the bedrock of the island wasn’t for her. When Divorando came, other people—people who had families and friends—would huddle together in the darkness, thanking the gods they weren’t her.
When the nave rang hollow, she climbed the wide stairs alone to the piazza above, straining to breathe past the constriction of her gown. The temperature rose with every step, and the fabric clung to her skin, damp with perspiration. At least the Consiglio had finally let her remove her veil during private events after a brush with heatstroke at the last Midsummer’s Gala, and the current fashion of cape skirts—full and long in the back but with overlapping panels that crossed at knee-height in front—saved her from falling on her face daily in the City of a Thousand Stairs.
Alessa stepped out, blinking in the light, to take her place beside Tomo and Renata. The red-faced guards lining the wide steps to the Cittadella saluted, sweating through their uniforms, and the waiting crowd hushed to bow and curtsy.
From her usual vantage point—a balcony off the fourth floor of the Cittadella—the stylish young women of Saverio often looked like flocks of peacocks strutting around the city in jewel-toned skirts. Now, clad in shades of black and gray, they huddled like dirty pigeons around the margins of the piazza.
No one looked directly at her, as if she was too horrible to view with the naked eye, yet, somehow, the weight of their stares pressed in from all sides.
Go ahead. Bow before the blessed savior who keeps killing your friends and family.
At Renata’s pointed look, Alessa flushed, as though she’d spoken aloud the blasphemy in her head. Despite the two decades between them, Renata looked young enough to be Alessa’s sister, with an amber complexion, golden hair, and rich, brown eyes, but to Renata, Alessa was a duty, not family or even a friend. It was painfully clear in moments like this.