It would have been a nice final thing to see.
I had time to think this only for a moment, because then my attention turned to the presences on the platform—one above them all, too strong to ignore.
Atrius.
Erekkus was there too, bound and restrained, as well as five other vampire warriors—had they been captured from the battlefield? I didn’t let myself wonder, or else risked feeling things I wasn’t supposed to feel. Two shrouded, elderly Arachessen stood along the outskirts of the circle, presumably the advisors that the Sightmother mentioned at dinner. The vampires were all heavily sedated. Still, I sensed their anger thrashing wildly—unsuccessfully—against the haze of their half-consciousness.
None of them fought as hard as Atrius, though.
They had to have used more powerful magic on him than the others, I could tell immediately, and even then, it had barely been enough. His aura held none of the frantic, directionless fight. Instead, his fury was steady and constant.
He was in the middle, shirtless, his body sagging against a stone pillar. His hair was unbound and messy over his shoulders and chest, which was covered with still-bleeding wounds from our battle. His lashes fluttered as he strained to keep them open.
When I stepped onto the platform, his head struggled to lift. I sensed, agonizingly clearly, the sudden burst of emotions that ran through him at the sight of me—all of them contradictory. Affection. Protectiveness. Hurt. Anger.
All of them there and gone in an instant, hidden behind that steel wall.
Weaver, I envied him, because it was so much harder for me to choke down everything I felt. I couldn’t even let myself acknowledge it, because if I did, I wouldn’t be able to shove any of it back into its box.
In the presence of the Sightmother, I had to feel nothing but gratefulness. Loyalty.
I forced those things to the front of my mind, forced them to drown out everything else. I was an Arachessen. I was a daughter of the Lady of Fate. I was an acolyte of Acaeja. That was all I ever had been. All I ever would be. All I ever wanted to be.
The Sightmother led me across the narrow, silver-railed pathway to the altar, her lush, cerulean-blue skirts rustling with each movement. Her steps had grown a little shaky, her hands clutching the silver rail. I was sure that if her eyes had been visible, her pupils would have been massive. The cocktail of herbs and drugs in her wine, designed to open the passage between her and the world of the gods, worked quickly.
By the time she made it to the altar, she was barely standing up straight. I had to offer her my arm so she could make it up the steps.
The Sightmother sagged over the altar, her palms pressed to the stone, head bowed, catching her breath.
“I can already sense it,” she said. “The path to the gods.”
Even her voice sounded distant.
“All of my strength will be needed to call the attention of Acaeja,” she went on. “To keep the way open. It will be up to you to make the offering.”
With a shaky hand, she reached into her silk robes. Then she withdrew a dagger, the fine blade gleaming silver in the moonlight.
The dagger. My dagger.
“You’ll know when,” she said. “You’ll feel it. Give her his head first. And then the blood of the others.” She laughed a little, a weak exhale. “The head of a vampire touched by Nyaxia. What an offering. We’ll have earned quite a favor tonight, Sylina.”
“Yes,” I agreed. My hand closed around the hilt of the blade, so cold it almost made me flinch. My voice sounded like it belonged to a stranger.
Atrius’s stare, steady and hard despite his near-unconsciousness, pierced my back inch-by-inch, his attention dripping down my spine like blood.
Anticipation hung thick in the air.
At last, the Sightmother lifted her head. Straightened her back. Every muscle moved with such uncanny grace, an unnerving shift from her drug-hindered movements seconds ago. She lifted her chin, face tilted to the sky, palms open at her sides, as if to offer as much of herself to the heavens as possible.
“It’s time,” she murmured. “Light the fire. Let’s begin.”
46
If there was any doubt that magic was thick in the night here, the way the blaze went up—like it was ready to consume the entire world—put it to rest. I had to leap away from the fire pit, my hands shielding my face, the moment I dropped the match. My Threadwalking ritual fires were laughable compared to this. This was a spire of light that pierced all the way through the sky, like the flames were trying to reach for the gods themselves.
And the gods, in turn, reached back.