I stare at the blueprint of the cathedral in front of us on the table. The congregation appears massive, easily several thousand people. I don’t have that sort of range. Or endurance.
“I have a horrible feeling that this isn’t going to work,” I say.
“Three fortune-workers have already prophesized that we will be victorious.”
As Luca would say, you shouldn’t put too much stock in fortune-workers.
“We cannot lose, Sorina,” Chimal says.
“We cannot lose,” I echo. I certainly hope he’s right.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
The two-hundred-and-four-story Cathedral of Saints Dominik and Zdena is fabled as the tallest building in the world. Constructed of solid black stone, it towers over the skyline, not unlike the spires of the Menagerie. It appears like a giant spindle, though it is meant, when the sun is positioned directly over its peak, to resemble a torch. I now understand why Chimal was so eager initially for Hawk’s help, as Hawk could easily enter from above and descend the likely thousands of steps below, completely unnoticed.
It’s difficult to imagine that, in a mere hour, I’ll be in that cathedral.
Four of us approach the city from the hillside road, our carriage freshly painted to appear more regal than anything owned by Gomorrah. Chimal has shed his normal red and black captain uniform for the clothes of a passing peasant. Villiam wears his usual suit, as elegant as any of the other wedding guests. The many layers of Nicoleta’s gown take up nearly an entire seat in our carriage, leaving me only a foot of space in the corner. With the peach fabric, the peachier rouge and her pale complexion, she resembles any Up-Mountain patron who visits Gomorrah. Her transformation is nearly unnerving, especially when she speaks in her practiced accent.
Where Nicoleta is all beauty and elegance, I look—as Venera would say—frumpy and old. The black clothes of a postulant cover every inch of my skin, complete with gloves and heavy leather boots. I’m thankful I told Luca not to come. I feel ridiculous. But at least the absurdity of the costume makes the situation feel lighter.
We’re about to risk our lives.
In the distance, toward the city, a hillside fire clouds the sky with the smoke of Agni’s jynx-work, meant to distract the guards as guests arrive. That, too, is a comfort, even if it’s blacker than the smoke of Gomorrah behind us.
Villiam kisses my forehead. “Be strong.”
“I will be,” I say.
“I love you so much. And I’m very, very proud of you.”
His praise strengthens my resolve, and I smile at him. “I love you, too.”
Even as we grow closer to the city, the cathedral’s tower still seems far in the distance. I don’t believe in Ovren or any Down-Mountain god, but it feels as though a higher power is observing us from that tower, aware of our ill intent. I am no fortune-worker, but I sense doom.
The carriage pauses so that Villiam and Chimal can leave. I hug my father once more, but I don’t say anything. I want to appear strong. I am Sorina Gomorrah, daughter of this city, and this is my destiny.
We abandon them on the hills.
Our driver, a member of the Gomorrah guard, says nothing. He has instructions to remain in the vicinity of the cathedral and await our return, no matter what.
We enter the city gates. They aren’t as impressive as the gates of Cartona, yellow and gleaming. Just as Cartona was the golden city, Sapris is gray, blending into the stone of its hills, silent and shrouded. Even with all our preparation, I’m not certain what awaits me there.
“You look tense,” Nicoleta says. “You need to relax.”
“I’m trying to,” I say.
“It’s just another performance.”
“A performance? My job is to be invisible.” I fiddle with the edges of the nun sleeves, which, on close inspection, are the darkest shade of navy, rather than true black. I hope it will go unnoticed. “Nothing about this is certain. We aren’t even sure that Dalimil is the Alliance’s leader.”
“We’re mostly certain. And if he isn’t, he’ll have information. It will be of value, nonetheless.” She peeks out of the window. “We’re nearing the cathedral. It’s best to remain silent. I’m supposed to appear alone in this carriage.”
It’s impossible not to dwell on what’s coming as the voices grow louder. A church organ plays a somber ballad that sounds inappropriate for a wedding. Other than the musical accompaniment, the atmosphere reminds me of the moments just before a Freak Show. The hushed whispers and chattering of anticipation. I imagine the feeling of our tattered velvet curtain in my hands, the voices of my family behind me.
Our carriage pulls to a stop.
Nicoleta nods to me.
The show is about to begin.
I cast my moth illusion as soon as the liveried attendant opens the carriage door. “My lady,” he says, his eyes on Nicoleta. She grasps his arm for support as she descends to the cobblestones. Just as her foot touches the ground, she makes a show of losing her balance and then, with her other arm, braces herself by keeping the carriage door open. I climb out, invisible, into the city.
“My lady, are you all right?” the attendant asks.
“My shoe merely slipped,” she says, her accent lilting heavily from practice. In the Freak Show, her lines required constant repetition. It took her months to perfect her persona. Here, she seems a natural. I suppose she performs better than me under pressure. They say pressure can turn even a grain of sand into a pearl under the right circumstances.
As Nicoleta joins the queue of pastel-colored guests, I follow in her shadow. My form is gone. My smell, gone. The sound of my footsteps is replaced by the slight flutter of the moth’s wings. I am a ghost.
The tower above us extends endlessly into the overcast sky, turning my stomach even as I admire it. This tower has stood for hundreds of years, and it will likely remain for hundreds more in the same spot. I can imagine why such a landmark would appeal to people: such a rigid sense of home. But then I turn behind me, where the Gomorrah smoke is slightly darker than the afternoon clouds, and the spire of the Menagerie is just barely visible, the flag above it a speck. For the common people of Sapris, that represents excitement. Something new.
I’ve always preferred change to tradition.
After three minutes, the fatigue of the illusion is already setting in. I fix my gaze on Nicoleta’s beaded slippers in front of me to keep my focus.
Nicoleta presents her invitation to the attendant, who allows her to enter the cathedral. I squeeze in past her, careful not to brush shoulders with any of the guests who cannot see me.
Once we enter the cathedral, I immediately adjust my illusion to expand to the crowds and adapt to the dim lighting. Candelabras glow from the edge of every stone pew, and it almost reminds me of the flickering torchlight of Gomorrah. Nicoleta speaks her name to an usher, who directs her to her seat. It’s early enough that the pews are only a quarter of the way filled, and we have nearly a half hour before the ceremony will begin.
While Nicoleta walks to her seat, we both scan the front for someone matching the description of Dalimil. There are many blond men in the crowd. Many tall men—Up-Mountainers are shockingly tall, or at least they seem so to me. I feel like an ant roaming unknowingly in their midst. Nicoleta shakes her head nearly imperceptibly. He isn’t here.
Next I scan the room for other nuns, but there aren’t any. It’s been nearly seven minutes; I need to find some place to conceal myself, somewhere I can still see Nicoleta. Along the edges of the cathedral, behind a row of columns, are individual prayer rooms separated by a gate. Each features a unique piece of artwork, all depicting the artistic prowess of Up-Mountain prodigies: warrior saints cleansing the world of the jynx-work, through such choice weapons as fire, sword or rope.
Sneaking inside proves a complicated task. Not only do I need to continue to conceal myself, I need to make it appear as if the gates are not moving at all. Once inside, I slip myself within the shadow in the corner, angled away from the wandering eye.
And now we wait.
The air smells of incense, which I associate with Gomorrah’s mehndi tents or fortune-workers. Here, however, it doesn’t feel sacred, warm or safe. Despite the summer heat, the inside is kept cool from the thick stones walls of the cathedral. It feels sterile.