Minutes pass as I scan the entering crowds for Dalimil. I briefly make eye contact with Nicoleta, and it’s clear from her expression that she hasn’t seen him, either. What if he doesn’t show? What if all of this danger was for nothing?
With a handful of moments to go before the ceremony begins, Nicoleta temporarily excuses herself from the pew by saying something to the man beside her. I take this as my cue to follow her, and I rush to slip out from the prayer room. We walk side by side, though I am concealed again. She should not gamble with my endurance. I need my illusion-work to last us.
“I don’t see him. There are so many men,” she says. “When everyone forms a line to bless the couple, you will need to be close. You’ll need to find him, if he’s here.”
“I can’t get so close to the altar. Someone could notice my silhouette.”
“We need to find him, Sorina. Gomorrah needs him.”
I sigh. “Fine. But I don’t want to die in this church.”
Nicoleta returns to her seat, and I to my prayer room.
The cathedral doors open, and the wedding procession begins. The bride, a young girl not many years older than myself, wears rose-pink. Her dress trails out nearly three meters behind her, and there are more flowers on her head than there is hair. The groom is nearly two decades her elder, with a beard already touched with gray. He smiles at her in greeting rather than with love.
People have joked and called me Gomorrah’s princess before, but I’m not a political pawn like this girl. I’m not a prisoner of my role. I’m a warrior, at least in this moment.
The priest opens one of the five books of Ovren to begin a reading about how the union of two souls brings them closer to Heaven. Love cleanses one another.
I’ve never heard a religious text of Ovren lacking the usual fire and brimstone.
After the reading, the couple exchanges their vows. It’s then that the procession begins.
I slip out of the prayer room and hurry to the front of the cathedral. It’s so large that it takes me nearly a minute to reach the altar. The line grows behind me as every individual finds a place, and I keep to the steps, facing them. They are an endless line of lemon and apricot and lavender. Men, women and children. I’ve never seen so many Up-Mountainers directly in front of me, without the darkness of Gomorrah behind them. I’m horribly out of place. I don’t belong here.
I look straight at them, but they do not see me.
While in the seating area of the church, I didn’t see the construction of the ceiling above the altar. Directly above us is the tower, which is hollow and black and endless. The tip of the tower must be glass, as a pinprick of light shines down from above, like a single star. It’s horribly eerie, as if I’m staring into the eye of Ovren Himself.
The altar is a simple wooden desk, but the mural behind it catches my eye. A saint of some sort—perhaps St. Dominik, one of the patrons of this cathedral—stands on top of the body of a man, whose face appears disfigured. Bile rises in my throat as I realize how determined the Up-Mountain artist was to depict the man’s ugliness: his blotched skin, his broken limbs.
To Ovren’s disciples, he is impure. Deformed. A freak.
Like me.
My heart races as each of the Up-Mountainers pass through to pick up a flower petal from the basket. One by one, they toss them into the basin. I nearly hold my breath as I struggle to maintain the illusion. I crouch on the white steps, close enough to the passersby to feel the wind of their dresses swishing past. Though I’m invisible, I feel exposed.
I falter for a moment as one man approaches. He wears the white uniform of an officer, ornamented with tassels and medals. He’s almost taller than Chimal told us—six-five, perhaps, and broad, taking the space of nearly two people. His one blue eye and one green eye stare over me into the distance of the church, and he doesn’t look to see if the petal he tosses lands in the basin.
It does.
This man is responsible for the deaths of Blister and Gill, I tell myself. I’m not sure if I believe that, but it will help me to focus in this moment. This man is evil. A sort of fury stirs in my gut.
Dalimil walks past me, and my gaze follows him so I can find his seat. His pew is at the edge of the church, much farther to the right than Nicoleta and I had anticipated.
I search for Nicoleta in the line, and she’s approaching the front. I run to her side as she returns to her pew and then tug on her sleeve.
“He’s here. In the sixth pew on the far right. We must catch him as he leaves.”
I’m out of breath, practically panting. My head aches from all the focus, the constant pushing, the constant creating. I scamper to the edge of the cathedral, to the comfort of the shadows, and gradually release the illusion. The pressure in my mind eases, but my brain feels flimsy, like a muscle overworked. I don’t know how I’ll manage to cover the three of us while we escape.
Now comes the most difficult stunt of our performance: finding an opportunity to lure Dalimil away. It’s unlikely, even if Nicoleta beckoned him, that he would come to her. She’s a stranger. I need to think of something appropriate.
Because I’m in a church, I could play on the surroundings. He could see candles going out, prayer doors opening and lights shining from above. But would he attribute this as an act of Ovren, or would he run?
I could conjure the image of a child alone. If he saw the child, wouldn’t he feel obligated to ensure he found the child’s parents? I remind myself that this is the man who could be responsible for Blister’s death, so perhaps not.
Then I think of the simplest thing. Calling his name.
As soon as the organ plays its final notes and the newly wedded couple exits the church, Nicoleta finds me. Fortunately, Dalimil is in no hurry to leave. He talks to the man beside him, also dressed in a white military uniform.
“Archduke Dalimil,” I call, using a sound illusion to conceal my voice so that only he and I can hear it. It’s such a simple illusion, but the effort of it hits me with a jolt of dizziness. I use what strength I have left to conjure my moth, and then I lean against the column to catch my breath. Every part of me is tired.
He glances at us, or, rather, simply at Nicoleta. She curtsies to him to show her respect, but her calling out to him would not be considered particularly gracious. Still, he says goodbye to the other officer and strays toward us. The crowds of those departing walk behind him, away from our secluded space.
Nicoleta freezes, trying to come up with something to say, I imagine.
“It has been...a while since we last spoke, Your Grace,” she says.
“Forgive me. I don’t recall our last meeting—”
He doesn’t even see her move. To him, seeing my illusion, she is still. Nicoleta slices him on his forearm with a knife, coated in the diluted juice of the black maiden flower. Without a viable explanation for the sudden pain, he merely stands there in stunned silence. The next moment, he collapses to the ground, silent and now invisible to the rest of the congregation.
My head pounds. “Let’s go. I’m dying. Pick him up.”
Nicoleta nods and then reaches down to lift all three hundred pounds of him. He doesn’t budge. She groans and tries a second time, but it’s useless.
“Shit,” she mutters. “Shit. Shit.”
“What’s wrong?” She hasn’t had an issue all week with her abilities.
“It’s not working. I’m not strong.” She gives a third heave but to no avail.
“Don’t hurt yourself,” I say. “You need to move him. I won’t last more than another minute or so.”
“Sorina, I can’t,” she snaps. “It’s not working. I’m not working.”
I curse under my breath. When my illusion fades, if I’m found out, I won’t be treated with mercy. Nicoleta, perhaps, can flee. She looks like an Up-Mountainer. Her abilities aren’t so readily apparent on her face. I am the obvious freak, and I am desecrating a sacred house of Ovren.
We both grab one of his arms and pull him over our shoulders to drag him. The massive weight of the man on my back strains everything I have left, even with his feet dragging across the stone floor behind us.
“I can’t do this,” I grunt.