Page 128 of The Song Rising

“He remains in thrall to Terebell Sheratan, unable to see the true nature of the humans he believes he can save.”

Something about her tone when she said that name—Terebell Sheratan—sent a trickle of unease through me.

“Humans have conducted their own affairs for too long. You have failed to govern yourselves,” she said. “If we did not rule, this opportunity to save you would be lost forever.”

“I’ve seen your disregard for life,” I said. “You expect me to believe you want tosaveus?”

“Killing you all would destabilize the ethereal threshold beyond repair. Some will live,” she said, “to serve the empire. To maintain the natural order. The natural order does not place human beings at the top of the hierarchy; you only think it does. Now is the age of the Rephaim.”

I had been naïve. I had thought of Nashira Sargas as purely evil, purely sadistic—but she knew more about us than we did. We had given her the tools to bring us to our knees.

But if we also gave her our freedom, there would be no getting it back.

“This building we stand in,” I said, “was designed by human minds and created by human hands. Through nothing but our ambition, and the freedom to create, we can turn a thought into a masterwork. We can make the intangible real.”

She was quiet. I had listened to her, and she was returning the courtesy.

“That’s what humans do. We make. We remake. We build, and we rebuild. And yes, sometimes we paint with blood, and we tear down our own civilizations, and it might never stop. But if we’re ever to unlearn our darker instincts, we have to be free to learn better ones. Take away the chance for us to change, and I promise you, we never will.” I looked her in the eye. “I’m willing to fight for that chance.”

Nashira appeared to digest this. She stood facing London, a metropolis created by centuries of humanity. London, with its secret, folded layers of history and beauty, as perfectly formed as the petals of a rose. The deeper you ventured into its heart, the more there was to peel away.

“The Grand Overseer has petitioned me to stay your execution,” the blood-sovereign said. “For a human, he is . . . insightful. He believes that if I do not allow your gift to continue burgeoning over the years, I may not inherit it at its fullest. I told the Archon’s staff to assess you. They agree that your talents have not matured—or that you are simply weak.”

The pain had been a test, then, and I had failed.

“For now, you are all I have. Until I find another dreamwalker, I may consider this proposal. I may consider sending you to France, under a new identity, to live out the rest of your natural life in Sheol II.”

“What do I have to do?”

Not even her eyes moved.

“Tell me,” she said, “where I can find the Mime Order.”

Two words now stood between me and my execution. All I needed to say wascrisis facility.

I could lie my way to borrowed time. I could give her the name of a random street or an abandoned building.

“If you deceive me,” Nashira said, “you will find that I am less merciful in the manner of your execution.”

There was no way out of this. It was the truth or nothing.

I chose nothing.

“I am Underqueen of the Scion Citadel of London.” I raised my head. “I will be that until I go to the æther, and if there’s one thing I can do, it’s give them a chance. If I give you any part of the Mime Order, I give you hope. And I can’t take that away from them.”

She was silent for what seemed like hours. Before either of us could speak again, Alsafi came back through the doors.

‘Are you finished with the prisoner, blood-sovereign?”

Nashira’s nod was hardly visible. She didn’t even look angry; just blank. My legs shook, but I slapped on a mask of defiance before I followed Alsafi out of the Inquisitorial Gallery.

I risked a glance as we walked down the corridors. I had no idea what the surveillance was like; better to wait for him to speak. He wore what he had in the colony: that old-fashioned, uniformly black attire, with a cloak over it all. His face was more readable—morealive, somehow—than those of other Rephaim, with eyes of a lamp-bright green. This was a Rephaite who took his fill of aura whenever he pleased.

“We do not have long,” he muttered. “Your cell is under close surveillance. Whatadvicedo you have for me?”

“Senshield is here—in the Archon. The core is beneath a glass pyramid,” I said, “in a room with pale walls. I think it’s somewhere high up—in a tower, maybe—somewhere the Archon’s personnel wouldn’t be able to stumble upon it by chance, or sense it. There’s a white light, too. Bright enough that you might be able to glimpse it from outside.”

His face didn’t betray whether he recognized the image.

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