23

LAILA

Laila brought the blade to her palm and pressed down. She winced, but only out of habit … not pain. In those seconds, Laila felt nothing. Not even the pressure of the knife.

The blankness that had stolen through her the moment she and Hypnos had gone after Enrique came on fast and blinding. She could barely tell Zofia to begin without her before she stole into the kitchens and locked the doors behind her. Alone, she tried to breathe, but she could not feel air stirring in her lungs. The world around her dulled and dimmed.

The last time this had happened, Séverin’s touch had revived her senses, but Laila refused to go to him. To lose any more power over herself would be its own death.

Feel something, she urged her body, staring at the cut. Anything.

One second, then two … then five. Something thick and tarry glugged from the wound. For years, Laila had avoided looking too closely at what was inside her. All her life, her father’s words chased her.

You are a girl made of grave dirt.

Now, Laila felt no horror. If anything, it was pride that moved through her. By all accounts, she should not be alive.

“And yet,” said Laila fiercely. “Here I am.”

Another second ticked before she finally felt it: a dull throb. Laila snatched greedily at the pain.

When she was young, she had imagined different miracles. Like reaching into a tree and finding a mango made of solid gold. Or a prince who might find her washing clothes in the river and be so taken by the sight of her that he would whisk her away to a palace of moonstone and jasper. But now, Laila was old enough to recognize pain for the miracle it was. Pain was a loud, angry line between the living and the dead.

Days ago, Laila had kneeled on a floor of ice … her pain so great, she could not breathe through it. She imagined she would never see Hypnos wave around another glass of wine, Enrique open a book, Zofia reach for a match, or Séverin smile. For every piece lost to her—seconds and heartbeats and texture—each hope regained was a torch flaring to life, and it would hold back the dark.

This blankness might be death’s shadow, but it was not yet the end.

* * *

PERHAPS THE UNIVERSE was delighted with her foolish optimism because it soon revealed even more wonders. At the back of the pantry, Laila found a jar of, if not newly baked, then at least baked within a reasonable amount of time, sugar cookies. It didn’t take her long to find caster sugar which she turned into a pale royal icing to frost the cookies just how Zofia liked them. There was bitter cocoa in the cabinets, which became hot chocolate for Enrique and Hypnos, and when she searched for cinnamon to add to the concoction, her fingers closed around smooth, metal edges, and she drew out a tin of cloves.

When she saw it, she laughed.

“Very well,” she said aloud.

Laila balanced the tray full of food and drinks in her hands as she made her way to the salon. She’d made a similar walk dozens of times in the past, but this one had an air of ritual about it. As if she were making an offering to something greater than herself, and all she could do was hope that it was enough. The door was slightly ajar, and as she opened it, she felt a strange warp in the air.

“Laila, wait!” someone called. “We opened the map again—”

But it was too late.

The door had opened. The moment she stepped inside, a wet droplet splashed onto her wrist. It felt like rain, but it was colder, and alive with a Forged awareness that snuck through her skin, entering her bloodstream and filling her head with visions. When she looked out, the salon room was gone, replaced with something she’d never seen before.

She was standing ankle-deep in a dark lake. Above her, glittering stalactite studded the vaulted ceiling of a cave, surrounded by glossy chunks of obsidian and jet so that it seemed as if someone had taken a hammer to the night sky and arranged its fragments into a cavern. Her consciousness felt pulled forward, skimming over the lake. Only now did she realize the lake was strewn with human bones. The water stretched out many hundreds of meters ahead, ending before a huge wall of carved, semitranslucent amber. The wall seemed backlit by distant fires, shadows licking across the surface and blurring the details of what lay behind it. There, huge and impossible, stood the unmistakable silhouette of giants flanking a squat, jagged structure.

Laila stretched out, as if she could reach past the amber wall …

“Not the cookies!”

She blinked, and the salon came into view once more. Enrique stood in front of her, one hand steadying the tray of treats. A bit of hot chocolate had sloshed down the sides of one of the mugs, and the rich scent of cocoa returned her to her senses.

“What was that?” asked Laila.

Séverin’s dark eyes found hers immediately. “Hope.”

* * *

ENRIQUE SLURPED DOWN the rest of his cocoa, frantically compiling the notes he’d taken on everything they’d witnessed through the mind Forged map. Beside him, Zofia happily munched on a cookie.

“Possible siren statue, lake full of bones, shiny skeleton—”

Hypnos raised his cup. “Can’t forget the shiny skeleton.”

“Massive structures!” said Enrique excitedly. “The kind that, I can’t believe I am saying this, but it could … I mean … could it be the Tower of Babel? I’m certain it is not the exact one that the Western world credits for the origins of Forging. For all we know, there could be multiple sources, but the tower—”

“It was not a tower,” said Zofia, frowning. “It was far too wide.”

“Which proves my point, actually,” said Enrique, setting down his mug.

He walked to his research table, rummaging around before he paused to pull out a faded, yellow illustration. It was a low-slung, jagged, rectangular brick structure with carved steps surrounding it from every angle. It looked about the size of a town square, and its flat top reminded Laila of a massive platform.

“This is an illustration of the Ziggurat of Ur, first excavated about thirty years ago in what we now know is the ancient Sumerian city of Uruk,” said Enrique. “The Tower of Babel was most likely not a narrow construction like we might imagine in Western architecture, but an ancient stepped pyramid like the temples of Babylon and Sumeria.” Enrique tapped the top of the illustration.

Séverin studied the image. “If we were to come to such a temple, then the lyre would be played … where, exactly?”

“Probably in the innermost shrine at the top of the temple,” said Enrique, tapping the paper. “It was thought that only priests and kings were allowed to enter this area as it was considered the point at which heaven and earth met. All kinds of sacred rituals might have taken place there, including heiros gamos.”

“Which is?” asked Hypnos.

Laila noticed that Enrique’s cheeks pinked.

“Er, a sacred marriage,” said Enrique. “Sometimes, a king and a chosen priestess would, um, assume the form of a god and goddess and renew spring throughout the land by … having relations.”

Hypnos frowned. “On a stone floor?”

Enrique looked even more pink. “No, I believe there was a sacred bed and such.”