Chapter 44

Andala's face was still burning from Oriane's touch as she watched her transform, soar upwards, disappear.

Her heart thrummed as if she'd been running, and unshed tears stung the backs of her eyes. All her senses felt heightened, her body alight, her mind hyperaware.

She had been drawn to Oriane from the moment she'd first laid eyes on her. Was it inevitable that it should happen, like calling to like? A simple matter of the two of them being the only two of their kind? Andala did not think so, somehow. It was more than that.

The specifics of it didn't matter, though. Not anymore. She had always pulled back from the lure of the lovely, lonely girl from the cottage in the woods, shied away from the connection even as it settled in her soul. But she was past denying it now.

She couldn't see beyond the trees in front of her, but she faced east. The direction of the island that awaited Oriane – awaited them both, if Andala could manage to do what she'd done but once before: take control of her power, claim it as her own. The way she felt right now, she thought she might be able to—

A sound in the woods behind her. A bootstep? Another?

Andala turned. Her heart, soaring hopefully before, crashed low and set to furious beating.

She scanned the clearing. Nothing, but the woods beyond were lost in shadow. Where were Kitt and Tomas? How close had they said Terault's people were?

A chill of fear descended like water tumbling over her head, extinguishing the wild elation she'd felt. She'd almost forgotten the danger she was in. She needed to move—

Sheer instinct had her ducking just in time as someone lunged at her from behind.

Andala hit the ground and rolled. Whirling, she caught sight of a figure righting themselves from the stumble they'd taken. A figure in blue robes.

Her mind went blank with panic. They were here. They'd found her.

She readied herself to run – where, she did not know – but another person, two, three, emerged from the gloom before her like ghouls.

‘ Andala! Anda— '

A shout from beyond the clearing, cut off by a thud and a cry of pain. That had sounded like Kitt's voice. There was a muffled cry of rage – was that Tomas? Had they both been caught, too?

More bootsteps sounded, stomping through the undergrowth.

Change, Andala told herself desperately, as the blue-robed figures stalked towards her. Fly.

But she could not. The power in her breast was dormant, dying, dead.

She spun around. The first person who'd entered the clearing, a woman, was at her back. They had her trapped on all sides.

The woman stormed towards her. Andala braced herself to lash out, to fight—

A strong set of hands seized her from behind. She thrashed, but there were more hands on her now, restraining her arms, forcing a cloth over her mouth and nose, stifling her scream. 359

A sharp sweet scent was the last thing she knew before darkness crashed down like a wave.

Andala sat up with a start – or tried to. Her body was wrenched painfully down, as if by invisible hands. She could not move, but there was nobody forcing her back that she could see.

No. She was not being forced down. She was tied down.

As her head stopped spinning enough for her to make out her surroundings, fear rose in her throat like bile.

She was out in the open somewhere, flat on her back on a hard stone slab. There was nothing around her but darkness; no light above, no sound but her own laboured breathing and the wind as it whispered over her body. Andala was alone.

At least, she thought she was. And after a moment, she wished she were. For there were people around her. She could sense them but not see them, standing silently, watching her struggle.

She became aware of them with a shock that sent her heart into her throat. As her eyes adjusted to the canvas of night around her, she could make out shapes. Silhouettes. And then the gleam of disembodied eyes, reflecting the light as they stared at her.

The light—

Andala twisted herself as far as she could to the side. The light source was behind her: a single, small torch, held aloft in a spectral hand. As it rose higher, the flame whipped about in the breeze, but stayed strong, finally illuminating the face of the person who held it.

Terault, clear-eyed, expressionless, gave a signal to his followers, who closed in like wolves around the raised slab where Andala was tied. More torches lit up the night. With a jolt, she realised she'd 360 been brought to the clearing Kitt had seen, atop the promontory that faced towards the island. A fresh wave of dizziness cascaded through her as she made out the shadowed shapes of temple ruins looming large over the gathering.

The followers began to murmur among themselves. Anticipation hung heavy in the air, coating Andala's skin like cold sweat. It was difficult to breathe. She thrashed against her bindings, her body twisting in a frenzy of dread.

‘Lie still,' Terault said. There was no invitation in his low voice, no intent to placate or soothe. Just victory. Just power. ‘Do not make a spectacle of yourself, nightingale. Lie still or I will make you.'

Andala did as he commanded. Damn her fearful, traitorous heart, she did it. Who had she become, that she would lie back and let this man do what he would to her? But this was what she'd always been. Scared. Weak. As Terault came to stand beside her and laid a hand on her shaking shoulder, Andala bit back a scream.

‘Loyal believers,' the seneschal called, his voice carrying easily across the clifftop. ‘The moment has come.'

A ripple of excitement from the crowd.

Terault stood to the side, so he could look directly down at Andala. As he did, the clouds that had cloaked the stars moved aside, and his face was suffused with cold silver light. A smile curved his lips now, and it was this – not the crowd pressing in on every side, not even the dagger she had spotted shining in his hand, but the hunger, the conviction on his face – that convinced Andala this was really the end. She knew what he was about to do, and there was nothing she could do to stop it.

‘The skylark has eluded us,' Terault called, and there was barely restrained fury in his voice. ‘But it is no matter. You will still bear witness to the forging of a new god tonight. We have here with us the 361 nightingale – a lesser goddess, yes, and one that we have never revered as we have the lark. But once I possess one skysinger's form … Well, then it shall be easy to go after the other, and to do the same to her.'

Horror flooded Andala, a whitewash, a fever-pitch, settling like a hand around her neck as she watched Terault's grip tighten on his dagger. She began to thrash again. It was no use. She could not escape.

‘I feared you all believed our cause was lost, when both the lark and the nightingale escaped us,' Terault went on. He was enjoying this, relishing the rapturous attention of the crowd, the total control he held over them and over her. ‘But you see now that your continued faith has rewarded you. Not two days have passed, and the plans I set in motion so long ago are already back on their way to fruition. You do not know how long I have sought to serve you, my friends, the things I have done to ensure we would arrive at this moment.'

Terault's face had shuttered a little now, a stillness dropping like a mask over his features. Andala watched as his focus shifted, eyes fixing on something she couldn't quite make out. At a slight jerk of Terault's head, a set of figures began to move from beneath the shadow of a broken pillar. Torchlight fell upon them, and Andala's stomach dropped. It was Kitt and Tomas, each bound and gagged and restrained by two men.

‘It has taken unwavering dedication to bring us here. It has taken sacrifice,' Terault went on. ‘As seneschal to the Merideans, I spent years trying to show Queen Heloise the error of her family's ways; years trying to tell her how to right their wrongs, how to steer her country away from its path of faithless darkness and back towards the light. But the queen … Well, you knew your queen. Heloise was a strong-minded woman – as strong in her conviction as I am in mine. 362

‘I came to realise that if we were ever to see change, it would have to start with us. With the people. With me.' He paused, the echo of his words ringing in the void. ‘If we were to see our faith rise once more, Queen Heloise could be queen no longer. Someone else must take her place; someone more – open. More malleable. But with Queen Heloise hale and strong, action had to be taken to set such things in motion. Sacrifice made, for the greater good.'

Andala watched with dawning comprehension as Terault's eyes flicked towards King Tomas, unreadable.

‘Only I was willing to do what needed to be done.'

There was a cry, muffled and strangled, yet so fraught with pain and fury that it resonated in Andala's chest like a struck bell. She could see Tomas from the corner of her eye. The king thrashed against his captors, looking like a wild animal restrained. Shock rolled through her in a dull wave. Queen Heloise hadn't died of an illness. Tomas hadn't inherited the throne by chance. Terault had orchestrated it all, from the very beginning.

Somehow the king had managed to dislodge his gag. ‘You killed her! ' he roared, fighting tooth and nail against the men who held him back.

Terault looked away, as if he couldn't stand the sight. ‘It pained me, to lose such a queen as Heloise. She could have been a revolutionary; she could have led us towards a new beginning. I had hoped King Tomas would do so instead. But he has proven to be as dogmatic and closed-minded as his mother. He is not fit to rule. Not now, and not in the new age that awaits us.'

Someone had repositioned the gag in Tomas's mouth. His voice was muffled once more, blending in with the fresh ripples of anticipation that flowed through the crowd of devotees. As one they moved closer around her. Andala's heart sped to the point of bursting as Terault turned to her once more. 363

‘Let us not delay any further,' he said, raising his voice to ring out over Tomas's stifled shouts, passing his torch off to a follower beside him. ‘Let us usher in that long-awaited age. Let us farewell the nightingale and welcome the new god of night.'

Andala could hear Kitt shouting now, too. From the corner of her eye, she saw the two men struggling, their eyes white-wide and bright as they fought desperately to free themselves. Terault seized her chin, turned her face towards his, and there was nothing in his eyes but focused, unshakeable faith.

He raised the dagger.

And Andala's mind cleared. Her body relaxed. Her fear ebbed away, washing out as with a tide. It was the moment of calm before a storm breaking, the split second of clarity before a sudden fall. Here, at the end of it all, all she could think was one thing: at least it was her.

Not Oriane. Not Amie. At least Andala was the only one paying the price for her inheritance. At least it was not her daughter's blood that would be spilled because Andala had cursed her, or Oriane's heart, pure and golden as it was, that would be cut from her still-breathing body.

Andala closed her eyes.

Was she imagining the familiar coldness in her chest? Was it the feeling of her power responding, rising to the surface to greet its new possessor – or was it the blade itself, sharp as an ice shard as it sank into her heart? Either way, she welcomed it. Wanted it. Better all this be over with, if there was to be no other way.

But before that deathly chill could take its final hold, something else appeared beside it.

Warmth.

Just a flicker at first, like the first tongue of flame that quests forth to caress a kindling fire. Then more – enough to discourage the cold, to beat it back. 364

Distantly, inevitably, Andala thought of Oriane again. This was how Oriane made her feel. Warm, when she thought she might freeze. Safe, when her soul was in danger. Andala felt a smile ghost across her trembling lips.

Suddenly, she decided she wanted to open her eyes, to look her death in the face as it loomed before her. And when she did, she saw light.

Not the flicker of a torch, or the distant shimmer of cold stars. Not the bright light of oblivion, the blinding, blazing flash that she imagined might precede eternal dark. This light was faint as a whisper, soft as a breeze – not so much a burning beacon as a hint of hope; a sign, a promise, a certainty.

It was the first light of the rising sun.

Dawn. Dawn was breaking. Oriane was singing. And that meant she had reached the island.

Relief crashed over her, bracing in its strength. Oriane had found Ile Deiale. Oriane was waiting there.

But as she looked back at the seneschal, the warmth that bloomed in Andala's chest faded, frigid fright seeping back in its place. He had noticed the day's first light, too. He lifted his face to the east, and that same knowledge gleamed in his eyes: Oriane had found Ile Deiale. Oriane was waiting there. Andala knew what that meant for him.

He turned his keen, cold gaze slowly back to her.

The sun had crested the distant horizon now. Its first rays tipped the cliff's edge with gold, spilling blessed light over the sea, catching in a vicious gleam on the blade the seneschal still held.

No. She would not let that happen. She would not die here, not now she knew Oriane—

‘ Terault! ' a voice bellowed. 365

Other voices rose too. There was some commotion, back in the shadow of the trees, but she couldn't see what.

At the ringing of blade against blade, Terault looked up. Andala's heart punched against her ribs. She didn't know what was happening, but she had to make the most of the distraction. She struggled against her bonds with renewed vigour, twisting her wrists, heedless of the rope's chafe and burn. If she could just get the bindings there to give—

Terault took a step away from her, towards the disturbance. The torch-bearing follower had disappeared, but as more dawn light blushed through the world, Andala stole a glance towards the trees once more, and saw it.

King Tomas had escaped his captors.

In the rising daylight, his face shone wild with rage. He had captured a sword. He was using it to fend back Terault's men. Vengeance burned in his eyes, clear even from a distance.

The king spun to cut Kitt free, dashed a blade from a woman's hand and tossed it to him. And as the two men began to fight, Andala saw two of Terault's followers turn their coats once more, and join them.

The sight struck hope back into her, sudden and bright as a meteor. Tomas, who had made just as many mistakes as she, who had just as much responsibility on his shoulders, who was just as afraid of letting people down – he was still fighting, and his people, like hers, still stepped up to help him.

Terault did not move to halt the fray or join it. Instead, he turned to Andala, and dropped his dagger back to her heart.

Her world narrowed once more to the press of cold steel at her chest. The blade pierced her shirt's thin fabric like a sharpened spear of ice. 366

It was a feeling familiar to her.

She needed the cold now. She needed the dark. She closed her eyes and embraced it.

And as she did so, she heard the skylark's song.

There was no way it could have reached her. The island was too far away for the sound to carry here. Perhaps, as she had that first time, she was feeling rather than hearing it. The song lit a flame inside her heart, right next to the ever-present shard of ice. The two sat in harmony, in balance, neither melting nor smothering the other but forming two halves of a whole, two sides of a coin that spun and kept the world spinning with it.

The dawnsong was so different to Andala's song of night. The call of the darkness was sorrow and suffering, sins and secrets. But it was also beauty. It was the canvas upon which the stars were painted, over which shimmering galaxies were stretched. It was a void, but not a vacuum, a space that existed to be filled. And in the end, it was the only thing that allowed light to shine.

Andala came back to herself; the world sped back into motion around her. Sound and vision rushed back in, and in an instant she saw Tomas breaking away from the others and surging towards her. She felt the tip of Terault's blade sinking into her flesh. But as the king launched himself at his seneschal, as the knife bit deep enough to draw blood, Andala did not fear.

She understood her song better now, she thought. And alongside the ice in her heart, there was warmth, which was not just Oriane, but Kitt, Girard, Amie.

With that understanding, Andala transformed.

367 She slipped through the bonds, through Terault's flailing hands. She spread her wings. She flew.

The sun kept rising steadily, bathing the clifftop in a warm golden glow. Andala's wings carried her effortlessly above the mayhem unfolding beneath her; above the king and the seneschal, grappling with one another near the promontory's edge.

She could fly across the sea now, to find her skylark. All she had to do was turn towards the light.

But there was something she had to do first.

Wheeling on a wing, she dove towards the skirmish on the clifftop. Terault and Tomas were still locked in a furious struggle on the bluff.

As Andala watched from above, both king and seneschal careened towards the edge, teetered there, and tumbled over.

She soared past the end of the headland, over the sheer drop beneath it. She expected to see them plummeting towards the water, soon to be lost to the depths far below. But there was an overhang tucked away beneath the cliff's edge – a ledge, with two bodies upon it.

Andala flew down to them. She hoped Tomas had survived the fall. Despite everything he'd done, he didn't deserve to die here. And thank the skies – movement. The king was moving, stirring slightly, trying to haul himself up. He was alive.

Terault was moving too. Though his body looked fragile, broken, he had survived like Tomas.

But unlike Tomas, perhaps Terault did deserve to die here.

The sudden certainty of her potential rose within Andala. She was not just a girl , like Terault thought. She was not even just a nightingale.

She was a god. 368

So how should she punish him? How should she make him pay for the pain he'd caused and the chaos he'd sown?

Perhaps, she mused, I should take his eyes. If he desired her power so much, why not give him the darkness? Let him live in it forever?

But even as she pictured it – the stabbing blows, the flowing blood – she knew that she would not do it.

The old Andala might have done it. Might have considered it a fitting punishment, a poetic final blow. But the person she was now, the person she wanted to be – the nightingale, whole and integral and secure in her power – knew that darkness was not a punishment, not even one to be doled out by a vengeful god. It was impartial, inevitable, nothing but a part of life and of those who lived.

So instead, without knowing entirely why, she beat her wings and rose high again, and sang.

It was not time for the nightingale's song. The sun was barely risen, still climbing in the sky. Oriane's own music still lingered in her ears. But the notes streamed forth just the same. It was not the unstoppable impulse it usually was; Andala was in control, and so sure that this was right.

A shadow began to fall across the sun.

She had never seen anything like it. It was still daytime; the sun still shone. But something was stretching across it like a great dark canvas. The light was fading, turning fey and eerie.

In wonder, Andala realised it was the new moon passing across the sky. Drawn up from where it had begun to sink into slumber, it was sailing the skies as if they were a sea, and it a great celestial ship.

And finally, as she had somehow known they would, they aligned: sun and moon, night and day. A perfect fit. A palimpsest. 369

Andala hovered in the air, song still streaming from her throat as the disc of darkness slipped into place, ringed around its edge by pure white light.

Below her, all hell broke loose once more.

Terault's people were panicking. They ran, screamed, stumbled around in the fresh darkness. Perhaps they thought they'd angered the gods, or that those gods had forsaken them entirely. Many of them surged towards the cliff's edge in search of the seneschal, and Andala could not tell if they sought solace or retribution.

She flew down over Terault as his limbs convulsed, not giving him a second look. She dipped towards Tomas instead. He had dragged himself to his knees. As he raised his head towards her, Andala directed the last notes of her song his way, hoping he'd understand what it said. Terault had wronged Tomas too, perhaps more than any of them. The traitor was his to deal with as he would; the future of his kingdom would be what he made of it, and with luck, he'd have his sister by his side.

Tomas nodded to her. Then he staggered to his feet, looking every inch a king.

As Andala rose back above the bluff, her song wound its way to a graceful end. The moon and the darkness receded. The sun emerged once more, bright and bold as a victor from a hard-won battle.

The clifftop had half emptied; most of Terault's followers had deserted him, now nowhere to be seen. But the person she sought was still here. Kitt, on his knees at the promontory's edge, blood on his shirt and a dagger dangling limply from his hand.

He turned his face up to her as she approached, looking shaken but unharmed. Andala alighted on the ground before him. She could have tried to transform back to talk to him one last time, to say a proper goodbye, but there was no need. Something unspoken passed 370 between them as Kitt looked down at her. He grinned, radiant as the daylight, his eyes lined silver-bright.

‘Go find her,' he said. And with a sweep of her wings, Andala was airborne again.

She turned to face the water. The sun was fully risen, and the nightingale rose to greet it, a silhouette against its light. And then she was flying, outward, onward.

She thought of Kitt as she did; of how she'd miss her friend. She thought of her mother, and of Girard.

She thought of Amie.

Someday she might come back here. Back to all she'd left behind, back to right the wrongs she'd done. Perhaps they'd both come back, she and Oriane, to reckon with their pasts and bury their ghosts together. But for now, Andala would face forward, and fly for the horizon.

Somewhere beyond it, the skylark was waiting.