“My sky, there’s something I must tell you,” Ximena says.
I look up at my nurse. Dust smudges her right cheek, and wisps of gray hair dangle from her usually neat bun.
She takes a deep breath, as if steeling herself. “I’ve been doing some research on the Godstone. Since you fell into a coma.”
I straighten too fast, and several scrolls topple off my bed. “Oh?”
She runs a reverent forefinger across the parchment in her lap. “You know the prophecy in Homer’s Afflatus, the one that says, ‘He could not know what awaited at the gate of the enemy, and he was led, like a pig to the slaughter, into the realm of sorcery’?”
“Father Alentín thinks I fulfilled that prophecy when I was captured by Inviernos.” I keep my tone and expression bland, afraid she’ll change her mind about talking to me. Ximena spent years cultivating my ignorance on matters pertaining to the stone I bear. She believed it was the will of God. I know how much it costs her to turn her back on this tenet of a deeply personal faith.
“I’m not so sure you did.”
I swallow hard. “Oh.” I’ve been clinging to the hope that I am done with ‘the realm of sorcery,’ that being queen will be my great service to God.
She dumps the parchment off her lap and stands. “It’s the word ‘gate’ that gave me pause,” she says as she begins pacing at the foot of my bed. “In the Lengua Classica, it’s an archaic usage that also sometimes translates to ‘path.’ As in, ‘narrow is the path that restores the soul,’ from the Scriptura Sancta.”
“Go on.”
“It’s the same word we just found etched into the tunnel below the catacombs.”
I whisper, “‘The gate that leads to life is narrow and small so that few find it.’” I wrap my arms around myself. “I’m not sure what you’re getting at,” I say, but my heart patters and my limbs tingle. There is something to what she’s saying. Something important.
“I made a study of that word when I was a scribe. I went through all four of the holy scriptures looking for usages. It occurs exactly ten times. Five times, it refers to the gate—or path—of the enemy. But the other five times, it refers to something positive. Like life, or restoration, or healing.” Ximena pauses and grabs one of my bedposts. We lock gazes, and she says, “What are the chances of each reference occurring exactly five times?”
I shrug. “It’s the holy number of perfection. Something will occur exactly five times if God wills it.”
“Exactly. He must will it so. Such things do not happen by chance.” She resumes pacing, and her face grows distant. “I always thought those verses were metaphorical. I thought the path that restores the soul was a way to live one’s life. The way of faith, maybe. But what if . . .” She takes a deep breath. “What if it’s a real place? What if they are both real places?”
The Godstone buzzes with affirmation, sending prickles up my spine. “Both of them, real places,” I murmur. “The gate of the enemy, and the gate that leads to life.”
“I don’t know, my sky. But I’m looking into it.”
“Father Nicandro might be able to help. He has provided quiet aid to me in the past. Also, he is fluent in the Lengua Classica, and I trust him with my life.”
She nods. “I’ll discuss it with him. I’m at the point where I need access to the restricted areas of the monastery archive anyway.”
“Ximena,” I whisper. “What if it is a real place? What if I still have to go there?”
A year ago, she would have offered meaningless platitudes—or maybe a pastry—in an attempt to brush away my fears. But now she just gazes at me, her small black eyes full of determination, maybe even excitement. I shiver.
Glass shatters. Something thumps to the ground.
Ximena rushes into the atrium. I follow as quickly as I can.
Mara is doubled over beside the bathing pool, hands clutching her stomach. Several items from the vanity lie strewn about the floor. The moist air is too thick and sweet with my freesia perfume.
“What’s wrong?” I demand. “What happened?”
“I . . . shaking out your gown . . . my . . .”
“Her scar,” Ximena says. “It split open again.”
Her scar. From when the animagi burned her. Mara threw herself into the path of Invierne’s sorcerers to allow me time to work the magic of my Godstone. She barely survived. I have hardly given a thought to her injuries since that day.
I yell for one of the guards to fetch Doctor Enzo.
Mara slips to the ground, legs stretched out. Ximena unlaces her bodice to reveal a white chemise dotted with bright blood. Then she gingerly peels the chemise from Mara’s midriff.