The word shook the mountains, from Hagias in the east to Aletheas in the west, from the rising of the sun to its setting. The rocks split; the earth to the far east folded over itself like an ocean wave, molten rock erupting. I heard the rip of fabric, as if the cosmos were a great cloak torn down the center. The sound started far above the sky and hit the ground with a violent tremor. After that, nothing.

The silence of Charis deafened me. Below I heard sounds of glee, the cruel celebration of the bloodless. At last I heard sounds from above and from the west, sounds of weeping.

The City of Darkness rejoiced, the City of Light mourned. Babel partied while Charis wailed in anguish.

I watched the Woodsman—not knowing how I could see so far—through the dark clouds, lying there, lifeless on the tree. Something dripped into the great chasm. And though the drops were small I could hear them land a million miles below. Their echoes filled the canyon and reverberated inside my skull.

I looked around me, seeing Malaiki, Salama, Victoria, Quon, and David, not knowing how to read what I saw on their faces, knowing only that none of us dared move.

For the King was dead. And we had killed him.

11

BEFORE MY EYES, Erebus crossed in front of Charis and blotted out its light. I beheld the eternal eclipse of hope. The Woodsman was dead. And his blood was on my hands.

My whole body was covered with dirt and blood that had formed into a red clay. Numb, I stumbled around until I found a pumice stone and a small puddle of dirty, undrinkable water that had somehow survived the heat. I tried to wash the bloodstains from my hands. I couldn’t. The more I tried, the more the dirt and blood spread.

I grabbed fistfuls of nails from my pocket, again and again, throwing them on the ground or over into the chasm. But still there were more.

Marci always told me I excelled at casting blame and refusing to accept it. But how could I avoid blame for shedding the Woodsman’s blood? I’d hammered the nails, hadn’t I? I’d stung his feet as surely as if I were a scorpion in the dust.

Still, if he’d been willing to listen to me, to do what I wanted, to use his power to help me fulfill my goals instead of thwarting them … He was asking for it—it was as much his fault as mine. No, it was more his fault.