She would not die. The statue hewed her to a righteous path. She could learn, here, in safety and silence, to feel as good people felt, to move as noble people moved, to think as the just thought.

Walking through Kavekana in a Penitent she saw the city in a new way. Always before, it seemed eternal to her. Now she understood how small these buildings were, how venal the wares they sold, how vulnerable the people crouched within their shells. Pedestrians shied from the Penitent—from her. They averted their eyes from guilt and shame.

They needed guidance, and strength. She could give it to them.

This wasn’t her. The strength wasn’t hers, or the patronizing tone. They were attitudes of mind in which she’d been caught and clad. This was her life in the grip of others. A potter’s wheel spun, and wet hands shaped whirling clay.

After an hour’s walk in calm unison (save when Kai’s body rebelled, when she lagged or tried to resist, at which point her world was fire), they reached West Claw’s tip, a beach at the foot of a long low slope. Other Penitents stood here, feet sunk in sand, awaiting the gods’ return. They adjusted to leave a gap for Teo and Kai.

She stood to Teo’s left. The sand underfoot was fine and smooth as flour. She watched the horizon, and sank into obligation.

And such a view!

She’d never seen the ocean like this before. Before she had heard the orchestra’s discordant tuning notes, and now they melded to symphony. Light and wave, a clear view to the earth’s curve broken only by skyspires. The sea was a roiling deep peopled with hungry monsters, but its surface shone bright. Sunlight made the ocean more than monstrous repose. This was her freedom, to watch the waves, ennobled by the light of Penance.

Below the surface, Kai tumbled, drowning.

Chapter 54

54

At first Izza couldn’t find the blind man. She perched outside Makawe’s Rest and watched the waitstaff prep until raised voices at the water’s edge caught her attention.

Two men stood on a stretch of sand between Penitents, though calling both “men” stretched the word to extremes. One was almost too young: local kid in a garish orange shirt and torn slacks, hair a black mop. He held a notebook out like a ward, and his eyes glimmered with tears. In front of him, an old man slouched against a crooked stick. “Old,” another poor word. Ancient, more like, his face lined and cracked the way plate glass got after you chucked a rock through it. He was not looking at the boy in front of him, his head turned to one side, presenting ear rather than eye.