Dead ahead, Pallas welcomed Beru and Lazaros onto the amphitheater’s stage, magisterial in his white and gold robes, a shining beacon against the gray sea beyond the cliff. At his side, Ephyra rose to her feet, coiled tight like a spring, her gaze fixed on Beru.

Beru’s heart plummeted into her stomach.

She’d done it, then. Ephyra had agreed to be Pallas’s executioner. Beru darted a glance around the stage, for any sign of Illya. She hadn’t seen him since he orchestrated their courtyard meeting and had no idea whether he’d managed to persuade Ephyra to follow their plan. Or whether Ephyra’s distrust and refusal to leave Beru behind meant their plans were over before they’d begun.

But Ephyra had said yes to Pallas. Why would she agree, if not to escape?

A treacherous part of her recalled that Ephyra had chosen this path before. She had chosen, in Behezda, to kill, to become the Pale Hand again. Beru hadn’t allowed herself to think too deeply about why Ephyra had made that choice. To wonder if maybe some part of Ephyra enjoyed it.

Wind buffeted Beru as she reached Pallas’s side, gazing at the limestone walls of the citadel looming above them, the prisoners’ tower stretching up against the gray sky.

“Bring the first prisoner forward,” Pallas said, his voice ringing out across the stage. A group of Witnesses descended from the stands, dragging a figure in chains between them. The prisoner struggled, but the Witnesses forced him to his knees.

A breath punched out of Beru’s chest as she stared at the prisoner.

“Illya Aliyev,” Pallas intoned, grasping Illya’s chin between bony fingers for the crowd to see his face. “You may not recognize this man, but he once pledged himself to me. Before he betrayed me for his own gain. Let it be known here and now that I, Pallas the Faithful, can see through the deception and lies of each and every one of you. I know the truth of your hearts, and if you try to deceive me, you will end up just like him.”

No, Beru thought, panicked.

Illya was her only ally. Her only chance of getting Ephyra out of here. How could he have been found out? How?

As Beru gazed at Illya’s grim face, she felt like the floor was dropping out from beneath her. THIS IS WHAT COMES OF PUTTING YOUR FAITH IN WEAK MEN, the god said.

Shut up, she thought fiercely. You want out just as badly as I do.

Beru looked over at Ephyra, whose gaze rested on Illya, her expression closed off. Did she know? Or was she as surprised as Beru?

“I am sure,” Pallas said to the crowd, “that you have all heard of the Pale Hand of Death.”

A murmur rippled through the onlooking priests. They surely remembered one of their own falling to her hand.