“She was nice,” Thrana said, looking up at my face.

I let out a shaky breath. “She was.” Thrana wound around my legs as I let myself back into my cabin.

Thrana leaned against my hip. “I wasn’t used to kindness either.”

I didn’t want Ongren to pity me. I didn’t want anyone’s pity. I was the Emperor and not to be pitied. I needed them to love me, to exalt me.

I finished writing the orders and set them aside. I turned to the crate at the foot of the bed. My father’s books, the vial of memories, the sword. I’d been puzzling over his books for so long, trying to decipher what exactly he meant by some of his notes. I couldn’t find any mention of the sword, which left me frustrated to no end.

Two islands I’d visited, another had sunk, and I was only a little closer to unraveling the secrets I needed.

I picked up the bottle of memories.

“Lin, are you sure…?” Thrana said.

I didn’t respond. I uncorked the bottle and let the liquid slide past my lips.

The world around me dissolved. I was in the cave below the palace, the memory machine in front of me, my nostrils thick with smoke. “This has to be enough.” My father’s voice emanated from my throat.

The brazier in the memory machine was filled nearly to the brim with blood. A chunk of witstone sat in the middle, an island in a sea of red.

My gaze flicked to the side. Bowl after bowl of blood, lined up next to the memory machine. And all I could feel was my father’s grief, his hope. I pulled two rubbery ends of tubing out from within the chest, placed them in the brazier and opened the valves on them.

“Nisong,” I whispered, and then lit the witstone ablaze.

24

Ranami

Nephilanu Island

The visit could have gone worse, though when Ranami imagined what “worse” meant, all she could imagine were farfetched scenarios in which Lin had marched an army to their doorstep and had demanded Gio’s head. They’d kept to their side of the truce, but at what cost? The wet season was in full swing now, and people were starting to die of bog cough. Ranami had expected that sacrifices would have to be made in their quest to take down the Empire, but she had expected those to be made on the battlefield by an army of the Shardless Few, each member ready and willing.

Not by people coughing into the dark, drowning in their own fluids as they waited and hoped for a cure that would never come.