Shakily, Séverin rose to his feet. He smiled. “Thanks for sharing the light, Phoenix.”

The knot in Zofia’s chest eased. Seconds later, the air whistled once more with the sound of a blade cutting through it. The golden dagger that had clattered to the stone found its way to her throat once more. She swallowed hard, holding herself still, her chin angled up and away from its sharp point.

“It appears the temple has yet to trust us,” said Ruslan loudly.

Zofia glanced up to see him standing five steps ahead.

“Monsieur Montagnet-Alarie, Monsieur Mercado-Lopez,” said Ruslan. “Join me if you please. I want you by my side in case there are any more surprises.”

When he snapped his fingers, the four rotting guards lurched down. One went to Hypnos. The other caught hold of Zofia’s arm, pulling her toward the next step. Two surrounded Laila. As Zofia took another step forward, Ruslan snorted.

“I suppose the little mute is good for something after all,” he said.

Zofia said nothing. She would not waste words on someone like Ruslan. Besides, she was busy. She was studying the stone joints of the towering automatons, the pattern of light on the ziggurat steps.

For the first time since Ruslan had appeared, Zofia did not need to count the objects around her to quiet her mind’s panic. The unknowns had not disappeared, but their size had diminished. Or perhaps, her perspective had outgrown it. The unknown would come and go, but Zofia could always be a light. She had found her way out of the dark once.

And she could do it again.

33

SÉVERIN

Séverin was beginning to lose all sense of time.

His legs ached, and sweat poured down his back. He’d shrugged off his jacket long ago, but it made no difference. He could not remember the last time he’d sipped water, and when he licked his lips, he tasted the blood and cracked skin of his mouth. By his count, they should be midway up the ziggurat by now, and yet, when he turned to his left, he saw that he was still no farther than the place where the automatons’ hands rested against their stone thighs.

Wrong, whispered a tired corner of his mind, but even that voice of caution felt thready and wispy. Something is wrong.

Séverin snuck a glance to his left where Enrique trudged upward, step after step. Sweat and blood had soaked through his bandages. His jacket was now tied around his waist. He didn’t raise his head, but Séverin could see his lips moving silently.

As if he were uttering prayers with every step.

Séverin wished he could turn around and look at Hypnos, Laila, and Zofia … but the golden knife pointed at his chest kept his gaze fixed on the steps ahead.

One more step, he told himself. One more step and we will reach the top, and I will play the lyre and become a god.

Ruslan’s wishes made no difference.