He could command Séverin to play the lyre, but its power was not for him. Séverin closed his eyes, summoning the memory of his mother’s voice.

In your hands lie the gates of godhood … let none pass.

He had no intention of disobeying her.

Ruslan’s only power was in his threats against the others, and the moment they reached the top, that threat would cease to exist. Séverin would play the lyre. He would claim that godhood for himself and be rid of Ruslan once and for all.

Séverin wished he could tell the others not to worry, but it would have to wait.

Forged rope bound his wrists, and yet he could still feel the hard strings of the divine lyre chafing against his shirt. Through the fabric, he felt the dull pulse of the instrument. With every step, a hum built steadily at the base of his skull.

All he had to do was keep moving, and yet with every step, the top of the ziggurat seemed farther and farther away. The beauty of the sanctum now struck him as a taunt ripped from a Greek myth. Above, the thick, tangle of inviting gardens. Around him, the phantom perfume of lost flowers haunting the air. All of it just out of grasping reach.

No, he told himself. This is yours …

That was the point of everything, was it not? All that he had lost was in service to this one glorious gain. He was meant for this. It was the only explanation that made sense.

Séverin blinked, and imagined Tristan’s cool, gray eyes crinkling in a smile. He felt Tante FeeFee’s warm hand cupping his chin.

Another step, just one more, he told himself, lifting his leg up a shining, stone stair.

The divine lyre strings pressed against his heart, and for the third time in ten days, Séverin heard his mother’s voice reaching to him across the years. When he breathed, he caught the sharp, bright scent of orange rinds that Kahina used to perfume her hair.

Shall I tell you a tale, habibi? Shall I tell you the tale of the orange trees?

Séverin told himself that he was hallucinating, but that only made the fragrance of orange trees grow stronger.

It starts with a king on his deathbed … you know how that is, my love. Death must have his seat at the table of tales, and he always sits first. The king had a son, and with his last breath, he gifted his child a golden key that would open a golden door on the far side of a magnificent garden.

He made him promise not to use the key, no matter what.

Séverin swayed on the spot. He felt his mother’s cool hand on his elbow, pulling him forward. Kahina used to lure him with stories, laying them out like treats. For a bath, he received half the tale. For brushed teeth, he received the end of the story. For a good night kiss, she traded in short fables.