The Komizar’s room. There. “Search the Komizar’s room!” I yelled. It was just across the hall. “He’s gone to the Council Wing. Hurry, Aster!”

I grabbed the baldrick from the bed and slipped my knife into its sheath. Next I added my tether of bones and finally my cloak to conceal the knife. If I did get out of this room, I had to look as I always did to the guards who might see me. Minutes passed. I sat on the bed. Leave without me, Rafe. You promised.

“I got it!” Aster called through the door. I heard the heavy bolt slide and the door opened. Her face beamed with her accomplishment, and I kissed her forehead. “You are the saving angel Aster!”

She rubbed her clipped locks. “Hurry, Miz!” she said. “They’re still calling.”

“Stay here,” I told her. “It might not be safe.”

“Nothing’s safe around here. I’m going to see you get there!”

I couldn’t argue with her logic. It was true. The Sanctum was anything but a sanctuary. The only thing it harbored was constant threat. We ran down halls, steps, and little-used passages, up steps and down steps again. The short distance suddenly seemed like miles. It was not an easy terrace to get to. I prayed I wasn’t too late, but at the same time, I hoped Rafe had left without me and was already safe across the river. We passed no one, thankfully, and finally reached the portal that led to the terrace.

“I’ll wait here and whistle if anyone comes.”

“Aster, you can’t—”

“I can whistle loud,” she said, her chin set in the air.

I hugged her. “I’ll know if someone’s coming. Now, go. Get back to the jehendra and your bapa and stay safe there.” She reluctantly turned away, and I hurried through the long portal to the terrace. It was covered with a thick layer of snow, and I walked to the north wall, knowing I was already late. There would be no stories this morning, only the shortest of remembrances so the guards in the square would suspect nothing, and then I’d be on my way, but when I reached the wall, a pervasive silence spread through the crowd. It spread to me, like hands reaching out, taking mine. Tarry, Jezelia. Tarry for a story. I alone possessed the last surviving copy of the Song of Venda. It wasn’t my story to keep. Whether babble or not, I had to give it back to them before I left.

“Gather close, brothers and sisters of Venda,” I called out to them. “Hear the words of the mother of your land. Hear the Song of Venda.”

*   *   *

And so I said it, verse after verse, holding none of it back. I spoke of the Dragon feeding on the blood of the young, drinking the tears of their mothers, his cunning tongue and his deadly grip. I told them of hungers of another kind, ones that were never sated or quenched.

I saw heads nod in understanding, and puzzled guards looking at one another, trying to make sense of it. I remembered Dihara’s words, This world, it breathes you in … shares you. But there are some who are more open to the sharing than others. For the guards and many who stood below, my words were only babble, just as Venda’s had been so long ago.

As I spoke, a breeze circled around. I could feel it inside me, stretching, reaching, then moving on again, traveling over the crowd, through the square and down the streets, through the valleys beyond and across the hills.

For the Dragon will conspire,

Wearing his many faces,

Deceiving the oppressed, gathering the wicked,

Wielding might like a god, unstoppable,

Unforgiving in his judgment,

Unyielding in his rule,

A stealer of dreams,

A slayer of hope.

Until one comes who is mightier,

The one sprung from misery,

The one who was weak,

The one who was hunted,

The one marked with claw and vine,

The one named in secret,

The one called Jezelia.

A murmur ran through the crowd, and then Venda was there, standing beside me. She reached out and took my hand. “The rest of the song,” she whispered, and then she spoke more verses.

Betrayed by her own,

Beaten and scorned,

She will expose the wicked,

For the Dragon of many faces

Knows no boundaries.

And though the wait may be long,

The promise is great,

For the one named Jezelia,

Whose life will be sacrificed

For the hope of saving yours.

And then she was gone.

I wasn’t sure if I was the only one who had heard her, or even seen her, but I stood there dazed, trying to grasp the enormity of what she had said. In an instant, I knew those were the verses ripped from the last page of the book. I braced against the wall, steadying myself with this revelation. Sacrificed. The murmur from the crowds grew louder, but then movement caught my eye and my gaze jumped up to a high wall across the way. Chievdars, governors, and Rahtan were watching me. I drew in a startled breath. Their meeting had adjourned early.

“Miz?”

I turned. Aster stood in the middle of the terrace. The Komizar stood behind her with a knife held to her chest.

“I’m sorry, Miz. I just couldn’t leave you like you told me. I—” He pressed the tip of the knife against her, and she blanched with pain.

“Dear gods, no!” I cried, locking my eyes onto the Komizar’s. I pleaded with him, delicate, desperate, and slow, stepping closer, trying to bring his focus back to me. I held on to him fiercely with my eyes and smiled, trying to somehow dispel this madness. “Please, let her go, sher Komizar. You and I can talk. We can—”