Are the others wandering through their own nightmare of pillars, searching for me? Now and then, I see ghostly figures walking the paths amongst the moonstone too, figures that I can never look at directly. Perhaps those are lost souls, ghosts. Perhaps Moritas is speaking to the others, each in turn.
Adelina.
Moritas sounds closer now. I turn back to the path before me—and then I stop short. The face inside the pillar closest to me, her eyes closed and her expression peaceful, belongs to the former queen of Kenettra. Giulietta. Her dark hair seems to float inside the column of moonstone, and her bare arms are crossed over her chest. I take a hesitant step toward her. There are no signs of any wounds on her body, no evidence of Teren’s sword cutting through her chest. She is pristine, forever preserved in the Underworld. I study her face in a way I never did when she was alive. She was beautiful. Enzo looked so much like her.
I continue walking. Then I realize that the pillars now nearest to me are all people I once knew.
There are Inquisition soldiers. The Night King of Merroutas is here as well, his brows no longer furrowed in anger. Dante hovers nearby too. There is Gemma, her purple marking stretching across her peaceful face. I utter a whisper of a prayer as I pass her, asking for her forgiveness, and then force myself onward, recognizing one face after another. I pause for a moment on Teren, who now stays encased in his own pillar, arms crossed over his chest, lost to eternal night. It is the most serene I have ever seen him, and I find myself hoping that he has at last found some semblance of peace.
And there is Enzo. I stop before his pillar. He looks like he is merely asleep, his face calm and flawless. His arms still bear the burns he has always had, his skin there ruined and scarred. I stand there for a long moment, as if perhaps he would wake up if I stare long enough. But he doesn’t.
Finally, I continue on. The faces seem to blur together around me.
I stop again when I reach my mother, who is entombed beside my father. It has been so long since I’ve seen her that I might not even have recognized her—except that Violetta looked exactly like her younger self. My lips part slightly, and my chest tightens in grief. I lay a hand against the cold surface of the pillar. If I concentrate hard enough, I feel as if I could hear her voice, her soft, sweet singing, a tune I remember from when I was very small. I can remember her hands on the swell of her belly, can recall wondering who would emerge from it. I stare at her for a long time, perhaps an eternity, before I am finally able to move on.
I do not bother looking at my father. I’m searching for someone much more important.
Then, I find her. Violetta.
She is lovely. Stunning. Her eyes are closed, but if they could open, I know I would be staring into familiar brown eyes, not the lifeless gray ones she’d had toward the end of her life. I reach out for her, but the moonstone blocks my way—and I have to settle for pressing my hand against the surface, staring within at my sister’s face. My face is wet with tears. She is here, in the Underworld. I can see her again.
Adelina.
I tear my gaze away. And there, I see it. I know instantly that this is what we came for.
In the center of this landscape of iridescent pillars is a dark slab, a black column in the midst of the moonstone. It cuts through the air and into the sky, as high as I can see, and around it is a swirl of dark mist, a wound stretching from the Underworld, up to the mortal world, and higher into the heavens. Raffaele’s words return to me in a flash. This is the cut—the ancient tear—that opened the immortal world into the mortal, when Joy descended to the earth as a human and then passed through the Underworld again. This black pillar is where Joy himself had been encased after his mortal death, before returning to the heavens. Where the blood fever first originated. Even here, I can feel the dark power, the wrongness of it. I can remember the feel of a wooden table beneath my body, the taste of brandy on my lips that the doctor prescribed for my illness, the sound of him coming into my chambers when I was only four years of age, holding a red-hot knife over my infected eye even as I screamed and cried and pleaded with him not to do it.
This is the origin of the fever that has touched each of our lives. The closer I step, the darker the space behind the pillar turns, until it seems like I am walking directly into a world of night, being swallowed by this fog.
I reach the pillar. As I do, the swirling darkness changes, morphing into the shape of a towering figure, dark and elegant, her body shrouded in robes of fog and mist, a pair of horns twisting high over her head. She stares at me with eyes of black. I open my mouth to say something, but nothing comes out.
Moritas, the goddess of Death.
My child, she says. Her black-eyed stare focuses on me. Her voice is deep and powerful, a sound that echoes across the landscape and inside my chest, a vibration so ancient that it aches in my bones. The children of the gods. To either side of her, other figures now appear, tall and silent. I recognize Formidite, with her long black hair and featureless face. Caldora, her fins huge and monstrous.
Then, a man clad in a cloak of gold and jewels. Denarius, the angel of Greed. Fortuna, goddess of Prosperity, in a sheet of glitter and diamond. Amare, god of Love, impossibly breathtaking. Tristius, angel of War, with his sword and shield. Sapientus, god of Wisdom. There is Aevietes, god of Time, and Pulchritas, angel of Beauty. Compasia, angel of Empathy.
Laetes, angel of Joy.
The gods and goddesses are all here, come to claim their children.
“Moritas,” I whisper, the word barely a sound from my lips. My power seethes in her presence, threatening to destroy my dying, mortal body.