in here either.”
Don’t. Don’t walk away from me.
Pulling the hood of her cloak up to shadow her face, she ducked into the darkness beyond the temple door.
Jacob watched her go, his fists clenching at his sides, his heart stinging, left helpless at the foot of a goddess.
Nadira pushed under the small window grate protecting the stairwell to the Sultan’s apartments, her breathing ragged from the steep traverse across the adjoining roof. She dropped into the stone passage, catching her balance along the stairs. Adjusting the heavy cloak around her shoulders, she climbed the winding steps, lifting her face at the top so that the guards could recognize her in the torchlight—the Sultan’s concubine, back from her errand on the lower floors.
If they found it strange, or noticed the tear in her trailing hem, it did not register in their eyes. They merely stepped aside, opening the door and allowing her to enter the darkened solar. She walked forward and stood in one place until they closed her inside, holding herself up until she was alone.
The Sultan has enemies circling both above and below, and he’s staring doe-eyed into a fool’s horizon that will vanish before his eyes.
She sank to her knees, burying her face in her hands.
Enemies both above and below…What had he seen, what had he caught that she did not? Was it so obvious, so terrifyingly close, that even the world’s greatest thief was afraid to be caught by it?
She shut her eyes, rocking forward against her knees. They’re going to drag me into the streets, tear the robes from my shoulders. I will die from their rage, I will bleed and I will be alone…
Nadira pressed her hands over her mouth, desperate to muffle gasping cries she couldn’t contain. She felt the dreams she’d taken such pains to protect now collapsing in the darkness around her, vanishing with a thief’s fleeting touch, the whispered promise of her safety. The Letoures she’d imagined did not exist, nor did the world of hope it had once offered, the world of triumph against all odds.
In reality, Robert Letoures only accepted the odds that favored him, and had already determined that the Sultan of Ruman was a dead man.
She shook her head, forcing deeper breaths through parted teeth, smearing the wetness from her cheeks with the back of her hand. Not yet. I am not dead yet. There is still the machine, still the possibility, however slight, that the Great Inventor of New Europa sketched a device that will work. I am not dead yet.
Shuddering, she felt the conviction take hold, though not all the pieces fit where they had before. There was emptiness where warmth had been, a tired ache for all dreams lost, for the fool’s horizon that had always been brighter for the shadow of the man standing against it.
Light
T he Star Tower stood apart from the old libraries, its structure designed and built by Mehmed the Wise to house the world’s first giant telescope, a device which had been promptly disassembled for the construction of the war machine. The building itself offered no windows, pillars or terraces, its smooth circular base extending up past the height of the defensive wall, its round parapet capped with a giant copper dome comprised of retractable doors. In the white light of midday, the doors shimmered with heat, their brightly riveted surfaces blazing under a thin sheen of turquoise patina.
The entrance had been fortified to ensure the safety of the machine, and was now protected by a shining metal door at least a meter thick, its heavy bolt locks turned by a dozen dogging wheels.
Nadira followed the Grand Vizier through the massive entryway, finding the interior of the tower to be a dark maze of metal stairs and platforms, walls of large pipes hissing with steam. Boilers chugged and clinked in the background. Small electric lights appeared haloed in the moist air, glowing from sharp niches and corners.
She placed her gloved fingers on railing, negotiating a flight of
Don’t. Don’t walk away from me.
Pulling the hood of her cloak up to shadow her face, she ducked into the darkness beyond the temple door.
Jacob watched her go, his fists clenching at his sides, his heart stinging, left helpless at the foot of a goddess.
Nadira pushed under the small window grate protecting the stairwell to the Sultan’s apartments, her breathing ragged from the steep traverse across the adjoining roof. She dropped into the stone passage, catching her balance along the stairs. Adjusting the heavy cloak around her shoulders, she climbed the winding steps, lifting her face at the top so that the guards could recognize her in the torchlight—the Sultan’s concubine, back from her errand on the lower floors.
If they found it strange, or noticed the tear in her trailing hem, it did not register in their eyes. They merely stepped aside, opening the door and allowing her to enter the darkened solar. She walked forward and stood in one place until they closed her inside, holding herself up until she was alone.
The Sultan has enemies circling both above and below, and he’s staring doe-eyed into a fool’s horizon that will vanish before his eyes.
She sank to her knees, burying her face in her hands.
Enemies both above and below…What had he seen, what had he caught that she did not? Was it so obvious, so terrifyingly close, that even the world’s greatest thief was afraid to be caught by it?
She shut her eyes, rocking forward against her knees. They’re going to drag me into the streets, tear the robes from my shoulders. I will die from their rage, I will bleed and I will be alone…
Nadira pressed her hands over her mouth, desperate to muffle gasping cries she couldn’t contain. She felt the dreams she’d taken such pains to protect now collapsing in the darkness around her, vanishing with a thief’s fleeting touch, the whispered promise of her safety. The Letoures she’d imagined did not exist, nor did the world of hope it had once offered, the world of triumph against all odds.
In reality, Robert Letoures only accepted the odds that favored him, and had already determined that the Sultan of Ruman was a dead man.
She shook her head, forcing deeper breaths through parted teeth, smearing the wetness from her cheeks with the back of her hand. Not yet. I am not dead yet. There is still the machine, still the possibility, however slight, that the Great Inventor of New Europa sketched a device that will work. I am not dead yet.
Shuddering, she felt the conviction take hold, though not all the pieces fit where they had before. There was emptiness where warmth had been, a tired ache for all dreams lost, for the fool’s horizon that had always been brighter for the shadow of the man standing against it.
Light
T he Star Tower stood apart from the old libraries, its structure designed and built by Mehmed the Wise to house the world’s first giant telescope, a device which had been promptly disassembled for the construction of the war machine. The building itself offered no windows, pillars or terraces, its smooth circular base extending up past the height of the defensive wall, its round parapet capped with a giant copper dome comprised of retractable doors. In the white light of midday, the doors shimmered with heat, their brightly riveted surfaces blazing under a thin sheen of turquoise patina.
The entrance had been fortified to ensure the safety of the machine, and was now protected by a shining metal door at least a meter thick, its heavy bolt locks turned by a dozen dogging wheels.
Nadira followed the Grand Vizier through the massive entryway, finding the interior of the tower to be a dark maze of metal stairs and platforms, walls of large pipes hissing with steam. Boilers chugged and clinked in the background. Small electric lights appeared haloed in the moist air, glowing from sharp niches and corners.
She placed her gloved fingers on railing, negotiating a flight of
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