I’m out before dawn. There’s no guarantee of safety outside these walls, that there won’t be another bloodborn overseer—or just a regular overseer—seeking my death, so I take my time working across Old Serei. The roofs are too widely spaced to really run, but with a combination of thief’s rope and long climbs I keep myself off the street and out of sight.

  I’m not headed for the temple. Not directly. It’s surrounded on three sides by gardens, where the contemplatives often spend the day reading and meditating. I have no illusions that the maid’s outfit I took from Gaxna’s yesterday will fool any of them, even with all her training on how to move and talk. My eyes are still violet, and what would a maid be doing climbing a wall into the temple?

  So I head across Old Serei, not up it, toward the sea cliffs that rise straight from the waters. This is the fourth side of the temple, the bleached limestone cliffs and caves, where hermits and retreatants go to be alone, or to prepare for immersion.

  I have to be careful—ironically, the risk is greater to me once I am on the cliffs and above open water. A fall from a rooftop or wall would likely mean injury, maybe a broken limb or arm. But a fall into the ocean would be death—not from broken limbs, but from a mind unprepared for immersion. Most aspirants spend ten days to a month in the sea cliffs, meditating and preparing themselves—and still some of them go mad, or just never come back to the surface. In this state of mind, I’d probably crack before I was all the way wet.

  So I take my time, crabbing across the steep cliffs, thankful for all the hours of training with Gaxna. My goal is not the temple itself—hundreds of feet above, the white marble juts from the edge of the cliff, River Thelle spilling from its edge. That’s where they almost threw me off last week. Where they probably did throw my father’s body off. And it’s where the wedding will be, so I can’t just climb up. Instead, I search for one of the caves that pepper the cliffside, that will lead back to the maze of stairs and tunnels that connect to the temple proper.

  The sun rises while I climb, purple glow warming to orange and glimpses of light through the clouds on the horizon. My arms are aching by the time I find an opening above me and climb into a narrow cave.

  It’s empty, though the incense and urns of water tell me it connects to the rest of the caves—they are supplies for a retreatant to live in isolation. Strange to think that some of my classmates are probably doing that right now, somewhere else in these cliffs. That that could have been me, if I’d stayed in the temple.

  And survived.

  And not been a girl.

  I take a long pull of the water. No. That would never have been me. I see it now: no matter how good I was, how strong I was, the traditionalists would have kept me from the top. Kept me out of the Houses, delayed my immersion, then my elevation to seership, because every step would mean another challenge to their system, another proof that the city’s male-female divide is wrong. That there is no divide, outside people’s minds.

  I take a deep breath and head into the caves, keeping the urn of water. This is where the real danger starts: not only do I not know where I’m going, my maid costume looks out of place here. Not to mention my eyes, though the darkness of the caves helps. The only light comes from intermittent caves opening to the sea, many of the stretches dark. I head up, taking every set of stairs I find, choosing randomly at branchings. Praying I don’t see anyone and knowing it’s only a matter of time until I do.

  The first person I meet is a senior monk—I think. I don’t dare raise my eyes to look at him, just clutch the urn as though I’m bringing it up to be filled and pass as quickly as I can.

  He keeps going, likely heading down to the water to spend the day immersed. It is the ultimate meditation for seers, and while it’s not required, most monks retire from active life in their fourth or fifth decade, to spend their waning years in the caves.

  The next few I meet are the same, weathered old feet sticking from threadbare robes. My heart seizes when one of them grabs my arm—a firm grip, too strong for an old man. None of our plans will matter if I get discovered right here.

  “Girl,” he says, casually commanding.

  I keep my eyes down. “Yes, lord.”

  “Fetch me some sweet meats from the wedding preparations when you’re done with that. I’ll leave the celebrating to those more inclined. Cave of Watered Promises.”

  “Yes, lord,” I say again, wondering if I will have to fight this man. I left my staff behind, of course—what maid carries a staff?—but I am deadly with my hands, too. If he was an overseer before retirement it still might not matter.

  He grunts and moves on, and I breathe a sigh of relief. I wonder briefly if he’s a loyalist, for not wanting to be at the wedding, or someone caught in between, loyal to neither side. This last seems more likely from his tone. How many more are there like him, caught between my father’s legacy and Nerimes’ lies? What will they do when they read my proofs in the waters? Which side will they take?

  This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

  I make it the rest of the way to the kitchens without incident. Here, at least, I am dressed appropriately, and I know my way around. Know which stairs to take to get to the roof with the least amount of exposure.

  A wave of nostalgia hits me, walking through the early morning kitchens with a bowl of diced eggplant in my hands. This was one of my favorite parts of the temple, one of my safe places. A place I could remember my dad. I pass the spot where Dashan snuck up on me, offering me a position in his House, if I’d let them all beat me. What would have happened if I’d said yes? It already seems like a lifetime ago.

  “Theia,” a voice sneers, and I nearly drop my bowl. I spin to see Melden, the kid I beat up in the kitchens, one of the gang who came to take me from my room. “Someone’s going to be happy to know you’re here.”

  I react without thinking, slamming him into the wall by his throat. “Don’t be an idiot, Melden. You remember what happened last time you crossed me. And I’m not bound by the rules anymore.”

  His eyes widen, and through his skin I read the sheer panicked thoughts that have always made his blind so flimsy. My first instinct is to knock him senseless, but I calm it. He could be useful.

  “In here,” I snarl, jerking my head at a supply closet.

  He goes, already too cowed to call out. I shut the door behind us and kick him in the knees, remembering the way he grinned at me the night they came to abduct me. He falls, knowing better than to fight apparently, and I kneel on his arms.

  Tell me what’s happening upstairs. I push the thought through our skin.

  He gasps—he’s probably never had thoughts pushed into him before. Opens his mouth, and I shake my head.

  Think it, I say. Show me.

  His thoughts are a jumble, but I see laborers setting up chairs on the wide balcony beyond the Deepling Pool, where the temple juts past the cliff edge. Preparing for the wedding.

  Who’s coming?

  I see all the theocrats and students and a line forming at the gate from town, important people coming to pay their respects. Good. How many are loyal to me?

  Confusion. I hold back a curse. Was Dashan lying? The loyalists. How many think Nerimes has gone too far?

  His mind clears up some then, and I get a rough sense of many people, including Urte and some of the other trainers. Not nearly half the temple, though, according to Melden’s estimate. Then again, I can tell he’s not one of them, so maybe he’s seeing what he wants to.

  Is there any talk of me? Of setting a trap, or anything like that?

  Gaxna comes up in his mind—dirty and bruised, blood scabbed down one side of her face. Being dragged through the temple halls, one of Nerimes’ men announcing there would be a reward for anyone who had information on her or me.

  I unclench my fists, calm my breathing. She’s alive, at least. Or she was two days ago. Melden doesn’t seem to know anything else about me or a trap, but that doesn’t mean much. He’s just a student, after all.

  I lean down into his face. Who sent you that night? Who got you and the other guys together to drag me out of my room?

  Nerimes. I follow the flurry of Melden’s thoughts from a whispering in his student House to a note with the theocratic seal to the memory of them dragging me, unconscious, up to the Deepling Pool, where Nerimes thanked them and praised their House leader for his bravery.

  The ass. The whole lot of asses. Anyways it is what I need to know. One more nail in the traditionalists’ coffin. And now there’s just one more thing I need from Melden.

  Strip, I say through the bond.

  He goggles. “What?”

  Strip, I repeat, then get up and watch him, ready to respond if he tries anything.

  He doesn’t. I almost wish he would, the pathetic way he pulls his robes off, eying me like a beaten dog. He reaches for his undergarments and I wave him off, then pull off my own disguise. He goggles at me and I snarl, pointing to the ground. He gets down and I’m glad I can’t read his thoughts, from the mixture of fear and anticipation on his face. What does he think will happen here?

  I tear my maid’s blouse into long strips and use them to tie his wrists and ankles, then knot those together, then tighten a blindfold over his eyes and a gag in his mouth. His mind is a panicked whirlwind when I touch him.

  Stay here, I say through the bond. Don’t do anything stupid. In about six hours this temple will be mine, and your whole future will be at my mercy. I haven’t been impressed so far. I will be less impressed if you try to rat me out. So do what you do best, and lie down until the danger’s over, okay?

  He actually nods. I pull his robes on, adjusting the sash around the middle until they look more like they fit me, wincing at the stale odor of sweat in the sleeves. Drag him behind a stack of empty sacks and start to leave.

  Then I remember my hair: Gaxna cut it, but it’s still too long—most students and seers keep their heads shaved. I refused out of principle, but now I need to blend in. Ironic that I still need a disguise for it. So I rummage on the shelves till I find a sharp paring knife, then spend an unpleasant fifteen minutes shaving as best I can in the runoff water that flows in a channel across the floor.

  The shave job is not pretty, uneven under my hands, but it will take me from standing out to just looking a little odd. That and my eyes, but there’s nothing I can do about them.

  I walk out of the storeroom standing straight, letting my body relax into the familiar posture of a seer, the fluid readiness that still feels more natural than the thief’s crouch or the porter’s swagger or any of the other stances Gaxna taught me. I will always be a seer at heart. I’m not ashamed of it, despite what the temple’s become.

  I climb stairs to the upper level, taking side corridors around the dormitories till I get to the training rooms. There are students training, though fewer than usual—it’s likely been declared a rest day. I keep my head down, my pace quick, and pray no one stops me.

  They don’t. I slip into a training room, the same one where I faced Nerimes, and walk to the far wall. The water feels wonderful on my feet, but I don’t linger. The vine carvings on the outside of the wall work like handholds, and I pull myself up to the roof like I used to when I needed to be alone. It’s easy as climbing a ladder now, and I smile to remember how hard it used to be.

  The temple roof is a long, peaked stretch of marble slabs, visible to both sides, so it’s a tricky walk down to the end, but I make it. The air bustles with talk as laborers prepare the ledge below, and incense smoke wafts thick from the altars they’ve set up to either side of the pool. It will likely be hours until the ceremony, but I am here and safe. I can only hope Dashan and Regiana are having the same luck.