“You can’t do that,” she said. “You can’t lock him away. He’s an empath—he needs to be with you.”

The Guardian’s lip curled in an expression she’d never seen on Jes’s face, though it was familiar. Achingly familiar. Where had she seen it?

“I do not need advice from you on how to protect Jes,” the Guardian said, and she finally realized he was angry with her—a rage so deep that he’d locked Jes away from it.

“What’s wrong?” she asked. “Is there something new wrong with Tier?”

He snarled at her, the growl of an enraged mountain cat out of a human mouth, then turned on his heel and began striding away, pulling her behind him.

“Papa is dying—or didn’t you know that?” His voice was soft with menace. “Isn’t it important to you?”

“You know me better than that,” Hennea said, trying to answer his anger with control.

As if the calmness of her voice were more than he could bear, the Guardian jerked her to face him and shook her once. The small act of violence only seemed to increase his frustration—he growled, a low, angry sound.

He bent his head and kissed her. It was a hard kiss, born of rage. She felt her bottom lip split under the pressure. When he tasted her blood, he hesitated, then shoved her away from him—though he didn’t release his hold on her wrist.

He was still for a moment, then began striding forward again. “Papa leaves his lute in its pack, and my mother cries herself to sleep every night. They pretend and pretend all day long so they won’t hurt us.” His voice was so low that she felt it as much as heard it.

“That is no different now than it was this morning,” said Hennea. “But your mother and I are getting closer to the answers we need. We know who the Shadowed is. Guardian—”

She let her voice trail off because she recognized the streets the Guardian had taken, she knew where it led—and she didn’t know how she knew.

She looked at Jes’s face and saw that he would not listen to her now, not until he’d given vent to his rage—and maybe not even then. It was not a good thing that he’d locked Jes away. Strong emotions were such a danger to the Eagle: love, hatred… betrayal. She took hope from the long-fingered hand that was wrapped around her wrist: not once had it tightened enough to bruise.

She watched that hand, and let Jes direct her to the end of the street, where a temple much like the one they’d found their first day in Colossae presided. Jes led the way through the temple’s open doors into the antechamber which was covered in thick carpets. There was a second set of steps, four of them, and another doorway. He didn’t pause as the carpets gave way to white marble, but walked to the far end of the room. He grabbed her shoulder with his free hand and held her before him so she stood directly in front of the black marble statue on the dais of the Temple of the Raven.

Like her sister goddess the Owl, the Raven was clad only in a skirt caught with a belt bearing the device of her totem, but there was no paint on this statue. One hand rested at her side, and the other, held up toward the room, bore a raven with ruby eyes. In contrast to the merry expression the Owl had worn, this goddess’s face was serene, Raven-like.

Her features were Hennea’s own.

“Alhennea it says on her belt,” said the Guardian. Jes would not have been able to read the belt. “Did you shorten it when you came to my family? Why did you come to us? Were you bored? Decided to play with the lives of mortals for a while?”

Shock held her still, then she dropped to the floor under the sudden weight of the memories Hinnum had long ago stolen from her. She hit the floor hard enough that she knew, dimly, she would have bruises tomorrow.

Stronger even than the memories were the accompanying emotions.

“I do not know you at all,” he snarled, and even in the richness of her banquet of despair she heard him, heard the anguish that underlay the anger in his voice. “You could have healed my father. You could have killed the Shadowed in Taela and saved Phoran from his Memory.” He waved his arms, and she saw Jes filter through the Guardian’s eyes. “You could have destroyed the Path before it was born. You could have saved my mother’s clan.”

“Jes,” she said hoarsely. “I am not She.”

“You are,” he insisted, and it was Jes she talked to. “Do you think because I do not have to read your feelings when I touch you that I cannot do so if I want to? I felt you recognize this place. You knew. You are She.”

Her eyes were drawn again to the statue. “I–I think I was once.”

She looked back at Jes and tried to pull out words to lessen the agony in his eyes. He was listening, listening, when the Guardian would have protected him from her. Seraph had been right, her son was strong. There were not many Eagle Bearers who could wrest control from the Guardian.

“I will swear in front of your father, who is Bard still, that I did not know who I was until just now.” She would have said something more, but a memory overwhelmed her. She cried out, a shuddering, inarticulate cry and bowed her spine until her forehead hit the marble floor. Part of her felt the pain of the impact, but a clear image of a red stain spreading in the Owl’s colorful skirts held most of her attention. She could almost feel the cool haft of the knife even yet.

Then, somehow, she was back in the present, and Jes was curled around her, pulling her into his lap.

“I have never betrayed you, Jes. I don’t play games with people I—with people I love,” she managed to say. “I don’t have that kind of power anymore, I gave it away.” The words spilled out of her faster and faster. “We took my power and divided it so it balanced with the others. There was no more war god, and so the other gods had to die, too. I had to direct the spell to sacrifice the city, though; no one else knew how to do the spell. But I was supposed to die. Hinnum swore he would kill me, but I think he could not bear to do it. He took my memories instead.”

Jes kissed her forehead, and it was too much, because she knew her uncontrolled emotions were hurting him. She didn’t want to hurt Jes, couldn’t bear hurting him.

She pulled herself free of his lap and stumbled away from him. Her nose was running and her face was wet, she pulled up her shirt and wiped all the moisture away and kept moving away from Jes until she could lean her face against a wall.

“I was supposed to be dead,” she said calmly, pressing her cheek against the cold marble. Then she hit the wall as hard as she could with the flat of her hand, savoring the pain that was so much easier to bear than her memories. “I was supposed to be dead!” She screamed it, felt it roar through her lungs and release the pressure just a little. She would have hit the wall again, this time with her fist; but a gentle hand caught her wrist, opened her fingers, and laid her palm flat on the wall before he let go of her again.

She stared at her hand.

“I am so old. I have failed so many times, I—” She broke off. She had no right to burden him with her pain, he had enough of his own. She would mend what she could. “I am no longer a goddess, just very old.” She was babbling. She took a deep breath and felt the lines of her face relax as her control returned. “I am so poor a thing I could not even kill the solsenti mage-priest Volis, because I could not break free of his magic. I thought at least I might help your mother understand what had happened to Tier. I didn’t think she could rescue him; I thought she could spread the word to the other clans.”

She waved her hand helplessly. “I expected to cause a little trouble for the Path, for the Shadowed, a slap, you understand, because I could do nothing more. I am not used to asking for help, nor having it offered to me. Travelers are not a generous people. They do as they have to, as their history demands, but they take little pleasure in it. I did not expect your mother to help me.”