Chapter 23 The Debate
THE DEBATE
O, my child, close your eyes and see
How the stars can change in dreams.
Claudia is standing beside Professor Olivier outside the chapel doors, waiting for Cassius to come out.
It’s killing her. She needs to speak to Cassius, alone, immediately. He’s not a killer. He didn’t kill Odette. And she doesn’t have to feel guilty about caring for him, because Dorian’s warnings no longer matter at all.
Dorian lies.
What does that mean? Malevimus was cruel to tell her that when she had no more chances to ask for clarity.
Maybe she needs to turn her attention to a man who’s a dreamer—not a nightmare.
Claudia’s lost in her thoughts when Olivier asks, “How did it go?”
“Hm? Oh, it was fine.” She nods vehemently. “Good. He said… um… lots of stuff. Good answers. Good. Very good.”
Her professor purses her lips, tilting her head to the side. A graying tendril falls across her spectacles. “You seem a bit rattled.”
Since Claudia’s in no position to share all that she learned from Malevimus, she simply shrugs and avoids looking directly into Olivier’s eyes. The woman is essentially a High Priestess of a god who grants the gift of truth. She must be able to tell a lie from one wrong facial twitch.
“It was intimidating at first,” she says slowly to avoid stumbling.
“I’ve never spoken with a god before. But I’m happy with how it went.
I feel…” She trails off searching for the right word.
Excited? No. Anxious? Kind of. Lustful for Cassius?
Gods, she can’t say that to her professor. Why won’t her mind work?
“Good?” Olivier finally says.
She smiles, relieved, and nods. “Yes. Good.”
Olivier pulls her into a side hug and squeezes her shoulder. She winks. “Good.”
When Cassius emerges, he’s wearing a strained smile.
“It went well, I presume?” Professor Olivier asks him.
“As well as it always does.” His voice is flat.
They walk back to the classroom in silence, and Claudia is about to explode. When Olivier opens the door, Claudia asks, “Can Cassius and I have a quick minute out here, Professor?”
Her gaze flits between the two of them. “Of course.”
The moment the door closes behind her, Claudia grabs Cassius’s hand. Eyes full of urgency, she whispers to him, “What do you see in your dreams?”
“What?”
“Tell me what you see in your dreams,” she urges.
“I—I see myself praying at the altar of Malevimus, and he answers. I can never hear him. It—it’s just noise. But it’s there.”
Claudia nods, her gaze locked with his. “Cassius, I think Malevimus has been trying to speak to you in your dreams. He gave me a message for you.”
His jaw drops in total bewilderment. “What did you just say?”
“He said to tell you that your dreams are real.”
Cassius stares for a long time. His brows settle in a tight, pinched line. When it’s clear he’s not going to say anything, Claudia continues with, “You’re the Dreamer your ancestor wrote about in those papers you shared with me. The one who will break the curse.”
He steps back, fumbling for a response. Running his fingers through his hair, he spits out a string of unintelligible consonants until he finds the wherewithal to say, “You used one of your questions on me?”
She shakes her head. “Malevimus let me use yours.”
His eyes turn shiny, but he blinks tightly and takes a deep breath.
“No. It’s not possible. I’ve tried to get others to speak to the gods for me.
It has never worked. The curse is too strong.
It’s inhibited any messages meant for me, even if the gods aren’t speaking to me directly. No one can be my bridge.”
She doesn’t speak, nor does she falter. She looks deep into his eyes with the utmost sincerity and says, “I can.” She tightens her grip on his hand. “I did.”
“How?”
“I don’t know,” she lies. Something in her gut tells her not to mention her connection to his curse. She doesn’t understand it enough to explain it.
He stares at his hand in hers for too long before he takes a big, shaky breath. “What else did you ask?”
She looks down, slightly ashamed. “I asked him how Odette died and if you had anything to do with it.”
He holds his hand over his heart. “You thought that I—”
“You thought the same of me!”
He surveys her, shiny eyes roaming over her whole body and settling on her face, searching for the truth. “It really wasn’t you, was it? You didn’t have anything to do with what happened to her.”
“No, I did not.”
He’s leaning down to her, foreheads almost touching. “Are you telling the truth?”
Claudia groans and throws her hands up in frustration.
“Look into my eyes, Cassius.” She takes his face in her hands and holds him still with barely the space for a breath between them.
“Malevimus told me that your dreams are real. You are going to break your family’s curse.
You didn’t kill Odette, and neither did I.
That is all I know, but I swear to you it is true. ”
Five seconds pass. Ten. He stands still in the echo of her words, seemingly unable to move, unable to blink, unable to breathe.
Just as Claudia is about to pull away, Cassius snaps.
His hands are in her hair, his body is closer and hotter than it has ever been, and finally, his lips crash into hers.
Immediately, his fear floods her mouth, and a vision plays across her mind:
She sees Odette’s body. Her sweat-soaked blond hair, her twisted face. Cassius was right—she died afraid.
Then, next to her, is Claudia’s body, bruised at the neck.
Then, Marcherie. Alistair. Angel. Triche.
Everyone here whom he cares about—all dead, all lying in a perfect circle. Cassius stands in the center of all of them, blood dripping from his hands and a dagger protruding from his chest.
I couldn’t protect them, he cries.
This is his greatest fear—losing everyone he loves.
Claudia and Cassius stand at their respective podiums, pretending they didn’t just rip themselves apart from each other.
Pretending they don’t want to run off and finish what they started.
Pretending they aren’t trembling with need beneath their robes.
As the other students settle in their seats, Claudia watches only Cassius.
He keeps his gaze forward, careful not to look at her.
His lips are swollen. His breathing is labored.
He’s flustered. He’s off his game.
Claudia turns away, for if she looks at him for one more second, she’ll become a mess, too. She has to focus. She has so much more riding on this debate than he does. There are still whispers that she doesn’t belong, still occasional glares in the halls. This is her chance to prove them all wrong.
Professor Olivier walks onto the stage and stands between the rivals.
“Scholars, welcome to the first debate of our second semester. Today’s opponents are Mr. Cassius MacLeod, arguing for godly impunity, and Miss Claudia Jolicoeur, arguing against. Both students have crafted opening statements, and as always, we will begin with pro. Mr. MacLeod, state your case.”
As soon as his time begins, a wash of calm runs over his face. His eyes turn cold, his body tense. It’s almost mechanical the way he shifts into a new mode of being.
“As a class, we have defined good to be anything desirable for its own sake that is pursued as a common aim among those of virtuous and sound mind. But that definition is inherently inapplicable to gods, for we know that a contingency of godhood is divine madness. For us, a sound mind is a precedent for goodness. For gods, a sound mind is a relinquishment for divinity. We remain incapable of comprehending the nature of godly action. What we deem as a transgression could very well be an integral step in a higher plan. Just because an act is beyond our ethical framework, it doesn’t necessarily equate to evil.
Thus, I argue that there is no divine good or evil—only balance and imbalance, and both are too vast and arcane for us to understand.
We cannot pass judgment on what we do not comprehend, and we cannot implement punishment on that we cannot appropriately judge.
” He takes a pause, letting the gravity of his statement sink into the audience’s bones. Claudia’s breathing is sharp and rapid.
He’s doing well. Too well.
The taste of his tongue still lingers in her mouth. He wants her, she knows, but not enough to let himself lose.
Bracing his hands on either side of the podium, he says, “The notion that mere mortals could punish gods is incredibly arrogant, showing a complete lack of understanding of mortal insignificance in the face of such power. To assume that we can measure a divine act upon the mortal spectrum of good and evil, and to further assume we can create a just punishment for the divine, is hubris.”
His argument is so good that Claudia expects the room to erupt in thunderous applause as soon as he’s done, but they are respectfully silent and every gaze in the room now moves to her.
“Miss Jolicoeur, begin.”
She winces and flattens her notes on the podium, noticing the fierce shake in her fingers. Clearing her throat, she begins with, “The gods were all once mortal. They have an indisputable, vast understanding of human nature because it is the basis of their own.”
Her voice is shaking. She sounds like she’s about to cry. She looks at her notes, then over to Cassius, her eyes filled with relentless, pitiful nerves.
“Breathe,” he mouths. “You’re good.”
She nods, taking a deep breath and balling her hands at her sides. When she stares at her notes in the echo of Cassius’s opening statement, a better, stronger argument forms in her mind.
It hinges on a technicality, but it just might work.
It’s like Lamour says about the constellations in celestial spells—meaning is malleable. Anything can mean anything if you can make a perfect argument for it.