Chapter 7
The cobblestone streets of Amale are packed. Crowds of people push past in droves as they file towards the palace. Each of their faces is turned upward at a man and a woman standing atop the palace balcony.
I strain to see who they are, dodging elbows and shoulders as the people clamor forward. I can make out their clothes—a tunic and dress of deep amethyst—but nothing else. It’s as if there’s a thin, translucent veil obstructing them from the crowd.
A woman to my right wails loud cries of joy as tears stream down her face. A man on my left hurls vile insults and incites men around him to join in. Still I push forward in the crowd, desperate to get a better look at the monarchs.
The crowd is becoming restless, neighbors turning on each other as a heavy rain starts to fall. Shouts ring up from further ahead in the crowd, full of praise and scorn.
“The gods have blessed Corinth!”
“Heretics, the both of them!”
“Long may they reign!”
“Magic has no place here!”
The rain intensifies, coursing through the mortar of the stone streets and soaking my clothes.
Despite my efforts, I’m no closer to the building or the figures standing atop the balcony. I’m shoved hard from behind and I have no time to brace myself before I fall face first onto the wet street. My head smacks loudly against the bricks as the world shifts.
The stones around me turn to liquid, the roar of the crowd replaced with the roar of waves. The cold waters of the Eastern Sea lap around me.
Desperately and unsuccessfully, I try to swim. Something black breaches the surface just out of my frame of vision and panic seizes me.
Death’s creature lurks in the murky water.
I call to my magic, grasping for any thread of power to save me. Vines of ivy shoot out from my wrists angled towards the sea floor seeking purchase in the silt. The black shape crests the surface again. With one final breath, I scream a single syllable name.
The leviathan opens its mighty jaws, wrapping around me and sending the entire world into pitch black.
I wake in a panic, gasping for air. A thick layer of salty sweat that feels too much like sea water coats my skin. The crackling fire calls to me and I step cautiously out of the tent to warm myself.
I expect to find Captain Murphy on watch, but he’s nowhere to be seen. Palming the dagger that I keep sheathed against my outer thigh, I creep around the tent, eyes searching the dark for any signs of life—friendly or otherwise.
Murphy kneels at the edge of the small pond, his hands clasped and head bowed reverently. The light from the full moon shimmers across the glassy surface, illuminating his reflection.
As if in response to a whispered petition, a cool breeze cuts through the trees, sending a ripple across the water and a chill down my spine. The clouds above shift slightly, casting the captain’s head in a glowy, silvery halo.
If the gods are real, I imagine they look like he does now. Mysterious, radiant, gorgeous. The appearance alone is worthy of disciples.
A childhood spent in religious schooling gave me plenty of exposure to the pious, the devoted so-called sons and daughters of faceless gods.
People who are quick to pray and even quicker to judge.
Followers who blame the cruelty of this world on its faithless inhabitants instead of the vengeful gods they worship.
The Captain of Corinth is the antithesis of holy, his acts openly rebuked by the righteous, and yet here he is on his knees in benediction.
There’s an eerie feeling in the air as if the world itself is holding its breath. My magic roils in my veins, suddenly desperate to get out. My muscles ache in protest as I keep my power locked away. Magic claws at my skin as I stumble backward towards camp.
Slumping down against a log, I try to steady my breathing. The fire cracks loudly, a flame nearly licking my boot before I can pull my knees to my chest. As suddenly as it woke, my power goes dormant again, somehow satiated after a frenzied starvation.
The moon is still high overhead, but I know for certain I won’t be sleeping anymore tonight. Not when my stomach is on the verge of emptying itself of the meager dinner of fire-cooked fish and bread that Murphy slipped under the tent flap.
Not when my dreams have already driven me closer to the edge of madness and further from anything resembling rest.
Laying my head back against the log, I chart the constellations overhead. Supposed symbols of the great divine. After today, I expect to find the starry image of an owl, but it’s a celestial wolf that greets me instead. The sigil of the Wolf God Mikais, brother to the God King.
The story of the traitorous sibling has always fascinated me. The holy texts conveniently omit the details of the brother who supposedly cast the ultimate betrayal upon Nobus. When asked, the holy priests only reply “The gods didn’t see fit to tell us.”
I have never been one to take things at face value, not when stories are the currency of reputation.
Whoever controls the narrative decides who is a hero and who is a villain.
I can’t help but wonder if Mikais and I have that knowledge in common, if maybe his actions were warranted, if maybe he rebelled against Nobus’ control and was rewarded with a slanderous nickname too.
A cool breeze stirs to life again and I sense Captain Murphy’s approach before I hear it.
“My turn for watch,” I say without lifting my head from its resting place.
He lingers, watching me as intently as I watched him moments ago. But whatever thoughts are in his head remain there as he wordlessly enters the tent.
When I’m sure that he’s not watching me, I let a single bloom of godsbane grow to life in my palm. Five midnight-hued sepals surround a cluster of poisonous nectaries in its center. I flex my power and watch as the almost-petals open and close at my whim.
The power of life flows through my veins, power to create and also to destroy. Power that I have always hidden, biding my time until the right moment to reveal what I can do.
And despite how it infuriates me, Captain Murphy might just be the key to unlocking even more of that power.