Chapter 26
M y mother crouches before me. Her brow creases, hair like a wild halo around her head. Her hands shake on my shoulders, and her fingers tremble as she smooths my braids.
“Ophelia,” she says, and though I am but a child, I feel the thousand things she does not say. There are no words, I think, that will ever be enough, so she settles for my name. “You need to hide.”
“Like a game?” I ask, peering up at her, though there is a funny feeling in the very pit of my stomach that tells me this is not at all like the game we play in the copse of trees by the river.
“Yes,” my mother replies, the word haggard in her mouth. “Just like a game. I found the perfect hiding spot.”
She leads me over to the wall—a dusky, swirling blue—and pulls a section of the carved wood paneling away. “Here,” she says, gesturing toward the tiny pit of darkness. It is the last place I want to go; it is the last place any child would want to go—into a patch of nighttime instead of my mother’s arms.
“Why can’t I stay with you?” I want to know, tears beginning to form in my eyes, a strange desperation I’ve never felt before clawing at me from the inside out. “I want to stay with you, Momma.”
“I know, baby,” my mother whispers, and because I am a child, I do not see how much it pains her. “But it’s not safe for us to be together right now. So I need you to curl up in your little den. I’ll be back when it’s safe.”
“Do you promise?” I ask.
“I promise, my dearest,” my mother replies, her eyes gleaming. “Now, go on. Off with you into your den, little bear cub.”
I acquiesce and crouch down to slip into the small opening. Thanks to the light from the rest of the small cottage, I can see there’s a soft blanket and dried foodstuffs inside, as well as a clay jug of water. I settle myself into the woolen blanket.
“Now go to sleep, little cub,” my mother says from her knees, the panel in her hands. “Momma bear will come get you when winter’s over.”
“Okay,” I agree, starting to like this game.
“I love you, Ophelia,” my mother tells me, though her tone makes love seem like a bloodstained burden, not the light, winged thing I always thought it to be.
“I love you too, Momma,” I say, looking out from my little den at my mother.
She smiles at me and moves to slide the panel back into place. Her face disappears in achingly slow motion, leaving me to be swallowed by the dark.
Because I know this is a dream, I also know it is the last time I will ever see my mother.
“Ophelia.”
The sound of my name reaches my ears, and I stir. Some part of me is that small child, tucked away in her little bear’s den, and for a moment I dare to think it is my mother calling me.
“Ophelia.” More insistent this time, urgent, and not my mother. I rouse with a start to find the dark eyes and blackberry mouth of the Lupa Nox just inches from my face. “We have to move. Now.”
“What’s happened?” I ask, pulling myself upright. I’m pleasantly surprised by how much less everything hurts. The salve in the supplies tin must have kept well in the cool underground chamber, and soaking in the hot waters was a tiny miracle in and of itself. Only a few nearby candles are lit; Nyatrix extinguished the rest when we decided to try to sleep. I have no idea how many bells ago that was.
“Knights of the Host,” she says, her attention momentarily stolen, sharp gaze snapping to something that I cannot hear. “They’re searching the tunnels. Getting too close.”
My breath catches in my chest. “Would you let me go to them?”
Her eyes meet mine, a thunderstorm limned by candlelight. “Do you want to?”
We hold each other’s gazes, our breathing short and tight. My mind tumbles, a thousand feelings sinking their teeth into my soft places. A distant shout draws my attention. Pinpricks race across my skin.
“I will return you to your bondage if you demand it,” Nyatrix says, straightening, the angles of her face hard, feral.
Another voice rings through the stone chambers, closer now, louder, undeniably accented with Lumendei’s lilt.
“Considering all that has happened,” I say, my tongue thick in my mouth, each word a tiny battle, “I fear the High Ecclesia would see me burned.”
For a long, stretched moment, the Lupa Nox holds my gaze, motionless. She bears down on me with all the intensity of a hurricane roaring in from the ocean. I am little more than a tender sapling bough, snapped in her wake. When she seizes me, I flinch, bracing myself for pain, but Nyatrix gathers me up with a longing sort of tenderness. I reach over toward the wall and grab my cane.
“Do exactly as I say unless you want to burn,” she tells me.
I nod my consent, though I realize the movement is only barely visible given the low light. She settles me into her arms, holding me close to her chest, and stalks to the edge of the pool. She grabs the wool lengths we cut from my skirts and drapes us both in them. My hands shake as I help her arrange the fabric into hoods and long strips to cover our mouths.
And then Nyatrix leans toward one of the rocky outcroppings and extinguishes the few candles we left lit, plunging us into darkness. The same kind of darkness, maybe, of that little hiding hole my mother made for me in our cottage. Before the Sepulchyre fell upon us, slaughtering everyone I’d ever known but, for some godforsaken reason, leaving me alive. Just me.
And now I’ve chosen the arms of the Sepulchyre, the very fate my mother fought so hard to avoid. Was Nyatrix one of the warriors who descended on my village and took my people between her teeth? I close my eyes against the thought and turn my head into her chest, breathing in the scent of asphodels. The other dream of my mother I so often have—on those sun-warmed stone steps, stripping the petals from the plant—dances around the edges of my mind.
I expect Nyatrix to creep through the chamber, to flatten herself against one of the corridor walls. She does none of those things. I watch her reach for the stolen sword at her waist, but she does not draw it. Her fingers just brush the pommel, making me ache in ways I should not permit. And then she stalks forward, soundless despite the weight of her muscle and the power in her strides.
Nyatrix must know these tunnels. She slips through them like a shadow, a wolf hunting at dusk. More than once I hear the clang of armor and footfalls just around the corner, but she always finds another corridor and disappears into the darkness.
“Here!” comes a shout.
Ice floods my veins, my entire body gone still in her arms, until I realize the voice isn’t upon us. No swords at our throats, no High Ecclesian shrieks.
“They’ve found the springs chamber,” Nyatrix whispers to me, flattening us against a wall. She holds me as if I weigh nothing, as if I have never been a burden to anyone at all. “There’s more than I thought. More than they usually send.”
Even though I’m sightless in the dark tunnels, I can feel her eyes fall upon me. Is she wondering why the Host has sent more knights than usual? Is she wondering if it’s because of her or because of me? I’m wondering much the same, if I’m honest.
“Ophelia,” she says, barely more than an exhalation. “We need to go aboveground.”
My mind swims. Her words are heavy, weighted with meaning, and I do not understand. Were we not aboveground earlier, trekking across the blackened sand for what felt like a hundred bells?
“Night has fallen,” she adds, sensing my confusion. “The Hexen are awake. The Godwinds sing their Nocturnes.”
Fear rushes through me in a great tide. “We’ll die ,” I say, clutching at the fabric of her blouse, my heart ricocheting against my ribs. Throughout my life, I have watched entire regiments of the Holy Guard venture into the nighttime sweep of the Sundered Lands, never to return.
The Lupa Nox laughs softly in reply. “Worry not,” she murmurs, her breath ghosting my hair, as if she’s bent her head over mine. “You are already in Death’s arms, are you not? Besides, either we go aboveground, or I slaughter every man in these tunnels. Admittedly I have a preference, but I do not think you would approve.”
Some kind of sinful thrill simmers low in my belly at the idea of the Lupa Nox seeking my approval. But then she pushes off the wall, sending us hurtling back into the darkness. I can’t see my own hand in front of my face, and yet the knight slips through the shadow as if she’s made of the same substance. For a moment, she slinks past a large, open corridor, and I catch sight of the Host.
Terror slides down my throat, burning caustic and sour. At least twenty knights are arranged in the chamber, lanterns held aloft, the hum of Mysterium unmistakable. Light glints off their bronze chainmail, the sharp lengths of their broadswords. I notice with a start that the Host Knights’ armor and weaponry are not affected—not the way the Holy Guard’s was when Nyatrix wrenched the sword free.
“Why did everything change when you pulled the blade?” I ask as she moves soundlessly past the chamber. I know I shouldn’t risk speaking, but the sight of the Host Knights in all the glory I know so well drags the words from my parched, unsteady mouth.
“I don’t know,” Nyatrix answers in a low tone, her voice flat. “I fear there is a lot I do not understand. An illusion, probably, don’t you think?” She pauses, and I imagine she is brushing her fingers along the heavily carved pommel. “This sword is powerful. That’s all I know.”
Yet it does not hum with Mysterium, not that palpable whine I’ve always heard, tinny and undeniable, whenever I’m around someone working the Mysteries or a Blessed object. Then it must be goetia, must it not? The power that courses through that blade must be evil.
Or perhaps it is simply something I do not understand. I swallow hard, my throat aching. What does someone like me even truly know of the world? Down in the darkness of the ruins beneath the Sundered Land, I am so, so terribly afraid that I understand nothing at all.
I feel Nyatrix’s body tilt, like she’s climbing a hill. We take a tight turn, and then, up ahead, I spot an archway gilded in moonlight. Beyond it, the slopes of the Sundered Lands roll out like a great beast, jaws unhinged.
“Have you crossed at night before?” I ask as she pauses in the archway. I look up at her, the sharp jaw silvered, her eyes little more than blackened hollows.
“No,” she admits, meeting my gaze, a muscle in her jaw feathering. “But I’ve also never crossed with an enchanted sword I stole from the Host’s vaults. So we might live.”
I clutch at her, fingers scrabbling at the linen blouse on her powerful shoulder. Beneath the thin fabric, I feel the powerful curve of her muscles, and my stomach tightens. “ Might ?” I demand.
She holds my gaze, one dark brow arching. “You felt quite sure the Host would burn you,” Nyatrix says, reaching across my body.
For a moment, I am not just held by her but pinned against her chest, our bodies meeting in every imaginable place. My breasts press into hers, and suddenly I can feel each hair on my head, every stitch of my rough-spun clothing, the blood pumping through each individual vein.
And then Nyatrix draws the sword, holding it aloft in the gray moonlight. I watch her strong hand wrap around the pommel, the long fingers, the flexed tendons. From her shoulders, black feathers tipped in platinum-silver spring, glorious and impossible.
“Would you rather risk crossing the Sundered Lands, battling Hexen and Nocturnes, with the Lupa Nox,” she asks, amusement pulling up the corner of her lush mouth, “or risk burning in the city that lied to you?”
I stammer, breath rushing out of my lungs. My heart careens about my chest. I peer over her shoulder into the shadowed cavern, half-expecting to see a glimmer of bronze armor. At least this time, I suppose, I’m being given a choice.
“I’ll go with you,” I say, wondering if I’ve completely lost my mind.
“No, Ophelia,” she says, flipping the sword so its point faces the ground. Then she reaches her hand up, a few fingers leaving the pommel to trace the edge of my jaw. I shiver, heat racing to my face. “Which do you want ? It’s a terrible choice, I know. But I want you to decide.”
A strange part of me wishes to laugh, to throw my head back and let some half-hysterical noise leave my mouth. Freedom is a knife. All I get to decide is where to plunge it into my flesh. But there’s one blade I’ll accept over the other, my soul be damned.
“You,” I tell her, tilting my chin up, forcing myself to hold the weight of her eyes. “I want to go with you. For now, I choose you.”
There’s laughter then, delirious, wolfish, and I think it’s coming from my own throat until I see that the Lupa Nox’s lips have parted. “So be it,” she murmurs, clutching me closer, her fingers opening against my hip. “For now, little dove, you are mine.”
And then she plunges into the Sundered Lands like a wave against rock, all movement and power. The Godwinds meet us instantly, slamming me into Nyatrix’s chest. I remember to cover my ears, slapping my hands to either side of my head, cane pinned in the crook of my elbow, as I try to shove wool into my ears.
“Do not listen to anything you hear except my voice,” Nyatrix says, her mouth so close that without the wool her lips would have brushed my skin. I nod, though it’s likely obscured by the torment of the wind and the scant moonlight.
Nyatrix stalks from ruin to ruin, leaning her back against old stone when she can. I feel her head swiveling on her shoulders, keen eyes constantly assessing threats. My heart hammers wildly, my fingers curled into fists. Moments stretch across all eternity, particularly when Nyatrix bursts out into the open.
At some point, she stops near the top of a hill, crouching in the overhang of a ruin. The angle allows me to see the open mouth of the chambers we left, far across the sands. It’s empty—which provides some relief. I half-expected to see the glimmer of armor, the Host Knights advancing upon us. It is strange how much I do not want them to follow. I want it to be because I’ve chosen Nyatrix, because I believe there is some good to be redeemed in the Sepulchyre, because I have found too much evidence of rot and darkness in Lumendei.
The truth is that I do not want to stand between them both and make a decision. Look into a knight’s eyes and then into hers. I don’t want to be the reason they fight, the reason Nyatrix kills more of my people. I want no more bloodshed and will not be made into an excuse to feed the Sundered Lands more death.
We’re sliding down the far side of a steep hill, Nyatrix barely keeping her balance on the slippery terrain, her wings thrown out behind her. She does not take to the air—presumably due to both the Godwinds and the concern of making us more visible to any Host Knight who ventures aboveground. A part of me longs to see her burst into flight again, but I push that desire down, trying to smother the burgeoning sin.
Her grip on my waist tightens, and I drag my eyes away from her, only to find a terror awaiting me. At the bottom of the hill stands a horrible creature—the head of a serpent, the body of a lyon, a long tail snapping through the Godwinds, the end tipped in something barbed and metallic, almost like a flail.
I cling to Nyatrix, anticipating a decision to flee, but she just readjusts her grip on the blackened sword and takes a few steps forward. Her movements are calm, precise, like she is processing to the altar, not facing down one of the Hexen—the once-normal creatures of this place, twisted and marred by the goetia the Sepulchyre performed to hang the First Son from a Cursed cross. Their only purpose is terror. Their flesh cannot be consumed by either mortal or god. No more than dangerous refuse with terribly sharp teeth.
I swallow. What if that old story, too, is false?
Then the Hexen charges up the hill, its tail singing through the air. Any other thoughts I have disappear as my vision goes white with panic. It bounds toward us, seemingly unaffected by the Godwinds, serpent head reared back. Nyatrix holds her ground in a way that makes me scream her name, though my voice is lost to the roar of the winds.
At the very last moment, she moves—barely more than a sidestep, a flick of the stolen blade. Even over the Godwinds, I can hear the cry of the Hexen. It is surely some distortion, I tell myself, that makes the shriek sound so much like the High Ecclesia. A trick. I’m just confused, addled by fear, my mind drawing connections where none exist.
Nyatrix pivots hard, graceful as a dancer, though I can feel the strain in her shoulders as she braces herself against the wind with her wings. Before she can move to regain the higher ground, the Hexen comes at us again, even though its side is lacerated and bleeding something black and tar-like—a substance far removed from the blood of a living creature.
I can see myself reflected in the milky white of its dead eyes as Nyatrix dodges, fighting to catch herself on the uneven terrain. In truth, I have little idea how we aren’t dead already—she is relying on only one arm with a broadsword that looks to be built for two-handed wielding, if my scant knowledge means anything, and she’s carrying all my extra weight.
With a cry that rises even above the Godwinds, Nyatrix is the one to charge this time, propelling us over the crest of the hill. The Hexen leaps to the side, cat-like, and rakes at us with its massive claws. She deflects with the flat of her blade, but it strikes at us with its serpent head, fangs gleaming with a viscous liquid that smells of rot and death.
She cannot fight this thing with me in her arms. I am too much of a burden. Perhaps she’ll finally see that and leave me for the Hexen or the Host or whichever predator manages to find me first.
Nyatrix bares her teeth, chest heaving with exertion, and lunges for the Hexen. It shrieks, her blade biting into its shoulder, and she carries the movement farther instead of turning to face it. Her long, powerful legs propel us to a pile of ruins, where she dives into the sand, her arms protecting me. Beneath the half-moon of carved rock, the Godwinds are a little quieter.
“Stay here,” Nyatrix says, her gaze darting over her shoulder as she reaches into her boot. She produces a small blade and hands it to me. “If something gets close to you, stab it.”
All I can do is nod, clutching the worn handle of the knife, wondering if I even have it in me to harm anything at all—even something that would harm me. For a long moment, Nyatrix holds my gaze. I can’t see her mouth—the woolen cloth is wound around her head—but in her eyes, there is something unsaid.
She leaves it that way and disappears, sprinting in the direction of the Hexen. I huddle into the small, dark grotto, my cane in one hand, the knife in the other. And then I wait, hard, terrified breaths rattling through my lungs. My fingers go slick and clammy, my arms beginning to shake. I force myself deeper into the ruin, kicking up sand in my wake, until I feel stone meet my back.
An eternity or maybe a few seconds pass, the fabric across my mouth damp with the weight of my heavy breathing. The terror gripping me doesn’t fade; if anything, it crescendos, filling up my chest to bursting. The Nocturnes begin to sound like my mother’s voice, and I let go of my cane, clamping my hand over one ear, shrugging to tuck the other against my shoulder.
A shadow falls over me, and for a long, strained second, I am sure it’s my mother, returned to me by the horrific magic of the Sundered Lands. But then my mind clears, ever so slightly, and I can see an impossible creature blocking the entry into the crumbling ruins.
Its head is raptor-like, and for a moment I dare to think perhaps this one might just be curious, not violent. But then the bird’s head opens, and where there should be only a smooth beak, serrated teeth crusted in old blood line its jaw.
I grip the Lupa Nox’s dagger and try to stop myself from screaming, but a strangled yelp works its way out of my throat anyway as the Hexen’s serpent body slithers closer, beady eyes trained on me. Like the creature Nyatrix is fighting, its gaze is cast in the milky white of death. Closer it comes, and without the currents of the Godwinds, the smell of rot invades my senses.
If my leg worked, I could at least pull myself into a crouch, but given the shape of the ruins I’m tucked into, all I can do is sit and wait for this thing to approach. I’ve never killed anything in my life. I’ve seen the butchers work, of course, and eaten meat on Feast Days. But I’ve never taken a life—not even an insect’s. I am not like the Lupa Nox, dealing death with ease.
I set my jaw and kick up sand with my good leg, pairing it with a shout. “Get away!” I yell, trying to be as loud as possible over the Godwinds at the entrance.
The Hexen shies back for a moment, shaking sand from its head, but then it slithers onward. Saliva drips from its serrated teeth, landing on the sand below in a foamy, wretched-smelling pool.
“Leave me alone!” I shout, trying to kick at it again, but it barely blinks when I shower it with more sand. Instead, the Hexen slides between my legs, pinning me down by my skirts. It’s larger up close, its body the width of my thigh or more, the raptor’s head bigger than any bird I’ve ever seen.
“Please,” I whimper, panic setting in as it looms over me, that disgusting saliva landing on my skirts. “I don’t want to hurt you.”
And then it lunges, teeth bared, a rattling cry bursting from its mouth. I throw my hands up instinctively to shield my face, the dagger barely in my grasp. With all my strength, I hold the Hexen back as it snaps its jaws at my neck, a sob ravaging my chest. Perhaps it would have been better to burn. At least I could’ve seen Carina one more time, maybe gotten a glimpse of my gardens restored to their full and godly glory.
My forearms strain, and I know it’s a losing battle; it is always a losing battle for me when it comes to asking my body to obey. Frantically, I twist my wrist, trying to use my palm to push the Hexen away, lifting my good leg to drive a knee into its trunk.
My palm meets the place where the raptor’s feathers merge with the serpent’s scales, and suddenly, I feel the Hexen slacken against me, like it’s drawing away. I open my eyes—I hadn’t even realized I’d closed them—carefully looking through the crossed shield of my arms.
The Hexen writhes, its raptor mouth open and bleating, as if someone has cast a Curse upon it. Wildly, I fling my body to the side, looking past the beast, but there is no glorious Nyatrix standing at the entrance, framed in the buffeting Godwinds and weak moonlight.
Whatever is happening to this creature, I have done it.
The Hexen throws its head back as its serpent body begins to . . . uncoil? It collapses to the sand and thrashes around, kicking up a cloud of gray dust. I press myself against the wall, frozen in place, my fingers slick around the dagger’s handle.
When the dust settles, I find an entirely normal raptor and a common cliffside snake. They lie in the sand, chests heaving. A heartbeat later, both creatures have closed their eyes, and their bodies disintegrate into bone and ash.
Fear and confusion and a thousand other emotions grip me, vise-like, and I struggle onto my knees, crawling forward to examine the ash. But the Godwinds slip in a moment later, like a long arm reaching through a door, and snatch the ash away. I hold myself up on all fours, breathing hard, perspiration prickling my forehead even though the winds are vicious and cold.
Perhaps I am simply hallucinating, because between my palms, there in the dead sand of the Sundered Lands, grows a mossy green carpet. I blink, and violets poke delicate purple heads through the verdant covering, blooming all at once.
The same hallucination I saw outside the Devorarium. In my bed. Though I squeeze my eyes shut, the violets are still there when I open them. I’m still on my hands and knees, mystified, when another shadow falls over me, weak, filtered through the wan moon’s glow.
I look up, my heart thudding, to find the Lupa Nox standing at the threshold of the ruins. She’s breathing hard, and there’s a tear in the shoulder of her blouse that looks like it was made by claws. Her cowl is pulled down, exposing her face. I glance at the spray of blood across her trousers, working my way up to the wild gleam in her eyes and the bruise on her jaw. She looks, of all things, to be utterly delighted.
“Told you not to worry,” Nyatrix yells over the Godwinds, a gleeful smile crossing her mouth, as if all of this madness has brought her nothing but joy. She rolls her shoulders and extends a hand down to me.
At that moment, she catches sight of the violets. She freezes, brows drawn together, dark eyes examining the tiny garden between my hands. “What the fuck?” Nyatrix demands, her gaze meeting mine.
“I have no idea,” I reply, but the Godwinds carry my voice away.
She cups a hand to her ear, encouraging me to speak up, but exhaustion grips me as the adrenaline fades away. All my body’s pain comes roaring back in, so I simply shake my head and settle for crawling to the entrance of the ruins. I don’t even want to think about how weak and ungainly I look, dragging myself across the sand to a woman who just slayed a Hexen, who stands in the middle of the Sundered Lands and doesn’t for a moment react to the false promises of the Nocturnes.
As I grip Nyatrix’s hand, the sound of my mother’s voice dances across the sands again, and I resist a knee-jerk reaction to search the surrounding area for her.
“You’re not listening, are you?” Nyatrix asks me, leaning low, her body sheltering mine from the winds. “To the Nocturnes?”
“I’m trying not to,” I reply in a hoarse shout. I lean into Nyatrix, realizing that I’ve left my cane. I bite my lip and decide not to mention it. I am already such a burden. I don’t want to draw attention to my body’s weakness, how I cannot even walk more than a few steps without the assistance of a tool.
“Where’s your cane?” Nyatrix asks me, her eyes searching the surrounding sand. Before I can answer, she spots it in the little half-moon of ruins. “Can you stand on your own?”
I hesitate, wanting to say yes, but she takes one look at me and arches a brow. She is ruinous in her beauty, even with the stolen sword sheathed and her wings gone, a column of black in a sea of gray. Without a word, Nyatrix wraps both hands around my waist, and with what seems like no effort, she sets me atop a piece of smooth stone reaching up from the sand.
Then she dives into the ruins, returning with my cane. She offers it to me, and I accept, shouting out a ragged thank-you. With a flourish, the Lupa Nox sinks into a courtly bow—the kind I thought only Noble Houses knew—and extends her palm.
Trembling, I reach out and take her hand.