Chapter 36
“ A ll my life,” I say, my tongue too large for my mouth, “I’ve been told I was Spared for a reason.”
“Perhaps,” Agrippina murmurs, her tone almost reverent, “you were.”
We fall silent, the shadows lengthening into swathes of pitch-dark velvet. Questions leap in my mind like small fish in a stream—there and then gone, innumerable, flashing in the light for a moment before disappearing back into the depths.
“Do you have any questions? It is a lot, I know,” Nyatrix says softly.
I look over to find her crouched at my side. I swallow hard and squeeze my eyes shut. “A thousand of them,” I admit in a hoarse voice. “And little ability to find the right words, I fear.”
“Well, then,” Agrippina says with a grunt as she gets to her feet, the legs of her chair scraping against the slate floor. “Let’s do something useful with our bodies, shall we? Let our minds lie fallow for a moment. Ophelia, have you eaten anything recently?”
I shake my head a few beats too late, my thoughts sticky. In my peripheral vision, Agrippina rummages in her satchel, producing handfuls of bright, jewel-like vegetables. I watch in awe as she arranges them on the countertop—autumn squash and blood-red peppers, leafy carrots and tiny garlic cloves. Nyatrix stands and strides across the kitchen, preparing cookware for what I desperately hope is soup. I get to my feet and ask how I can help, glad for the distraction.
A few moments later, I’m mincing garlic on a flat piece of heavy stone. Beside me at the counter, Nyatrix dices the squash with sharp precision. It takes far too much concentration to stop myself from watching the movements of her long, lithe fingers instead of completing my own task.
“You said much of Liminalia’s land is Sundered,” I say over the crackle of the fire. “How do you grow such things?”
“Greenhouses,” Agrippina says, wiping her knife on a square of linen before reaching for the peppers. “The land can’t sustain much livestock beyond the equui, so we’ve put a lot of our time and energy into finding other solutions.”
“But,” Nyatrix says, glancing over at me without halting her knifework, “the greenhouses are failing.”
Agrippina grunts but doesn’t disagree. In the hearth’s glow, I examine their clothing—the worn, patched linen suddenly makes much more sense. Certainly a greenhouse cannot host an entire field of flax. My mind slips to the truth of Lumendei’s blighted gardens and I tighten my jaw, trying to ground myself in the space around me and not the past.
Seasoned stock bubbles in the cauldron hung over the fire, its warm, comforting scent relaxing me. Agrippina grabs a wooden tray piled with the diced squash and dumps it in with a soft splash. I hand her the stoneware bowl of garlic when she turns back around, and into the brew it goes. I’ve seen little of Liminalia, but if the coarse, dry brushland near the stables is the acreage they choose for pasture, I can only imagine how blighted the rest of its city-state must be.
Nyatrix reaches over me into the cupboard, pulling down a tiny jar of what looks to be black salt. Her hip brushes mine, sending my blood pounding. “Makes everything taste better, I promise,” she tells me with a smile, gesturing to the jar. She looks at me for a moment longer, and then asks, “Would you prefer I pull a chair over here for you? Or are you all right to keep standing?”
I blush and look down at my hands, the flaky skin of the garlic bulbs still clinging to my fingers. In Lumendei, most people seemed to think it polite to just ignore that my body is different from theirs. Nyatrix, however, seems to have no issue with the realities of my flesh; there’s never any judgment in her eyes when she asks such questions, and I am terribly well-versed with judgment. She simply seeks to accommodate, as if it’s the most natural thing in the world. My heart beats rapidly, thumping against the hollow of my throat.
“I’m all right for now,” I tell her, feeling heat spread across my chest. “Thanks for asking.”
“Of course,” she murmurs with a bow of her head, reaching for the peppers.
“These Avatars,” I say, surprised by my own boldness. “If they returned . . . would that help Liminalia?”
“Maybe,” Nyatrix replies at the same moment Agrippina announces, “Without a doubt.” They exchange glances before Agrippina looks away, stirring the soup with a large spoon.
I wipe my hands on a clean cut of cloth, the dream of my mother speaking about the Avatars slipping into my waking mind. A horrible thought hits me suddenly and I draw away from Nyatrix with a startled cry.
“Did you know?” I demand, meeting her gaze as she turns to examine me with those dark, fathomless eyes. “Did you know who I was? Is that why you saved me? So you could use me?”
My blood gallops through my body with wild abandon. Agrippina lets the spoon slip into the soup, twisting slowly to look at me with wide eyes, her gaze darting to the knight. Nyatrix stands stock-still and lets out a long breath, shaking her head.
“No,” she says, holding up her hands. “I promise you, Ophelia.”
Curling my fingers into my skirts, I try to replay everything I’ve ever told this creature—this achingly beautiful creature who seems perfectly constructed to disarm me, to tear down all my defenses until I’m left ready for the reaping.
“I told you my mother was a heretic,” I accuse, backing away until I bump into the table on the other side of the room.
Nyatrix nods in agreement. “You did,” she says, her tone even. “I thought perhaps, given how much you resemble Celia, that you could be her lost daughter. But I had no surety, and in truth, Ophelia, at the time I was much more focused on getting out of Lumendei alive than anything else.”
My heart rams against my sternum, clamminess prickling my spine. Again, I want to run, to hide, but there is nowhere to go— nowhere is safe. That much I should know, pulled from my mother’s hidden panel like a kit from its burrow. I grip the handle of my cane tighter despite my damp palms, nausea rising like a tide in my belly.
“Ophelia,” Nyatrix murmurs, taking the smallest of steps closer. “Whether you are Celia’s daughter or not, the Avatar or not, you are safe here. I care for you regardless of these things. Beyond these things.”
The Godwinds race down the chimney, buffeting the steady flame in the hearth. Even without her armor, without that infamous wolf-head helm, the Lupa Nox is still a predator—only steps from me, surely just as deadly with a common kitchen knife as a Cursed blade.
And yet, as she moves closer, her hands outstretched, I am unafraid. Strange, it is; Renault often calls me flighty as a church mouse, and yet even when the closest thing to Death in these lands approaches me, I do not cower.
When Nyatrix reaches me, her fingertips brush my chin, then my jawline. It’s only a whisper-like touch, but I shiver all the same. The room, the hearth, Agrippina and the stew, the Godwinds outside—it all disappears.
“I do not know,” I begin, tilting my head back to meet the Lupa Nox’s gaze, “who or what I’ll become if I am lied to again.”
“And I do not lie to you,” Nyatrix murmurs, her body bowing around me. “But I do not blame you for being unsure of this new city, these new ways. If nothing else, do you think you might be able to trust in me?”
Her sharp, feral features have gone soft, the words spoken with an imploring sort of ache that I’ve felt a thousand times in my own body.
“Yes,” I reply hoarsely with a nod. “Yes, I think I can. You bore me across the Sundered Lands. Freed me from Lumendei.”
Nyatrix smiles, her head canted to one side. “No, little dove,” she murmurs, tucking a stray lock of hair back into my braid. “You freed yourself. You were gnawing at your chains long before I arrived.”
My chest soars with emotion as I look up at her. In the eyes of the Lupa Nox, I see myself—my true self—reflected. Not the pretty little doll that Lumendei’s society demanded, not the status-boosting wife Sergio wanted, nor the Spared pawn in Renault’s game. I want to stand on my tiptoes, to taste that blackberry mouth, to show her precisely how beautiful I think she?—
Agrippina clears her throat. I jump as Nyatrix pulls back, just slightly, a faint blush coloring her cheekbones. She looks over her shoulder at Agrippina and laughs. The sound of it is wild, unmoored, a bird with no master.
“With Centurion Lucretia as our new Primus,” Agrippina says, snatching a bowl of carrots off the counter, “it would be for the best if you are the Avatar, Ophelia. She may not grant you refugee stay otherwise.”
Nyatrix draws away from me with a sigh, beginning to pace. “I’m gone for a few fortnights and come back to an entirely changed Centuria,” she mutters, toying with the end of her braid. “I don’t even know if I can trust Maxima any longer, Agrippina.”
The knight turns to me. “The commander of the Liminalian army,” she explains, chewing on her lower lip. “I never had reason to doubt her. But she’s completely unwilling to investigate Lucretia. Convinced Decima, the previous Centurion Primus, died of natural causes.”
Agrippina scoffs at the hearth, wiping sweat off her forehead with the flat of her arm. I try to organize this information in my mind, charting out rules and structures in much the same way I always had to in Lumendei if I wanted to survive. I tell myself I’m accustomed to this work even as my heart cries out with disappointment that perhaps it’s not so different here, after all.
“The new Centurion Primus would want me to be the Avatar?” I ask, stepping past Nyatrix to gather up the chopped heads of carrots.
“Yes,” Agrippina says, ladling a spoonful of soup and blowing on it. “I don’t think she believes in the Old Ways, but she understands their immense power among the people.”
My hip twinges as I nod, bundling up the greens for later use. “And how would such a thing be determined?”
I hear Nyatrix’s sigh before I realize she’s approached, gathering knives and stacking the boards we used to cut and mince. She digs a knuckle into her eye and leans back against the counter, facing out into the kitchen. “Do you know of the Votum?”
I shake my head, watching Agrippina sprinkle more of the blackened sea salt into the cauldron.
“It’s a promise that the Creatrixes made before they left Sylva,” the healer tells me over her shoulder. “Should a threat capable of destroying Liminalia ever arise, a safeguard left by the goddesses would activate.”
I frown. “We never learned of this in scholae.”
Nyatrix’s mouth curves with hollow amusement as she wipes down the knives. “What did you ever learn of Liminalia beyond that we were evil and wanted to kill you?”
“That is fair,” I concede as I retreat to the table, settling down into the chair. Because I feel like I actually can . Because I do not fear the judgment of the two women in this room—possibly for the first time in my entire life. I let out a sigh as the screeching pain in my limbs quiets to a throb.
“Please know I don’t believe any of this utter shit,” Nyatrix grumbles, reaching up into the open shelving for three wide, shallow bowls. The firelight gleams on the long braid that hangs down her back like a black silk tassel. “The Cult of the Mater Dea has long held that the Votum would manifest as two Avatars of the Creatrixes. A boon of Vitalia and Moryx’s power, infused into worthy individuals who showed great courage. Or two individuals the Creatrixes already chose eons ago. It’s unclear.”
“Nyatrix views this ambiguity as a sign of the Votum’s falsehood,” Agrippina says, taking a bowl that the knight hands her and filling it with soup. “The Cult sees it as the Creatrixes providing multiple avenues in which this great thing might come to pass.”
Silence fills the kitchen, broken only by a sudden gust of wind rattling the carved shutters like leaves.
“You do know,” I begin, folding my hands in my lap, “that I underwent the Baptisma, yes? That I pledged my soul to the First Son?”
Nyatrix throws one hand in the air as if to punctuate my words but says nothing. She accepts a full bowl of soup from Agrippina and brings it to me, sliding a worn spoon onto the table beside it.
“The Creatrixes work in mysterious ways,” Agrippina says from the hearth as she ladles out more soup. My stomach rumbles, but I want to wait until everyone is seated. “There is no reason you couldn’t be pledged to the First Son and not still be the Avatar. It certainly won’t stop Lucretia from wanting to test you before she makes a determination on your status here.”
I swallow and lean against the chair’s back, finding there’s little pain even with pressure on my wounds. “This test,” I begin, finding no other recourse, “is it dangerous?”
“No, it’s not,” Nyatrix says, her thunderstorm gaze meeting mine again. “Not at all. I promise.”
Unease twists deep in my belly. “How do you know?”
Nyatrix sinks into the chair next to me just as Agrippina approaches, pulling a chair from the wall. The three of us barely fit at the table, the knight’s knee pressing into mine. My head swims pleasantly. I cup my hands around the warm soup bowl, watching as Nyatrix and Agrippina exchange a long look.
Then Nyatrix heaves a sigh and sets her jaw. Silence stretches taut, building into something thick as fog and twice as heavy. The sweet, rich scent of the squash soup fills my nose, a comforting thing amidst all this strangeness. Almost as comforting as the warmth of Nyatrix’s limb against mine, the presence of Agrippina just across the table.
“Because I underwent it,” the Lupa Nox finally says, shattering any peace I managed to find.
I draw a sharp, quick breath, my throat narrowing.
I know what she’s going to say before the words come out. I knew what she was going to say before we even met, back in that dream with my mother where she spoke of the two gems unearthed from Sylva’s Sundered soil that might just remake the world anew.
“The Cult of the Mater Dea,” Nyatrix says, staring off into the distance, “thinks I’m the Avatar of Moryx.”