Chapter 16 #3
For a moment, I almost understand the appeal of the memory trade. The mercy of forgetting something so horrific. But then I remember that the Council worships this man. That they've built their entire system around his ideology. And the nausea that rises in my throat has nothing to do with mercy.
I think of the Sages. How they forbade me from speaking about my gift. How they've always insisted I stay far from the Council's notice. They know, I realize.
They've always known what Cato is capable of. They’ve never put much importance on the last three hundred years of history, but there are things that transcend time, civilizations, and borders.
Cruelty is one of them. The erasure of powerful women and people deemed "less than" by those in power appears in every culture I've ever studied.
It's a pattern as old as civilization itself. And yet. For every tyrant who rises, opposition rises too. It may be quieter. Less visible. But it endures. I hold onto that thought like a lifeline.
"Pia came from a long line of powerful women." Malachi turns toward me, his voice heavy with something that sounds like grief. "Her mother was the greatest healer of her generation. Her grandmother was a sorceress feared across three kingdoms. Her sister was a Sage."
"Is that why he wanted her?"
"He knew her gifts would be extraordinary.
Even before they manifested." His jaw tightens.
"She was thirteen the first time he visited Larimar.
Seventeen when he returned to take her by force.
She hadn't even come into her full power yet, and he was already certain she could restore his Everlasting scepter. "
Thirteen. A child. And a monster had already marked her as his.
"That's what he wanted her for?" My voice comes out rough. I have to look away to blink back the tears threatening to form. "And people just allowed it? No one stopped him?"
"Allowed?" His eyebrows rise. "What do you think the war between Tenebris and Arusha has been about for three hundred years?"
The question lands like a blow. The war. The curse. All of it spiraling out from one man's obsession with one woman who refused to be owned.
"She fled to Tenebris," I say slowly, piecing it together. "And he followed. And cursed the entire kingdom because they gave her shelter."
"Yes."
Another thought surfaces, darker than the rest. "The child. The one Cato's hunters are searching for." I meet his eyes. "Please tell me it's not hers."
He's quiet for a long moment.
"They say he is."
I press a hand to my stomach, fighting the urge to be sick. "Gods. That poor child."
"He was hidden before Cato could find him. Raised in secret. The goddess showed some mercy there, at least."
I stare at the books without seeing them. "If the curse was cast three hundred years ago, wouldn't the child be..." I do the math, then stop. "Over three hundred years old?"
Malachi raises an eyebrow. "And how does aging work in the realm of the dead?"
Right. Noktemore. Time moves differently there, or not at all. A child hidden three centuries ago could still be a child. Or something else entirely.
"If Pia escaped him three centuries ago, maybe the Everlasting has lost its power by now." I cling to the hope. "Three hundred years is a long time without a healer to restore it."
"It would be, if people weren't still worshipping him across the kingdoms." Malachi's voice is grim.
"You know what they say. Every thought you give someone is energy.
Every prayer, every fear, every whisper of their name.
It feeds them. We believe this about gods.
" His eyes meet mine. "The same is true for those who fancy themselves gods. "
The implication settles into my bones like ice. All those residents in Lunaris, chanting the Everlasting's name. Bowing to his symbol. Feeding power to a monster they've never even seen. I close my eyes. Let the horror of it wash over me.
"There's more," Malachi says quietly. "Long before Cato set foot in Larimar, he served as one of King Runerth's advisors. He was stationed in Lunaris for a time."
My eyes fly open. "Here?"
"Here. Which means if the Hall of Gratitude was built on the site of an older temple, and if Cato himself was involved in its construction..."
He doesn't finish the sentence. He doesn't have to.
"That's terrifying," I whisper and frown as another question arises. "Cato wasn't born into royalty?"
"Gods, no." He scoffs. "Arusha was a queendom for thousands of years before he seized power. He overthrew an entire matriarchal dynasty. It was unprecedented."
"And no one stopped him?"
"They tried." He begins gathering the maps, his movements careful, reverent of their age. "But as you know, the Everlasting is a siphoner. What the Sages and Council accomplished here with elixirs and memory trade, Cato achieved in Arusha through the Everlasting and his voice alone."
His words. His compulsion. I wrap my arms around myself, suddenly cold despite the strange warmth of the enchanted lights.
"I don't know what's more disturbing," I say quietly. "That bloodlines and birth order determine who rules, or that someone like Cato can rise from nothing and crown himself king through sheer brutality."
Malachi's quiet laugh is unexpected. It fills some hollow place in my chest, just enough warmth to steady me. I look at the stack of books on the table. The lost histories. The erased truths.
"I'm taking these," I say, and it's not a question.
He doesn't try to stop me. One more defiant act. One more step away from the cage I was raised in. I tuck the books under my arm and follow him back into the dark.