31. COMM
COMMUNION
JACEN
When Jacen woke from a mercifully dreamless sleep, there was no sign of Seth or Ysira. They must have thought they were being kind, leaving him to rest. But now that he was alone, all the sustaining momentum of the last days slammed to a halt.
What was he supposed to do now?
He stared at the floor for a time, then wandered into the hall and almost collided with a militiaman on patrol.
Jacen must have looked awful, because the man politely suggested he bathe.
With nothing better to do, Jacen followed him along the river to a dark, low-ceilinged cave honeycombed with pools.
It lay empty, silent but for the trickling of little waterfalls.
A chiseled signpost suggested this place had once been a busy bathhouse.
Once he was alone, Jacen stripped out of his robes.
Slowly at first, with trembling hands, and then he couldn’t tolerate them on his skin a second longer.
He threw them aside and staggered into the steaming water, submerging himself.
Bathing was among the first things he tended to neglect when his moods grew dark, and now he worried he might never bring himself to come back out.
He scrubbed his skin raw, half-wishing it would peel off to reveal a better, saner man underneath. Finally, he just wept. Inertia at last.
He failed to sense Ysira until she was practically right behind him.
He whirled and sank lower into the water in a vain attempt to hide his nakedness. She must have come out of a bath herself—hair in a wet braid over her shoulder, wearing nothing but a loose black shift.
“We need to talk,” she said.
They’d fallen asleep in the arms of the same man. But without Seth present, the dynamic between them felt different. Jacen would not quite call it awkward. Rather . . . uncertain. Where Seth was safe and familiar, Ysira was something sharper, more intense.
There was also the matter of her demon. Jacen hadn’t noticed it beside the far more powerful presence of Naxal or the Gate.
But now that he was rested and sober, alone with her, it was clear.
It explained so much. Not just her authority in this place but how she’d known Elyas—how she had survived so many things that should have killed her.
Jacen cleared his throat, feeling himself flush. “Let me get dressed first.”
She obligingly turned her back until he’d pulled on the rough, sand-colored trousers the militia had provided him. He could not remember the last time he had worn anything other than black. He didn’t much like it.
He faced Ysira. “Var Naktis, is it?” He drew a hand across his throat to indicate the scar on hers. “Your demon has some sort of healing power?”
She nodded. “I’ve had it since I was Harvested.”
What she did next came unexpected. She opened her mind to Jacen—just a crack, letting him peer through a door still held by a chain. Enough to give him a clear sense of the presence inside, an intricate embroidery across her consciousness.
Her demon was an odd and dispassionate thing, exuding immense power but low intelligence. The heart of it nestled around Ysira’s vital functions like a lazy house spider. Upon noticing Jacen, it coiled a little tighter. He discerned a clear message: MINE.
He retreated, signaling to the demon that he meant it no harm, though a lifetime of ingrained doctrine told him he’d just gravely sinned. It compelled him to ask Ysira, “Do you still feel like yourself?”
“Other things have changed me more, I think.” It wasn’t exactly an answer, but Ysira lifted her shoulders. “Are you still you with a tumor? With brain damage?” She gave him a pointed look. “With memory loss? Or are we more than the sum of our parts?”
At that, Jacen could not hide his surprise. Ysira smiled—an arresting sight, and a rare one. “Just because I haven’t made a profession out of brooding over these questions doesn’t mean I’ve never considered them.”
“I take it you’re not here to request an exorcism,” Jacen said.
“No. But when fighting the demon gods, one would still be wise to enlist an exorcist. You used to be the best the Church had to offer.” Ysira glanced over her shoulder.
When she seemed confident they were alone, she said, “In the physical sense, Neri is uniquely suited to Naxal’s power.
I was possessed while pregnant, so my demon gave him certain advantages.
Mentally, though, he’s been struggling. Extradimensional communion is difficult for a telepath of his tier, and he’s .
. . reluctant. I need you to help him. Show him how to use it. ”
Jacen chose his next words carefully. “You didn’t tell Seth that.
” “Seth wants to believe we might win this fight with . . . half measures.” Ysira hugged her shoulders as though suddenly cold.
“I’ve seen things he hasn’t. And—say we win.
What next? We invoke the wrath of an enemy whose civilization spans the stars, who nearly destroyed us once, who made themselves our gods.
We’re obligated to think, and plan, on a much larger scale. ”
Jacen scrutinized Ysira. “I never took you for a revolutionary.” “Things change. And you don’t know me that well.”
“But it’s more than that, isn’t it?” Jacen pressed. “You’ve put yourself at the center, taken responsibility. You didn’t have to do that.”
Ysira’s tone remained neutral. “Neri is my son. Wherever he is, so will I be, and I will keep him safe.”
“If it were so simple,” Jacen said quietly, “you wouldn’t have cornered me alone.”
It struck him how very different she seemed from the girl he’d known as a novitiate.
In those days, she was all hard edges and sinew, never one for jewels or fine clothes like she donned here.
The last twelve years had added softness to her figure, but it did not make her look gentle.
Rather, she wore it much like her scars.
More than the physical changes, she seemed compelled to put on a performance—not just of spirituality, or even of leadership, but of motherhood.
All these roles she’d never meant to embrace.
What could make that worth it to her?
They stood at an impasse, until Ysira said, “What is it you hope to find here?” The question was a challenge. “What are you up to, Brother Kheris?”
“All I want is the truth.” Jacen took a step toward her. “But I asked you first. What do you want, Ysira?”
“Power, obviously.” She spread her hands. “I can’t protect myself or Neri without it.”
“So, why didn’t you come here sooner? You have power. You’re valak.” Jacen hesitated. “You’re uncomfortable. I’ve never seen you so on edge.”
That seemed to trigger something in Ysira.
Her mouth twisted. “I will not be used. Not ever again, not by anyone. I want to fight on my own terms, and I want them”—she gestured at an invisible someone, perhaps many someones—“to suffer like I did. I am going to kill the deranged insects that call themselves our gods. I’m going to kill Ged Semira with my own hands.
I am not afraid of power. If I seem uncomfortable to you, it’s because I know it’s not enough. Not yet.”
When Jacen failed to respond, she said, “You know it too. How much of you did the Church erase? How many choices did they take away?” She met his gaze, unyielding.
“And what about your novitiate? You must want to protect her. What line wouldn’t you cross to keep what happened to you both from happening to anyone else?
What would you give to stop the Harvest? To atone?”
“Anything!” Jacen finally exclaimed. His voice cracked. “Everything.”
For a moment, Ysira was silent. They stood closer now, two overflowing fonts of emotion amplifying each other. But this was not an argument—it was a test. She had left her mind open to him, wider now, and knew that he shared it.
There was a tether, tension that seemed a physical thing, pulled taut between them.
She was not hiding from him any longer. He saw the rise and fall of her chest, the water from her still-wet hair cutting a trail down her neck, between her breasts .
. . the abyss of her eyes that reflected a vicious intelligence and an iron will.
Her demon, stirring at his extradimensional touch, but—like its host—far from afraid.
There he was, a lauded exorcist once more in full command of his faculties, and yet . . . Was he predator or prey?
“We’re stronger than the so-called gods ever let us believe, but we’re divided,” Ysira said.
“We need something to unite behind. I would make us more than just safe; I would make us untouchable.” She took a step closer, until mere inches remained between them and Jacen couldn’t breathe.
“The old ways were not enough to save us. I want to break it all—and I want to remake it.”
Finally, he sensed the desire that lay at the heart of her. He could only stare. “How?”
Neither of them could look away, and she would not be able to lie to him.
The tether between them grew stronger, a fist clasped around his core.
A deeper, molten heat burned through them both, so intense it was painful, but she did not break away.
As difficult—as audacious—as it was for her to say this, she needed him to know.
She needed him. “You don’t just need an exorcist,” he murmured. “You need a priest.”
“No,” she said. “I need a prophet.”
He asked, once more, “What do you want, Ysira?”
A shiver ran through her. He almost gasped. She drew a sharp breath, then exhaled, barely a whisper. A single word. “Worship.”
Ysira left Jacen at the baths, alone and feeling all manner of frustrated things.
He lingered there, working them out, until he finally made up his mind.
She was manipulating him, but she knew he was perfectly aware of that, which meant she believed—to some extent—that she was worthy of what she sought.
And Jacen needed to know. Once and for all, he needed the truth, and he could delay no longer.