Chapter Twelve Inana
Chapter Twelve
Inana
Once we’re back on the main road, we discover the true nature of our hurry.
“Are we trying to get to Thornfal by sunset?” Calvin calls out to Dominic as he tugs his cloak tight to his body.
It’s late afternoon, and now that we’ve picked up speed, the air rushes over us in an icy current.
I pull my own cloak tighter around me and tuck my hand into the pocket that holds my mask.
I run my fingers along the smooth filigree.
I recognize the name Thornfal as the village where we’ll be taking up our first post. Didn’t Dominic say he’d train us as much as possible before going there?
I wouldn’t call the impromptu exercise we just did thorough training.
Surely he meant to teach us more than that.
“We won’t make it by sunset,” the Shadowbane says, “but hopefully before sunrise.”
“What’s the hurry?” Harlow asks, her question aimed at Calvin rather than Dominic. “I thought we left the clearing because the location was compromised by Shades.”
“He must have received a missive,” Calvin says.
I frown. “A missive. But when? And from…whom? I saw no rider bearing a message.”
“The church nearest to Thornfal would have sent it.” At our blank looks, Calvin proceeds to explain. “Priests are the only ones who can quickly communicate with Shadowbanes while they’re traveling, for they have access to common astrotheurgy.”
My interest is piqued at that. I know the church hoards all knowledge of astrotheurgy.
Even the Sinless are privy to just a singular branch—solar astrotheurgy—and that’s reserved for the dukes and royals who light the Holy Braziers.
And the Shadowbanes too, I suppose, after what Dominic said about his use of magic.
I’ve heard rumors that astrotheurgy once was used in common ways, from infusing tonics with healing properties to sending letters in an instant across any distance.
All one needed to know was the exact diagram set with angles, numbers, and glyphs representing the gods to effect the desired outcome.
If the church still has that knowledge, it makes sense they’d use it when needed.
They’re the ones who perform the Absolution ritual on the Sinless, after all.
“We were due in Thornfal three days ago,” Calvin says, “but had to take a little detour for”—he gestures toward the three of us—“you.”
Harlow arches a brow. “Because you found yourselves with a sudden lack of Summoners?”
“Precisely,” he says, oblivious to how ominous that sounds. “So it makes sense the mayor would seek us out if the situation has escalated.”
“It has,” Dominic confirms. “The missive didn’t say how badly, only that the Shade targeting the village has grown more aggressive. Furthermore, if I don’t arrive within twenty-four hours, my post will be given to another Shadowbane.”
“Is that such a bad thing?” I ask.
Perhaps I’m imagining it, but his back seems to stiffen at my voice.
It takes him a few moments to answer. “I would never endanger a village for my own ambition, but Shadowbanes earn accolades for defending their posts. The faster they de-escalate an active Shade attack—either by putting an end to an ongoing nightly threat or by dispatching an Incarnate—the more posts they’re given.
The more posts they defend, the more accolades they earn, and the higher the chances are that they will be chosen to complete their Absolution. ”
My stomach sours at that. Another reminder of what he seeks to become.
“But the most important accolades,” he says, “are those earned in the months leading up to the summer solstice celebration in the Year of Bastien.”
“That’s next year,” Harlow says. She’s right, and with it already being twelfthmonth, the Year of Bastien begins in just a few short weeks.
Still, I don’t know what’s significant about that. An annual celebration occurs at the capital city nine out of every ten years for the god-of-the-year’s holiday. Since next year belongs to the God of the Sun, that’s summer solstice.
Every decade has one year dedicated to each of the nine gods, and a tenth dedicated to atonement.
During each annual celebration, King Kaelum performs a ritual sacrifice of convicted criminals.
He offers their souls to the patron god of the year to demonstrate that the criminals are but a small fraction of mankind and do not represent humanity.
Then he tests his thirst. If he sets the sacrifices free, it means his thirst has ended; the gods have forgiven us, and the Shades are no more.
However, if he drinks from them, it means we’ve yet to earn forgiveness.
For five hundred years, the ritual has ended the same way—the sacrifices dead and drained of blood at the king’s feet.
At least that’s what I’ve heard. It’s not like I’ve witnessed one of the annual rites. The capital is even more exclusive to residents and visitors than the other Sacred Cities are.
Dominic speaks again. “Shadowbanes are guaranteed to be turned full Sinless when they retire, usually after three decades of service. Rarely are they allowed to retire and complete their Absolution earlier than that. However, during the Year of Bastien, one Shadowbane is selected from a pool of nominees to be turned on summer solstice, regardless of how long they’ve served.
These nominees are chosen by their patron princes. ”
“Each prince can only nominate one Shadowbane,” Calvin adds. “Dom’s patron, Prince Leeran, employs about a dozen shadow hunters. So the competition is fierce. Being late to our post already looks bad enough, but having to relinquish the post to another team…” He lets out a low whistle.
“You want to complete your Absolution that badly?” I say, glowering at Dominic’s back.
He shifts his head to the side and eyes me from his peripheral vision. His jaw is tense as he speaks. “I always finish what I begin.”
I’m not one to complain about sleeping arrangements, seeing as I’ve had no true home of my own for two years, but sleeping in a moving wagon next to three other people is fucking awful. It’s almost as bad as waking up with a shadow monster invading my space. Again.
At first I think it’s Harlow, as the body snuggled into my chest is smaller than me, but not by too much.
Then I shift, preparing to push the girl over a few inches so I can gain some space between her and the endgate behind me, but instead of a solid body, my hand falls on something light and soft and just a little wiry. Like fur.
I open my eyes, blinking into the dark. It takes me a few moments to make out the shape, but sure enough, Sloth the shadow dog is lying next to me, his back pressed against my belly.
Biting back a yelp, I launch backward, but the endgate gives me nowhere else to go.
And where my alarm startled the creature awake last time, now he merely shifts to the side, stretches out, and rests his face on his enormous paws.
The sight does something strange to my chest. For a moment, it makes me forget he’s a Shade. Under the blanket of night, where everything is bathed in shadow, he looks so much like a real wolfhound. Same long legs, giant paws, enormous head. Same wiry fur, same small ears.
I had a dog when I was a child, for a few short months.
I fell in love with the beast, named her Butterscotch, but Mother couldn’t stand the way she’d bark at night to alert us of Shades wandering outside.
Not only was it disruptive to sleep, but Mother feared it would provoke the monsters to attack.
I didn’t mind the barking, and I’d never heard of a Shade attacking because of provocation from an animal.
Yet one day I came home from running an errand for Mother at the market, and Butterscotch was gone.
Mother said she ran away. That may have been true, or she may have let her out on purpose or sold her to one of the farms. Whatever the case, the sense of loss was too deep.
I never sought the companionship of a pet again, not even after I took up the trade of a seamstress and moved to my own home.
Looking at Sloth now brings back that same tender feeling from when I had Butterscotch, and it opens a deep well of longing and nostalgia in my heart.
I reach out a tentative hand, half expecting it to fall through the creature.
He was solid when I attempted to nudge him away, thinking he was Harlow, and there have been plenty of times where I’ve felt the pressure of the Shades’ touch.
But there have also been times where I’ve reached out to shove the touch away only for my fingers to close on air.
So I’m surprised when my palm splays over fur again.
Sloth doesn’t stir or startle, so I let myself pet him, just out of curiosity.
It’s a strange sensation. Fur-like, but lighter.
Like the texture is only a dream of fur.
And he’s warm too, at least somewhat, his belly rising and falling in a pantomime of breathing, his body pulsing with a slow yet steady heartbeat.
Maybe I’m being reckless. Maybe I’m just delirious from poor sleep and too much change these last couple days. But in the end, I decide not to push Sloth away. Instead, I close my eyes and continue to stroke the shadow monster’s fur.
The next time I wake, it’s to screaming.