Chapter Twenty-One Inana #2
Understanding dawns. An astrotheurgical diagram.
Symbols and glyphs kept secret by the church, forbidden to the eyes of the public.
“Is that why you said you blindfold your…” I almost say lovers, but the word gets tangled behind my lips.
What’s wrong with me? It’s hardly a sexy word.
Maybe it’s the blindfold part that got me riled up.
“Is that why you made a vow not to let anyone see you unclothed?”
He nods, a subtle motion.
“What happens if you break that vow?”
His mouth parts, and he runs his tongue over his bottom lip. I watch it with way more fascination than I’m willing to admit. “Blood,” he says. “Hand me my vials.”
I do as he asked. Normally I’d balk at such a curt demand, but I can’t fault him for that sharp demeanor now. Besides, if he needs blood, I’m in no position to keep it from him. Not unless I want to witness what Calvin suggested could happen if Dominic doesn’t get enough blood while wounded.
I hand him his holster of vials, and he selects one. With how much the wagon already smells like blood, I can’t even make out the scent from the open vial. Just like he did when we fled the camp, he tips it back and downs the entire contents.
Finally, his lashes flutter open. His eyes find mine at once. “Cover me. Don’t let anyone else see.”
I return his scrap of shirt to his chest. Then I unhook my cloak and lay that over him too for good measure. “Are you going to answer my question? I’ve already seen it. What happens now?”
“I’ve vowed not to show my scar to anyone or let anyone see it. Your actions were all your own, and I was in no state to stop you. So if the church ever tests me with Shades to see if I’m lying about keeping my vows, I’ll pass.”
I’m surprised to hear the church uses Shades to test Shadowbanes, but I suppose it makes sense.
I’ve heard criminal trials are handled in a similar way; I’ve just never known if it’s true.
Do the authorities truly use Shades in the name of justice?
How? From what I’ve gleaned, it’s taboo enough that Dominic catches Shades.
Does the same not go for the church and inquisitors?
I want to ask, but there are more pressing questions on my mind. Especially while we’re still alone. “What is it? The scar?”
He sighs, closing his eyes again. “There are some vows that are harder to get around.”
“It has to do with your Absolution, doesn’t it?”
“Smart woman.”
I hate the way my stomach flips at his praise.
It’s the only conclusion that makes sense, though.
Absolution is an astrotheurgical ritual that strips one’s soul of sin, making it pure and incapable of attracting Shades.
It’s how humans become Sinless. The process of Absolution has been kept a secret by the church ever since it was performed on the very first man who was made Sinless—King Kaelum—five hundred years ago.
Of course a ritual circle would be used.
I just never imagined it was carved into the person’s chest. No wonder he had to vow not to show his naked body to anyone.
His very flesh is carved with secrets forbidden to common folk.
But why does Dominic bear a scar at all? I’ve seen other Sinless shirtless before, and they bore no such marks. They flaunted their bodies at the Wretched Lair as if they were the peak of beauty. And maybe they are, to some.
I gaze down at Dominic’s covered chest, recalling every dip and rise of his chiseled torso. He isn’t sleek and dazzling. He’s rough. Broad. Hard. And for some reason, I find that so much more alluring than any other male form I’ve seen.
Will he still look the same after he completes his Absolution? Or will all those rough edges be smoothed away, leaving him like one of those too-perfect bastards I despise?
I harden my heart and push all thoughts of beauty and attraction to the back of my mind where I can pretend they don’t exist. Without them, I can linger on logic instead. Another answer comes to me.
“Do you scar because you’re only half Sinless? Because your healing isn’t as strong as a pure Sinless’s?”
He gives me the barest of nods. Gods, I wonder if part of the reason he keeps so much from us is that there are numerous things he can’t tell us because of his vows.
“Put your cold hands on me.” He must be delirious to say such a thing, and it reminds me of when I touched him earlier tonight, when we were together in the driver’s seat.
“My hands aren’t cold right now.”
“They’re cold enough,” he says. “Please. I’ll be burning up until my wound closes. Just touch my forehead at least.”
I grimace, debating whether I should obey. This isn’t at all part of my job description, so I can refuse. Yet there’s something charming about how vulnerable he’s being. I doubt he’s fully lucid, which makes him slightly less insufferable than usual. Maybe I can use this to embarrass him later.
Giving in, I press my fingertips to Dominic’s forehead.
His skin is hot, making me realize my hands are in fact cold.
I didn’t notice when I was tracing the lines of his scar, but I was distracted by other thoughts then.
Now all I notice is Dominic’s warmth seeping into my fingers.
Or maybe my coldness is melting into him.
I turn my hand over, cooling him with the back of it.
Then I do it all over again to his cheek. Then his neck.
His chest rises and falls, his breaths even, and I wonder if he’s fallen asleep. I continue touching him, my mind wandering.
It drifts back to the camp, to the Incarnate.
To its gory attempt at creating art with a bone taken from one of its victim’s friends.
Her husband, perhaps. My stomach turns, and my fingers go still in the crook of Dominic’s neck, a comfort among the awful visions playing over and over and over in my mind.
I can’t help but ponder who that woman was before. Crafting beautiful axes with what she thought was innocuous workmanship. Did she know she was attracting Shades with what she did? Did her companions know? Did she continue to create despite the risk?
My heart sinks with guilt as these same questions turn against me.
I’ve always been aware of my sin. Of how desperately I crave to tell stories despite knowing the dangers.
I always argued with myself, eager to prove that art wasn’t truly a sin.
It never felt like one. Fiction has never felt like a lie in the same way deliberate deceptions do.
Yet I’ve seen the proof many times now. Shades are undoubtedly drawn to art.
After getting caught twice, I was left jaded and uncertain whether I should hate myself or hate the world. I wasn’t the only sinner, after all.
I’ve heard folk lying through their teeth during broad daylight.
I’ve watched my neighbors leave their lovers’ houses when their spouses were waiting for them to come home.
I’ve seen innocents arrested by the church’s priests and cruel Sinless positioned as gods.
If I think too hard about the state of the world, it fills me with despair.
That’s why I let myself sin again and again. Because art is often the one thing that feels pure, regardless of what the holy texts say.
But what I saw today…
My eyes well with tears.
“I’m not a good person,” I whisper. Not to anyone but myself. I doubt Dominic can hear me through the haze of sleep. “I sin and sin again. Shades are born from our sins, which means I’ve made those creatures. I could have made the one that…that killed them.” My voice breaks on the last part.
The silence that echoes grows as heavy as an accusation.
Then I realize Dominic’s breaths aren’t quite so labored anymore.
I stare down at him and find his eyes open.
He lifts his hand and brushes his warm fingers along my cheek, my jaw, swiping tears I didn’t realize had fallen. “No, Inana. The only one of us who has ever sinned gravely enough to create Shades…is me.”
I frown. He can’t…he can’t mean that.
“But the holy texts…they state that Shades are born from human sin.” I don’t know why I’m arguing with him.
He can’t possibly be lucid, to have said such a thing.
Yet I can’t stop the words that pour from me.
“They say new ones are born every night from our sinful actions. They state nothing about the sins needing to be more or less grave, only that all human sin creates and attracts Shades. Everything we know about the Shades, the gods, One Hundred Days of Darkness…It’s all there.
Spoken and written by King Kaelum, a Sinless who can’t lie.
His words are validated by the church. So what the fuck do you mean? ”
“Keep going,” he says.
I wish he would just tell me, but my mind is spinning faster than I can control, drawing out the next thought. “If the texts contain omissions or falsehoods, then…then either they weren’t written by King Kaelum, or…”
I swallow hard and utter treason.
“Or the Sinless can lie.”
“And if that’s the case?” Dominic says.
I curl my fingers into fists. “Then anything—everything—in the holy texts might be a godsdamned lie.”
“Good girl,” he whispers, his hand falling from my cheek as he sinks back into slumber.