First Rebellion
Talent’s first true rebellion took place in church. The Grand Cathedral’s vast sanctuary shimmered with sunlight filtered through thirteen stained glass gods. Talent and Cordon’s engagement had just been formalized, and they’d been seated together.
The high priest related the entire foundation myth. Talent had heard the story of how the Divine Navigator led the Twelve across the Green Sea so many times, she could recite it by heart. Then an invocation for each god, thirteen times over, kneel and rise. Her knees ached, but she didn’t complain.
“Vael the Navigator, guide our ships. Meren the Lastlight, keep our hearts aflame…”
Talent mouthed the words, but Cordon did not. He traced a pattern on the polished wood pew with his thumbnail, humming under his breath.
“Stop that,” she murmured.
He leaned close. She smelled the wax in his hair. “If the gods are so powerful, why do they need so much flattery?”
“Because they deserve it,” she whispered.
His mouth curved. “What about me?” He reached down, catching her hand. “We’re betrothed now, so I deserve it more. Come on, I’ll show you something better than prayers.”
Before she could refuse, he pulled her up the side aisle. Holloway whisper-hissed for them to get back in the pew, but they slipped through a half-open door into a narrow stairwell. Cordon’s laugh bounced off the stone walls.
The stairs led to a hidden alcove above the choir loft. Through a lattice screen they could see the congregation below, hundreds of bowed heads, the high priest’s robes hiding his feet, like he was levitating.
Cordon climbed up onto the rail, swinging one leg into open air. “All this,” he said, flicking his fingers toward the cathedral, “built for an overblown faerie story.”
“You shouldn’t say things like that.”
“Why not?” Something flashed in his blue eyes. He never looked at her like this when others were around. “You don’t believe the gods are real, do you?”
“I do.” But her voice wavered.
“Come on, you’re the smart one,” he teased. “You really think magical beings with the power of creation and shadow and death are watching over us? If you had that kind of power, is that what you’d do with it?”
The gods were stitched into the seams of her life—prayers at dawn, blessings before dinner, gratitudes before bed. Yes, she’d noticed the similarities between the faerie stories she adored and the religious parables, but she’d never said so out loud.
“The gods might not be physical beings,” she said, fidgeting with the hem of her dress, “but the stories reflect a deeper truth.”
He brushed a curl behind her ear, and she jolted at his touch.
“See?” He spoke under his breath, so she had to lean in to hear. “I knew you were smart. Tell me more about that.”
Below them, the choir sang a gentle hymn, voices drifting up like smoke.
She tilted her head into his hand. “Well, I think actions and choices are real. If the gods’ words shape your choices, doesn’t that make them real?”
“No, that makes them a myth.” He looked down at her, thoughtful. “You’re real. Right here in this moment. Don’t you feel it?” He placed a hand on her heart, which was thrumming out of control. “The gods, not so much. I want to hear you say it. Tell me the gods are a myth.”
“Why?” Her voice was barely a whisper.
“Because you always follow the rules, just like my brother.” One finger slid down her breastbone. “But the rules don’t apply to us.”
Her face was on fire. She wanted to hear him say again how smart she was.
“The gods are a myth,” she whispered.
Dimples flashed in his cheeks. Then he cupped her jaw and leaned forward—
“Tally, are you here?” Holloway’s voice echoed up the stairs, and they jerked apart.
Her best friend stood in the doorway, cheeks blotched red like he’d run up the stairs. He looked at Cordon, then at her. He never frowned, but he was frowning now.
“You’re going to miss the closing prayer,” he mumbled. “Come back down now and no one will get in trouble.”
“Well, we wouldn’t want to get in trouble,” Cordon said with a grin.
Then he winked at her. Winked. As if this was all a big joke. As if she hadn’t just forsworn the gods for him. Talent hesitated, waiting for thunder. For divine fury. For any sign the gods had heard her blasphemy. It never happened.
Holloway ushered them back down the stairs, and they slipped back into their pews, and the service carried on. Neither gods nor grown-ups punished them. She had to wonder, after all that. Were the gods even listening?