Chapter 6
Isat on a bench, drinking in the sight of life. Outposts were always crowded with travelers and merchants. The awning above my head beat away the glare of the sun and blocked my view of the cottages clustered down the dirt path.
A pack mule grazed beside me, tail swishing aside buzzing gnats. Holding out a hand, I focused on the creature.
Eleos claimed I’d channeled while staring into the void—into my death. Nothing sparked to life in my heart, nor did any magic swirl about my fingertips. I felt nothing.
What was the odd scholar on about? The Empty halted its advance because of the Maiden’s Bloodstone, just as promised.
Tonight was my last chance to escape these lunatics.
If I wanted to steal the Bloodstone from Seraphim, finding a caravan to ride back to Ikaria would be simple.
I could return the stone to Laverna, pay off my debt, and run free.
Doubtless, Seraphim would send word of my betrayal to the Archon, and my face would be plastered across city walls, but disguises were my forte.
Removing the sack of coins from my belt, I shook it, feeling its weight.
Fifty thousand Heschian pieces: that was my debt to the Guild. This sack held only two hundred. An amount that would make a peasant fall on his knees in prayer, to be sure. . .
I toyed with the coin purse’s strings. If Seraphim paid me well for this mission, I could carve out a comfortable life for myself—assuming the Guild didn’t come for my head.
Laying my head in my hands, I stared at the ground. Which was the best option?
“Let me guess,” Eleos’s even voice pulled me from my thoughts. “You think we stole that gold?” He sauntered over, wearing a smug little half-smile, and dropped a bundle onto my lap.
“I never said that.” I shoved the coin purse back onto my belt and inspected the bundle. “What’s this?”
“Clothes.” He glanced at my bandaged arm. “Your current attire is conspicuous and tattered.” Stretching, he sat beside me. “If you have questions, Lady Aethra, I’ll be happy to answer them.”
“Lady?”
Eleos ignored the inquiry. “Seraphim will go over the plan tomorrow morning, but she tends to leave out details.”
“Important details, like. . .” I tilted my head. “Who knows about us? Is the king’s council in on it? What about the city lords?”
“They don’t know.” He sat forward. “Nobility and clergy are inextricably tied. Most would not risk heresy for two reasons: to avoid sentencing, and so they won’t have to face the unthinkable.”
I paused to consider his words. Our mission, the appearance of the Empty so close to the capital. . . it meant the end days were closer than previously believed.
“We should keep a low profile, then.” I decided, looking Eleos up and down.
He dressed like a rich man. Embroidered cuffs, a well-tailored coat. But he still wore the pale blue scarf of the clergy.
“Are you sure you aren’t a priest?” I asked.
“Very sure.” He stood. “I found lodgings for the night. They have decent baths, too.” Offering a hand, he helped me to my feet.
A few people cast interested glances at my torn, bloody garb. Looking past them, I scanned the walls for wanted posters, lest the guard had arrived ahead of us. None appeared.
I had fond memories of this outpost. Ainwir and I had passed through often, traveling between Ikaria and Serifos whenever we started gaining unwanted attention from guards and cheated customers.
This place was cute, for a tiny hamlet tucked between enormous swathes of the Empty. Colored banners hung from roof sills and even stretched to the tops of the watch towers, shading fields of reeds growing from the damp soil.
“Here we are.” Eleos stopped before an ancient stone building, its foundation sunk in the mud. “Ah. One more thing.” He pressed a wrapped parcel into my hand.
The scent of sandalwood penetrated the paper. “Soap?” I chuckled.
“We may be criminals,” He tutted, “But we aren’t classless.” Holding the door open, he beckoned me inside.
Seraphim sat at a table, boots kicked up next to a glass of wine. “Ready to be apprised of all the details?”
“Assuming you’ll answer questions about yourself, yes,” I answered.
“Why wouldn’t I?” Seraphim shooed me away. “We can talk after you’ve had a bath and slept in a proper bed.” Grabbing her wine, she leaned forward. “You smell like a swamp.”
“So do you.”
“Yes, but I didn’t fall in.” Raising her glass, Seraphim stared at me with twinkling eyes.
The woman had a point. Suddenly horrified, I quickly excused myself.
The baths called.
* * *
I remembered my first real bath as if it had happened yesterday. Master Ainwir had beckoned me into a more richly decorated washroom than I’d ever seen, helped me fill the tub, and ordered me to relax.
Before that, all my baths had been taken by jumping into a river channel or by splashing my face in a fountain when nobody was looking. With that small gesture, Ainwir had won my trust.
Kindness was how con men stole your heart just before tearing it out.
Opening my eyes, I swished a hand through the bath water; it was getting cold. Had I drifted off? The poor serving boy had refilled my bath at least twice; scrubbing off the caked-on mud had been a battle in itself.
Stepping out of the bath, I unwrapped the parcel of clothing Eleos had left on the counter: a simple white toga with a golden sash. Had he read my mind and learned I preferred to be invisible?
Raking my fingers through my hair, I shook my head. Brunette curls that had never lain straight in all my life tumbled over my shoulder, dampening the gown.
Night had long since fallen. The others had probably turned in. Cracking the door open, I peered out, finding only a quiet, dim hall. Tying my hair into a bun, I stepped into the common room, but Seraphim was no longer sitting at her table.
Only a dim light spilled from the hearth, illuminating a single guest still finishing his bowl of stew. I had the night to myself. Finding the inn’s back door, I stepped out into the yard.
Feeling the grass beneath my bare feet, I touched the bandages on my arm.
Chthonic mages wielded magic through blood. Through life. Whether their own or another’s, they were harmless without it.
Supposedly, what effects they could shape from blood depended on the person. Ainwir claimed to have met someone who turned blood into sunlight. Seraphim had shaped it into solid flame.
Had my blood controlled the Empty?
Grimacing, I tugged my bandages off. Magic was bestowed upon those who experienced something extraordinary. And whatever they received would match their personality.
Reckless souls who lived violent lives became chthonic mages. Artful souls brimming with creativity became muses. And those with great empathy became psyches.
I was neither remarkable nor reckless. I’d been taught a valuable lesson by Ainwir: talk your way out of a fight. Failing that, run for your life. But never face battle if another option presented itself.
His lessons had kept me alive to date. Why would Haimyx bestow chthonic magic upon me?
Whimpering, I pulled my knife from my belt and stared at the stitches Eleos had carefully closed my wounds with. Holding the knife to my shoulder, I squeezed my eyes shut, hesitating.
“Fuck it,” I murmured, slicing the threads apart and digging the knife into the claw-mark, reopening the gash.
Cursing, I pressed my hand to the bloody laceration and pulled it away only when scarlet coated my palm. Holding up shaking fingers, I tried to do. . .
Something. I searched for what I’d felt before—the surge of emotions roiling in my breast: nostalgia and unease.
Lowering my hand, I gasped. Was I a madwoman? What if I tore open a rift to the Empty and killed everyone in this town, myself included?
Curling my hand into a fist, I hastily lowered it. An amused voice spoke in the silence.
“You’re perhaps the most timid chthonic mage I’ve ever seen.” Eleos stepped out of the door frame and approached me. “I can’t claim to be an expert on chthonics, but I’ve always assumed using blood magic requires. . . reckless abandon.”
“Maybe it does.” Pressing my hand to my arm, I tried to halt the flow of blood.
“According to every record we have,” Eleos looked up at the stars, “The Maiden Brizo could enter pockets of the Empty safely, and halt its advance. And I needn’t lecture you on how she sundered it in twain.”
“You think that’s what I did?”
“Maybe.” His brow wrinkled. “Perhaps I got overexcited. It’s a theory, at best.”
“Hm.” I flinched as blood seeped between my fingers. “I’m not sure I’d trust records claiming to have seen the gods walking among us.”
“I don’t either.” Eleos looked down. “But if you wield magic—I’m quite certain you aren’t chthonic.” He glanced at my arm. “Would you like me to help you with that, Lady Aethra?”
“Why are you calling me that?”
“Is that not what you are? You introduced yourself to me as a noblewoman. I imagine you often masquerade as one.”
He sounded completely earnest, but that little half-smile. . .
“You’re making fun of me.” I guessed.
“Not at all, Lady Aethra,” Eleos said calmly. “Would you like me to restitch that?” He asked again.
“Yes,” I said, feeling foolish. A faint smirk twitched across his face before he opened the door for me.
Trying not to drip blood all over the floors, I scurried after Eleos, following him into his inn room and sitting on the edge of his cot. Last he’d stitched me up, I had been as conscious as the dead.
Pressing a cloth to my shoulder, Eleos’s sage-green eyes peered into my soul. “You should’ve just cut a palm.”
Oh. That seemed a rather obvious choice, in hindsight.
“Never mind. Perhaps you are reckless.”
“I usually think on my feet, not beforehand,” I said.
Sitting beside me, Eleos held the cloth to my wound, eyes fixed on the bloody stains. His other hand gripped my wrist, holding my arm steady.
Shifting uncomfortably, I registered how close he was, and promptly tried to erect walls around my mind.