Chapter One #2
One hand gripping Emmaus’s rope, Andronica saunters her way to Tempestra-Innara, not a trace of humility in her razor-sharp gaze.
As the Goddess’s Executrix, such things are below her.
My fellow Potentiates and I briefly break our static vigil to tap the sigil of the Dawn Cloister on our shoulders.
Respect for the Executrix, who was once one of us.
They are the Goddess’s right hand, their hunter, their blade.
Prior Petronilla absolutely puffs with pride as Andronica stops before the Goddess.
We are all stronger, faster, more resilient than a normal person, thanks to the Goddess’s gift.
Our senses are sharper, our wounds quicker to heal.
We can call the divine flame (some, like me, with less competency than others).
But of all the paths a Potentiate will follow—Bellator, Prior, Arbiter, Cleric of the Blood—the position of the Executrix is the most revered.
The most desired. And utterly out of reach.
Andronica is still in her prime, radiating with vitality.
But nothing, save the Goddess, lasts forever.
The gift of Tempestra-Innara’s power is given in youth; and like youth, it fades.
Eventually, Andronica’s strength will wane; when that happens, another young Potentiate will take up the Executrix mantle.
But long before that, I will be assigned to an Order.
An irritating thought. Within months, maybe a year, Prior Petronilla will choose my fate.
And it won’t be in Lumeris, where the best of us strive to remain, constantly awash in the Goddess’s light.
Nor any of the Ordained Cities, farther from their radiance, but still pampered pillars of their empire.
No, if I know Petronilla, she’ll shunt me off to the farthest posting from the Goddess she can manage, the sort of position usually reserved for Chosen in their waning years.
And I’ll accept it like the good, obedient child that I am, because what other choice is there?
Andronica yanks the rope, sending Emmaus to his knees.
There’s no fight left in him, his head hanging heavy to his chest. A reverie escapes his tattered shirt, a simple painted plaster pendant in the style favored by the lower classes.
And by heretics. Easy to smash quickly if one needs to hide their spiritual inclinations.
That Andronica has allowed Emmaus to keep wearing it is a clear mockery.
Even with my divinely assisted eyesight, I can’t tell which dead god Emmaus is so devoted to that he risked ending up exactly where he is now, but it doesn’t matter. One is as damning as another.
And ridiculous. There are no other gods, not anymore. Tempestra-Innara killed the last of their siblings well over a century ago. All that’s left are beliefs that refuse to die too.
“Mother.” Andronica bows. “As you commanded, as you entrusted me to do, I have brought you the heretic Emmaus.”
Tempestra-Innara inclines their head slightly.
“And for that, my daughter, you have my thanks and love. Emmaus.” The Goddess speaks the name with a measure of respect.
More than he merits, but it’s there nonetheless, a minute concession from a victor whose triumph was never in question.
“You are guilty of treason and heresy. For that, you will die with greater honor than you deserve, by the hand of divinity.”
Emmaus laughs, a creaking, defiant sound that sends a ripple of offended gasps through the crowd. “You may be divine…” I’m damn near impressed by the venom he summons. “But you are not my goddess.”
More scandalized murmurs, cut off by a single word from Tempestra-Innara.
“Heretic.” The sound shivers through the Cathedral, curdling my guts. Even Morgan flinches a little. The humanity in Tempestra-Innara’s features slips away, turning as cold as a marble statue’s. “I am the only goddess.”
No one, save Andronica, is unaffected by the declaration.
She smirks a little, beaming with devoted pride.
Then, almost indifferently, she turns and kicks Emmaus in the side.
He lets out a cry of pain, worse than the blow warranted, which makes me suspect it’s not the first kick his ribs have taken lately.
“I should have cut out his tongue to gift you, Mother,” Andronica says. “If he speaks again, I will.”
But Emmaus doesn’t quiet. Instead, he reaches for his necklace and wraps his hand around the pendant. His lips begin to move, and though he speaks too quietly to make out, I know a prayer when I see it. I almost laugh. Fool.
I’m not the only one who anticipates the Goddess’s rage.
The whole Cathedral collectively holds its breath, waiting for the inevitable execution, which, if it might have been merciful before, sure won’t be now.
Now the Goddess will undoubtedly want to make an example of an example.
Which means things are about to get graphic.
Divine execution might be an honored way to die, but it’s not a pleasant one.
Displeasure hardens the Goddess even further as they raise their hands again. But Emmaus doesn’t falter when the flames reappear. He continues to pray, rocking slightly as he brings the necklace to his lips and kisses it. Making peace with the last moments of his life.
At least, that’s what I think. Until I see his fist tighten. Until I hear the faint, chalky crunch an instant before Emmaus throws his head back.
It all happens so quickly. Even Tempestra-Innara doesn’t have time to react.
Suicide by poison. A syrupy moment passes as Emmaus stands and smiles—no, grins, lips blackened by whatever was secreted in the necklace.
Mocking. Triumphant. I smirk beneath my helm.
Maybe Emmaus isn’t as much a fool as I thought.
To escape the wrath of Tempestra-Innara’s flame, in full view of hundreds of their followers and chosen gifted—heretics have certainly rallied behind less compelling tales.
Silence falls on the Cathedral. Not even Andronica moves, waiting, prudently, for the Goddess to react, to say something. This execution has turned into a colossal fuckup. Someone will have to bear the fault of it.
Tempestra-Innara does not speak. Nor do they move. And for the first time, I glimpse something I’ve never seen on the Goddess’s face. Something that must be anything else, because it can’t possibly be what I think it is.
Fear.
The Goddess strikes—a divine blow, unnatural in its speed. A blow that should leave Emmaus in as many pieces as his reverie.
A blow that Emmaus blocks.
Cries erupt from the crowd as Emmaus grips the Goddess’s wrist with one hand and snatches their neck with the other.
He begins to squeeze. A blade swings—Andronica’s—but Emmaus glides beneath it, landing a kick that sends the Executrix flying.
With unsettling vigor, Emmaus laughs. Impossibly, his bruises have disappeared, and he doesn’t move like a man with shattered ribs.
Instead, he stands tall as his fingers tighten further. A truncated cough escapes the Goddess.
Then, abruptly, he begins to wheeze. To choke.
The heretic pitches forward, eyes squeezing shut as he loses his grip on Tempestra-Innara. Freed, the Goddess stumbles backward, the look on their face…
I don’t need to see it clearly to know something is truly wrong.
Especially not when Emmaus’s eyes open again.
All humanity there is gone. In its place is blackness, oily and fetid.
A darkness that spreads, bubbling over Emmaus’s face, pouring from his nose and mouth in a hideous gush.
One that starts to consume him. To change him.
Emmaus raises his arms, flesh disintegrating as spears of the grim effluvia burst from what used to be his hands, sharpening to a point as they plunge into Tempestra-Innara’s shoulder, stomach, thigh.
The Goddess screams, a sound that grates across my soul.
The world upends, turns fragmented. For a moment, I think I am impaled too.
But when my vision clears, I am uninjured, and have moved without realizing it, hands now gripping the stone balustrade of the gallery.
I cannot look away from the horror below, blood pounding in my ears even as it seems to drain out of me.
What I am seeing shouldn’t be possible. Cannot not be possible.
And yet, the blackness continues to grow. Faster even than my stunned disbelief as I watch Emmaus about to succeed in doing what I have secretly dreamed of since the first time I knelt on that worn Cathedral floor:
Killing Tempestra-Innara.