Chapter Twelve
Twelve
My life is finished. My faith is not.
—LAST WORDS OF THE HERETIC TOBIUS, EXECUTED IN THE ERA OF TEMPESTRA-ENOCH
I WAS TWELVE YEARS OLD the first time I killed someone, which was the age the Cloisters decided we should get that little milestone over with.
It was a frigid morning and I hated it. Hated the sharp edge of the air, the wet puffs of our breath inside the carriage, the glassy cracking of the wheels rattling over frozen puddles.
We hadn’t been told where we were going, but no one was shocked to arrive at the Cathedral.
By then we were as familiar with it as our own beds.
It was nearly as cold inside as out; if the teeth of the golden skulls had been chattering, I wouldn’t have been surprised.
But a far less amusing sight awaited: prisoners, five of them on their knees before the apse, naked save for the chains around their wrists and ankles.
“This is today’s lesson.” Prior Petronilla stopped before the shivering line. “These criminals have been condemned to die. You will carry out the sentence.”
It was that simple. Five children stood before five grown adults, and it was the adults who shuddered.
Their heads hung to their chests, defeat so clear that I mused over whether they’d been drugged.
But then one raised his head, glaring with a defiant anger.
Blood crusted his mouth and chin, and I understood that there’d be no pleas for mercy; their tongues had been removed.
“There is no ceremony here, only your task.” Prior Petronilla went to a table that had been set up and pulled aside the velvet cloth covering it, revealing a selection of weapons. “Proceed.”
Or else.
She didn’t say it. She never said those words, but they were a blade held to our throats at all times. If we failed as Potentiates, we were weak—liabilities to the authority and prosperity of the Goddess. Such a thing was not allowed. Weak meant useless. Weak meant dead.
I scanned the instruments offered, each of which I’d used before. By then, drawing blood was nothing, a daily occurrence in our training. But I’d never taken a life.
I had, however, watched lives taken. Many of them, most notably on a morning nearly as icy as this, and it was that memory that rooted me in place so long that the first prisoner was dead before I realized we’d gotten started.
It was Morgan, of course, a consummate suck-up even then.
No spears yet—on that morning she chose a short sword and drove it through a prisoner’s heart to the hilt.
The other condemned whimpered, one even began to cry, but there were no illusions of hope.
One by one, the other Potentiates of the Dawn Cloister killed them, until only a single prisoner was left.
It was the one who’d glared with such hate, left all for me.
I still didn’t move. I’d gone completely cold in a way that had nothing to do with the temperature, my ears filled with a thick, rushing sound.
Only when Prior Petronilla shuffled impatiently did my fugue crack.
Memory had dragged me deep, but survival’s roots went deeper.
I went to the table and grabbed the first weapon I saw—a sickle.
Then I returned to the prisoner. His heart was thumping so hard I could see it beneath the wasted flesh of his chest. But still, that insolent stare. I was glad to see it.
Even if it changed nothing.
One swing, and it was over. I stared as the blood pooled at my feet, mingling with what was already there, expecting something. A new understanding, a change within myself.
Instead, there was only a familiar sensation.
One that chased away the cold entirely. I looked up, unsurprised to find that the Goddess had appeared, a smile on their face as they surveyed their Chosen’s grim handiwork.
It was a smile that blessed the completion of our lesson.
A smile that blessed our ruthless decisiveness.
A smile that I couldn’t stop myself from returning.
Nolan gently moves Magda aside, leaning her body against the wall, then stands.
It’s too quiet suddenly, the beat of her heart silenced.
She doesn’t look asleep. There’s no peace in her face.
She simply looks dead, a living, breathing creature full of misguided faith one minute, a sack of meat and bone the next.
Still, better this fate than the one awaiting her.
Nolan appears tired, but determined. I wait for him to say something about my little confession, even chastise me for my past heresy. But he holds his tongue.
“Next stop, Novena?”
He only nods.
“What have you done?”
Behind us, Caius stands in the door of the cell, looking as if we’ve smashed a prized toy.
Nolan’s expression shifts, turning from fatigue to indifference. “What we needed to do in order to get the information we required.”
“You denied the Goddess their justice. This woman was to be purified tomorrow, before the eyes of the city.”
“She needed to be interrogated,” Nolan says calmly. “In a better manner, apparently, than before.”
Caius’s eyes narrow. “What did she say? Whatever it was, it was likely a lie. Especially if this is the trade you offered her.”
Nolan shrugs. “If it is, we’ve no less information than before.”
“What did she say?”
Nolan doesn’t flinch. “The Goddess has entrusted us to handle this matter with discretion, including among our blood brethren.”
Caius is not happy to be denied. “No matter what you learned, this is an affront to the Goddess. And you will have to pay the price for it.”
Nolan’s gaze darkens in a way I don’t like.
I step between the pair. “Hey! Enough. You’re fighting over a corpse.
” I face Caius. “You can still purify her for the festival. It’ll be more like a barbecue than an execution now, sure, but you’ll get your show either way.
” That doesn’t seem to assuage him, but it’s all I’ve got.
“Sorry, but we did what was needed. We’re all serving the Goddess here. ”
Playing diplomat is the last thing in the world I’m used to doing, but the reminder does the trick.
The anger fades from Caius’s features, replaced with a practiced calm. “Yes, of course we are. But Arbiter Gottschalk is not going to be pleased.”
“Then tell him to reread our letter again,” says Nolan. “And if he’s still feeling vexed, he can go to the Cathedral and bring it up with Tempestra-Innara themselves. But trust me, I can tell you right now how that will go.”
Caius considers him coolly. Then: “You are under the orders of our blood mother, and their will takes precedence above all else. Please forgive my loss of temper. This prisoner was under my charge, and sometimes it is hard to see beyond one’s own responsibilities.”
The air around us settles.
“Apology accepted,” I say, before Nolan can stir things up again. That’s my area of expertise. “And you’ll be rid of us soon enough.”
“Not too soon, I hope.” Caius clasps his hands in front of him. “We’ve had rooms made up for you. And Arbiter Gottschalk has requested that you join us for dinner tonight. With the princess, of course.”
I’d nearly forgotten there was royalty somewhere about.
I shrug in reply. “Sure. I’ve never had dinner with a princess before.”
“Then come.” Caius leads us out of the cell, ignoring Magda’s corpse. “I’ll send someone along to deal with that later.”
The bedroom Caius deposits me in makes my cell in the Cloister look like a hovel. Tapestries, carpets, a bed so soft it seems to be trying to swallow me—being stationed in Belspire may not be the pinnacle of assignments, but it’s clearly not the worst either.
I know that plenty of my blood brethren live in finery.
Many even better than this. Spacious residences, loads of servants, as many high-quality, artisanal weapons as their hearts desire—tribute in honor of our revered rank.
But Prior Petronilla and the other instructors at the Dawn Cloisters don’t preach the lifestyle.
The opposite, in fact: A true devotee of the Goddess remains humble.
They do not desire the gifts that come with the station her blood gift grants us.
But—surprise, surprise—plenty of us end up with them anyway.
The first thing I do is bathe. I hate admitting it, but the baths at the Dawn Cloister spoiled me.
I loathe the sensation of grime on my skin, of unwashed hair, of whatever else has built up after many days on the road.
I soak for at least an hour, letting the languid scents of infused oils smother what happened in the dungeon.
I don’t feel bad; Magda bought herself a merciful end.
But her conviction gnaws at me, and no amount of lavender and rose chases away the sound of Nolan snapping her neck.
A sound like cracking ice.
Physical, if not mental, cleanliness achieved, I return to the bedroom to find that a pair of dresses as well as a tailored jacket and waistcoat set have appeared, laid out carefully on the bed.
Each one is an extravagance, silk and lace and what might be real gemstones sewn into one of the necklines.
I gather them up and toss them into the hall before putting on my cleanest set of regular clothes.
A timid knock sounds.
“Come in!”
A youth enters, neatly liveried and green in the face, as if he’s about to tell me someone I’m fond of has died. He swallows hard before speaking. “The clothing—”
“Was too elegant for the likes of me. My travel companion Nolan might like them, though.” He pales further, and I take pity on him. “I prefer my own garments, that’s all. How long until dinner?”
“Two hours,” he replies.
At least killing time won’t leave me wanting another bath. And if I have it, I might as well put it to use. “Belspire has a library, right?”
He nods enthusiastically. “One of the finest in the Devoted Lands.”
“Take me there.” I expect resistance, not knowing exactly what the scope of my privileges as a guest is, but the boy seems relieved to be given an order he can fulfill.