Chapter Eighteen #2
“I know, but…” The fire snaps. Cracks. I lean closer, feeling its warmth on my cheeks.
It doesn’t reach any deeper than that. The Goddess, Caius, Nolan…
the lives they took—or tried to take, in Nolan’s case—meant nothing.
And yet, each one was, in its own way, an act of piety.
Of faith, that beautifully cultivated fruit that too often turns out to be poisonous to those who devote themselves to it.
Or get fed it by force. That thought burns a hole in my gut, but I shrug noncommittally.
“Maybe. I don’t know. After all, what would I understand about the intricacies of the Goddess’s ways? I’m no cleric.”
“You have misgivings, though?” Each word takes its time, doesn’t push. “You have doubts about the ways of the Goddess?”
Doubts? I swallow a chuckle. “Doubts” sound like tiny things—inconsequential, instead of the difference between alive and extra crispy.
But asking a heretic—even one wearing the mask of a cleric—to explain the Goddess’s reasonings is futile.
I know those rote answers by heart already.
I’ve heard them all from people who actually believe them.
So why did I open this door in the first place?
I try to think of the right thing to say, the words that will confirm my devotion while also drawing some intel from Avery.
But whatever they are, they give way to something else.
“I heard a story once… about a village of heretics that the Goddess’s forces… converted.”
At first, that’s all I can get out. Avery puts his food down, waiting patiently for me to continue.
Which I shouldn’t, but I do.
“A village near the Endless Storm. Anyone who wouldn’t denounce the Storm Goddess and pledge their devotion to Tempestra-Innara was killed.
” And plenty of others too. “Those that did were rounded up, driven down the mountain like sheep to serve their penance in the fields and workhouses. But winter came early that year, and on their way the weather turned so cold that they were forced to make camp or freeze.” Despite the heat of the fire, my skin turns icy.
“As a result, supplies dwindled. So when the storm cleared, the Bellator had the people moved to the bank of a frozen river.
There, he told them that, instead of penance, they would be allowed a test of faith.
Cross the river, and if they reached the other side, it would mean the Goddess had decided to be merciful.
Cross the river, he said, making it clear this was an order, not a choice, and be free.
I close my eyes. But instead of darkness, I see white. “No one moved at first. But this was their salvation, their chance. The only one they’d be given. And that’s what finally drove the first of the villagers forward. Once that happened… like I said, sheep.”
I open my eyes again, but the white remains—below my feet, stretching out before me, seemingly endless. I don’t move. As small as I am, I am of the mountains. I know winter. I know ice. The other villagers do too, but they move anyway. Slowly, at first, and then in a run.
Go! The order is for me, from one of the soldiers. Don’t you want to know the Goddess’s mercy?
But I don’t go, not even when he prods me with the tip of his sword, drawing blood.
It’s the only warm thing I feel as I watch the people I grew up with reach the center of the river.
It might seem like a gamble to the soldiers watching, but instinctively, I know better.
My neighbors and friends probably did too, but hope is as powerful a drug as devotion.
First comes the cracks. Then the screams. Figures blink out one by one, swallowed by the water, pulled under ice that was too thin to hold them. Then, I see only whiteness—the unbroken snow at my feet. I wait for it to be over.
Wait for silence.
Eventually, a shadow falls across me. I look up into the face of the Bellator, which is as cold as our surroundings. Even then, I don’t move. Don’t run. I simply stare at him with as much hate as I can muster, and wait to die in the snow instead of the river.
But he doesn’t draw his weapon, or order one of his soldiers to cut me down.
Instead, he smiles, almost kindly, and makes a gift of me.
“They swore to devote themselves to the Goddess and died anyway.” I feel heavy as I finish my story, which has been carefully edited for Avery’s ears.
The river wasn’t about low supplies. It was about the whispers among the villagers, the whispers that said the Storm Goddess had sent the snows to stop the legion.
Cross the river, the Bellator said, and put your faith to a true test. Regardless, the tale’s cruel core remains intact.
“Where was the mercy in that? There’s no penance or forgiveness in death. Only… death.”
I’ve said too much. Gone further than I intended, and now Avery stares at me as if I am some strange northern fish he doesn’t know what to do with.
“Maybe,” he says finally, the word creeping out of him, “you’re right.
Maybe mercy is something only truly offered when it’s convenient, or mutually beneficial.
Perhaps all those who don’t follow Tempestra-Innara are invariably damned in the Goddess’s eyes and the eyes of their followers, and they simply don’t understand that yet. ”
Something shifts in the air between us. Those who don’t follow Tempestra-Innara. That’s what he said. Not heretics. Not that denying the existence of the Goddess’s mercy is pure, unadulterated blasphemy. Hell, he practically agreed with me.
Avery gets up. Comes around the fire and sits next to me, taking my hands in his. For some reason, I let him.
Soft blue irises envelope me. “If there’s something you need to confess, Lys… to unburden yourself from…”
A hundred things. A thousand. But this isn’t where I wanted this to go.
So why did I let it?
If there’s something you need to confess… I’m about to ask him the same question when the nearby brush rustles. The horse lets out a nervous whinny. I am on my feet in a heartbeat, pulling free of Avery’s grasp, drawing my sickles.
A figure in the trees. Too large for a wolf, too small for a bear. Hunched over.
Human.
The wind shifts, carrying the thick tang of blood.
With one sickle, I gesture to Avery to move back, make space for me and for my blades.
The figure takes another jerking, shuffling step forward, reaching the ring of firelight before pitching forward into it and hitting the ground like a dropped burden.
“Huh.” I straighten, not letting my guard down entirely, but observant enough to know that for someone to be a threat, they typically have to be breathing.
Approaching the body, I wait briefly before kicking it over.
A man—scrawny, ferret-like build, hollow cheeks, and a long, deep slice down his front that has resulted in more of his blood being outside than in.
And a metal collar around his neck.
With the tip of my sickle, I trace the short length of chain running from it. The final link is broken, sheared off, as if by a blow. This man was someone’s captive.
I straighten and freeze, senses straining for any signs of pursuit. But there’s nothing, only the crackle of the fire he must have been drawn by and the nervous shift of Avery from one foot to the other. Satisfied, I go to one knee and continue my examination.
“Lys.” Avery’s voice is taut, warning. He takes a step forward, as if to stop me. “Maybe you shouldn’t…”
“Don’t worry about me. Keep watch. Whoever this is, they sure didn’t do this to themselves.”
“There’s nothing we can do for him,” Avery presses. “We should go. There might be bandits. The woods around here—”
“I can handle a few bandits,” I say, even though I know this isn’t the work of common thieves. The young man’s jacket is thrown open. I root through it but find nothing, save for a pair of glasses with darkened lenses.
Suddenly, the corpse gasps, body spasming and eyelids flying open, revealing a gaze that is very, very wrong.
Eyes lock on me, their whites shot through with hemorrhages, the skin around them bruised and raw, as if sleep was something never bothered with, but daily sand rubs were.
His hands wrap around my wrists, fingers digging into them like claws as the young man lets out a breathless, feral sound.
“Chosen.” Barely a word, it comes out like something vital being dislodged. “Abomination.”
Caught by surprise, I twist my arms, snapping the young man’s forearms like dry sticks, not realizing the foolishness of it until it’s done. The shock of it is too much. He inhales sharply, then goes limp, his bloodshot stare fluttering briefly before it goes blank.
I scramble back, rattled. Trying not to show it as I get to my feet.
Avery is already backing away. “You… you’re…”
I might have denied it if I hadn’t overreacted.
Trained bodyguard or not, a normal person doesn’t have the strength to do what I just did.
So I don’t try to deny, or explain. I touch the point of one sickle to my lips.
Shhhh. I don’t want to hear him say it, and there’s no point in spinning a lie.
He knows, I know, and because of that, the smart thing to do right now is kill him.
Yet, I hesitate. There’s war in his features as he tries to decide whether to keep up his act, and how.
I could give him that chance, since he has no idea I know who he really is.
Play along for a while longer, see what this turn of events shakes loose from him.
But I’ve already spent enough time in the company of someone intent on betraying me, and I’m not in the mood to jump back into that so quickly.
His throat is right there. One flick of my wrist and he’d bleed out within a minute—a simple, quiet ending, better than a heretic deserves.
As he starts to speak again, I raise my sickle, and strike.