Chapter 23
Artair and Elver stepped into the final room alone.
At the very centre of the circular chamber there was a firepit, and into this they diligently threw the last of their offerings: the blue heron bowl.
Artair felt sure it would shatter in the heat, but it melted away into the fire like it was made of butter, a brief shimmer of gold as the mended parts gave up to the flame.
They stood by its warmth, uncertain what to do next.
‘We’re close now,’ said Elver. She was, he noticed, not quite meeting his eye, and she stood just a step too far away for him to take her hand.
You don’t have to do that here , he told himself.
There’s no one to pretend in front of. ‘Once we have this Frozen Heart, whatever that is, we can get back to the mage’s place and get your spell.
’ She made a noise almost like a laugh. ‘We just have to, you know, fool a god.’
‘We’ve managed it so far,’ Artair pointed out.
‘Look, the light is changing.’
She was right. The chamber was lit with small oil lamps that ran along the bottom of the wall.
One by one they were turning pink. Meanwhile, the air in the room was growing warmer; the warmth, initially, of a pleasant spring day, and then the heat of a hot summer’s evening.
Artair felt his body warming to it, relaxing by degrees.
Elver hooked a finger under the collar of her doublet and loosened it slightly.
A pleasant hum filled the room around them, a soft sound that made Artair think of lazy afternoons in the monastery gardens, lying in the grass and listening to the bees.
Absurdly, his eyelids felt heavy, and he swayed on his feet.
‘Artair?’ Elver’s cold hand rested on his arm. ‘I think the Threshold is arriving.’
He came back to himself, a little thrill of panic making his heart beat faster: in those few seconds he had stepped much closer to sleep than was safe.
The chamber was filling up with ghostly figures made of soft pink light, all standing and looking at the pair of them.
He could make out no detail in their faces, but he could tell from their shapes and the way they stood that they were all different, and their expressions were kindly.
It made him think of walking up to the temple.
Love looks different to everyone , he thought.
‘Two people seeking the truth of their connection.’
The voice of the Threshold was a hundred voices speaking together, yet somehow it wasn’t overwhelming. Elver looked like she felt otherwise though, and he remembered that she had spent much of her recent life alone in a forest. He moved a step closer to her.
‘I am with you,’ he murmured, and she gave him a glance that was almost—was he imagining it?—grateful. It wasn’t, at least, actively annoyed, and that seemed like progress.
‘First, we will show you your moment of deepest connection, the moment that entangled your lives enough to bring you here to us today.’ The Threshold paused, and the glowing figures smiled as one.
‘It may not be what you expect. But trust the Threshold to show you what you need to see. And then, we will give you the tiniest glimpse of your possible future—the future that is written by the desire in your blood.’
The magenta light that filled the room began to pulse on and off, like a heartbeat, and in the air over the firepit, an image began to form.
It was as though they were looking down on a scene from some high place, and he could see a building he recognized.
It was the Inn of Enos, the figure of the spider-like god crouched on the roof. Next to him, he felt Elver stiffen.
‘Maybe we should just go,’ she said quietly. ‘This isn’t going to work, and we can find something else to give Tisk as his tithe.’
The image moved over the roof until they were looking down on a hot spring, clouds of steam rising from the opaque water.
‘That’s odd,’ said Artair. He frowned. ‘I don’t remember visiting the spring.’
Yet according to the images, he was there, and so was Elver.
As he watched, he strode confidently towards the water, pulling his short robe over his head and discarding it on the grass.
The images had no sound, but Artair could see his own face smiling, his own lips moving as he waded into the water.
The Artair in the image turned around and gestured to Elver, who was still standing by the edge of the rocks.
A horrible suspicion formed in his heart.
‘I don’t understand.’ Except that he did.
Elver said nothing.
In the image, the past version of her had taken off her boots and was sitting on the edge of the spring, while this Artair was still talking away, smiling in a sly way that was… that was not him .
‘You let him out,’ said Artair, a plummeting feeling in his chest that made him dizzy. ‘You untied Lucian and let him wander about freely.’
‘Listen,’ Elver was saying, ‘listen, Artair, there’s stuff you don’t understand about him—’
‘Do you have any idea what you’ve done?’ Artair took a step away from her, and the figures of the Threshold shimmered as though they were reflections in a pool.
‘By the Twelve, Elver, he could have hurt people! He could have done anything and it’s my responsibility to make sure that he doesn’t.
’ The worst memory, the darkest memory, rose up from where it was always waiting for him.
The smell of burning grass, greasy soot on his fingertips.
‘He’s dangerous, and you gave him his freedom… ’
In the floating image, Lucian had moved through the water to be closer to Elver, and as Artair watched, his hand reached out and touched her bare foot. It was too much.
‘I can’t do this.’
He walked stiffly back to the door, ignoring Elver’s protests, and found himself back in the room with the priest and the remaining couple, who were waiting for their turn with the Threshold. He felt their eyes searching his face and he turned away from them sharply.
I have to get out of here. Now.
As he left the chamber, he heard Barnard speak to his partner, his voice stricken.
‘Oh no, I really thought those two would make it.’
Artair let his feet carry him away from the temple, unthinking, while he tried to control the rising panic that threatened to flood through him.
Here and now, in this moment, I am safe , he told himself. The Other is contained.
The hillside path was still full of couples and groups making their way to the Temple of Threshold, but looking at their happy, hopeful faces only made him feel worse. He kept his head down, trying to recite the mantra even as his mind brought him fact after unpleasant fact.
Firstly, that Elver had untied Lucian’s bonds, putting herself in direct danger. Secondly, that she had been talking to him when Artair was asleep—and thirdly, that she had allowed him outside of a locked room, even going so far as to take him outside, putting everyone nearby in danger too.
And fourthly, that she had lied about it.
He remembered what the Trilot priest Kantor Witt had said: Does he know what you two get up to at night? Artair felt a soft, insidious pain blossom behind his breastbone. Gods, was it even worse than he thought?
Belatedly, he realized he could hear the patter of rapid footsteps on the path behind him. He frowned, looking resolutely ahead of him.
‘Artair.’ Elver appeared at his shoulder. ‘Artair, please. Listen to me for a moment, will you?’
‘I trusted you,’ he said.
‘Lucian is like you. He’s like us . He’s a jih spirit.’ Artair began walking faster, and she scurried to keep up. ‘What did the monks tell you about him? Did they tell you anything at all? You’ve never spoken to him, so how can you know what he’s like, truly?’
Other couples on the path were giving them unsettled glances.
‘I don’t need to know him,’ said Artair. ‘I only need to know what he’s done.’
‘And what was that, exactly?’
Memories threatened to rise, and he clamped down on them viciously. He couldn’t think about that on top of everything else, so he shook his head roughly.
‘We’ve failed to get the heart,’ he said, still not looking at her. ‘We’ll have to go back and see if there’s something else Tisk will accept. There has to be something.’
Questions were rising in his throat, and he was swallowing them back down with difficulty.
What did the two of you talk about? Did he threaten you?
Did he mock me? Were you both laughing at me, the idiot monk tasked with keeping an evil from the world?
And why did he touch your foot? What happened in the part of that memory I didn’t see?
‘I bet anything from that place would do,’ Elver said. ‘I’ll go back. Steal something. I’m used to stealing things from humans.’
Artair glanced at her. Her head was down and her hair was hanging in her face so that he couldn’t see her expression.
‘What are you talking about? The place is teeming with priests and couples. You can’t just wander in and steal things. What even would you take?’
She shrugged. ‘I’ll wait until it’s dark.
The sun’s going down already. There’s bound to be something.
Listen…’ In the pause, he heard bells ringing from the temple above them.
It seemed they were finishing for the day.
‘When I touch Lucian, he gets part of his memories back. Because he has them, Artair, like you and I do, which means he can’t be just an evil spirit, right? He has a past—’
‘You do whatever you want,’ Artair snapped, already regretting the sharpness in his voice but hopeless to prevent it. ‘I’m going back to Sunay. She might have some idea of what I can do next. I’m running out of time.’
He carried on down the path as Elver’s footsteps faltered and stopped, and for a second he wanted to turn back, to look at her. Instead, he looked down at his feet and kept on walking. It was growing dark and he needed to be undercover: whatever Elver might think about it, Lucian was dangerous.