Chapter LI
LI.
Kerasea
Torren keeps his word and brings Mirial’s body to the divining room, carrying her up the ten flights of stairs. It’s nearly midnight by the time she’s resting on the altar, wrapped in bedsheets. She looks so much smaller than she was in life, but death diminishes us all.
Zel sits stock-still in the corner as I stand at the altar in my ceremonial robe. Once Torren left my room, I changed again, because he’d expect me to be in temple robes. But now I have to figure out how to get rid of Zel, since I can’t have her or anyone else in here for this.
At least Torren believes I am about to cut Mirial open—so he won’t ask further questions about why I need privacy. It was a solid cover for an egregious error.
“Will you grant me a truce for an hour and not arrest her?” I ask, pointing to Zel.
He nods.
“Return to your chambers, Zel. Bathe and grab bedding along with things you need to remain here for the duration. I’ll bring you back shortly.”
“Yes, Excellency. Thank you, Excellency.” She looks from me to Torren and then flees, giving the Praetorian a wide berth.
Alone with him once more, I wait for him to leave. Yet there’s a part of me that wants him to stay.
“I can come back to move the body when you are done,” he says, lingering.
I shake my head. “That won’t be necessary. I’ll burn her with the eternal flame.”
Lines appear on his brow. The brazier is, of course, not nearly large enough for a human corpse, but he has seen me summon the god and manipulate the eternal flame. There is logic and then there is the divine. He’ll believe I can burn her remains.
He nods and then gives me a short bow before exiting the divining room. There’s no time to worry about the strain between us and no room to feel regret for the confusion and pain in his eyes.
Just as when we were children, I was left with no choice but to hurt him. I wish it weren’t this way, but wishes are pointless in this world. I’ve wished my whole life to be something different than what I am, yet I’ve remained the same.
I lock the door and then wait, estimating the time it will take for him to leave the tower. Then I slowly unwrap the sheets. The ones around Mirial’s head are wet, soaked in dark blood and viscera. Her skull must have split from the impact of the fall.
A thousand lies on the one who pushed her.
But I am the one who is truly cursed. By blood and by birth. By what I’m about to do.
I bite the inside of my cheek. This is such a remarkably foolish thing. Of all the acts I shouldn’t do at Jubilee, this is at the top of the list. If Mirial were alive, she’d tell me to leave right now.
But she is dead and I am out of options.
I have to know what happened. The murdered senators, even Antinous, were one thing; this is another.
Mirial was my friend, like a mother to me, but more than that, she was a pillar of the Faith.
Someone believed they could get away with killing a priest of my temple.
It is my duty to stop them. I believe this is worth the risk.
I just hope I’m right.
“God of truth, forgive your humble servant for her lies,” I say, bowing my head. “And forgive me for using your holy place for my own means. I have nowhere else to turn than into your arms.”
I lower my head in prayer. I hope my god will accept me polluting this sacred space with a call to another. But truth and death walk hand in hand. There must be an understanding, or at least shared indifference to mankind.
I finish unwrapping her head and sigh. Poor Mirial. Looking at her like this, her eyes wide open in fear, I know there isn’t a chance this was accidental. Someone murdered her.
Yet this close to a dead body, it’s hard to think about anything other than the pull of godless death.
There is a distinct call in me from an ancient, primordial power. One cold and usually silent but just as ever present and knowing as the god of truth. Perhaps more so.
Death covers Mirial like a shadow. My body hums as if there’s music, but there is no one playing.
It’s the magic in my blood swirling and surging, begging for release.
My pulse beats until it makes my skin painful at my neck and wrists—the life points being the natural draw for death. There is only one relief.
I take the sickle knife and cut a shallow line on my left wrist, careful not to hit the veins that throb.
There’s pain, but also the absence of it.
I’ve wondered if all Elusians felt this same urge, but there was no one to ask.
It wasn’t until I saw the fresco in the banquet room that I realized all of my bloodline felt this way.
Their history remains, but Elusian teachings are long gone, destroyed during the Crimson Night. My father told me to deny any pull of magic, to turn away no matter what the pain or consequence.
Kera, never, my father said when he finally admitted my adoption. Any time will be one too many and you will be found, tortured, and executed. You must be Kerasea Vestal, and only her.
But as blood wells on my wrist, I have to be something else—the last Elusian. For Mirial.
I raise my bleeding wrist above Mirial’s mouth. Every move I make is on instinct, but my motions feel as natural as a bird leaving the nest.
And I have done this once before. So at least I am prepared for the impending horrors.
The moment my blood hits her lips, an inky black substance begins to pour out from around Mirial’s corpse. It smells like rot and festering wounds, but it is godless death rising through her to answer my call.
Mirial gasps, her chest convulsing.
It’s anathema to me, turning my friend into a conduit, but she’s not alive—not really. My blood can’t resurrect anyone. This is either death itself or Mirial answering from beyond the River of Death. I can’t be sure which.
“My dearest one,” I say. “Who killed you?”
It’s hard to get the question out as the tendrils of death wrap around me. The black substance feels like barbed vines and fanged snakes constricting around my limbs. It’s both solid and smoke, real and imagined, but it fills the room and converges on me, wanting more.
Death always wants life.
I shudder from the smell and the chill. The touch of death is so cold, it’s scalding and so hungry, it’s stomach-turning.
I try to move away, but it’s hopeless. Even in my robes, I’m freezing as death covers me.
Screams of agony begin, and I am not sure if everyone can hear this or just me—it’s why I needed Torren out of the tower.
My vision starts to fade. I can’t tell if it’s the black substance or just the death grip that is now choking my throat and chest. I claw at my neck but there is nothing—just my skin and robes.
It’s a futile attempt—death can’t be held at bay or pushed aside as it comes for me, but my primal response is to fight.
I try to breathe, to focus only on Mirial, her back arching and her limbs moving in the sick dance of death throes. I did this for a purpose. I disturbed her eternal rest so that I would know the truth and be able to avenge her murder. I need answers. I have to stay conscious.
But my hold is slipping. It took guided practice to commune with the god of truth, to handle the weight of the divine, and this is something else entirely.
Death is far too strong. The pressure is so immense that no matter how I try, the world goes dark. I’m barely aware that I am falling until I hit the ground.
And then there’s nothing.
I wake up on the stone floor of the divining room. Breathless, I stare up at the twinkling stars through the oculus of the domed roof. I’m alive…I think. I hazard moving my limbs. It’s painful, but my arms and legs rise as I command them.
I’m not sure how long I was unconscious. A minute, maybe, though it could have been hours. But it doesn’t feel like it was very long, even if my body aches from my scalp to my soles.
Stumbling to my feet, I’m dizzy but otherwise whole. There’s no remnant of the inky-black substance that had poured out around me. The divining room looks as it always does—white altar, purple eternal flame.
Death comes and goes without a trace.
I wobble and place my hands on the cold altar to brace myself as the horizon slants. My wrist is still bleeding, red drops falling on the white stone. The surface is empty aside from the sickle knife and bloodied sheets in the center. Death fully took Mirial’s body.
The same happened last time.
But this was all for nothing. I lost consciousness before Mirial could answer.
I grit my teeth at my failure, my heart pounding and head throbbing.
I subjected her body, her memory to all of that for naught.
In truth, I don’t know what happens to her corpse now, or if I disturbed the entire Underworld.
I don’t know what the ramifications will be, but I was willing to pay the unknown price.
I subjected myself to the waking nightmare of death and risked being discovered for nothing.
All because I wasn’t strong enough.
I hang my head, but then catch a streak of red in my vision. Raising my chin, I finally notice the wall in front of me. There is one word written in Mirial’s handwriting. The fresh blood drips down the stone.
Medea