by Megan Bannen
“Death, decay, and dying. Gelya, look.”
He reaches for the chain around my neck and pulls it up. The pendant dangling before my eyes is the correct size and shape and weight, but it’s not my triptych, not the gift the Goodson gave me. It’s only some cheap locket, a trinket. A nothing. Tavik wraps his fist around it and squeezes hard, as if he could crush the metal in his grasp. It makes the chain dig into the back of my neck.
“You’re hurting me. Let go.”
He relinquishes it and paces up and down the road. “That apothecary back in Dalment is behind this. You mark my words. He got it into his head that your necklace was the Vessel of Elath, and this is what’s come of it. What, did he think the northern Elathians could free Her when we couldn’t?”
“Probably.”
“Thank the Mother we didn’t tell anyone what the Vessel really is.”
“Who, you mean. Who the Vessel is,” I remind him. My body feels like a teakettle just before it releases its shrill, piercing whistle, but Tavik carries on as if I haven’t said anything.
“I bet it was the Illeses who took it. That Mera. Mother and Father, the Milk Road is supposed to be on our side. Well, these northern Elathians will figure out soon enough they’ve been duped. Serves them right.”
“It was mine,” I say, tears of rage brimming on the rims of my eyes, thickening my words.
“At least they didn’t take anything valuable.”
“It was valuable to me!” I explode, and I finally lose control of the lid I’ve kept so carefully in place over Elath. It opens a sliver, a hair, and Elath’s power surges through me, setting my eyes alight.
Tavik stumbles away from me in terror and lands buttocks-first in a muck-filled wagon rut, his face bloodless. “Father of d—”
“Do you know how few gifts I’ve received in my life? Do you have any idea how few things in this world truly belong to me?”
“I’m . . . I’m sorry,” Tavik stammers.
Blood trickles from my nose, hot and salty. My eyes burn so brightly, they light Tavik’s beautiful face.
“These clothes are not mine! This life is not mine! Even my body is not my own!”
My rage slips farther out of my grasp. Holy Father, it feels right.
“I didn’t choose to be a Vessel of the One True God, and I didn’t choose to become Elath’s Vessel either! Every path in my life has been chosen for me, and I had no say in any of it!”
I glare at Tavik, my breath heaving, my anger a conflagration. He’s shaking badly, but he gets to his feet and takes two timid steps toward me.
“Gelya.” He speaks my name as if he’s talking to a cornered dog.
“You say ‘Gelya.’ You see ‘Vessel,’” I spit. “You’re no better than the Ovinists. I’m nothing but a box to any of you. I’m just the thing that contains the only life you actually do care about.”
“That’s not true.” He holds out a trembling hand and forms a circle with his finger and thumb.
That’s all it takes. The lid slams down, and I crumple inside and out. Tavik moves another tentative step closer and holds out his arms. “Come here.”
I stand there, swaying with misery and exhaustion, limp and blubbering. “Come where?”
“Gimme a hug.”
“What? No.”
“Bring it in.” He makes a beckoning motion with both hands.
I swipe at the tears streaming down my cheeks and the blood dripping out of my nose. “You are so—”
“Right now, pal.”
I’m too worn out to resist when Tavik pulls me to him the way the sea carries driftwood out with the tide. His arms are warm around me, his beard softer than I would have expected against my cheek.
“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said those things about Captain DeRopa,” I cry on his shoulder. It’s so much easier to apologize when I’m not looking at him.
“And I’m sorry about messing things up at Illesmaat. Let’s face it, we’re both complete telleg lickers.” He says telleg lickers in Rosvanian, coaxing a sad, pathetic laugh out of me.
“I’m glad to know you’re picking up the most elegant vocabulary from my language.”
He releases his hold on me but keeps his hands on my arms as he gives me his very best Tavik Face, the one full of sympathy and understanding, the one that inspires a million problems in my chest.
“Are we good?” he asks.
I sniff one last time, wipe the rest of the blood from my nose with my sleeve, and nod.
Then that brat reaches into the unruly red thicket on top of my head and tousles it without mercy. “Quit being so serious, will you?”
“Tavik!” I struggle out of his reach and smooth my short hair back into place, a hopeless endeavor from the outset.
“Divine Mother, I’ve been wanting to do that for weeks.” He slings an arm over my shoulders and starts walking back the way we came, dragging me with him. “Come along, my beloved wife. Let’s go get my ass kicked, send a message, and get your stupid necklace back.”
“It’s not stupid. You are stupid.”
“You’re stupid.”
I shake my head. “You are going to be the end of me.”
“Probably,” he agrees with his charming, rueful grin, and that ridiculous hurt in my heart with Tavik’s name on it throbs and aches.
Thirty
The trek back is brutal, five times harder than our escape from Mera’s brothers was. All I did was dip a toe into Elath’s power, and now I can hardly stand on my own two feet, even after a night of semirest under the same shabby shelter we built the night before. The closer we get to Illesmaat, the more my feet drag.
We’ve nearly arrived at our destination when Tavik asks me for the millionth time, “You all right?”
“Fine,” I mumble. Even my lips are numb with fatigue.
“You don’t look fine.”
I give a humorless laugh. “Thanks.”
“Hold up.” He puts a hand on my arm to stop me. When we’re with other people, he hides his thoughts better than the world’s greatest Shakki player, but when it’s just me, he wears his worry, head to toe. His concern makes it hard to tamp down the sudden urge to cry.
He points back in the direction we came from with his thumb. “Can we talk about what happened yesterday? Your eyeballs . . .” He makes a gesture with both hands, like fireworks exploding out of his eye sockets. “And now, a day later, you can still barely stand up.”
I rub at the bleak headache blossoming in my sinuses. “I know.”
“Was that you, or was that Her?”
“Both? Maybe? I don’t know.” I let my hands fall away from my face, and for the first time, I try to tell Tavik what it’s like, how it feels. “Her presence is always there. This buzzing. Simmering. It never goes away, not even when I sleep. I think of it as a pot over a fire, and if I don’t keep the lid clamped down tight, the whole thing will boil over. When I read The Ludoïd in Ambrus’s attic, I pulled the cover back, and I used this power—Her power—to sing the song, and it made using my gift so much easier. But just now the lid popped off, and I couldn’t control it.”
Tavik lowers his thick eyebrows and presses his lips into a thin line. The silence between us stretches until I say, somewhat jokingly, “You’re the Elath-worshipping heathen here. Any words of wisdom? Any advice?”
His voice is low and deadly serious when he answers, “Keep the lid on. Do whatever you have to do to keep that lid on. Do you hear me?”
I was expecting reassurance, maybe even a bit of answering humor. Instead, he looks at me as if I’m as dangerous as a Hedenski shield maiden wielding a battle-axe.
“It isn’t as if I did it on purpose! That’s what I’m trying to tell you. I thought I could contain it—Her—but I lost control yesterday, and it only gets harder with each passing day. Sometimes I feel as if my skin might burst if we don’t get Her out of me soon, as if my whole body will crack open, and it scares me. I’m so scared.”
He gazes at me with the sorrowful
expression of the Unknown Saint. I press my hands to my cheeks and try not to cry until he steps close to me, snapping out of his mournful stupor. “Hey, I made you a promise, remember? And I keep my promises.” He makes the sign of the circle swear again and says, “Don’t leave me hanging this time, dearest wife.”
A sound that is both a groan and a laugh escapes my mouth, but I link my ring with his and feel a hundred times better.
“We’re going to get Elath out of you, all right?”
“All right.”
He releases the swear, and we resume walking. As the outline of the Illeses’ house becomes visible in the distance, I start to panic at the prospect of facing Mera again. Will she be mad at me for running away? Will she think I’m stupid? Or jealous? What will I say to her? I’m lost in thought, paying no attention to my surroundings, when Tavik suddenly pulls on my arm so hard he nearly rips it from the socket. The next thing I know, he’s got me shoved up against a tree trunk, the rough bark abrading my back. He looks over my shoulder, his eyes bright and sharp.
“What is it?” I whisper.
He breathes through his nose, in and out, as he stares at Illesmaat. Then he presses his forehead to mine and curses, “Oh, death. Death, decay, and dying.”
“Tavik?”
“How far is it to Saint Helios from here?” He speaks so quietly I can barely make out the words. His forehead is still pressed to mine, his sweat dampening my skin.
“A hundred miles at least.”
“By road or as the crow flies?”
“By road. It’s probably closer to seventy miles directly. What happened?”
“Brother Miklos happened.”
I can’t bear the not knowing, so I turn my head to look. The Illeses’ front door hangs crookedly open from one hinge, and the words Elathian Traitors have been scrawled across the front of the house in red paint. Posted on the wide trunk of an oak tree in front is a sign with rough-drawn sketches of Tavik and me. My eyes catch the words By Order of the Holy See of the Ovinist Church in bold letters over our faces. I slap a hand over my mouth to push back the fear rising up my throat.
Tavik hooks his arm around my waist and pulls me deeper into the trees. “Listen to me very carefully. You are going to stay right here while I sneak back in to send a message to DeRopa.”
I grab his sleeve so hard the wool wrinkles in my hand. “No!”
“We need help. I need help.” Tavik looks much more like the frightened boy under the Convent of Saint Vinnica than the confident friend I’ve come to know, and I remember his drunken words about DeRopa at the Brewers’ house: I wish he were here. He’d know what to do.
It’s exactly how I feel about Goodson Anskar.
All this time, we’ve been heading toward the Goodson, Tavik for his sword but me for his guidance. And now Tavik is reaching out to the man who is like a father to him for the same purpose. He’s right. He needs help. I need help. We need help. And I don’t know that I care whether that help comes from the Goodson or Captain DeRopa so long as a competent, experienced person who genuinely cares about us takes charge.
“Stay here,” Tavik says, but before he can leave me, I pull the sword from the scabbard at my side.
“Take it. It won’t do me any good, and you might need it.”
He hesitates, but he nods and takes it from my hand, brushing my fingers with his in a way that doesn’t feel accidental before he leaves me hidden in the grove, alone.
As the minutes pass, I can’t keep still. I think of Mera, hoping she’s alive and fearing she isn’t. How could Brother Miklos take her life from her? How could her life be worth so little? It’s a difficult possibility to swallow, but easier than worrying about Tavik, who is definitely still alive and might not be in the very near future if he gets caught. The longer he’s gone, the more my imagination takes over, envisioning all the horrible things that could be happening to him as I wait here, useless. When I can’t stand it anymore, I head toward the house, following in his footsteps.
“What are you doing? Get back!” Tavik’s voice nearly makes me jump out of my skin.
“Don’t do that!” I gasp.
“Then don’t go sticking your nose out where Brother Miklos can cut it off! Father of death!”
“Were the Illeses there? Mera?”
Tavik licks his lips and opens his mouth, but nothing comes out. He simply shakes his head.
I ask the question I wish I could keep bottled up inside me. “Do you think they’re still alive?”
He shuffles his feet. “Maybe. But . . . there was blood. A lot of it.”
My eyes well up. My lips fatten with the urge to cry. I sniff, trying to keep a grip on myself. “Did you send your message?”
“The coop was bashed in and there was no bird in sight.” He holds out his hand, and my necklace dangles from his fingers. “I found it on the kitchen floor.” I take it from his hand and put it on, but the weight around my neck feels heavier than I remember, less comforting.
Tavik rubs his chin. “Seventy miles as the crow flies, huh? That makes us a pair of crows. Can you make it, Brother Elgar?”
“I think I preferred ‘my darling wife.’” I’m trying to lighten the mood, but when he looks at me as if I were as fragile as a china plate, I tell him, “I won’t break.”
I hope that’s true, because it doesn’t feel true.
He draws my arm over his shoulders. “Come on, my darling wife. We need to move.”
Thirty-One
“Unbelievable. Does it ever not rain in Rosvania?” Tavik complains four storm-soaked days later as we trudge between the grapevines of Rosvania’s western wine country. Any fruit that survived the rains has long since been harvested, and the remaining vines are black with rot. Even their wooden supports are decaying and toppling over. The rosebushes at the end of each row, planted there for the purpose of alerting the vintners to any diseases in their precious vines, perished long before our arrival, and I can’t help but remember a line from The Song of Saint Wenslas: Your fields shall drown in the punishing floods of the Father.
The south is drying up, while the north is drowning.
Until there is nothing left but death and death.
Ambrus was right. It’s all happening so quickly now. The end. And the fact that I still don’t know what to do about the soul inside me—the cause of this disaster—weighs me down a thousand times more than my muddy boots.
“What if I’m the cause of this?” I ask Tavik, giving voice again to that theory that has been gnawing at my insides since Lithgate. “What if Elath’s presence inside me is flooding the earth? What if the world is coming to an end right now, right this minute, before our eyes?”
Tavik gazes off over the ruin stretching out in all directions. “That’s why we’re going to get the Hand of the Father,” he answers grimly, and we keep walking. And walking.
I’ve never been drunk, but I think this must be how it feels, the complete inability to put one foot in front of the other in a way that will guarantee I’ll stay upright. Mud squelches beneath my feet, making it hard to move in a straight line. The air stinks of mold, and the rain taps incessantly against my body.
When we stop for the day, Tavik prays, and I move away to give him privacy he doesn’t need. I’d pray, too, but why bother? The Father never answers, while the immortal life inside me is ever-present. She pushes upward and outward, straining against the membrane I keep stretched taut over Her. If I am as lost to the One True God as I seem to be, there’s no point in keeping my most daring question buttoned up inside me: What if the spirit I carry is, in fact, a goddess?
Goddess.
I can taste the word on my tongue as the presence within me vibrates, like the satisfied purring of a cat. Ever since Elath entered me, I have assumed that somewhere down the road, Vinnica’s fate would be my own, as inevitable as the sun setting in the west. But what if the opposite is true? What if the world could have a hopeful future instead? What if I could have a hopeful future in
it? Even whispering the words in my mind feels like freedom.
I kneel as if to pray, pressing my forehead to the rot at the grapevines’ roots, but it isn’t the Vessel’s Prayer I sing. It’s a Sanctus verse of my own creation.
I pray the song of myself.
Sing, faithful, of Gelya,
Prison and prisoner no more.
The life inside me stirs, and an unnerving sensation overtakes me. I hear the flapping of a Daughter’s sash in the wind, and a familiar scent—ink and tea, melding together—cuts through the mist.
Zofia.
I don’t look up, but I’m certain she stands before me, real and alive. I’ve seen her in my dreams, but her physical presence in the living world is something else entirely. Understanding sinks in slowly, like water soaking into the soil of a potted herb, the realization that the Zofia of my dreams is not Zofia at all. This being I hold inside me—the one who spoke to me in the convent courtyard—is wearing the face of the only mother I’ve ever known. This is how She chooses to speak to me.
Look up, She says in Zofia’s voice.
It’s one thing to pray, to be heard. It’s another thing to bow before an immortal being and hear an answer. Terror emanates from my skin like heat.
What have you ever had to fear from me? Look up, Daughter.
Trembling on my hands and knees, I do as I’m told. I look up.
No spirit dressed in Zofia’s body stands before me. But there, stiff and unmoving on the ground just inches from my nose, lies a bird. Death has dulled her blue feathers and her gold-colored breast, but the black and white markings on her head are unmistakable. A soulswift.
A dead soulswift.
Tavik comes up behind me, and when he sees what I see, he crouches beside me. “Poor little thing.”
“They’re immortal,” I tell myself as much as him, my voice reedy.
“Not this one,” he says softly as he removes the canister from the creature’s leg.
“Is there a message?”
His face is drawn and worried. “No.”
No.
I asked the forbidden question, and someone, somewhere, handed me my eviscerated faith on a platter. I start to cry. Tavik puts a comforting hand on my back, unlocking an even deeper grief I didn’t know I had inside me. I throw my head back and wail at the sky.