Catalysts. Dead gods—resurrected ones. Girls—girls like me and Naia and Chima—used like cattle. Forced to house a god within their bodies until they become corrupted. Until they're no longer human and have become some sort of flesh eating monster that deserves to be locked away and treated like an animal.
Some of us were lucky.
I blink—but I squeeze my eyes shut.
She opened us up—ripped us from navel to chest. She forced something inside us—tried to see if we could hold it and make it strong. But it hurt us—it hurt so many. And she didn't care—she simply waited and watched. Tried to see if we could survive with a piece of god in us—and if we couldn't—
I open my eyes—I gasp.
—then we became food for the others. Corpses…tasty flesh.
The sun's coming and a bell's being rung. I roll myself from Naia's grasp and stand. I pull a dagger from the sheath hidden beneath the fabric of my bodice.
If I don't hurt them—they'll come back. They'll come back and corrupt more.
Steel glints in my grip. It's like a little finger in my fist, and I kneel before the first girl. Slice her throat, ignore the blood that gushes, and move on to the next. The next and the next—slicing through ten slick throats. I stop at the eleventh body—I stop and kneel towards a face I knew. Green-gold eyes are open—slightly. One lid is lower than the other, and I force that one up. Her mouth is open, like she's breathing but I know she's not. Red hair is matted, but still somewhat curly. She always had pretty hair—Akane.
“I can't believe they brought you back.” I whisper as footsteps fall from up the stairs—guardsmen running. Steel plates clinking against each other as men converge on the hall. They're coming, but I don't care.
Before they see me, I'll be gone.
I slide the dagger along her throat. I pause. I apply pressure. “Goodnight, old friend.”
And I swear I see a smile.
Calanthe is around the back of the pile—the back of the girls. I pause at her fallen body. I fall onto my knees and crawl towards her, crawl over her body and aim my dagger at her throat. The blade moves up towards her face.
My hand shakes like there's something wrong with me and I curse. My heart skips a beat and my chest tightens like there's a hand curling round my heart. “You did this to us.”
She makes no move—but I swear, I swear I see her smirk. When her lips twitch like they always did—when she laughed at us. When she thought the pain she caused upon innocent girls, innocent women, was some sort of joke—my dagger dives. My face becomes red with heat as I scream—as I stab at her cheek. At her eye. At her nose and at her scalp—over and over. Again and again—and her eye comes rolling out. Rolls and hangs on her mottled face—but I'm not done. I can't be—I don't want to be. She did this to me—to us—to too many of us.
And I'm stabbing—I'm ramming the blade into the witch's face as steel toes hit the marble of the floor and I know I need to stop—need to leave and get on with my life.
But I can't. I can't let this go—the things this woman did.
When blood smacks my face, I stop. I look up and lock eyes with a faceless helm of silver and I fling the dagger at the guardsman blade first.
When he screams, falls back with a screech of steel plates slamming to the marble floor with a clang—I'm on Naia, shoving her up by her armpits. Raising her and hefting her upon my shoulder as I turn tail and run towards the open bronze doors at my back as men yell. As armor clinks against itself in a wild dance—they're sprinting but they can't catch me in their silver shells—I know they can't.
But when I'm through those doors and enjoying freedom—a silver pole swings in a careless arc from my right and slams right into my stomach—knocking all of the air out of me. Forcing me to my knees as Naia goes flying and skids across the grass outside.
The sun's up. The horizon's gold. Naia's not waking up and I bring my hands to the grass.
“You're supposed to be on my side!” I hiss at him as I kneel and bring my hands behind my head. “You big dumb, lummox!”
Ran approaches me. Slings his staff over his shoulder as he looks at the mess behind me. At the sprinting guardsmen and the carnage. Blood cakes my face and hands—they're sticky behind my head and I curse as I realize that blood and hair don't mix.
The footsteps stop behind me. I watch Naia push herself up in the grass.
Ran turns his head, locks eyes with Naia. “You,” he half-whispers half-yawns. “that voice was you?”
“I killed the Lady Diviner—me. It was me and—” I swallow. “—the others.”
Naia looks at me. Moves her lips, but is unable to speak as she clutches at her throat. Her eyes move wildly, from me to Ran and back again. I shake my head at her—it's no use, let me speak!
She croaks. Opens her mouth, but all that comes out is silence.
42. Nyx
Ran sighs. Bring his face towards the guardsmen gathered at my back and gestures with his chin. I hear them pause—I hear steel click against itself as they march back into the fortress. The doors stay open, though. Wide open, as a morning breeze hits me and I try to stand.
Ran offers a hand. Pulls me up. “They're never going to forget this. No one will.” he hisses, grabbing my forearm roughly. “In what world did you think that this—,” and he flings his hands towards the great hall. “was a good idea?”
I shrug. “It worked right? The witch is dead, we've got what she wanted—,” I cough, my eyes flit to Naia as she holds herself up in the grass—staring at the ground. “she brought me back.” I hiss at him. “She brought me back to fucking life!”
Ran leans in, whispers: “It's true then?”
I am unable to speak. I nod—purse my lips and cross my arms.
“Then go—immediately! Go!”
“To the Vale?”
He shakes his head. “No. Csilla—the nightingale wouldn't—,”
My face blanches—I take a step back. “No—I'm not going anywhere near that desert.”
“You don't get a choice, girl—you're caught up in this so you'll finish what you started.”
“The gods live there.” I snap. “The gods are buried there!”
A bird startles me. Black wings flap against the blue morning and I bring my eyes to the sky.
“Then I'll take her!” he snaps—impatient. Shifting his weight from one leg to the other, “—you were always so ready to go. To disappear to the Vale, so go!”
I uncross my arms.
“I'll take care of this mess.” he spits, shaking his head. “This shit is always left to me.”
I look to the grass. Feel the beat of my heart and remind myself—it's thanks to her I'm still here. Naia did this.
It's her fault.
“How about this?” I tell him, sighing. Narrowing my eyes at the grass. “I'll follow you to the desert, but when we hit sand—I'm gone.”
…
I take Naia's hand. “We're gonna go see someone, alright?”
It's like she's lost the ability to speak when she nods. When worried gray eyes search mine and quickly jump away. She's looking at strong stone buildings, merchant stalls, and the clamor of people thronging us. Like they have no idea what personal space is.
Her throat rises a bit when she swallows and I take her silence as agreement.
Ran presses a hand to my opposite shoulder as we shove our way through a crowd of sweating bodies and hawking merchants with their high-pitched, ear splitting, voices. “And you're sure you know where this teller is, girl?”
“Yeah.” I shout to be heard over the noise. “But there's no promise he'll see us this early in the morning. We might have to wait.”
“Yes, good. We wait and let them realize what we've stolen. Let's not even go to Csilla—let's just waste time here.”
“Look.” I look over my shoulder, meet his eyes and roll my own. “There's somethin' up with her voice, Ran. If she can't sing—there's no telling what you'll meet out there on the road. And you know
how—well connected our birdie friend is.”
He bobs his head to the right. Rolls his eyes and finally nods his head. “Alright, alright. Maybe you're right.”
“I know I'm right.” I snap, turning my gaze towards the front. “Here's hoping he'll see us.”
Dirt chokes the air—forces me to bring a hand to my face as my opposite hand squeezes Naia's hand tighter. Buildings push on us from all sides—sturdy shops and workplaces carved from stone or chipped from yew wood. Signs hang everywhere, and the crowd is forced to push them away as they force themselves down the narrow street. We follow, the crowd pushing and pulling as some flow north while others flow south—towards the larger roads at our back. I'm forced to throw myself up against a wooden wall when a man cloaked all in black parts the mass of moving bodies with a brown cane. He's going the opposite way of the crowd and almost stomps on Naia and I as we dance away. I know something's wrong when he looks back—head hidden by a low hood. I know something's wrong—but ignore it as the air grows heavy.
When the stench of horse funk flogs everyone, I make a sharp right into an alleyway and throw my gaze over my shoulder to make sure Ran's still following.
The alleyway is a breath of fresh air that reeks of refuse. Rotten fruit mixed with dung and kitchen debris. I ignore the smells—somewhat used to it—as I bring Naia and Ran down a corridor of wood and dust that squashes us against each other. When I find a burgundy door carved with the emblem of a dragon trapped in a circular cage, I tap twice on it.
Naia presses her palm to the symbol. Looks at me and raises her eyebrows.
I smile back.
“Go away—whatever you're looking for—it's not here!”
I frown. “We want our fortunes told!” I slam my fist against the door. “And we aren't leaving until you we get a good one!”
“You inauspicious brat!” comes the old man's voice. It is an old and entitled roar. The door swings out from under my palms and Naia jumps back as Ran grasps my shoulder—ready to shove me out of harm's way. “I only know one girl with such inane demands—only one!”
The voice comes from the inside and I poke my head in. “Vivek?”
It's dark inside. Dark and cold and somehow wet. “The one and only.” he responds. “Come in. Lock the door. You weren't followed, were you?”
I usher Naia and Ran in. Slam the door behind them and suddenly the parlor is lit with blue light that turns ferocious. It sits upon a round wooden table with four tall chairs, their backs curved and intricate. I blink and I hear Naia gasp when the old man shows himself—standing behind the table with long cards centered in one hand—nothing in the other. He invites us to sit.
We stand.
“Do you see what I've brought for you, Vivek?”
Blind old eyes stare at nothing. His free hand goes to the long knots of his gray beard as his other hand disappears beneath the long silky sleeves of his black robe. He pauses. Moves his gaze towards my voice and opens his arms wide. “Life—and death,” he murmurs. “airs through that door.” A chair appears behind him and he sits. “I invite all of you to listen and have a seat.”
I feel Ran's eyes on me. “He's blind.”
I answer with a smirk. I approach the table and take a seat to Vivek's right. Ran and Naia follow suit, the girl taking the seat closest to me.
Vivek slaps his cards to the table. Shuffles them and looks at each of us pointedly. “History repeats itself.” he whispers—speaking more to himself than to us. “Who can deny that?”
Ran snorts, leans back in his chair and crosses his legs.
I hush Ran—shushing him curtly.
Vivek nods, places seven cards before himself in a circle and places his eighth and final card at the circle's heart. “If he has a mouth, let him speak.”
And Vivek listens. Ran scoffs. “Just get on with your party trick.”
“It's not a trick!” I snap, bringing my hands to the table as Naia lowers her head. “We need this before we go—it'll protect us! And hopefully—,” I swallow. I bring my gaze to Naia before finding Ran's face once more. “get this one her voice back.”
“And who is this, then?” Vivek reaches an old and gnarled hand out towards Naia. He opens his palm, bids her to place her hand within his own and she does. “Another vessel. Another means for the gods to reach us.” he murmurs, placing his other hand upon Naia's. Nodding his head. “You are not the first to seek my wisdom, Voice of the East. Another came, bearing your same predicament. A woman by the name of Shanti.”
43. Naia
Shanti?
My Shanti?
I open my mouth—yet no sound comes. Still, I am mute—my vocal chords tangled and decrepit. I stare into the old man's murky eyes for a sign—for some sort of freedom from this ailment. But none comes as he squeezes my hand. As Ran lets out a loud sigh from my left and Nyx leans in towards the table from my right.
Nothing comes, and my throat tightens with sour frustration.
Vivek lets go of my hand, spreads his hands out over the face down cards he has planted before us. They fan out in a circle—a kind of rounded star with a gleaming card face down in its center. Wrinkled hands hover above the circle, following the trail of cards until his hand halts over a card directly across from me. The head of the circle. He slaps his palm to it as we watch, Nyx steadily leaning forward more and more. He flips the card over.
It reveals a woman in white, caressed by the clouds. Her hands cover her nakedness, her arms crossing over her torso in a strong X as she lowers her head and closes her eyes. These are tarot cards, I realize. The magical cards of a fortune teller. Though Vivek is blind, he looks to the card as if he can read it. His lips move silently, murmuring the alien letters drawn in thick cursive at the bottom of the long and colorful card.
“The Mother.” he tells us, not looking up. Speaking more to the card than to us.
“Aeathann.” Nyx breathes beside me. “The Mother of All.”
Vivek nods, bringing the card up. “Do you know who this is?” and he shoves the card into my face.
I bite my lip and shake my head.
Beside me, Ran groans. “A dead goddess, old man. She was one of the first gods to go—if the gods even existed.” he quickly adds.
“Aeathann. A titan—a tier above godhood, child.” he places the card towards his right, sliding it sideways. “But you are correct on one thing: she did not exist.”
Nyx stiffens beside me. “Vivek!” she hisses.
I watch the old fortune teller shrug. “This is one of the many mysterious of life. If Aeathann and the titans didn't exist—the beings who created us, who also went on to create the lesser gods and the Fates who weave us into and out of being—then what created the Fates? From whence do mortals come?”
“The gods!” Nyx blurts, her hands grabbing the wooden lip of the table. “Of course—the gods! Saying titans didn't exist!” she spits, murmuring now. Whispering to herself. “Blasphemy.”
Vivek chuckles. I bring my hands into my lap and watch his hands hover again, moving over the cards in a slow and careful dance. His hands move towards my right, now. His palm slaps to the table once more to pick up the next card in the circle. He flips it.
A black volcano cloaked in fire stares back. Angry orange embers erupt from its coal colored mouth. It represents Mount Chikere, the monstrous volcano that brought our islands into being. It exists in the far east, past the Vale and the Wish. Its black funnel rises high on Sorrel's most eastern peak—this much—this much I knew. Everything else is somewhat new to me. The titans, the cataclysm—Yarne only touched lightly on these subjects. As if they didn't really matter.
“The Cataclysm.” Vivek intones. Moves the card up for us to see. “The living volcano which created Sorrel with lava—it's lifeblood. Can you deny this, child?”
And Ran knows when he's being spoken to. I watch him cross his arms. “That much I believe.”
“But Aeathann asked the god in the volcano to help her create our islands! It
was her divine intervention that pushed Mount Chikere to erupt!” Nyx's passion brings a fiery red to her cheeks as she hisses at poor Vivek.
I truly only knew of the Fates—of how they weave the destinies of mortals in their great heavenly tapestries. Many of the girls at the Orthella weren't taught much else, including me. I knew that a long time ago the gods died out—but I believed that the Fates had taken their places. I didn't know much else. And for a long time—it didn't truly matter to me. What the gods did in the heavens didn't affect me—until now. Until people began calling me the Voice of the East.
Vivek stacks the card atop the Aeathann titan. “Without Aeathann to command it, Mount Chikere answered to another deity. A goddess who brought things into being with a breath. A word.” Out of the seven cards which encircled the eighth, two have been misplaced. A semicircle of five cards surrounds the final card in the center, and Vivek moves on. He touches a card adjacent to the card in the center. He touches it and quickly flips it over.
“But before we come to her, we must be aware of another goddess. An equally powerful deity.”
I gasp—my body tenses in my chair.
Shanti—I swallow. I murmur—I try to speak.
Purple eyes stare out into nothingness. It's like she's been entrapped inside this long and colorful card as black hair tinged with silver falls along her shoulder and her breasts like flowing sands of crystal. A gown carrying the clouds—carrying the sun and the moon—crowds around her. Hiding her nakedness, as she brings a hand over her right shoulder and holds up a palm with the other. It is flat. A single needle looped with thread floats by it.
Shanti.
“The Weaver of Worlds.” Vivek murmurs, his glassy eyes lively as they flit to Nyx.
“No—no, you're wrong. She has no sort of place in all of this!” Nyx cries.
Ran snorts, leaning back into his chair. “Ha—guess your lady bishops are wrong, huh, devout?”
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