by Scott Hale
“Vrana!” Aeson said, pulling her close but, in her opinion, not close enough. “I’m so glad you’re back.” He ran his hands gently up her neck, under her mask, and lifted it off slowly. “That’s better.”
“Not quite,” she said as she did the same to Aeson, taking off his mask and lingering for a moment on his lips. “Almost there,” she said, leaning in and pressing her mouth hard against his. “Ah,” she said stepping back, skull in hand; a feeling of warmth rushed through her body, across her shoulders, down her arms and legs. “Much better, indeed.”
Aeson led Vrana, with many short, passionate stops along the way, to the small hot spring nearby. Carefully, he helped her out of her armor and clothes and then admired her when he’d finished. Aware of her bruises, wounds, and scars, she moved to cover them, but he took her arms and wrapped them around him instead. Vrana closed her eyes, pressed her head against his chest, and wondered how she’d managed to go so long being anywhere else.
“I always forget this is here,” Vrana said as she floated through the cloudy waters. She pushed her hair behind her ears and exhaled all the tension that had built up inside of her. “Do you think R’lyeh will be okay?”
Aeson waded towards Vrana and held her hand. “No,” he said, “but what about you?”
“It’s not the same.” She looked up at him and kissed his neck. “She saw it happen. For days, she watched as her people and all of Geharra were butchered, raped; I only saw what was left.”
“Your mother and the elders will do everything they can for her, you know that.” Aeson kissed her on the top of her head. “But you’re older than her and initiated. No one’s going to stop you from holding it all in, burying it. I know you, so come on.”
She squeezed his hand tightly and then nodded. “It was the worst thing I’ve ever seen. I can’t get it out of my head. Not for long, at least. The Crossbreed, they made one. And there were flesh fiends, too. But the pit… fuck, Aeson. The Corrupted deserve everything we’ve done to them. But if you add up everything we’ve done to them, it probably looks the same. So what the fuck is the point of it all?”
“The good outweighs the bad,” Aeson whispered.
“No it doesn’t. It just leads to more bad.” Vrana laughed and shook her head. “I’m not saying kill everyone and everything.” She exhaled loudly. “I don’t know what I’m saying, actually.”
“You didn’t talk to R’lyeh about this, did you?”
“Didn’t seem right for me to.” Vrana made small waves in the steaming water. “She’d been through enough. The last thing she needed was a pessimistic rant confirming all the terrible and hateful things she was feeling.”
“Keep her away from the elders. They’ll put that hate to good use.”
“In some ways, I’m glad I saw what I saw. I mean, I’m not glad that it happened, but…”
“Nothing will ever be as awful as that day in Geharra.”
“No,” she said, and sighed. “And if it is, if it is worse than that day in Geharra, then I’d say this world is on its way out.”
“It may already be.”
Vrana cocked her head. “Then why are we holding it back?”
“Selfish, I suppose.” Aeson grinned and said, “Living can be a very selfish thing.”
“Do you want to know how it happened?” Vrana volunteered.
Aeson nodded, a strand of hair falling in front of his eyes. He reached over the edge of the spring and groped in the darkness. “Did you run through a swamp?” he remarked jokingly, curling his nose as his hand returned with a chunk of soap.
“What the hell do you think I am? Some kind of princess?”
“A swamp princess, maybe.”
Vrana punched Aeson’s arm. “Do you remember that necklace I showed you? The one with the red gem that I found near the Spine?”
“I do.” Aeson slid the soap down Vrana’s back, rubbing it against her glowing skin. “While you were gone, a watcher found one of our own near the Spine: his throat had been cut, and his mask was missing. He was supposed to be monitoring Geharra, like Deimos. His name was Ghis.”
“He must have stolen it! He was going to bring it back to us!” she shouted; a part of the fog surrounding the events had finally lifted. She tried to turn around, but Aeson stopped her and continued to scrub at the dirt on her side. “The priest who was giving orders must have sent those thieves from the hospital after it… but how did Ghis die?” She bit her lip and searched her thoughts. “The necklace was the key. When I dropped it… fucking idiot… I know, I know… but when I dropped it, that’s when it happened.”
“The priest had to have known that without it nothing would happen,” Aeson mused, his hands moving lower, past her waist. “I read once that insanity is doing the same thing over and over again and expecting different results.”
“I don’t think there’s any doubt he was insane, Aeson.” This time, Vrana did turn around. She put one arm around his neck and the other on the small of his back. “How long have we been doing this with the Corrupted, expecting things will be better?”
Aeson smiled, kissed her forehead. “Most, I think, just hope that things won’t be as bad as they were before. I don’t know what’s going to happen. I don’t know if the elders do, either. It’s kind of out of our hands.”
“I don’t believe that.” Vrana searched Aeson’s eyes for the truth; they looked down, away, burdened by the lie he’d spoken. “And neither do you.”
“I wish I could tell you more, but I can’t.” He ran the soap across her breasts, stomach, and thighs.
“I know,” she said. She caught his hand, took the soap, and dropped it to the bottom of the spring. She guided his hand back up her thigh. “But there is something you can do for me.”
Aeson raised one eyebrow. “Yeah, but you just dropped the soap … oh I see.”
Though they tried as best they could, neither Vrana nor Aeson would allow the other to sleep; therefore, when morning made its unwelcome arrival, both parties were less than enthused to go about the errands of the day. They parted from one another awkwardly—Vrana found the wall of the tunnel gave more support than her shaking legs—and promised to meet again, above ground, to break bread with the recovering R’lyeh. There was more Vrana needed to ask and tell Aeson concerning the Worms of the Earth and the Witch, but he would hear none of it, for the elders were anticipating her, and he had kept her too long (but, in her opinion, not long enough).
She checked in on R’lyeh, who told her in between yawns that she was fine and just needed a few more minutes of sleep. Adelyn, however, didn’t stir when called, and Vrana found her snoring loudly in the basement garden, head against the back of the chair she sat in. Vrana covered her mother with a blanket, kissed her on the forehead, and made for her bedroom where her belongings waited.
“No,” she said to herself, moving the books on the Witch to one pile.
“Not this either,” she said, placing the components she’d collected for her mother on top of them. “Here we go.” She removed the priest’s charm of restraint and turned it in her hands. “Oh yeah…” She tipped her bags over until Nora’s note fluttered onto the floor. “Don’t read it, Vrana,” she commanded herself as she unfolded the letter.
It goes without saying that nothing will be the same. We will do as we must to survive, but as far as we are from the rest of the world, for us that may not be enough. Be discreet about it—rumors breed faster than my people here do (blessing and a curse, I say)—but more than anything else, be quick.
Your carrier pigeon, which I’m sure has read this over by now, did me a great favor (two favors if you include the delivery of this letter). It’s come to my attention that we share a common enemy, her and me; so I will do what I can and forward what I find.
Vrana proceeded to the house of the elders with purpose. The ground was damp, and her feet pounded so hard against it they left tracks of fury through the village’s center. At this hour of the morning, only the watchers and
harvesters were willfully awake, and by their movements it seemed to Vrana they were still possessed by the specter of sleep. She made every effort to acknowledge them as they passed so to study their reactions, to determine who continued to harbor ill feelings towards her for the Witch’s attack and if she should expect to see them leaning over her bedside one lonely night.
Paranoia begets paranoia, she quickly concluded as each welcomed her with congratulations, a pat on the back, or an unexpected and incredibly strong hug (“Thank you,” she choked out to Egla, who was known to have something of a histrionic personality). Vrana explained to them in short, succinct sentences what had happened, and they ate up each word as though they’d missed their morning meal. She found it strange how they seemed to look up to her, these ideals of their craft, these surveyors of worlds old and new, and liked it very much. Then again, Vrana thought to herself as she spoke to the last watcher, what exactly did the elders tell them? What did they leave out? Lie about?
Past the center of the village, the bakery, and the barracks, Vrana found the house of the elders. It was hardly the largest building in Caldera, and it was far from the most aesthetically pleasing; if not for the lush garden behind it where she had feasted so many weeks ago, none would suspect the importance the house held. She approached the front door, the creaky boards of the porch announcing her arrival, and found it locked.
Vrana searched the windows for shadows of life and found only dead darkness. “Why would they be awake at this hour?” she grumbled. “If I were an elder, I’d sleep all day.”
“Perhaps it’s good that you’re not.”
Vrana spun around and saw before her Faolan, the Wolf elder, in a white robe that did little to hide her nude body beneath it. “I didn’t see you standing there,” she sputtered.
Faolan chuckled. “That’s because I wasn’t.” She held out her hand for Vrana and waited until she took it. “Come. We have been waiting.”
For the children of the village, the garden of the elders held within it an intrigue that could not be resisted. As a young girl, before discovering the maps of the Archive and the joys of swinging a sword, Vrana spent most of her time here. At supper, she would return home with a pocket full of flowers, petals, roots, and soil, and give them to her mother to replenish her stock (“My sneaky little bird,” Adelyn used to say). Afterward, Vrana would reflect on all that she had done and devise plans which would lead to the discovery of new paths the following day, for each visit to the garden was as though it were the first.
Today was no different. With one hand holding tightly onto Faolan’s, she was pulled through rows of roses and aisles of ivy; under overgrown arches and over understated bridges. They passed blooms of Murk, Mire, and Moore and coils of Callous, Solace, and Snare. They waded by ochre stalks of Reprieve and crimson reeds of Hunger; stepped over thorny Veracity, while grazing bristled Bite; moved through green corridors of Null, Void, and Nicety; and pricked their fingers willingly on blue Calm and bluer Content. So quickly were they moving that Vrana felt as though the garden itself was expanding before their very eyes, creating a place for their feet to fall where there was once nothing. One could be lost in worse places, she thought, deciding that, if she were to resign from this world, it would be the garden to which she turned to live out her final days.
Minutes, or what may have been hours later, Vrana found herself on the edge of a small clearing around which a tall wall of roots had formed. In the middle of the clearing there was a trellis wreathed in vines, and within it an obsidian boulder sat, catching the morning light and keeping it greedily for itself. Vrana looked over shoulder to sneak a glimpse of the path that had brought her here but found that it was no more.
“You have done so well,” Nuctea stated, bringing Vrana’s attention back to the clearing, where the Owl stood a few feet away.
“Forgive us for not being longwinded,” Anguis added, stepping up and standing beside the startled Raven. “We have much to discuss.”
The elders allowed Vrana to speak without interruption, so that when she finally finished, her jaw was sore and her tongue numb. She told them everything, leaving nothing to interpretation. As she removed the priest’s charm and Nora’s note, Vrana realized that the elders seemed unsurprised by her tale. She could not help but wonder how much Blix had told them, how much the fat little bird had taken in and understood about the events that’d transpired in Geharra. There’s something else, she decided, staring into the chunk of obsidian, where the world was reflected darkly. Did they know before they sent us?
“And the Corrupted who held this charm was young, is that correct?” Anguis said, running his thumb over its surface.
Vrana nodded. “Lucan said it belonged to someone much older.”
“Yes,” Anguis said, holding the charm close to his face, scrutinizing its craftsmanship, “its keeper, Samuel Turov, Exemplar of Restraint, was the last to hold it. There are six Exemplars altogether, and each has two apprentices who assist them.”
“Turov’s apprentices were Mishra Dis and Alexander Blodworth,” Faolan interjected. “Those who are sworn to an Exemplar are in the Exemplar’s custody till exile or death. Until this happens, they are groomed and given audience with those who may elect them to their masters’ position one day.”
“Then…” Vrana’s thoughts turned to the pit once more, her stomach twisting at its memory, “was the priest Blodworth?”
“What do you know of the Holy Child?” Nuctea asked Vrana.
“I, uh,” she mumbled, biding her time as she tried to remember what she knew of the boy. “We saw his portrait in Geharra. Jakob said he went missing. The Holy Child, he’s a figurehead.”
Anguis rested his hands on his knees; a snake slithered up his leg and wrapped itself around his neck like a collar. “It is not unheard of for religions to elect a speaker of their faith: a pope, prophet, or messiah.”
“A Christ,” Vrana said.
Anguis nodded. “But what is unheard of is for someone so important and well-guarded to disappear, leaving no hint of their whereabouts—especially someone who is to be the embodiment of god and therefore impervious to all earthly perils.”
Vrana’s voice rose as she said, “Jakob told me Penance may have come to Geharra because they thought he was there.”
“It is no coincidence that, when the Holy Child went missing, so, too, did Samuel Turov.” Nuctea whistled at a passing bird. “There are no places the Exemplars cannot tread in Penance: even the Holy Child’s bedchambers are open to them.”
“But they found him!” Vrana cried with uncertainty, the words of the missionaries outside of Nora finally given meaning (“He has returned to us. Your sins will go unanswered no longer.”). “Right? Was he in Geharra?”
“Yes, they did,” Anguis said, surprised. “But not in Geharra.”
Vrana cocked her head. Her throat felt dry, and she began to shiver, despite the southern heat. There was a tightness in her face as though her skin had been pulled hard across her bones. She smelled the air, and it smelled of blood.
“Cadence, a small village, east of here, belonging to a pagan faith. They found the Holy Child there,” Anguis said.
The young boy, his father, Vrana said to herself, a warm sweat forming on her neck. No, I would have known when I laid eyes on them. “Cadence?” she asked meekly. Is that why they put its name back on the map?
“We expect Turov brought him into the southern cradle because of the Corrupted’s ambivalence to venture here.” The snake unwrapped itself from Anguis and broke apart into a cloud of vibrant dust. “It worked well enough, for a time.”
Vrana slid her hands underneath her to stop them from fidgeting. “How did they find the boy?”
“Someone in Cadence must have recognized him, told someone.” Faolan paused, staring at Vrana as though she expected a response. “The soldiers came quickly, put the village to the sword.”
“Did… did they find Turov?”
Faolan shook her head. “
No, not yet, for returning the Holy Child has been of the highest priority to Penance. Too long had he gone without an appearance. The people were beginning to doubt, to whisper of revolt.”
“Why would the Exemplar take him?” Vrana asked, her voice shaking under the burden of the secret she was keeping.
Anguis cleared his throat. “There are those in Penance who feel the boy is no different than any other Corrupted. They feel he is being manipulated, abused. Turov may have believed this as well, or perhaps he had his own reasons for taking the boy.”
And they will never be known. Vrana looked at each of the elders, their eyes piercing the bones of her mask. Because I killed him. “What of Alexander Blodworth, then? If he was just an apprentice, what was he doing in Geharra?” Keep talking, she told herself, harbinger of death, agent of entropy. They know. I know they know. So keep talking.
“When there is no answer, a distraction can be just as effective at silencing a rumor,” Anguis said. “What better a distraction than one that concerns the city you’ve been taught to despise?”
“They did this to Geharra because the Holy Child had disappeared?” Vrana shook her head. “They had to have other reasons.”
“Perhaps.” Faolan leaned towards Vrana. “But it seems to us the Red Worm was not part of the plan. With Mishra dead and Turov gone, an Exemplar was needed.”
“We think that Blodworth was sent to Geharra to prove himself worthy of the role,” Nuctea added. “The effects of the Crossbreed would be attributed to the Holy Child, which would restore the people of Penance’s faith. It would have bought the Order favor and time.”
“Smug would be those who saw their enemy learn the error of their ways,” Faolan said; it sounded like a quote.
Why would he fire on me if he was harboring the boy? “They couldn’t have expected to keep the city under their control like that forever,” Vrana sputtered. The young boy did have strange markings on his shoulder. It was him. Fuck, it was him.
Anguis grunted in agreement. “I do not think they intended to. If they never found the Holy Child, or if the Crossbreed had become known, they could have reported he’d been killed in Geharra and a war would have been fought in his honor.”