Loy’s arms whipped out from their embrace, the magic raging into his limbs and forcing him back. The woman broke free, but this time, she did not rush for Sybil. Instead, she turned to him, her face twisted in hatred, her teeth bared and parted as if she intended to rip his throat loose like a wild beast.
“How could you choose her?” she hissed. “How could you choose the woman that killed your son? Why weren’t we good enough for you?” Her hands flashed to a sickly red, the birthright swirling around them like a school of fish in frenzy. She grabbed his arm, and where she touched, his flesh burned. Loy leapt back in shock and fear, he had never seen such a thing; the birthright was never to be used as a weapon.
His foot landed at a bad angle and his ankle twisted beneath him. His legs gave out, and he fell, but through it all, the madwoman refused to let go. She came down on top of him, her arms flailing for purchase – not to stop her fall, but purchase on him, to wound him, to do as much damage as she possibly could. The swirling birthright touched him again as she struck his face. The blood nodes in his flesh screamed, he could feel them breaking, feel them being tugged toward whatever magic coated her hands. Where her fingers touched, the blood nodes tore, the energy he had tried so hard to regain, pouring from himself and into her hands. She struck him, aiming for his eyes and nose, and with each blow he could feel himself grow weaker, and with each shattered node, her aura became stronger, and she, more gleeful.
With wild eyes and an ecstatic grin, she stared down at him, moaning as if his blood on her hands gave her pleasure. “I am Slayer now,” she screamed. “I am Slayer now!”
And Loy realized that he was going to die. She would pull every last node from his flesh and take them for her own. He was going to die and he would die for the same reason that he had failed time and time again; because he was ignorant, because his father had not taught him the skills and truths he would need to face this savage land.
A pressure built in the air above him. The red swirling mass that had replaced her hands started to glow. Somehow, he knew that it was done feeding. Somehow, he knew that she was finished with him, forever. Her hand lifted, ready to swing down and take his life-
And then it stopped.
Sybil staggered to her feet, disoriented yet determined. To fight with the birthright was not a usual thing. In fact, short of Just bestowing judgment onto mortals, she had never seen the birthright used in such a way.
Loy lay on the marble tiles, his eyelids puffy and black, his cheeks red and swollen. Birthright shrouded him, sprinkling down from Slayer’s hands and trailing after them as they swung again and again into the man’s face. With each blow, her hands came away a darker crimson, and with each blow Loy’s skin became more pale, his eyes duller.
Sybil knew what she must do, but still she hesitated. If she killed the woman, she might once again fall into the Blood Call’s grip. She remembered the Call’s whispers from those years after she had killed Gemm; in trying to help Loy, she might drive herself mad, and then kill him herself.
Sybil gathered the birthright, ready to unleash it on the woman, ready to take the woman’s life to save this boy – and then something stopped her.
There was a flash of light and Just stood over attacker and assailant both. His hand snapped out and grabbed Slayer’s collar, yanking her into the air. He lifted her, turning the crazed woman to meet his steady green gaze. With a sour expression, Just’s eyes stared into Slayer’s, his gaze the gaze of judgment, his stare weighing the worth of her soul against the stain of her crimes.
In that last moment, as Slayer realized who she faced, her face went blank. Her arms reached out, her crimson hands reaching for Just’s eyes, but she acted too late.
Just’s sour smile sunk into a grimace. His hand lifted, and Slayer with it, her feet swinging up past her waist before Just’s arm descended. On the way down, her crimson hands dug into Just’s arms, but the birthright did nothing to him, her hands simply slipped off him as though she had tried to break a diamond with her fingers. Slayer slammed onto the plaza with such force the tiles beneath her cracked. Her whole body convulsed as her eyes rolled back into her skull.
The crimson light glinted off the steel toe of Just’s leather boot as he rose his foot up into the air. He didn’t hesitate. The boot dropped. Instinctively, Sybil’s head turned away, but it was too late. She heard the bones crack, saw the blood spray as the boot crushed Tabetha’s throat. A thin, raspy breath was Slayer’s last moan, an involuntary scream caused by her broken windpipe. She didn’t flinch, there were no convulsions, she was simply and utterly still.
Just turned and stared down at Loy, studying the young man as he groaned and shifted, Loy’s eyes fluttering in a fight to stay conscious. It was a wonder he was conscious at all; judging by the blood, snot, and bone visible on his face, he’d taken a worse beating than her.
“Aren’t you going to help him?” Sybil asked, looking to Just.
Just’s body tensed, his gaze lifting from the boy in a slow arc.
“Yes, Just,” a voice cackled. “Aren’t you going to help him?”
Sybil started, her eyes searching for the man that had spoken. At first, she had thought it Just, the voice much like his but higher in pitch and wilder in tone. It seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere, like the echoes of an auditorium, but the plaza was empty except for her, Loy, and Just. She glanced at the corpse at Just’s feet. And her, she added.
Just’s hands clenched at his sides. He turned to the altar, though nothing stood upon it. “No, demon. I will not. I will leave him to die.”
“Demon?” Sybil asked. But it did not seem that Just was speaking to her. He was speaking to whatever imaginary force stood upon the altar.
“But that is so heartless,” the figureless voice said. “He is just a youngling.” The voice was mocking, and with each word Just’s mouth became tighter, the lines of his cheeks and eyes more strained. Whether angry or annoyed, Sybil couldn’t tell.
“He is no youngling. He is Silt, and he will die no matter what you say.”
“Well, that’s fine,” the voice said. “But are you not, at least, going to check on your sister?”
There was a sharp intake of air as Just realized his mistake, and then his body eased, and he turned slowly. Just’s eyes found her, cold with rage and resignation, yet loving nonetheless.
“Are you all right, Sybil?” he asked.
“I am fine,” she said, and in an effort to prove it, she tried to make herself stand, but her balance wavered and she fell back to her knees. She blushed and looked up at him. “A little dizzy, I suppose. Who are you speaking to?”
Just frowned, his brows sinking to frame his piercing eyes. He spoke slowly. “I was speaking to no one,” he said.
“But…” Sybil said. “But you were… And someone was speaking to you. I heard his voice.”
“That was me,” the voice said, but this time, the voice was different. It did not come from a formless source, it didn’t surround her on every side, it came from a figure on the dais, his clothes and features billowy and indistinct as if shrouded by fog.
Just’s gaze darted from Sybil, to the figure, then back to her. “You can see it?” Just asked. “You can hear it?”
A low groan mumbled from behind Just. “Shadow…” Loy mumbled, his eyes looking feverish and his voice delirious. “I need your name, Shadow of Just.”
Sybil gaped at the shrouded figure. That was exactly it, the man looked not as if he were shrouded in fog, but as if he were made of dancing shadows; a shadow of three dimensions.
Just glared at Loy. “What did you call him?” Just demanded. “Where did you hear that name?” His gaze shot to Sybil. “You can see him, too?” he asked again.
“Yes,” Sybil nodded.
Just’s stare shifted back to Loy. “What did you call him?” he asked again, his voice rising.
“Just’s Shadow,” the youngling moaned. “Fate told me…” Loy’s words trailed away, his eyes losing f
ocus. Sybil was beginning to suspect that he was more injured than she’d thought. He needed her aid.
“Just,” Sybil said, gesturing to Loy. “We need to help him.”
Turning to her brother, she realized that he hadn’t heard her. He was very still, a slow realization seeming to dawn in his eyes as his lips mumbled wordlessly. Then his jaw clenched, and his eyes turned a deadly regard to the ‘shadow’ on the dais.
“Wilt…” Just said slowly. “He could see you all along, couldn’t he?”
The shadows tensed, condensing around the figure. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” the shadow said.
Just licked his lips. “Sybil can see you.” He jerked his head to the squirming Loy. “Silt can see you. It all makes sense… I didn’t think much of it, but each time we spoke in front of Wilt… it was like he knew you were there. Because he did know. He could see you, too.”
The figure shuffled its limbs, as if uncomfortable with Just’s accusations. “No,” the shadow said. “You are wrong. Why would I bother with the rapist?”
Just regarded the figure with a level stare, his voice shifting from slow awe to restrained outrage. “You were there, heckler. I heard his words before I sent him to extinguish the candle. ‘The shadow said you would come.’ That is what Wilt said. Even as Cyleste died, even as you helped me reach Wilt’s thoughts, you were there with him, speaking in the rapist’s head. And it is more than that. That is what Silt called you when I met him in Dekahn. Wilt denied it then, but it goes back as far as that. You have been speaking to him.”
The ghostly figure’s pupil-less gaze narrowed. “That is silly,” it said. “Why would I want to speak with Wilt?”
“I do not know, but…” Just’s gaze turned to Loy. “But Silt has said that name was given to him by Fate. How would both Fate and Wilt come by that term? Why would they call you by the same name unless it had been given to them both by the same creature? Are you… are you working for her? Are you working for Fate, villain?”
The billowing shadows on the creature’s face came to a full stop. “Now why would I do such a thing? Why would I work for her?”
“I do not know,” Just said. “I do not know why you do anything. You dodge my questioning, give me snippets of moral demagoguery and mocking dismissal… all in an effort to make me feel uncertain. But that was the point all along, wasn’t it? To make me doubt myself, to make me question what I knew was right, so that Fate and her scheming would slip unnoticed beneath my gaze, like with the merchant, like with Trin Cavahl!”
The ghost scoffed. “Like Trin Cavahl? I was the one who told you of her fating. I helped you.”
“Did you?” Just asked. “Or did you only give me warning because Cyleste had already sworn Bell Cobbren to me. Because you knew that I would search his memories eventually, and that I would find the truth? I thought perhaps you heckled me to protect this merchant, but that is not it at all, is it? You seek only to protect the merchant’s master. You seek only to protect Fate, and to ensure that her fating comes to pass. You are working to create Death!”
“I-” the shadow began.
“And what of Cyleste?” Just interrupted, the tone more madness than anger. “You could have saved her, couldn’t you? You were there before Cyleste died. You were in Wilt’s head, speaking to him before I arrived… You could have saved her.”
The shadow took a step back, his head shaking in fervent denial. “It was not like that. I do not serve Fate, I seek only to-”
“You knew that Cyleste was dying!” Just continued. “You knew about the candle. You had access to Wilt’s thoughts, and yet, you did nothing. You let her die!”
Just advanced on the creature. “All those nice words,” Just said. “The false condolences, the fake pity on the night of her death. You do not simply play with my head. You are not just trying to give me doubts. You are actively working against me. Who are you?”
“I only wanted to help-” the creature tried.
“Do not lie. Who are you, monster? Admit to me that you serve Fate!”
“I do not!” the creature hissed.
“Then who?” Just snarled. “Who are you? Is that you, Mother? Am I your latest project? Are you here to make me into a killer like you have done to all the others? Or maybe you are one of Nikom’s. Maybe Nikom sent you! Are you here to take me back to Lendal? Is that it? No, that pathetic fool would have come himself, or sent some mewling creature to do his work. I see it plain, demon. You must belong to someone else. To someone worse. Are you Dydal’s, perhaps? Was abandoning me not enough for him? Must he punish me, also? Must he make me doubt everything I have done to repay me for that one mistake?”
The creature gaped, his steps continuing their retreat. He stepped back, off the dais, off the altar, away from Just. “You do not understand-” it said.
Just reached the dais and stopped. “I understand perfectly!” His arms reached down the steps, grabbing for the ghost’s neck. Just’s hand passed through the figure, his fingers straining and his neck veins pulsing. “You have taken something of mine!” Just accused. “You have taken a cherished friend! You have taken Cyleste!”
“I have done no such thing!”
“Do not lie to me, you were there, you let her die!”
“You fucking fool!” the shadow screamed. “I tried to save her! You think she was yours? She was mine. Ever, she was mine. For every word you whispered in her ear, I whispered twenty! I did everything I could to help her!”
“Liar,” Just hissed. “Murderer! Butcher! You are here to ruin my life. You are here to ruin every life I touch, and this is just another lie to make me doubt! Cyleste would never have trusted you. She would never have listened to a word you spoke!”
“Just-” Sybil tried.
Just’s attention was quick, his glare brief. “Not now, Sybil!” He took another step toward the fleeing ghost. “I will kill you,” he said. “I will kill you, you butchering wretch! You took from me one of the most important in my life! You took one of the few I could still trust! And to think I almost doubted myself. To think, I almost wondered if perhaps the merchant should be spared, that Trin Cavahl was truly innocent and my aspect tainted. But no, I am not tainted. I am still hale. I am still sane. It was you that made me doubt. It was you that has made me question!”
“Just,” Sybil begged. “You sound mad!”
Just rounded on Sybil. “And you, Alchemist!” Just shouted. “Where have you been? You left me here alone, to deal with Mother’s perversions, to deal with Galina’s madness! How could you do that, Sybil? You heard our conversation the night you left. You knew that Galina and I had to stop Mother. We were going to tell you everything. Where did you go? Did you side with her? Did you side with that evil wretch? She might be our mother, but she is not good.”
Sybil couldn’t speak. He had called her Alchemist. Just had never used her title before. Not once in seven hundred years. It felt so informal, so insulting, as if she were no longer worthy of being called his sister.
Like a rabid dog, Just’s gaze swung back to the Shadow beside him. “What is it that you want? Why do you follow me? Is it just to take those I love? Is it just to hurt me in any way you can? Well, I won’t have it!”
Just whirled, his gaze falling on Loy. “You want me to heal him? You want me to help this boy you claim is not Silt? Well, I can see him. I know what he is!”
Just stepped off the altar, his eyes burning. He reached the boy, and for a moment, he stood over him, snarling and silent. And then he acted, faster than Sybil could react, faster than she could stop him. Just’s foot lifted. And his boot dropped, stomping down on Loy’s leg with another sickening crunch, another sound of snapping bone and tearing flesh. Loy screamed, his hips jerking back in an effort to flee the boot which pinned him.
Just’s gaze turned to the Shadow. “Tell Fate that she has lost!” Just shouted. “Tell her that I will not fall for your whoring games! You take from me, you kill the people I love, the people like
Cyleste, the only ones who have stood by my side, and I promise I shall destroy everything you have ever loved!”
“Just, what are you doing?” Sybil shouted. It didn’t make sense. Just was kind. Just was charming. He was witty, and patient, and merciful. This man before her was none of those things. Perhaps Kindrel had told the truth. Maybe Just had fallen to the Call.
“I am doing what is right,” Just snarled. His gaze turned to her, piercing her eyes with a fury she had never seen before. “I am showing this creature force. I am teaching this villain the price of his injustice so that he and Fate shall not defy me again!”
“But the boy-”
“Silt,” Just hissed.
“His name is Loy,” Sybil shouted. She knew she had to do something, had to stop him, but it was Just. It was her brother, the man who had practically raised her, the man who had taught and inspired her. What could she do? She couldn’t hurt him.
Just shifted his foot again, as if readying to break another of the boy’s legs – or worse.
“Just stop-”
A sudden laughter, a mad, deviant cackle, pulled Just’s gaze. “So, what then?” the ghost laughed, his tone unfeeling and uncaring. “You will kill the boy to get back at me?”
“I will take from you as you have taken from me!” Just said.
The figure chuckled. “And you think because I mocked you, because I asked you to heal him when I knew you would not, that I care for this whelp? Go ahead. Kill him. Splatter his pretty little brain onto the cobbles. Even if it were Silt, which he is not, what would I care? What would Fate care? He is but a pawn in our larger game, for don’t you see it? All your actions prove me right. All they do is prove true everything I have said about you, and justify every action I have taken against you.”
“For what purpose!”
“To bring back Death, you blooding fool! Has it not been obvious what I want? You have even guessed it, a million times. I want the same thing every butchering fool but you can see as necessary! To end the Call by returning the aspect of Death to the world!”
Death's Merchant: Common Among Gods - Book One Page 113