by Liv Savell
Delyth hesitated a long moment, her throat convulsing visibly as she swallowed, her fidgeting in the dirt ceasing. Tricky beast, trying to make a little trap for her Goddess. Enyo wouldn’t fall for that again. “How do I know you’re telling the truth?”
Enyo’s eyes slitted, and her smile turned sly. “I don’t want to hurt you, Delyth. Alphonse certainly doesn’t want me to either… She and I had a little talk earlier.” Enyo scooted closer again, gaze on Delyth’s closed face. “She told me some things…”
As fast as a striking snake, Enyo’s good hand lashed out, reaching for Delyth’s wrist, stopping her from drawing the runes. “Trying to trap your Goddess? You really are the worst priestess I’ve ever had.” Enyo wrenched Delyth’s hand away and twisted back back back. It would snap, and then she’d have a broken limb just like Enyo.
Only… A most uncomfortable feeling twisted in Enyo’s gut. She wasn’t certain if it was some sort of bathroom need or illness, but the more she hurt Delyth, the more the feeling increased. Snarling, Enyo released the warrior’s arm, only to grab her by the shoulder and pull her close.
Their lips were a mere breath apart. Enyo’s painted deep red with blood, Delyth’s tight with pain and anger.
༄
Delyth’s breath hitched despite herself. This was Enyo, not Alphonse. Not her lovely little bird, and yet her voice was the same, the warmth from her body, so close now, familiar. Beneath the smells of rust and blood, pine filled her nose—the scent of Alphonse’s hair, bright and clean.
She couldn’t move closer, couldn’t move away. For a long moment, she was as immobile as the mountains from which she came, her body traitorously reacting to Alphonse’s. And then she stood, staggering as though drunk towards the entrance to her tent. Their tent. “Get out, Enyo.” Where was Etienne when she needed him? She couldn’t trap the Goddess alone, not with her watching Delyth’s every move.
“Why?!” Enyo shuffled to her knees and moved to crouch before the warrior, her lips open in a pout. “You haven’t given me the artifact, you haven’t died, you haven’t given me your body. I see no reason to leave.” Something passed across Enyo’s features, and her pout morphed into a crooked smile. “Lay with me.” She started to pull at the knot at her hip, the only thing keeping her loose sarong on. “Hold me close. Brush your fingers through my hair.”
Delyth paled, her eyes on Enyo’s hand. “I can’t, Taouk,” she whispered, her throat raw. “You aren’t her.” The warrior placed a hand on Enyo’s wrist, stopping her from untying the sarong, from bearing Alphonse’s soft body.
“I am her.” Enyo insisted, tilting her chin up towards Delyth. Inviting a kiss. “It’s the same body. I have her memories. I know what you like…” Her voice had dropped, softer, sweeter. Closer to Alphonse’s own tones. “Let me show you Ba—Delyth.” she turned her hand over, reaching up Delyth’s wrist, tracing the lines towards her elbow.
Alphonse’s fingers were coals leaving behind little lines of fire, and in their wake, Delyth’s belly tightened. Part of her wanted to pretend, so sick with a need to be held and comforted that it made her eyes prick and her throat close. Yet, she would not unbend. It was almost as though she could not. Even with her faith broken and her hopes for a life of duty and acceptance left behind, she found within herself a stone that could not be moved—roots like mountains in her core.
Slowly, Delyth reached out a hand. She cupped Enyo’s cheek in her palm with every ounce of gentleness she could muster and stroked the Goddess’s skin with the pad of her thumb. Enyo leaned into her palm, cheeks reddening. “Tell her I miss her,” Delyth said and swept out of the tent.
❂
Cursed Realms, was she blushing?! But then the bitch was drawing away, leaving. Her. Enyo!
The Goddess lurched to her feet, charging after Delyth, and with a deep growl, she tackled the warrior to the ground, crumpling a wing between their bodies. The warrior didn’t make a sound, not that Enyo could hear above her own snarling. She cursed, raining one-handed punches down on the woman as voices shouted overhead. Some remote part of her mind was aware of the mage and the warrior girl hurrying forward, but none of that mattered. Nothing mattered but teaching the damnable priestess a lesson. Useless. Ugly. Beastly creature! Reject Enyo!?
Something like a fist ran into Enyo’s stomach, and she flew off of Delyth, landing several feet away. She rolled to her side and wretched, vomit coming up her throat and burning her nose and eyes. She heaved again and again and then sat shivering in the pile of sick, waiting for the sensation to dissipate. The mage must have figured out how to unlock his emotions, to administer a blow like that.
Enyo groaned as another piece of her arm hardened to stone, and she flopped onto her back to stare up at the sky. At least here, she could see the stars, unlike in Esha’s overly full city. She could hear the other woman hurrying to Delyth’s side. “Are you alright?”
No one cared that Enyo was sick and dying. No one cared about this sack of bones and skin. Not anymore.
Her heart, blast it, wept at Delyth’s rejection.
༄
Delyth pushed herself up, her cheekbone and a half a dozen other spots smarting in a way that let her know that the necklace of purpling skin around her throat would have plenty of company the next morning. It was no worse than anything she had endured before, not even from the quiet days when she lived the simple life of a warrior priestess in a small mountain valley. Had Enyo held back, even hurt and angry as she was? Or were the Goddess’s injuries more severe than any of them realized?
“Etienne, a rune trap,” Delyth hissed and got to her feet, walking over to Enyo, where she lay, wreathed in the odor of her own vomit. She was still as frail and sunken-eyed as Alphonse had been at the end of their trip, even after being reunited with her artifact, and somehow, Delyth didn’t think it was solely due to her arm. Tristan had seemed hale enough.
Wordlessly, Delyth held out a hand to the Goddess to aid her up, intending to pull her into the waiting trap. If anything, the Goddess’s illness only served to fuel her need to free Alphonse. The warrior felt no pity. It had been burned away by pain weeks prior.
Enyo laughed humorlessly at Delyth’s offered hand, and then faster than humanly possible, she was on her feet again. She looked at Delyth, hate and confusion vying for prominence on her face, and finally, Enyo snarled.
“You had better run Delyth. I give you this night because I am a merciful Goddess, but I will return tomorrow with Va'al, Maoz, and Esha, and we will get Aryus’s artifact from you. And then you will know my displeasure.”
With her final warning, Enyo turned and sprinted into the darkness. She was gone within the blink of an eye. Sick and injured as she might be, she was still more than a mortal.
The clearing was quiet for several seconds, and then Meirin spoke up.
“How does she know about the artifact? And how did she get in? And what does she mean run!?”
Delyth looked from Meirin to Etienne, her face impassive. Enyo’s entrance should have broken his ward, should have alerted him. They both ought to have heard the struggle. The tents were thin, and they slept close together.
Instead of questioning them, she turned away. The ache of being so near Alphonse, of failing to trap Enyo rose within her, a tide that should have swamped her. Should have carried her into rage or somnolence. This time, though, she pushed through it until she found her mountain roots and breathed into them, filling herself to her core with clean, pre-dawn air. She could still move, could still think.
“You heard Enyo. There isn’t time for questions. Now, we move.”
Chapter XVIII
Eleventh Moon, New Moon: North of Gwynhafan
“Meirin, pay attention now. Look at how I add the salt and dried figs. It is important to mix these ingredients well with the flour—Meirin. Are you listening?”
Of course she was listening. She just was also paying attention to the clanspeople passing by outside the bakery window. They were chattering e
xcitedly, and while Meirin couldn’t make out the exact words, she didn’t have to hear them to know what was riling everyone up. The traveling caravans were sure to arrive soon, and with them came news, trades, and fresh faces. Always an alluring prospect for the Mynydd Gwyllt.
Not that it mattered all that much to her mother, Izel. Her parents, Meirin’s grandparents, had been travelers until they finally settled in Mynydd Gwyllt. They had claimed the winds of fate brought them to the clan, and then they had their only child, a daughter. Izel had been deeply rooted to the land and did not hear the winds of fate. Zuma and his woman, Patli, had been disappointed by their daughter’s fixed nature, but when she chose to have a child of her own and permanently build a life in the Mynydd Gwyllt Clan, they had accepted her wishes and remained as well.
It was this fixed nature that made Izel uninterested in the traveling caravans unless she required a specific trade. She wasn’t now, and so she did not share her daughter’s enthrallment. “Meirin?”
“Yes, Mother. I am listening. Mix the dates and the salt into the flour.” The girl looked away from the window and to the work table where the supplies were set out. “Then add the wet ingredients and stir until firm. Then—”
“Very well. Since it appears you know the recipe, I suggest you make it while I start the next batch.” Her mother’s tone was dry and unamused. She didn’t often think Meirin’s know-it-all nature was entertaining.
Sighing, Meirin took up the task, all the while keeping one eye on the road beyond. At the first sign of merchants, she’d make an excuse and leave. There was only one more season before she would join the warriors and patrol full time. She could hardly wait.
It wasn’t that her mother’s bakery was unappealing; it was just that she felt trapped, stuck here in the same living space day after day. Her grandparents had often commented that Meirin had more of a wanderer’s heart than their daughter, but Meirin doubted it. She loved Mynydd Gwyllt. The people, the festivals, the feasts. It was her home, after all. She just wished her home wasn’t literally in the same building as her mother.
There was no desire in her to run out into the wide world and leave all that she knew behind. She shared her mother’s belief that wandering was for the fickle-natured. Even her grandparents had set aside this custom in favor of permanency and stability. As any sane person would.
No. Meirin was only interested in the travelers because it was a taste of the outside world without abandoning everything she loved. A taste was all she needed.
⥣ ⥣ ⥣
* * *
Waiting under the shade of a lonely patch of trees on the side of the road, Meirin watched as Etienne clutched his stomach as though he was fighting the urge to vomit. People unaccustomed to running for long stretches often heaved up their guts. He had already stopped by the side of the road on three occasions that morning, but Delyth pushed them onwards, alternating between a jog and hurried walk.
For whatever reason, Enyo had given them a warning—Meirin suspected it was to make the hunt all the more interesting for the Goddess— and Delyth was not letting the opportunity go. They were cutting back the way they had come, aiming for Caerthleon and supposed safety. To hide among the masses—three humans amongst thousands.
Anything to get away from the Gods and keep their hands from the artifact that would resurrect another of their kind.
Delyth had flown off to scout the road ahead, likely anxious to keep moving but sensing Etienne’s weaning strength, offered them this reprieve in pretending to do some crucial task.
They hadn’t spoken much since packing up camp and fleeing from Gwynhafan, but Meirin had seen Delyth’s gaze as Enyo threatened. She had noticed how the warrior assessed her and Etienne’s own ruffled appearance after running back from Gwynhafan. Meirin was certain Delyth wouldn’t say anything about their outing, but she also was certain the warrior disapproved.
There was no time to obsess over that fact, not as they were being pursued by the vengeful Gods, yet Meirin kept coming back to the sensations. Elation at the evening she had been granted, guilt at not being there to protect Delyth from Enyo’s attack, frustration that they were yet again running, and that nothing on this cursed journey seemed to be able to go right. She felt embarrassed too, that she had been caught galavanting with the lanky mage.
Well.
Embarrassed and something more.
She watched him wipe his mouth with the back of his hand, shaky from exhaustion and perhaps nerves too. He had summoned impressive magic to fling Enyo from Delyth. He had actually hurt the Goddess, which likely only made him more of a target for her wrath. Could he do it again? Could he fight a God? A bizarre thought given how dreadful a warrior he was. How could someone so odd also be so strong?
“Here.” Meirin removed her water canteen, nearly empty, and handed it to Etienne. He had already drunk all his water. “Have some of mine.”
✶
Etienne took the canteen gratefully, his hands shaking as he wrapped long fingers around it. He was drenched with sweat, the slick moisture running in rivulets down his forehead, and when he lifted his arm to drink, water sloshed wastefully down the front of his tunic before he could get any into his mouth.
After hours of running, he felt nothing like the mage who could, with a few drops of blood, unleash enough force to send a Goddess flying. Or the man who had spent the night dancing with a beautiful girl.
He wiped his mouth with his hand again, the acid taste of bile less intense after a few swallows of warm water, and managed a smile. “Thank you.”
Now, on the run from Enyo and at a loss for direction, the night Etienne had spent with Meirin was more dream than reality. Had she really danced with him? Sat on his lap to play cards? He was caught somewhere between hope and disbelief. Things like that didn’t happen to him.
He thought about asking her, seeing if she remembered it too, but changed his mind. Best not to chance it. He had the strangest feeling that he had made it all up after all.
“What do you think we should do now? When we get to Caerthleon?”
“Truthfully?” she asked, taking back the nearly empty canteen and stashing it in her pack again. As Etienne nodded, Meirin glanced up at the sky. No sign of Delyth.
“How do you hide from a God? As far as we know, Enyo is tracking us much the same way we are tracking her. She and Delyth share blood. And she drank yours as well…”
“I’m the only one she cannot follow—I suppose the best chance of success would be for me to take the artifact and run. Hide in the city with all the people, but…” She looked away, down the road towards the distant city, still invisible to their eyes. “Then you and Delyth would be on your own.”
Etienne hesitated a long moment, running a hand back through his too-long hair. His eyes were trained towards the skies, though unfocused. “By that logic, perhaps we should all three separate.” The idea of leaving Meirin, or even Delyth, was unpleasant, but it did make sense. “Delyth can move so much faster that she would be able to lead the Gods in a merry chase before Enyo thought to track me instead. And by then, I could be far enough from you to ensure your safety.”
If he thought about it that way, like he was protecting Delyth and Meirin rather than running away, then he could do it. He could leave them. If he had to. If it came to that.
“Of course… The problem is we had many Gods long ago. I do not know all their names; I doubt anyone remembers them all except those who were there… And we only have one artifact. What’s to say Enyo won’t give up chasing us and go searching for a different one?” Meirin shrugged, her expression unreadable. “What were you thinking about when you cast Enyo off of Delyth last night?”
“I… I don’t know,” Etienne said, clenching a fistful of blond hair while he tried to remember just what had been going on in his head the night before when he came flying into the clearing only to see Delyth bearing the brunt of Enyo’s fury.
Had he even been thinking at all? Etienne only rememb
ered feeling. Fear for Meirin and himself. Guilt for leaving Delyth. Perhaps that had been the key. He had paid for the spell and sent it pummelling towards Enyo based on emotion alone. Finally, out of his own way.
Only, that didn’t seem to make sense… He had felt plenty when facing the Goddess before…
“Well…” Meirin shifted the straps of her pack over her shoulder, contemplative. Then she smiled brightly up at him and shrugged. “It worked. So maybe you should try to do that again. Whatever it was. The Gods are going to catch up to us sooner or later. Likely sooner. Before we get to Caerthleon. It’s not like we can keep this pace up all day, and we’ve seen them. They can run—Even as injured as Enyo seemed.”
Meirin glanced behind them, but there was no sign of their pursuit. Nor Delyth.
“I wish we could get to Caerthleon before the Gods arrive.”
Etienne rubbed at his chest, imagining that he could feel the hand-shaped scar there through his clothes. Would getting better at Delyth’s brand of magic help him to lift whatever spell Enyo had bound him with? Yesterday, magic had come as easily as breathing, and today it felt as though he was no closer.
He shook himself, rising from his thoughts long enough to process Meirin’s words. “Cheer up,” he said, his smile bordering on sardonic. “They’re probably chasing us rather than racing to the city. So we will make it first. If we make it at all.”
Meirin managed to laugh. Even being hunted down by angry Gods, she couldn’t be morose for long. “Indeed? I suppose you’re right. How lucky we are. We should keep going. Delyth can catch up.” She started to walk, clearly not intending to pick up their run again, but still determined to make some progress towards Caerthleon and its supposed safety. It was all a futile attempt to postpone the inevitable, but they had to try anyway. If they didn’t, they might as well hand Thloegr, Ingola— all of Illygad over to the Old Gods.