by Liv Savell
The mender brought the edge of Delyth’s thin tunic down, covering her battered ribs, and tucked the blankets around the warrior before finally speaking. “Much like you, the city is healing. There is hope.” Her dark eyes flickered over Delyth’s face. “The Gods are aiding the city. We will not starve or go homeless.”
“Just don’t swear them any oaths.” Delyth had the grace to feel a little guilty about the comment. She had certainly not expected the Gods to do any such thing. Perhaps they were taking the promises they made more seriously than she had given them credit for. Or else they were trying to embody the generous rulers they thought they deserved to be. “I'm glad. Thloegr has had enough suffering.”
The other woman’s gaze moved to the burn, hidden beneath clean bandages, on Delyth’s arm, and nodded slowly in agreement. “You have too.” She turned then, mixing some concoction of herbs and oils into a cup. She offered it to Delyth. “Your last tincture.” There was an unspoken message there that the dreamless sleep would be over after this.
The warrior downed the cup, the sour mixture still on her tongue as the world faded around her.
⥣ ⥣ ⥣
* * *
When she woke once more, it was with a clearer head. The sun was low in the sky, bleeding in through the small window above her bed and painting the white room in shades of pink and peach. Delyth sat up again and pushed the thin sheets off. She was clothed in nothing but a linen shirt, though she could see her gear, clean and laid over the only other piece of furniture in the room, a simple chair.
Enyo came in while she was still struggling to push herself up, and under the Goddess’s eyes, she managed it, standing sword-straight despite her bandages or immodesty.
“Ba’oto—” Enyo started, but Delyth cut her off. Real savagery rose snake-quick within her, momentarily cutting through her lack of feeling.
“I have told you, Enyo. I am not your priestess. I will never worship—” she had to swallow, her voice dying in her throat. “Not you, not after all of this. I only keep my oath.”
Enyo hefted Calamity, and for a moment, she seemed uncertain of herself. She watched as Delyth limped over to the chair and started to pull on her trousers, appraising.
“What would you have me be, warrior? Less than what I am? I chose this path so long ago, only the stars remember a time before me.” Somehow her voice was less hostile, less fierce than usual. “Just as she was careful and soft-hearted, so too am I unwavering in myself. It was that combination that made us such a poor pair. She would not let go of her soul, and I would not let go of mine.”
The Goddess raised her blade. “For my finest warrior.”
Delyth looked dully at the sword and then back at Enyo. She made no move to reply to the speech. Her throat hurt, and she would not waste the breath. It was all very well and good to say that neither could let go their souls, but Alphonse should not have ever had to fight for hers to begin with.
She swallowed hard and clenched her teeth until she could speak without shedding tears. “Do you have any commands?”
❂
Enyo stiffened at the tone but let it go. After all, Delyth had played her part. She had distracted Mascen at the moment when he might have gotten the upper hand, kept him busy for long enough that Enyo might mark him. It was thanks, in part, to the winged warrior that her son was back upon his island where he could neither harm her home nor be harmed by others seeking to destroy him. Enyo could be merciful towards Delyth. This time.
She placed Calamity on the warrior’s empty bed with a pointed look. “Carry my blade and come when I summon. You’ll know when that is. The healers say you won’t be able to fly for some time, so I shall expect you back within range of Thlonandras by the birth of the new year. I have some temples to visit.”
But first, she would run. She would climb to the highest peak in Rhosan, embrace the singing winds, sleep every night naked before the cosmos, and remember what it was to be free. To be whole.
Then she would return to the valleys and temples, reestablish her link to the mortals and the power their worship would offer. Tied by the oath she had made with the priestess, it would be a longer process to rebuild her power, but she would regain her status long lost. A slave no more.
“I doubt I’ll need you.”
The marks of battle Mascen left on the winged woman’s body reminded Enyo of her own trials. She felt the urge to continue explaining herself, to apologize. That weakling piece of Alphonse still wanted Delyth to be alright.
But Enyo suppressed it.
What did it matter? Delyth was a messenger, a warrior, and a servant. That was all.
Enyo turned. It was time to get out of Caerthleon and these blasted plains. The mountains were calling.
༄
Delyth took the sword and left the room without speaking again. She did not look for Etienne, nor did she stop to talk to any of the menders. She needed to get out of this place. It was heavy with pain and memory.
The house of menders did not face the courtyard, a fact that Delyth was grateful for as she stepped out onto busy streets. Smoke still tainted the air, but groups of carpenters and stonemasons labored industriously, singing rhythmic work songs to the swing of their hammers. Already, they had made progress. The streets again looked like thoroughfares rather than the maze of a dark mind.
Delyth did not make it down the steps of the mender’s ward before Etienne appeared beside her, breathing heavily and leaning on the stone of the doorway.
“I looked for you in your rooms,” he panted, “because the healers said you should not have left. I should not have either, I think. Where are you going, Delyth?”
Delyth swallowed hard, hoping that her voice would hold. “Out,” she said simply. “Away from here.”
Etienne just looked at her. “We did the impossible. Helped vanquish a God and saved Thloegr—possibly both countries. Alphonse would be proud of us.”
“Alphonse is dead.” Delyth’s voice did break then, but she did not pull away from Etienne’s hand on her shoulder.
“And maybe one day, you won’t hate me for keeping you from the same fate.”
It was a more astute comment than Delyth had expected, and she stiffened, feeling too-visible, vulnerable. She didn’t hate him, not really. And the realization stole all of the fire from her chest, leaving her cold and tired. It had been easier to be angry.
“Etienne…” She was not sure what to say, and her throat closed around the words even before she formed them.
“It's alright.” He pulled her into a hug, clumsy and weak but no less earnest. “I know it’ll be some time, but when you feel up to it, come and visit me at Moxous. I’m going to listen to these damned menders and hole up here for a while. I’m still a bit unsteady.”
Delyth stepped back and looked at him. He was certainly ill, deathly pallid but for the blue circles beneath his eyes and damp with sweat. Delyth swallowed again. “I will,” she promised. Even though, moments before, she had been bent on leaving him without a word. He was her last connection to Alphonse and Delyth’s friend as well, though they would never be as close.
It was not a bridge she ought to have wanted to burn.
The same dark-haired mender that had spoken to Delyth earlier rushed from the building, her hair unkempt in her distress. “You should not be up!” she scolded, her gentle voice gone high. “Neither of you!”
Etienne gave her a weak smile. “I think I’m going to need help back up the stairs.” When the mender turned to fuss, he gave Delyth a wink over the top of the girl’s head. A queue for her escape. The warrior didn’t quite smile, but she did soften before losing herself in the crowd.
Chapter XVII
Eleventh Moon, Full: Caerthleon
It was nearing dark before Delyth reached the outskirts of Caerthleon. The city was still smoking in some places here, fires having raged for days after the battle of the Gods. The rubble was yet untouched, and the streets near-deserted but for the gleam of dark eyes i
n gape-windowed facades.
Delyth moved warily, her ears open for any trouble despite the weakness of her body. She was not going to be caught unaware, but she could not keep herself from watching the city around her.
The closer she got to the wall, the more alive Caerthleon seemed. There were people in the streets, dogs and children playing in doorways. Where before the windows of these same buildings appeared as openings in the bars of a prison, they were now portals of light. Behind them, Caerthleon’s people toasted each other’s tales with wine and laughter or danced in rooms where the furniture had been pushed aside. Delyth had a hard time comparing this to the warren she had wound through during the battle.
Delyth yelped when Aryus popped into existence directly before her, scattering the dirty street below them in a shower of petals. “Warrior’s just reward!” they crowed, tumbling in midair, “but Death gives better presents still.”
“Go away, Aryus.” The warrior started to push past them, but her hands only met air.
“Way go away ho, near or far today, ho!” The tune was grating against Delyth’s ears, but her grimaces only made the God sing louder. “If Death goes away, will life come out to play?”
“I don’t want any of your riddles!” The sting of Delyth’s remarks was lost in her having to whisper them, her throat aching from so much use. Aryus just laughed and disappeared, only to reappear above her head, showering her with pink petals that clung to her hair. An image of Alphonse, bedecked in flowers while they joked over dinner sprang unbidden to her mind, and she closed her eyes tight against it.
“Daughter of Maoz, sworn to Enyo, follower of Death,” Aryus chanted, their tone suddenly much more serious. “What costs nothing but is worth everything, weighs nothing but lasts a lifetime, that one person can't own, but two can share?”
“I don’t know,” Delyth whispered, her shoulders sagging. “I don’t know, Aryus. Just leave me be.”
“Followers of Death know the answer. So do lost daughters. So do servants and kings and creatures and Gods and mages and little birds.” Aryus’s voice bounced around, pummelling Delyth from different sides until she put her hands over her ears to stop them. She would find the answer, if only so that she could then go somewhere quiet to sleep.
What could weigh nothing but have value? Gold and weapons and jewels were all heavy. A kingship, perhaps? It might last a lifetime, but could not be shared between two…
No, but a life itself could.
Once, Delyth had hoped to share hers with Alphonse. Protector and healer.
“It's a life,” she croaked, and out of the air behind them, Aryus opened a door. It was blinding, spilling into the streets and Delyth’s dark-thick pupils until her eyes watered and blinked. The moon was full overhead, and still, the contrast of the shadowed streets and the too-bright doorway made it so that she could see nothing inside. Delyth shut her eyes and then peered through squinting lashes, but to no avail.
“Aryus, what is this?” she demanded, but the words were hardly audible in her own ears.
“Very few Followers of Death find so easy a path home. Fewer still would be brought back to Thloegr. Shall we see what you might find in an hour?” They were gone, but their voice bounced around her still, as if pinging off the stone walls of Caerthleon.
Followers of Death… A path home…
Delyth felt as though the herbs and tinctures she had swallowed over the last several days still swirled about her mind, dulling her thoughts and senses. A home for Death’s Followers would be… Death? Was Aryus offering her the release that she had sought in the battle, then?
Etienne had worked so hard to stop her. He nearly killed himself to keep her from dying. A week ago, she would have jumped through the door, but now— Now she wasn’t so sure.
“Remember, you have only an hour.”
A short trip into Death, then. To see what she might find.
Aryus did give better presents. She straightened up and stepped into the light.
And Caerthleon dissolved.
The warrior stood in a forest of gold, warm honey tree trunks leaking amber crystals beneath a canopy of new green and yellow. Vines dripped from the branches, heavy as grapes with little pink flowers that turned white as they fell among the grass below, shin-high and pathless. It seemed to go on forever in all directions, broken only by the occasional berry shrub or sapling. Everywhere, there was late-afternoon light that appeared to have no particular origin, but to simply glow, so that everything was a little gilded.
Delyth walked through this, searching, her eyes giving no time to the gentle mother bear chiding her cubs or the elk sunning himself in a meadow. She kept one arm wound about her ribs and took shallow breaths to keep pressure from the aching breaks. This place was warm, soft, and lovely, but it would not end. She had already walked so far, and she had but an hour to find one woman in all this space. Was she even going in the right direction?
Still, Delyth pressed on, allowing her longing to pull her ever forwards. Surely, this was some test. If she went far enough, quickly enough, she would find the healer.
Gradually, the warrior became aware of a change. The ground around her was sloping upward, the trees spaced farther and farther apart. Sweat was beading on her brow and below her clothes, damp in the gentle warmth of Death. She kept going, her calves beginning to heat from the incline, and then, as suddenly as she had come into this world, she stepped from the forest and onto the slope of a grassy hill. At the top, she could see more meadow-like hills stretching before her, dusted liberally with clumps of pink wildflowers. Behind her stood the quaking green-gold of the forest, ruffled by a breeze. There were no buildings in sight in any direction, no columns of smoke or roads—nothing to tell Delyth where she ought to search for her lover.
“Hello,” a small voice chirped behind her. There should have been a rustling of grass or the whisper of cloth to warn Delyth of the little girl’s approach, but as neither happened, perhaps she simply appeared. As Aryus would do, though no pink flower petals floating about as there would have been with the Death God. Instead, the little girl held the stems of red blooms, cradling them in her arm as she might a doll. Her small, solemn expression broke into a whole-faced smile, revealing that she was missing a front tooth. She looked Delyth up and down with obvious interest and then offered the warrior one of her flowers.
As the winged woman took it, the little girl fanned out her skirt, showing the beautiful embroidery along the hem. Red flowers. “Do you like my dress?”
Delyth laughed the way people do when they are met with something so entirely unexpected that they have no other recourse. “Yes, I do. It’s very pretty.” She felt certain that she knew no such little ones, neither among the dead or living, but there was something naggingly familiar about the girl’s startlingly blue eyes. “Are you collecting red flowers to match?”
In her time in the land of the dead, Delyth had seen no flowers that were not pink. Perhaps the girl could help her find other rare blooms as well.
She nodded, her dark braids bobbing. “Red is my favorite color.” Despite Delyth’s size and bandages, the little girl stepped closer, clearly unafraid. “Do you want to help me find more? My friend is going to braid them into my hair. She says she might even make me a crown.” The idea of a crown of flowers made the little girl smile all the more.
Delyth’s shoulders sagged slightly. She did not want to disappoint the little one, and yet she did not have time to hunt for flowers. She had but an hour to find her lover and return to the land of the living. How much time had passed? Half her time? Two thirds? It was impossible to tell in this place.
Still, it was clear both that she needed help and that the little girl was familiar with this strange landscape. “Red is a nice color for flowers. If I help you find some, will you help me find someone important? Her eyes are my favorite color— a lovely honey-yellow— , and I’m in a great hurry to reach her.”
“But you only just got here,” the little girl
complained, distracted by the idea of Delyth hurrying. Perhaps, no one rushed in this place. She lifted up her free arm, the common gesture of all children looking to be held.
Who was Delyth to refuse? She reached down and lifted the little girl easily to rest against her hip. “You’ll have to be careful with me, bak un. I fought in a great battle, and now my ribs are sore. Now, where shall we look for pretty friends and flowers?”
“Did you fight the monster? The one you saved me from?” The little girl nodded down the hill, wrapping her free arm across Delyth’s shoulder. The slope was not so steep, and the ground was even, with no hidden rabbit holes or weeds to trip them.
The warrior’s brow creased in confusion. “I saved you from a monster?” She had fought men and Gods, but she could not recall fighting monsters. Did they even exist? The real world, with all its violence and hurt, was starting to feel far away, as though she was awake now, and it had all been a long nightmare. She resettled the girl against her hip, wincing only slightly as a tiny knee bumped her ribcage. “I didn’t realize we had met before.”
“You helped me come here. It’s much nicer here than before.” She settled her head against Delyth’s shoulder, and with the comfort that only a child could possess with a stranger, let her small palm rest on the arch of the warrior’s wing. “I like it here.”
Suddenly, the image of a single crystalline eye in a field of burnt flesh erupted in Delyth’s mind. She had closed that little blue orb forever with a single thrust of a very sharp knife.
“I’m glad you found somewhere safe.” Tears were spilling unbidden down the warrior’s cheeks as she tried to reconcile the two images: the child burnt and dying. The child whole and happy and wildflower hunting. “Are you happy here? Will you forgive me? I am so sorry for the pain— the pain you were in.”