“Welcome to my new home,” the priest said. “Forgive me for not greeting you at the door, but I must attend my faithful.”

  “Is it dire?” he asked.

  Eshiel shook his head.

  “I do not suspect it so. Unpleasant, but it will burn through Colette rapidly.”

  It was strange, to discuss matters so calmly with someone who had brandished divine fire in an attempt to kill him. Rayan crossed his arms as he observed the sick woman.

  “Have you prayed over her?” he asked.

  Another shadow across the scarred man’s face.

  “I have,” he said. “And I suspect you know the result, don’t you?”

  The face of elderly Alliya flashed through Rayan’s mind. Her stubborn demeanor, her weary smile. The swarm of moths bursting from her rigor-locked hands.

  “It lacks the blessing of before,” he said. Before “what” went unspoken. Before the empire arrived. Before the Anointed One executed their goddess. “People’s faith wavers, as does our own. May the goddess give me the strength to rekindle that which has burned low.”

  Eshiel wiped sweat from his brow, and he set the cloth in the pail. The priest whispered something to the feverish woman, kissed her brow, and then stood. He beckoned for Rayan to follow, and together they exited the converted office into the far back of the Shed. There Rayan discovered the fire they had lit, and a kettle bubbling hot above it. Smoke gathered in the high ceiling, clouding the rafters. A young man watched the kettle, but he hurried away at a word from his master.

  “It is easy to blame our doubts for these failings, but in this case, I believe it wrong,” Eshiel said once they were alone. “In the Heaven’s Wing I studied with the lofty goal of understanding the very nature of a deity, seeking to answer a question I had struggled with ever since I was a child.”

  “A grand ambition,” Rayan said. It was all too easy to slip into the past, where he was an educator speaking with a fellow learned man of the sanctuary. Given his goal here was to better understand Eshiel, he was quite happy for the conversation. “What question was that?”

  “Though we know little of them, and the past centuries have greatly diminished their number, we know Gadir was once a land with hundreds of gods. Each had their followers, and many deities founded nations, or shared them with others. Each spoke wisdom and guidance to their believers. And so I wondered… is there a universal wisdom all preached? If not, then surely there are gods better than others, ones kinder, or stronger, or better suited to guiding our people.”

  A variant on this theme was a common one for Rayan’s sermons, and he gave the answer he always gave.

  “It is not for us to debate the nature of the divine, only worship those who would care for us in this life and the next,” he said. “I suspect most gods on Gadir are the same.”

  “All of them?” Eshiel asked. “What of ones dedicated to death, or pain? Surely those abound, too, do they not? Or what of the God-Incarnate? Is he worthy of praise, even when he promises we disbelievers will be stolen from our beloved deities and cast into the hell he prepares for his exiled Nameless wife?”

  “God-Incarnate Lucavi is a bloodthirsty fiend. Trust not his lies.”

  “But are they lies? What if the gods become what we, their worshipers, need them to be? Those who bowed to Endarius needed strength and guidance. We who looked to Lycaena sought wisdom and comfort in a world often lacking in both. What if, for some dark reason, Eldrid needed conquest?”

  “Then they are a cruel people, deserving of their god,” Rayan said.

  “Cruel,” Eshiel said, and he closed his eyes. “Perhaps. Yet when I needed a murderer, when I needed a being who would slaughter enemies and bring pain and suffering to those I hated…”

  He’d begun to tremble. Rayan reached out and rested a hand on his arm.

  “As eyes adjust to the setting of the sun, so, too, did you accept the changing form Lycaena took for you. I arrived much later and saw only darkness. Do not blame yourself.”

  “I must blame myself,” Eshiel said, and he pulled his arm away. “There is no one else to whom it belongs. I told myself many things to justify the actions I took to resurrect Lycaena. But those excuses were merely that, excuses. I was angry. I was hateful, and I wanted revenge. The sacrifices gave me a divine reason to kill, and after everything the empire has done to us, killing is all I desired.”

  “And now?”

  Eshiel lifted a tattoo-laced hand.

  “My anger is not abated,” he said. His voice softened. “But I have witnessed my goddess born of blood and fire. Imagine for a moment a world where you did not arrive, Rayan. If you, the Vagrant, and the Heir-Incarnate had not interrupted. If Lycaena had grown stronger with sacrifice, and been given more time to gather her followers. Imagine the future where Thanet was freed, and she held total control over the hearts of our people.”

  His fingers curled, and crimson flame rolled across his fist like water. It cast no light, and it did not burn his flesh.

  “A goddess of blood and fire, given life through sacrifice. What happens when the empire is gone from Thanet? What happens when there is no one left to sacrifice in her name? Would those sacrifices have ended? Or would we have merely changed the crime leading to the table and the knife? Murderers and rapists, I suspect at first. Lesser criminals after. Maybe doubters. Heretics. Unbelievers.”

  “You would have birthed a mirror of the God-Incarnate,” Rayan said, finishing the thought.

  Eshiel opened his fist, banishing the flame.

  “Who is to say how the wretched deity was first created? He rose to power three thousand years ago, they tell us, first given form as God-Incarnate Ashraleon. Who might he have been all those ages ago? They say the Everlorn Empire was reborn from the ashes of a failed invasion. Perhaps Eldrid’s people suffered. Perhaps their other gods perished. Perhaps there had even been a scared, bitter priest with a knife and a sacrificial altar…”

  When Rayan sought Eshiel out, he had feared he would receive excuses from the man, or thin justifications for his actions. Instead he heard sincere doubt, thoughtful regret, and a desire to do better. Eshiel radiated charisma, and his very flesh was a mixture of scars inflicted by the empire and tattoos proclaiming his love of Lycaena. It was no wonder he had built a strong gathering in Ierida. If he avoided the empire’s attention, he would certainly build another here in Vallessau.

  “What then are your plans?” Rayan asked. “It seems you have abandoned blood sacrifice, but what of the war itself?”

  The priest took Rayan’s hands, and he held them with a firmness that matched the iron in his voice.

  “I will not stop fighting,” Eshiel vowed. “I will kill, and I will burn, but let those sins fall upon me. Let them be done by my hands, and by those who bear my trust. Let them be done, not to resurrect our goddess, but to protect those who still cherish her memory. I will gather a new flock, one seeking to sing the glory of our goddess. We will not sacrifice to bring her back, for she need not return for us to hold faith. We will walk the path she set before us in her years among us. We will protect those who are vulnerable and keep her alive in us with our prayers. Whatever I must give, I will give it, so the generations that follow may walk a safer, kinder path.”

  Rayan stood. He had judged far too harshly this man he had never met. He had heard rumors of a cult, of blood sacrifice, and then Keles went silent. Upon his arrival, he saw a monster born of dark deeds. Everything had matched his initial distrust, but now he heard the doubts and fears of a priest who loved their goddess with a strength bordering on desperation. This love, it was profound, it was true.

  Without a doubt, Eshiel thrice-born was a broken man. It was with broken things Lycaena did her grandest works.

  “My campaign with the Vagrant continues unabated,” he said. “When you feel your people are ready, seek me out. We could always use allies.”

  A faint glimmer sparked in Eshiel’s light brown eyes.

  “Do not anticipate my arrival upon your doorstep anytime soon,” he said. “What the Vagrant is, and what he has done, is still uncertain to me, and it will take much for me to forgive the murder of my goddess, even if her form was… changed. But for your sake, Rayan, I shall set these grievances aside. All others of Lycaena’s priests and paladins have either died or cast aside their vows. For us to be the last, and yet enemies, is much too cruel a fate.”

  “But we are not the last,” Rayan said, shaking his head.

  “Do you mean Keles Lyon?”

  Rayan hesitated. How much had his niece told this man? Did he know of Thorda and his elite? What of Keles’s own faith, and the lack thereof following her forsaking ceremony?

  “Her heart was wounded,” he said carefully, “but I hold faith it may be healed.”

  Eshiel smiled at him, but it was one meant to hide, and Rayan saw right through it to the sorrow underneath.

  “Guard your heart,” he said. “I fear if you hold on to that faith, you, too, will be wounded, and I have not the words or the prayers to put either of your broken pieces back together.”

  CHAPTER 37

  STASIA

  Stasia was on her way to a morning run along the beach when Clarissa stopped her at the mansion door.

  “There’s something I want to talk about,” she said.

  “Of course. What’s the matter?”

  Clarissa glanced up and down the hall.

  “Not here. Somewhere private.”

  Stasia shrugged.

  “All right, our room, then.”

  They returned in silence. Anxious energy rolled off Clarissa in waves, and it was horribly infectious. By the time they reached the bedroom and Stasia shut the door, her skin was crawling.

  “You’re making me nervous,” she said as Clarissa sat on the edge of the bed. Her arms crossed over her waist.

  “Please, don’t be, this is, it’s… Lycaena help me, I thought this would be easier.”

  Stasia sat beside her, their thighs touching. She took one of Clarissa’s hands in hers and said nothing. Whatever was bothering her, she would speak it in time. All Stasia needed to do was be there for her until she could.

  “Remember how you asked if you should carry me to the city lawhouse to have us married?” Clarissa suddenly asked.

  Stasia certainly did. Mere moments later, imperial soldiers had initiated a sweep. The pair had fled, with Clarissa surviving an encounter with the paragon Soma only due to Mari’s timely intervention.

  “Of course I remember,” she said. “I was too late. The Uplifted Church had already changed the laws.”

  “We don’t need the state to approve a marriage, you know. Not for us to believe it.”

  “I thought we agreed we would wait until things were safer, and this war over?”

  Clarissa stood. New resolve hardened her features.

  “Watching what has happened, the hangings, the boats, the siege at Fort Lionfang… the world is cruel. I understand that, Stasia, I do. But I also know it can be beautiful. I know there are wonderful people in it, people who are kind and giving. And I refuse to let the cruelty dictate my life anymore. I won’t wait, not for changes that may never come. I’m going to live for right now, Stasia, right here and now, with no regrets, nor my desired paths untaken. All my love. All my joy. Let it be among us always.”

  Stasia slowly stood. The smaller woman looked up at her with those big blue eyes more beautiful than the ocean. Her soft hands closed around Stasia’s calloused own.

  “I know what I want, Stasia. I think you want it, too.”

  Bees buzzed inside Stasia’s stomach. Her heart forgot to beat.

  “And what is it we both want?” she asked, playing along, refusing to voice what she knew was coming.

  “No more waiting. No more hoping for better, because we don’t need better. We’ll have each other, and we will make things better, with however much time the world gives us. Even if it lasts only a day, let it be a most wondrous day.”

  Clarissa dropped to her knees. Her eyes sparkled.

  “Will you marry me, Stasia Ahlai?”

  Heat flushed throughout Stasia’s face and neck. Her head was a hollow space filled with air.

  “It’s so sudden.”

  Clarissa laughed.

  “We’ve been together four years, Stasia. That’s not what I would call sudden.”

  Stasia stared down at this woman she loved more than all the world. She wanted to embrace her, to hold her close, and to promise she would never let anything or anyone harm her. Impossible promises. The world was too big, and the dangers too great. To accept this offer meant opening her heart. It meant being vulnerable to even greater pain.

  But that was foolish, wasn’t it? No marriage or vows would change how she felt. Losing Clarissa would break her regardless. She was everything to her, everything. So what was it she feared? To make it real? To shout to the world just how dearly she held this woman, how her smile was her light and her laugh the source of all her joy?

  Say something, her mind screamed, yet paralysis kept her still. Stasia felt cumbersome, and she feared she might break a moment so fragile and tender. What words were right? The answer, could she give it?

  Of course she could. Stasia considered herself brave, perhaps to the point of recklessness. So let her be brave with her heart.

  “Yes,” she said. Her voice hitched, overcome by tears she had no idea were building. “Yes, damn you, of course the answer is yes.”

  Clarissa surged back to her tiptoes, and they kissed, her hands on her waist, her sides, her back, climbing upward and pulling her tighter. Stasia would have been fine for that moment to last forever, the kiss unending, but her fiancée (gods, how weird to call her that) had other plans.

  “Good,” she said upon pulling away. Her face was flushed, the pale skin of her neck splotchy and red. “Now come with me so I can tell your father. We’ll need to hurry if we want everything to be in place for the wedding tonight.”

  Stasia froze in mid-attempt to wipe the tears from her eyes and cheeks. Her mind hiccupped as she struggled to speak.

  “Tonight?”

  Clarissa explained everything on their carriage ride out of the city and to the south. She had been preparing for several weeks, but her tentative plans had turned urgent upon arriving home from Lord Agrito’s execution. That she had accomplished so much in secret should not have surprised Stasia given how clever Clarissa could be, but she was still shocked seeing her friends when they gathered about the carriage an hour before nightfall. The men were dressed in finely fitted lavender-white suits that must have cost a small fortune. Cyrus had even trimmed his vagabond hair for the event, making him look both much younger and more handsome. As for Mari, she wore a lovely red dress that rippled and twirled with her slightest movement.

  “Nothing is too good for my eldest daughter,” Thorda had said upon seeing her expression. He wore the only suit fashioned differently from Thanet’s style of fitted coat with long coattails down to the ankle. Instead he wore a long robe, the fabric a deep purple silk spun all the way back in Miquo. It was tied with a black sash and clipped in place with silver pins whose heads were carved like blooming flowers.

  “I look ridiculous,” Arn had muttered, tugging at his collar. Truth be told, he did look a little amusing, the giant muscle-bound paragon stuffed into such fine clothing, but there was something charming about the contrast, too. His hair, while always short, was freshly combed and pulled back from his face in a tiny knot. His right hand, still bandaged from the fight, was hidden by a dark leather glove.

  “So what will we wear?” Stasia had asked before stepping into the carriage. Only she and Clarissa were yet to dress in finery.

  “We’ll change when we get there,” was all Clarissa offered in explanation.

  They took two carriages, and a quick discussion with Thorda at the gates had the guards allowing passage through without inspection. They followed the road along the Emberfall Mountains, curling toward the thick forest that grew beyond the city’s edge. Both carriages stopped at a seemingly random spot marked only with a lone wooden post. An empty cart waited nearby, and Stasia had a feeling it had brought the supplies for their wedding.

  “We couldn’t go far, but we still wanted somewhere private where we could celebrate freely,” Clarissa explained as everyone exited the carriages. “And it turns out, priests of the Lion held private ceremonies here not far off the road.”

  “How did you discover that?” Stasia asked, for sure enough, there was a hidden path through the trees. Mari, hopping out of the other carriage, was quick to answer.

  “Endarius told me,” she said with a wink.

  A few hundred feet into the trees they emerged into a beautiful glade overlooking the sea. Six wooden tables were set up in a rectangle, and by their weathered status, they had been exposed to the elements for a long, long time. Not far was a fire pit burning healthily. Two pots hung over it, as well as a spit. Stasia’s mouth watered at the thought of whatever meals the group planned, for there was a sizable stack of food and ingredients on a smaller table beside the pit.

  Clarissa’s mother, Adella, was already busy chopping away at one of the tables, her blond hair looped into an intricate bun. It was a comical sight, for she wore a fine blue dress coupled with an enormous apron to keep it clean while she cooked. A few of Thorda’s servants worked alongside her, while nearby, a congregation of resistance leaders chatted with Pilus and Lord Mosau’s vassal, Kaia Makris. On the opposite end of the clearing were a handful of Clarissa’s friends, those Stasia had met on occasion, and who were trusted with the knowledge of Clarissa’s role in Thanet’s resistance.

  A smile lit Adella’s face upon seeing their arrival, and she waved them over.

  “There’s my girls,” she called out.

  “I suppose I am now,” Stasia said, bending at the waist to hug the older woman. “Thanks to your daughter’s persistence.”

  “Lycaena bless her, that stubbornness made raising her difficult, but it does have its uses,” Adella said.