I have never seen the Goddess cry. Never seen them like this. It’s odd, almost obscene, an unmooring sensation that buffets me in the wake of their usual swell of divinity. I know they are our blood mother, that we are referred to as their children, but that holy parenting is mostly absentee, the Cloisters doing the real work to beat us into proper shape, both figuratively and literally. So, the tired sadness in their face is unexpectedly visceral.
A Bellator Prime, High Cleric of the Blood, Prior Superior, and a Senior Arbiter—the chosen among the Chosen—watch the Goddess. I watch them, mainly the Arbiter, whose very presence crawls through the chamber. Her eyes are milky white, the color leached from them like a cloak washed too many times, along with most of her sight. It’s the effect of decades of judgements, fueled by the cordial the Arbiters drip into their eyes, the one that allows them to see truths within someone. They can’t exactly read thoughts, but they can ascertain whether a person’s devotion and love for Tempestra-Innara is true. Or if it’s not, and that person is a heretic.
I’ve always found the whole concept unsettling, and right now, it’sdamn near unnerving. If passing an Arbiter’s judgement is part of the evaluation to become Executrix, this little party may be over with real quick.
But so far Prior Petronilla’s and my arrival has been ignored. The vigil continues—the Arbiter stays on her side of the room; I stay on mine.
And the Goddess mourns.
A pale, graceful hand rises and falls, brushing a cooled cheek. My innards quiver, jealous of the touch. It’s a sickening bliss, the memory of which tightens around my throat. Then, my muscles stiffen as a different thought rises to combat that desire: the Goddess laid out like the corpses before me, eyes covered, marble cold. I banish it, the fantasy too dangerous to entertain. Not here, not now.
Steps approach. I practically pounce on the distraction, turning to find a robed Prior and—will today’s surprises never cease—the Demon. Now the Dusk Cloister’s candidate for Executrix, apparently. Up close and not covered in gore, he’s what Jeziah would have calledfetching(or perhapstasty), with an alabaster complexion and dark hair swept to one side in a rakish style that doesn’t quite match his quiet serenity. I scan him head to toe; he ignores me completely.
Guess he’s not too concerned with his competition.
“Forgive us for making you wait, my Goddess.” The Dusk Prior sounds genuinely remorseful.
Meanwhile, Prior Petronilla oozes satisfaction, as if this is the first test in choosing the next Executrix, and we’ve scored the point.
“Forgiven.” The word is tiny, barely carrying despite the quiet chamber. Tempestra-Innara caresses Jeziah one last time before turning their attention our way. Once again, their divine light washes over me, a drink I cannot get enough of. One I would joyfully drown in. Yet, when the Goddess moves closer, out of the shadows, some cling, darkening the skin beneath their eyes with a markedly human fatigue. But the tears are gone now, disappeared, though I never saw them wiped away.
“I apologize for summoning you here so quickly,” the Goddess continues, “but grave matters call for grave haste. Priors of the Cloisters—which of my children have you brought me?”
Prior Petronilla begins first, as if our prompt arrival has earned that right. “The Dawn Cloister presents your honored and gifted daughter Lystrata.”
“Lys,” I correct. Lystrata may be my full name, but it’s not the one I hear in the few memories that remain from before I arrived in Lumeris.Lys, those whisper. Always justLys. Prior Petronilla immediately shoots me a look of horror, as if I’ve just dropped my pants to shit on the floor. And maybe I have, figuratively, but if there’s no unringing that bell, might as well make sure it was heard. “My name is Lys.”
The Goddess smiles faintly. “Lys, yes.”
I tremble as my name passes over their lips, suddenly wishing I hadn’t made the correction, dipping my head deferentially to hide the discomfort.
As pissed as Petronilla undoubtedly is, the Goddess moves on without any sign they share that sentiment. “And this one?”
Now the Dusk Prior is the one who seems bloated with confidence. “The Dusk Cloister presents your honored and gifted son Nolan.”
Nolan.He proves he’s smarter than me right off by keeping his mouth shut. Instead, he gazes at the Goddess with a wide-eyed, unbroken stare, overflowing with devotion.
Great. A suck-up for sure.
The Goddess nods. “My children. A new Executrix must be anointed, and you, as the finest of your Cloisters, have been chosen to prove yourselves worthy of that appointment. In the past, this has meant setting your abilities against one another.” They pause. “But I am afraid the events of yesterday have invariably altered that course. Now, contrary to the usual evaluations, what I must ask you to do now is something entirely different: to work together.”
My jaw tightens. Work… together? What doesthatmean? Winning the position of the Executrix has always meant exactly that—winning. Being stronger, faster, stabbier. I havemanyquestions, but the Goddess’s mention of the slaughter in the Cathedral keeps them tangled up on my tongue. It also confirms that Prior Petronilla was playing straight with me when it comes to learning more about the whole affair. So, I muster one of my least practiced skills: patience.
Which is a good thing because, once again, no explanation follows. Instead, the Goddess heads for one of the arched doorways. “Follow, please.”
We do, a line of somber ducklings in order of importance, the silent quartet of my most senior blood brethren falling in behind the Goddess first, then the Cloister Priors, and finally Nolan and me. I steal another look at him, but his attention is still for the Goddess and nothing else. A sword is belted at his waist, a heavy, brutal thing without an ounce of subtlety. It’s the same weapon he used against the Emmaus-monster, and he seemed to be handy with it, so I’m not exactly disappointed that we aren’t headed for hand-to-hand combat.
As to where weareheaded…
The deeper we go into the Cathedral, the more the ornate trappings fade, the lower the vaulted ceilings grow. They press down, ancient and heavy, chalky spots of niter clinging to the bare stone, a vague dampness scenting the air. It’s too dark here for even our divinely blessed eyesight, but the Goddess has that covered. Lamps set into niches light as we pass and extinguish behind us. Black in front, black behind, our steps barely echoing, as if the darkness is absorbing all signs of life down here. It’s enough to make me miss the corpse room.
Finally—a door. Solid iron, it’s heavily riveted, with no handle, no keyhole, and absolutely nothing to indicate what might lie behind it. The Goddess presses a palm to it; the heavy clunk of some mechanism disengaging follows, and the door creaks open. Slightly anticlimactically—beyond the portal is evenmoredarkness.
The Goddess enters. Nolan and I wait for the others to follow, but instead they step aside.
“Come,” the Goddess calls. “They will wait.”
Definitely not the most encouraging of invitations. What’s inside that a couple of lowly Potentiates are allowed to see, that the most elevated of the Goddess’s Chosen aren’t? I risk a glance at Nolan. There’s no fear in his features, no emotion at all save for a slight thinning of his lips to show he might be having some apprehensive thoughts too. Which is only smart, given we’re being invited into the sort of chamber that feels as if an exit isn’t always guaranteed. But that’s where the Goddess is, and the Goddess has answers.
