“Nowyou’re asking me what I think?” Taran asked, face still angry.
“I always did,” I said helplessly.
The flat line of his mouth pulled hard at that.
“Because you knew how I felt about you.”
I gave a pained laugh and looked at my feet. “I thought I knew, but when we met for the second time, you thought all the rebels deserved to die. I didn’t think you’d believe you once loved one of us.”
“Not ‘one of us.’ You.”
“And that’s why I couldn’t say anything,” I whispered. Because I wasn’t any different from the rest of them.
That made his face even darker, and he turned to look at the huddled crowd of priests, glaring like they’d done something to him. But after a moment, he shook it off and strode into their midst.
I didn’t know what he planned when he took a deep breath and stretched out one hand over their bodies, but then I felt it again. That pull on my soul, the sensation of light and heat without any discernible source. It made my hair stand on end and the background chorus of crying and prayers fall silent. The muscles in Taran’s neck pulled taut, and my head started to ache the way it did when the pressure dropped in advance of a storm, but he didn’t lower his arm as the feeling grew without release.
Eventually, he cursed and dropped his hand.
“I can’t,” he said raggedly. “There’re too many of them, and their vows are too old.”
I couldn’t solve the puzzle of his words before he cast around and his gaze landed on a trio of trembling crafter-priests in tattered brown.
“Make a vow to me,” he demanded. “All of you. Smenos’s people—I got you out of the dungeons once already, you owe me.”
I shivered, and so did they, but the first one he’d addressed moved stiffly to her knees. An older woman, gray hair in neat braids, wide shoulders from forge work.
“What vow?” she asked, voice shaded with fear.
That nearly stumped Taran, who grimaced as though offended.
“I don’t know—I don’t care. Any vow. You’ll sing me a little song once a fortnight.”
They were taken aback, but after a moment, the first priestess pressed her hands together and nodded. “I vow that I will say a prayer of gratitude to you every morning, Stoneborn, for freeing me twice.”
At her words, and those of the next priest, and the next, as they all repeated the same vow, Taran closed his eyes and tipped his head back. There was more to it than just the words. I’d felt it before, at every sacrifice. At Ereban, before the riot. A vow was a sacrifice, and sacrifice was power. It crackled in the air and gilded the edge of Taran’s profile as he absorbed it.
It still staggered me, every time I was reminded that he wasn’t human. He didn’t look it now, his features lit from within, and his voice echoed like he was speaking from a high place when he turned to Genna’s priests.
“If I free you from your vows, will you swear to me instead? If you were mine, I wouldn’t let you be herded into the Underworld like stray cattle. I’d keep you safe. I won’t demand your obedience, just your loyalty—you can’t ever speak of what I’ve done here.”
“Yes,” said one priestess immediately. I recognized her from my ineffective lessons in calling Death’s blessing of fire. The others were slower to respond. A few whispered to each other, and many expressions were full of doubt. But eventually all of the priests got on their knees and began to recite vows to Taran ab Genna.
This time, when he stretched out his arm, I smelled ozone. The dark cavern brightened, and so did the shapes of the priests. It reminded me of watching a meteor shower, the flashes of light that passed between Taran and the kneeling priests. One by one, then all at once. Bright light and heat. It had to hurt—several priests cried out and clutched their chests, and one fell to the floor inshock. Whatever was happening was reshaping their souls, and it frightened me like Marit’s deep waves or the pillars of stone the Allmother had created from the earth.
“You’re free,” Taran said, dropping his hand with a gesture like he was ripping something loose. Every mortal in the cavern inhaled in unison as the divine working reached a crescendo. “Go. Find boats on the shore, leave the Summerlands, never come back. I’ll tell Genna you’re dead.”
Taran had never looked less mortal than when he turned back to me, surrounded by his new priests. The exhaustion had vanished from his posture, even the grime and blood from the sharp lines of his face. His presence vibrated against my skin, and the green of his eyes shone from within. No, it was all of him, like a candle in the dark.
Is this what I wanted?
How could I want anything other than Taran alive and strong, and all of these priests released from their vows? I would be a terrible, selfish person to want anything else.
“Oh,” Hiwa said softly. I’d nearly forgotten her in the spectacle, and now her form was a blur next to me. She no longer had the capacity for new experiences, and this had shaken her. Even I could barely begin to reckon with what this meant. With what Taran was. He could have freed me from my vows at any time. He could free every priest in the Summerlands.
My throat was abruptly full of tears, because he was beyond me again. “Take care of yourself, Hiwa. And give my love to Windilla and the others, if you see them.”
I walked through the crowd to Taran, and the other mortals respectfully parted to let me pass.
