And so, she walked to a desk laden with notes, selected a quill and a pot of ink, and returned to the wall to add symbols of her own.
For as much as she believed in the necessity of doing good, she believed twice-fold in the power of her own magic.
She stepped through the wall, tearing open the wound left by the previous portal, and found herself in a jungle, heat pressing around her like a blanket. Monstrous trees crowded her, their distant canopy letting through only slivers of the brilliant blue sky.
The sorcerer’s second portal took her longer to find. Domitia retained the quill and ink, but with nothing to sketch on, she soon threw these aside and traced her symbols directly into the rich red soil.
Finally, she located the shimmering wound of the recent portal. It was good timing—even as she watched, its edges faded, healing. Regretfully, she drew a pentacle to rip apart space again, and (muttering an apology to the fabric of reality) stepped through.
Freezing cold. A bitter wind knifed into her single eye, the glass one being blissfully numb. She squinted, speaking a small flame into existence to warm her hands. Her next symbols, she carved into snow.
“Where are you, come on . . . there you are! Thank you, sweetheart.” Domitia felt a bit silly, speaking to the after-traces of a portal with such affection, but her legs were numb with cold, and the prospect of escape made her giddy. “Let’s get going.”
This last jump brought her to a desert, an environment she knew from illuminated manuscripts and fairy tales. The sun hung low in the sky, the sand rippling in its fading heat, and—Domitia tried not to laugh—not far from where she stood, both Sir Cameron and Merulo lay prone. She could see the rise and fall of their chests. Not dead, then, but unconscious.
Beside the men lay a bedsheet, weighed at its edges with sand and painted with symbols that Domitia knew all too well.
“So that’s what you’re after,” she said, a little sadly. “You wanted to see Him. Well, I hope it was worth the price of admission.” Domitia could see it on the bedsheet, now that she knew to look: the flaking remains of a burnt eye.
She considered rolling the men into a more comfortable position, as they looked to have fallen where they stood, lying as they did in a ridiculous tangle of limbs. In the end, she simply chose a spot in the sand and sat with crossed legs. There she waited for them to wake, so that she might continue this painfully imbalanced game of cat and mouse.
CHAPTER 54
In Which There Is Nothing. In Which I Am Nothing. In Which—
The nothing retracted with a snap, and I heard guttural sobbing. I’d clearly fallen at some point during the spell, as the desert sky filled my vision. Time had evidently passed. It was violet dusk, faintly pricked with stars, with the rising moon staring down at us.
“Cameron!” Bony hands shook me, and Merulo’s face appeared, lined with concern. “Cameron, it was only a vision. You are unharmed.”
“Death,” I heaved, recognizing the cries as my own. “Death, that was death, that was—”
Merulo slapped me hard across the face. I blinked at him. “Microwave.”
“If you two are finished,” came a woman’s voice. “We have much to discuss.”
Domitia sat cross-legged in the sand, close enough for it to be shameful that neither of us had spotted her. Merulo sprang off me and, with some unsteadiness, I followed. I unsheathed my sword, and Merulo brandished his wand, butthe half-dragon didn’t show us the courtesy of responding in kind. She stayed seated, the slouch of her shoulders betraying sadness, but also victory. As if she didn’t expect to fight. As if she’d already won.
“So now you’ve seen,” she said. “Just as I did, many years ago.” With a thumb and forefinger, she reached beneath her eyelid and plucked out her lazy eye. I quickly looked away, not wanting to see the empty socket.
“I . . . don’t understand.” Merulo gripped his wand tightly. “Why couldn’t I see God? Where does it hide?”
“God is dead,” I said, certain of my words. “That was death, Merulo. That was the nothing.” Desert grit clung to my drying cheeks. I felt like I could crumble to the ground at any moment, and that if I did, nothing in the world could get me back up.
“I imagine it happened on the Day of Descent.” Domitia pushed her false eye back into its socket without any sign of discomfort, then motioned for us to sit across from her. Neither of us complied—me, because I had to remain standing to maintain my sanity, and Merulo I assumed out of pride. With a sigh, she continued. “It was the dying act of a being beyond our comprehension. It came to our choked, dying world and answered a prayer.”
At Merulo’s snort, something in Domitia’s posture sharpened. “I don’t hate God. A being of that scope, expending its life to grant our wish . . . I think it must have loved us. Not as individuals, but as a world. I think in its last moments, it loved us enormously. And the connection people seek with it now, the desire to touch that love through prayer, and artwork, and music . . . Some of it is beautiful. Some of it moves me.”
I opened my mouth to protest, ready to share my ownexperiences as a lifelong churchgoer, but Domitia raised a hand. “I cannot, however, ignore the arrogance of the act. The same arrogance that you now demonstrate yourself.” She leveled her gaze at the sorcerer. “A single being, no matter its power or intelligence, cannot make decisions for millions. Merulo, you must understand. You have no right to impose yourself on this world.”
“Watch me,” snarled the sorcerer.
I wanted to clap at his brevity.
“You think you deserve to choose, because you can take it by force? Then take it. Outmatch me.” Domitia spread her arms, displaying both her musculature and those strange, snaking scars.
Merulo made no move. Slowly, Domitia got to her feet. She cast a deliberate look at the leg that lay, in a cloud of meaty stench, beside the painted bedsheet. “Your use of that wand. The amputated limbs . . . You’ve drained yourself, haven’t you?”
At my side, Merulo remained silent.
