Ironically, Etta asks for the one thing I’ve never lacked since that night fourteen years ago: tears.
So as I walk forward leaving sodden prints with every step, rather than trying to push down the memories that constantly seek to overwhelm me, I embrace them. Memories of my mother, before my brother Florian was taken and killed, back when her laughter came easily. When she offered her magic and knowledge freely to help and heal.
Not that she ever stopped trying to heal and help. Even when our magic was stripped and her own body turned against her, she harvested from the garden until her legs were too weak to stand. That was when I took over, following her instructions and adjusting my methods on her advice to ensure the brews were as potent as they could be. She taught me vigorously, knowing she wouldn’t be there for much longer. Knowing I would be the one who had to keep the family alive.
As for my father … we lost him, in mind if not in body, the day they killed Florian. The death of his son broke him – as it did us all – but for him the wound was too great to overcome.
A part of me still hates him for that. For making Kay and me feel like we weren’t enough.
But for Etta, and the tears she demands, I embrace the bitter memories and the old grief.
In Father’s last years, it was near impossible to reconcile the emaciated drunk with the strong, honourable man who had raised us to succeed. The man who would mark my face with the lines of my ancestors, arm me with bows and arrows, then blindfold me and take me out into the forest to prove myself. He would hide in the shadows, a silent sentinel who watched me as I figured out the way back to the High Hold, all the while believing myself utterly alone. The first time, I remember thinking I would never make it. That I would die there. But once I returned triumphant, the thought never so much as crossed my mind again.
The older I grew, the more fanciful my thoughts on such trips became. I imagined stumbling across one of the Torailian, the elusive warrior people who live in savagery to the west. Little naïve me thought I could defeat them – maybe even a dozen of them – although I continued to dread the idea of crossing the path of an Issen with their white garb, colourless eyes, and skin like fine lace. Not to mention the power to draw every ounce of life from the air around them. Feared by all Morathkians, the Issen were our nightmare come to life.
I’ve long since learned that the monsters are far closer to home, namely the lords and ladies of Morathka’s court who turned their backs on us and cast us aside without hesitation or remorse. Still, no matter how deadly a monster is, you need only fear it when it draws close enough to bite.
Which is why I intend to show them all how well the past years have sharpened my teeth.
The spoiled gentry, with their warmed rooms and overflowing platters of food, haven’t got a clue what real desire is. They don’t knowneed.Which is why I know Etta will choose me.
As I turn the corner, the altar to the Goddess comes into view.
The great Etta. Goddess of Life. The one who gifted me powers and, with her blessing, the one who will return them to me.
‘Great Goddess…’ I kneel on the stone floor, surprised by my suddenly dry mouth.
I have rehearsed my prayer to the Goddess a thousand times, ever since the High Priestess announced two moons ago that there would be a Retterheld. Never had I dreamed that one would exist within my lifetime; if I had, I would have practised for it from the day my magic was ripped from me.
Closing my eyes, I force myself to take a long, steadying inhalation before continuing. ‘Great Goddess Etta, I am here to offer my soul and my life to you and to the Retterheld.’ I pause for a heartbeat. ‘You demand our tears in order to judge the truth in our words, but the tears I offer you are not mine alone. They are also my sister’s. My mother’s. My father’s. My brother’s…’ My voice breaks and tears burn my eyes as the words I’ve rehearsed flee me. The sheer injustice of it all cuts me anew, but I swallow hard and force myself to continue. If I can’t manage this, I have no place in the trials.
‘Let these tears be for all of those King Korvane has wrongly punished in his all-consuming rage. If you were there that night, Great Goddess, you saw the queen’s death, and you know the truth. Youknowmy mother was not to blame. You know Prince Kyor lied.’
My hands shake and my lips twist in a snarl. My mother’s word should have been worth more than that of an eleven-year-old brat, prince though he is. I push on through my anger, the words no longer coming from a script, but from my broken soul.
‘No crime was committed and yet my sister has sufferedeveryloss. Her home, her parents, her magic. Every day I see her brightness fading a little more, hopelessness creeping into her veins like a plague. She is a lady, in her bones and blood, and she deserves the safety and dignity offered by a life at court. A marriage. A family. A future.’ The last word comes out as a sob, and when I raise my hands to my cheeks, my fingers come away wet with salty tears. Before a single one can dry, I brush my tear-stained fingers across the stone of Etta’s altar.
My heart races even as it breaks. ‘Let me do this for you, my Goddess,’ I vow. ‘I will fight with everything I have for you and for my sister, and I will clear my mother’s name. All I ask is that you give me that chance. Please.’ Even though only a single tear is required, I move to collect more, but before I can shake them from my fingers, a loud shriek from outside the temple sends a shiver down the length of my spine. Someone else tried to enter and failed.
I, on the other hand, have said my piece to the Goddess. I am done here.
I let the last tears fall away, and then I dip my fingers into the bowl of black charcoal next to me, colouring my skin all the way to my knuckles. The knights and their wolves can’t touch me now.
I turn to leave, only for a thud near the rafters to stop me in my tracks. Nerves prickle through me, though thankfully, it sounded too heavy to be a bird. The last thing I wish to see is a raven’s black eyes watching me as I leave. My father always warned us to never turn our backs on a raven. That they will whisper your secrets to Mortidem if they think you’re weak, so he knows the best way to trap you. The last thing I want is for the God of Death to think I’ve entered the Retterheld solely to make his acquaintance.
I twist my head upwards, my gaze sharp, jaw clenched, and ears listening keenly. Surely no one could have thought to enter through one of the clerestory windows? A skilled climber might have found it possible to reach the top, but it’s a fifty-foot drop from there to the cold marble of the temple floor. Yet the creak of metal echoes around me. Someoneisopening the window.
I’m simultaneously impressed and racked with nerves. If this is the strength the other Rettlings are showing without using magic, then winning this gifting won’t be easy. Not that I ever thought it would be. Still, there’s no guarantee that their presence here will grant them a place in the tournament. Regardless of how impressive their entry is, their tears may yet be insufficient for Etta.
A shadow moves at the window’s edge. Even from a distance, I can see it’s a man from the broadness of his back and the strength of his limbs. As I watch him, he turns his body so that he faces the wall, all while balancing on the thin window ledge. Then … nothing. He stays there, fixed in the same position.
He’s realising he made a mistake, I think as I watch. That’s why he’s hesitating; he knows there is no safe way down. He is going to fall and meet Mortidem. Either that or stay there until morning when the priestesses arrive and rescue him. As I stand there, contemplating whether I should tell someone about his predicament, a dark shadow plummets to the floor. I cover my mouth, stifling a gasp as it smacks against the marble with an audible thud.
He’s dead. He has to be. No one could survive that fall. My chest tightens as I stand there, unable to move. This is a temple to the Goddess ofLife.To have a dead body here, even one who was willing to offer his soul to her, desecrates her space. The life Etta granted my parents and mybrother may have been riddled with pain and betrayal, and cut short by bitter anger, but she still gave them life. Just as she gave Kay and me life. I will not leave a body here, violating her most sacred temple in Morathka. I have to move it.
My breath skitters as I step towards the crumpled pile that was a living, breathing person only a heartbeat ago. Whoever he was, likely some lord or duke, I doubt he’d want to be buried out in the slums, so I’ll give his body to the knights so they can return him to his loved ones.
The shadows shift above me as I take another step towards the corpse, and my eyes snap up, confusion grabbing hold.
