The Book of the Veilspoke of women in sacred terms; keepers of order, bearers of life, and the gentle hands behind kings and sanctums alike. It spoke of hearth-tenders and cradle-rockers, of those who water gardens and whisper scripture to children with milk-sweet breath.
“The Book says a woman serves her household,” Ilys said at last, bewildered. “I have no household.”
Mother Inrith’s hand stilled on a jar of ceremonial chalk. “You are no woman. You are the Veilwalker—a gift from Annon to Death, a blessed sacrifice.”
She must have sensed the grief moving through Ilys, piecing it together as she steered the conversation elsewhere.
“It’s been some time since we visited the Bargain itself.” The Mother gestured to a priestess working beside her. The woman primly scoured the pages, selected one, and presented it to Ilys.
“And it is told that in the days of unnumbered dead, when pestilence blackened the lungs of children and famine hollowed the bones of kings, Death himself walked the roads of Annon. Cloaked in shadow, he gathered what was due. He did not hasten the end, nor strike the living down—Death only carried away those whose thread had unraveled. Still, the people wept, for his harvest was heavy, and the graves of Annon overflowed.
Then Hiram the Devout, first King of Annon, went out into the frost and met him upon the plain. The King said: “Why must you come at all? If you stayed your hand, let us endure, might we not carry the weight together? Might man not bear what you take from him?”
And Death answered: “The world cannot bear such weight. Grain withers when the field is overgrown. Rivers choke when they are dammed. So too does creation rot when no soul is gathered in its time. If I do not come, the burden breaks all.”
Then the King raised his sword, gleaming in the starlight, and said: “Then let me resist you. Let me keep them still. Let me hold back the hour, though the world should strain beneath it.”
And Death did not flinch, but said: “Raise your blade if you will. But know this: I am inevitable. I do not pass away. Should this body fall, another will take up the mantle. My form may change, my will or voice may alter, yet always there will be aDeath walking among you. For though I am not eternal, I am constant.”
Hiram’s hand faltered, and at last he lowered the sword. He wept, and said: “Then if Death cannot be denied, make me this bargain. Spare my people the plagues that rip through kingdoms. Shield us from famine’s devouring teeth. If I give you one hand among us, year after year, to do the striking you will not do—then come not for Annon before its appointed time.”
And Death inclined his head, and answered: “It shall be as you say. Give me one who belongs not to man but to the Veil. Let them sever the threads of those who defy their end, who steal years not theirs to claim. And while their blade is lifted for me, my face shall turn aside from Annon.”
So the covenant was bound: That the King should appoint a Veilwalker, sworn to the Veil and not to life. That the Veilwalker should have no house, no spouse, no child, for their blood belonged not to man but to Death. That they should strike those who clung past their hour, whether king or beggar, priest or thief. And though Death may change his mask, his harvest shall remain. And while the Bargain is kept, Annon shall endure.”
Mother Inrith’s gaze did not waver. “Be glad, Ilys, that you are no mere woman. You will be remembered. You are divine.”
“But I am not truly a Veilwalker until Consecration,” Ilys said. “Am I not a girl until then?”
They said a Veilwalker’s true service began with Consecration, though no one spoke of it in detail. Only that it took place in the Hollow Hall, beneath blackstone arches, where Death would weigh the worth of her devotion.
The Mother’s lips curved faintly. “You are like the seed within the fruit: formed, whole, and living, but not yet planted. You grow in a place between.”
“When will my rites come?” Ilys asked.
“Only Death can answer that,” the Mother replied.
Before she could ask another question, a knock at the door interrupted the lesson. One of the younger priestesses rose to unfasten the latch and Grim stood in the doorway, haloed in the pale corridor light. His cloak carried a dusting of snowmelt, the scent of frost and pine following him like a whisper from a freer world.
Mother Inrith inclined her head. "Veilwalker."
"Mother,” he greeted in turn.
Grim’s attention swiveled to Ilys, voice materializing even, unburdened. "I’m leaving."
She straightened instinctively. "Five months,” she reiterated from an early conversation. "No longer."
Grim tilted his head. "No longer."
She studied him carefully. "Last year you were three days late,” she pointed out.
"The snow was heavy."
"Will that happen again?"
"Possibly."
She frowned. "Then should you leave sooner?"
