Inside the walls, the smells and sounds of the city remind me of home in Sturmfrost, though everything is muted by the heavy blanket of snow. Hardly anyone is out on the streets, wisely choosing to stay inside through the worst of this weather.
Stark leads us through the darkening streets, confidently turning corners and choosing roads without ever needing to stop and consider our path.
Anassa and I follow silently, out of our depth. Traveling today, arriving here, has made me realize just how big this world is, and just how little of it I know.
Just when my muscles are cramping up so badly that I think I’m going to fall off Anassa, Stark turns another corner and then hops down off of Cratos, his boots sinking into the snow halfway up his calf.
He’s brought us to an inn, and I dismount with relief, only to have my attention caught by the main square up ahead.
“Give me a second,” I say to Stark, and head off without a response.
I wade through the deepening snow, Anassa following, and the block empties out into a large empty space, ground eerily smooth with the unbroken snow.
At the center of the square stands the famous, enormous stone statue. The Faceless Goddess.
Even in the dusk, in the middle of a snowstorm, her form commands attention. The statue is carved from a single shining piece of white stone that blends eerily with the snow, making the whole scene feel surreal.
She looks almost alive, despite the signs of centuries past that mark the alabaster stone. She bends in a pose of maternal caring, her hands held out as if in offering. Though her face is smooth and featureless, worn down and unidentifiable from years of pilgrims touching it, her posture suggests both power and grace.
Anassa, too, seems captivated. She pauses just outside the square, making no protest as I move closer to the statue, trying to see it better.
“We should get to the inn,” Stark says behind me.
I ignore him. A strange pull draws me to the statue, carrying my feet across the square almost without my participation. Anassa’s approval wafts to me along our bond, as though it’s right for me to go and greet the image of the goddess.
Stark calls after me, his voice edged with annoyance. “Don’t tell me you believe in this commoner nonsense.”
Again, I ignore him. I’ve never been religious, but somehow that doesn’t seem relevant.
As I stand at the foot of the statue gazing up at that featureless face, I wonder who she was. It’s always seemed strange to me that anyone would worship a nameless, faceless deity whose story has been lost to time, and yet an air of quiet reverence falls over me.
For most commoners, the king is closer to a deity than the goddess, but she’s still invoked in prayer—or as a curse. There are small religious sects around the country devoted to her, their members numbering in the thousands. We have a tiny temple devoted to her in Sturmfrost, but I’ve never been there.
This statue is known around all of Nocturna, though. I had no idea that seeing it in person would evoke such a strong, potent feeling in me.
Without thinking, I turn to look at Stark over my shoulder. “What doyoubelieve?”
He frowns as though the question surprises him, then his lips thin in grim disapproval. “The only thing I believe in with any certainty is death. It comes for us all.”
I laugh softly, without humor, turning back to gaze at the goddess once more. “Right. All of us except the Siphons.”
“They’re not immortal,” he says. “They might live for thousands of years, but they can die just like the rest of us. You’ll see.”
I reach out to touch the Faceless Goddess’s extended hands. Weirdly, they’re free from the heavy snow, as if there’s something inside of them warming them. Objects rest in her hands—offerings left by the residents of Linsfall. Coins, fruit, and dried flowers. Bundles of herbs tied with colored ribbon.
These are the people’s prayers,I think, something like sadness welling within me.Pleas for the goddess to bless them, save them. Protect their loved ones.
“People think the Faceless Goddess made humans,” I muse aloud. “That she’s the one who gave us life. They believe if they pray to her hard enough that she’ll right the imbalance in our kingdom and make life better for the commoners again.”
There’s a pause, then Starks says, “And you? Do you pray to her, hoping she’ll do that?”
I laugh again—a short, cynical gust of breath. “No,” I murmur darkly. “I know better. If the Faceless Goddess was ever real, I suspect she’s long since abandoned us. If we want things to improve, we have to make that happen ourselves.”
Even so, something about the figure calls to me. I reach for her hand again, gloved fingers sliding against the smooth stone. Part of me recognizes that it’s freezing right now, but strangely, I don’t feel the cold.
For the first time in my life, I close my eyes and pray, thinking of Saela. Thinking of Mom and the madness. Of the voices and dreams that haunt me.
Of the future, which once seemed so clear to me, and now is shrouded in mist.
