“No,” I sputter. “Not even close. Perhaps eighty? Some went into the military and died in the war, of course. But I can tell you with certainty that three hundred foundlings have not passed through our gates and into our halls in my time.”
Nyatrix and Agrippina exchange a look. Tiberius lurches forward, as if he can snatch the foundlings back, his expression grim.
“Do you think...” Agrippina’s jaw grinds and she closes her eyes, as if to find refuge from her own thoughts.
“Yes, I do,” Nyatrix replies, her words hoarse with horror. “I think He’s devouring them.”
Later that evening, I pull the candlestick closer to the papyri, trying to make out the characters of Old Ceremonia scrawled in faded ink. Night has fallen, and the moons are in their waning phases, making my translation work that much harder.
“Ophelia,” the Lupa Nox calls, voice sweet as sin, from where she’s seated on the low couch, readingMare Reginaby the faint light. “You should try to sleep.”
“I just want to finish this line,” I tell her, angling the papyri away from me, hoping it might catch the candlelight better. It doesn’t, and I sit back in the chair with a grunt of frustration.
It’s been maybe seven bells since Nyatrix killed the Centurion, since I learned of the Tithe, and already I have discovered so much of Sylva’s suffering is orchestrated by a handful of people in power. People withtruepower, not thepathetic servings they dole out that let us think we might have some control over our own lives.
My jaw grinds as I dig my fingernails into my palms. The god I spent my life worshipping procures children—children—who can work Mysterium, and likely devours them in the same way He did His siblings, the way He yearned to swallow His own mothers whole. I can’t think too long about how badly I wanted one of those false Saints to choose me, how much I wanted to be given that stolen power, ripped from the hearts of little ones. How much I yearned to be a loyal hound receiving the table scraps from my god’s endless feast.
And Liminalia, the land I thought might be better, even if only a little, is ruled by people who broker this transaction. I imagine that, like Lucretia, the rest of the Centuria tell themselves it’s for the best, that a sacrifice must be made, that everyone would starve if they did not agree to this Tithe. Sylva once held other cities, their names long lost to time, their structures long since fallen to ruin. Perhaps a few of the outlying villages were once making Tithes, too, but the Sundering and the Hexen have spread so far, most of the larger settlements were abandoned in the last fifteen anni or so. I remember the refugees arriving in Lumendei, their hollow gazes, their tattered robes.
I squeeze my eyes shut, trying to focus on the present, on the scrolls before me. On the burden of the First Son’s hunger that Liminalia bears. Or, at least, thatsomeof Liminalia bears. From the records I’ve been poring over, Centuria mothers aren’t being told their child was stillborn despite a perfectly healthy pregnancy. There are no reports of any Patroni—the Sepulchyre’s upper class—families losing a toddler to supposed Hexen attacks. Even the families Agrippina’s notes mark as simply being associated with more powerful lineages are often free of such tragedy.
No. Instead it’s the Cult of the Mater Dea, the carpenter who built a table for Nyatrix, the only groom Argento actually likes, the craftsman who makes the glass panels for the greenhouses, the cobbler who figured out how to craft shoes from all kinds of materials when leather became too resource-intensive to produce.
I drop my head into my hands and seethe. All of this, and for what? So a god can sate His hunger for more power, devouring nearly all of this Tithe for Himself and doling out meager portions to His favorite followers? And for the mortals who participate in it—do they think it brings them any closer to godhood? Do they not understand they will never be divine, will never have the kind of power the First Son wields? How do they not understand they are so much closer to the cobbler who goes out every night, calling his lost child’s name into the mists, than they are to a god who eats and eats andeats?
“Ophelia.” Nyatrix’s breath ghosts my neck.
I bolt upright, twisting at the waist. She’s standing right beside me, her palm flat on the table. One of her dark brows arches, and her eyes drop to my mouth.
I suppose I do know something of hunger after all.
“Just this line,” I protest as she slides the candlestick away from the papyri. “I just want to finish this line. You know how important the translation could be.”
“You said that four lines ago,” she replies, that brow arching higher. “You need rest.”
I almost give in. It would be so easy—her eyes so blue they’re nearly black, her berry-sweet mouth. We’re alone, Agrippina and Tiberius having long since taken their leave. But then I remember what Nyatrix said to her commander back in the waiting chamber. I remember how Renault, too, thought he knew what I needed.
“Do not pretend to care,” I snap at her, anger rising in me like a tide. “You used me. Seduced me to escape.”
Nyatrix sighs and sinks into a crouch at my side so our gazes are nearly level. “I said that to protect you,” the knight replies with a weariness that makes my heart skip a beat. “I’m sorry you had to hear it. But Ophelia, I swear that’s all I was doing. Protecting you.”
I push up to stand, my legs wobbling. I catch myself on the table, one palm flat against the wood. “Protectyourself, Nyatrix,” I reply. “I was using you, too.”
She rocks back, surprise sliding into her expression. Her lips part and then smooth into a firm line. I lean forward, into the wolf’s face, pushing my advantage with a twisted kind of glee simmering in my chest. So rarely do I find myself with the upper hand.
“Are you surprised?” I demand, my hand curling into a fist. “Surprised that something as weak as me could fool you? Well, I believed with my entire heart that if I could convert you to the Church of the Host, then I would be saved.” I pause, breathing heavily. Nyatrix watches me soundlessly, her eyes glittering in candlelight. “I was using you for my own salvation.”
She says nothing, nor does she rise to her towering height. The only movement she makes is to cant her head to the side, examining me—but not like she’s never seen me before, not with the surprise I’ve found in Sergio’s and Renault’s expressions. Just a studious kind of attention, heavy and luxurious.
“I am so tired,” I breathe, my chest heaving as I gulp for air, “of everyone thinking they need to protect me and then using that as an excuse to control me.”
The Lupa Nox speaks then, finally. “I had thought,” she murmurs, asphodels surrounding me, “I’d made it quite clear I had no desire to control you, little dove.”
My heart pounds as she looks up at me, her mouth curving into something dangerous, a dagger that I would die to cut myself upon.
“Back in the chapel,” she continues, “I said that you were in control.”
I scoff at the words even though every part of my body burns for her. “Wasn’t that just more manipulation?” I ask.
