“Seems all the more reason,” Nyatrix says, an edge of warning in her tone, “that you should’ve shown it to Ophelia immediately.”
Agrippina heaves a sigh, raising her hands toward her face and then dropping them back into her lap. She is clearly distressed, color flushing her lined cheeks. “It is so much pressure,” she finally says, leaning her elbows on the table. “You have just arrived, having come from terrible circumstances. Your time could easily be filled with simply recovering from alifetime of enduring the Host’s horrors. To throw an enigma at your feet that your mother could never decipher?—”
“Agrippina,” I begin, trying to find the words. Nyatrix’s palms land lightly on my shoulders as she comes to stand behind me. Asphodel floods my senses, memories of my mother tumbling through my mind. “I appreciate your care. But I am so much stronger than you think.”
Nyatrix’s fingers flex into my skin, a gentle squeeze. “Just because your test said she’s not the Avatar, which I still find absurd, doesn’t mean she’s weak,” the Lupa Nox says to Agrippina softly. “She’s stronger than you and me both, I’d wager.”
“Well,” I stutter, blushing. “Don’t be absurd.”
Nyatrix moves her hand to the back of my chair, the other pressed against the table’s edge until she’s bowed around me, a shield, a refuge. “It is not absurdity,” she murmurs, her eyes meeting mine. “Farthest thing from it.”
I look away, back down at the papyrus. “I did manage to translate a character we had no reference for in Lumendei by cross-referencing it with other texts and taking a guess based on context,” I say. “I might be able to do the same here.”
Agrippina nods and gets to her feet. “Your experience with the Host’s trove of papyri could certainly aid us,” she says. She opens her mouth, hesitates, and then looks at me imploringly. “I am only interpreting the Votum’s trial the best that I can. I agree that what you’ve shared with me about the violets and that man’s hand is very compelling. What I’m trying to say is, I don’t mean to underestimate you, love.”
I smile up at her. “I know.”
“I’m just...” She looks away, toying with the end of her graying braid. “I’m just trying to do what I think Celia would want, were she here.”
I swallow down the emotions that scramble up my throat. “Thank you.”
Agrippina raises one hand and brushes a tear from her eyes. Then she straightens, tugging her apron until it lies straight across her torso again. “All right. I should be off. The Centuria’s watching the Cult closely, but I think with all the tension and leadership changes, we’ve managed to get them focused more on one another than us.”
Nyatrix waves a hand. “Let them eat each other alive.”
The two of them exchange more words—information about the Celeres and Argento, military movements and scouting parties, all gathered by Tiberius—but my attention trails back to the papyrus. An instinct from deep within me rises like a wave. This text is a firsthand account. Nothing else explains the lack of ornamentation, the uneven penmanship, the desperate tilt of the characters. I wonder if my mother thought the same.
I gulp down tea and shift my weight in my seat until the pain in my hip quiets. Then I pull my scrap papyri over from the side, dipping my quill into the ink jar. Nyatrix reminds me to eat, so I take a few more bites of the salted bread before beginning to make a sketch of the sections I can understand.
After what feels like only a bell or so, Nyatrix reappears at my side with a clay jug of fresh water and a light supper. I eat it absentmindedly, barely tasting the oil-soaked olives and spiced chickpeas. I’m absorbed entirely in the text, dismantling it character by character, trying to find the places I might slip in and capture understanding.
I think I am about to find something when I cross-reference this strange papyrus with another, older one Agrippina brought the day before. It’s a children’s story—like the text I helped break for Renault—and I had put it aside, but the narrative is easier to follow and may shed light on this new-to-me scroll.
Despite everything, there’s a strange peace to this process. I sit at the table by candlelight, the sun setting over the window, Nyatrix performing a series of stretches and exercises on the floor at the other end of the chamber. I could do this forever, I think, were the world softer, greener, safer.
The door bursts open, and I startle, knocking over the candlestick. Nyatrix, somehow, manages to leap up and grab the candle before the flame touches the papyrus. For a moment, I’m little more than pounding blood and desperate, beating heart. As my brain grasps that the papyrus is undamaged, I also realize Agrippina is standing before us, looking half-crazed.
“The Host is here,” she manages to utter, her voice high-pitched and strained. “They’re somehow driving the Hexen into the ramparts. Maxima is worried the Ossuary Wall might fall.”
I whip my head up to look at Nyatrix, who stands perfectly still, her eyes narrowed. “The Ossuary Wall withstood the War of the Sundering.”
“Nyatrix,” Agrippina says, crossing the room to stand just before the knight. “The Host ishere. They crossed the Sundered Lands. For the first time since the Tithing Massacre, they are at our door, attacking us.”
Nyatrix’s jaw tenses, the tendons of her throat standing out in the low light. “Why?” she asks hoarsely, though her gaze darts to me.
Agrippina looks at me then, too, a horrid confirmation.
“What?” I sputter. “Why do they want me? There is no reason they should seek me like this.” I drop my head into my hands as a new horror makes its home beneath my sternum. “I won’t have people die for me.”
“It’s not just you,” Agrippina assures me, though her voice is still strained. “It’s the sword, too.”
Nyatrix and I exchange a long glance. A few nights ago, we decided to tell Agrippina the full story—the Crypta, the cage around the sword, the shattered illusion.
“I told Maxima,” Nyatrix groans, digging her fingertips into her hair. “Fuck. I told Maxima about it.” In the days we’ve spent hidden away, Nyatrix still hasn’t managed to figure out whether she can trust her commander—who she rarely questioned until now. Not even the information Tiberius has been feeding Nyatrix has helped her make a decision.
“She’s tearing the city apart looking for you,” Agrippina offers in a small voice. “Though I’m sure not just for the sword—she must also want you to fight. Even with the rest of the Celeres standing by, I am unsure of our chances without you. There are so many foot soldiers, Nyatrix. Triple or quadruple our forces.”
“You can’t give it back,” I find myself saying, holding Nyatrix’s gaze. “If they want itthisbadly, you cannot return it.”
