Godslayers

Everyone around me has gone completely insane.

Roel was in pain.

That was normal now. The throbbing stab wound in her leg was variably salient but never gone. And she’d adjusted to it, partially. Pain had tutored the unthinking movements of the first days of her injury into habitual caution. There were rules for how she was allowed to use her body now, rules like make no sudden movements and you must not scratch the wound when it itches and you will never run again.

The pain was worst in the evenings. She would lie in bed for hours, trying to distract herself until the door quietly opened and everything went blank. Another secret Ajarel was keeping from her, as if there were someone else in the house who could send people to sleep so they woke up with fresh bandages and diminished pain.

One night, like an idiot, she’d given up the pretense of sleep and waited up reading with a ghostlight. To confront Ajarel? To banish the ambiguity? Roel wasn’t sure. It didn’t matter; the door never opened. She got no sleep that night, and the next day her wound burned like Lirian had left her knife in the forge, then stuck it back in. She learned a new rule: You must pretend to sleep.

So she did, ruminating until the softest creak of the door announced that merciful unconsciousness had come. Like a rose petal circling the drain, her thoughts spiraled until they arrived at the inevitable conclusion: You’ve made a terrible mistake.

She never should have sponsored Thala. She never should have engaged Ajarel at that ball. In fact, she should have braved Kuril’s wrath and stayed home in the first place. She spent hours fruitlessly reliving the chain of events leading up to the library, reading one moment and waking up the next with burning iron in her leg. But there was never a clear decision point, no moment she should have known to say “enough.”

Everything flowed relentlessly from the moment Ajarel had sat down at her table and named her something—intelligent, isolated, outcast—with a word she’d never heard before but intimately understood. A word that even now she couldn’t remember. That was the moment she’d known Ajarel had the exciting kind of secrets, just like in her tales, and needed to learn more. Like an idiot.

She’d forgotten what happened to people in that kind of tale. Secrets came at a price she hadn’t been ready to pay.

“You doing okay?” asked Ajarel. They were in Roel’s room, both of them pretending to read. Roel couldn’t focus on the book in her hands, her thoughts always returning to the one hidden under her pillow. Ajarel spent too long on each page, constantly looking up to monitor Roel. Her eyes were glazed over half the times Roel looked. Every so often, Ajarel would almost guiltily turn the page, like she’d been caught. As long as Roel didn’t react, Ajarel would relax, like she’d gotten away with it.

“Roel?” Ajarel prodded.

No, I am not doing okay, Roel thought. I invited danger into my home. I can no longer walk under my own power. My niece is lying to me and my sister has relegated me to a goddesses-damned line item in her fifteen-year plan. Everyone around me has gone completely insane.

“I’m just tired,” she said.

“Recovery is tough,” said Ajarel. Roel scoffed. “I mean it. Your body’s trying to fix the wound, so it’s using resources that the rest of your body needs.”

“You’re very confident that I’ll recover from this. Hadalce says the pain might last the rest of my life.”

“Hadalce’s a fake/doctor/(informal),” Ajarel said. Roel took note—both of the strange self-communicating word, as she always did when these little slips happened; and also of Ajarel’s strange disdain for the knowledge of a doctor bearing the sapphire of mastery. Was it just the egotism of a magician for the mundane? That seemed in character for Ajarel, but years of reading whisper stories had taught Roel that such personas were usually fake.

“I think I would like to be alone,” said Roel. “Could you send Alouren up here with some food?”

“Of course,” said Ajarel. “Whatever you need, kid. I’m here for you.”

You let me suffer that night, Roel wanted to scream.

“Thank you,” she said.

“Welcome.” Ajarel put the book down—without noting the page—and left with a worried glance at Roel. The worry hurt. Not as bad as the leg, but still intolerable. But her whisper stories had prepared her for how to handle pain. You were supposed to press on despite it in a desperate quest for the truth.

Roel’s hand slid under her pillow and found the small, leatherbound journal that had appeared there the night of the attack. She hesitated, looking up at the door as if Ajarel was about to pop back in, having “forgotten” something. She did that infrequently. Was it normal forgetfulness, or did Ajarel know what was hidden under her pillow?

Did Ajarel have another knife waiting for her when the secret was finally revealed?

She invoked her courage with a breath and withdrew the unnamed journal. She opened it, as she always did, to the note on on the top of the first page:

Now you know. Whether the price was fair, only the Whisperer knows.

It was unsigned, which was signature enough.

Further down the page, in letters more confident and more smudged from usage, Lirian had written:

Archivist: The one styled as “Lady Ajarel of Salaphi” carries stolen secrets. In the name of the Goddess I have sought them.

Roel turned the now-familiar pages, scanning endless lines of data in a tightly-spaced script of elegant yet efficient sweeps and curls. Dozens of pages of observational data, complete with sketches of outfits Ajarel had worn, analysis of individual fabrics or stylistic decisions. On the fourth page there was a fabric sample, with notes indicating it’d been taken on the day of the Renathion where Lirian attacked Ajarel.

The weave is extraordinarily fine. The thread is stained with a dye derived (E.T.)—it had taken Roel an embarrassing thessim and a half to realize this abbreviation meant “truth of the eyes”—from turquoise brightflower or equivalent combination. The stitching style is similar to that found in the material culture of Martok (E.T.), but the coloration pattern and the lack of the distinctive cross-hatching pattern at the seams indicates that it’s something else. In any case the major Martokou trade routes are overland to the western reaches of the Imperial Coalition; no one within approx. three hundred teloi of Salaphi should own such a garment.

Addendum, Thephes next: No weaver in Vitares can identify the thread.

Every entry followed this pattern. After the outfit data followed multiple thessim of observation: behavioral tendencies, tallies of eye contact—Ajarel was surprisingly lewd—food preferences, graces displayed, graces not displayed. A section with every sentence spoken in Lirian’s hearing, with an unassuming note at the top that had hammered Roel to the ground when she first read it: Her lips do not follow her voice.

Lirian undertook the same journey in each case: trails leading all over the Imperial Coalition, or outside of it, and then into nothingness. Knowledge she shouldn’t have, figures of speech she should never have learned. Contradictions upon contradictions, as if the woman herself were a fiction and not just the character she played.

At the first mention of otherworldly eyes Lirian seemed almost ready to give in to despair. Roel could barely make sense of the pages containing Lirian’s experimental notes, rife with the vain secrecy typical to worship of Meris—Cult jargon, abbreviations, metaphors, and other nonsense to keep away the uninitiated. But Lirian made no effort to hide her final discovery.

I should have begun with this, she wrote. I have spoken to several merchants whose routes take them near Salaphi. No one there claims or has claimed the grace of the gods (explaining (E.T.) lack of formal rhetorical instruction, see previous). But Ajarel’s obvious reaction of guilt when Salaphi is mentioned (E.T.) indicates she has personal knowledge of the town and the disaster that is said to have occurred there. Given the rumors that Alcebios herself descended upon the town, the logical inference is that I stumbled into the truth, and that Ajarel is in fact graced—with conflict.

Roel pressed thumb and forefinger to her heart to ward off madness, but was interrupted as the door opened. She shoved the journal under the history of the Second Phrecian War in her lap. It was only Alouren, carrying a tray of setoi and a mug of lemon wine. Roel gave her a relieved smile, but the lightning of the surprise was still painful in her veins—Horcutio’s gifts were ever double-edged.

“Goddesses, it’s just you,” she breathed. “Come in, scoundrel.”

“I brought your favorite,” Alouren giggled.

“You might as well announce it to the entire House.” Roel sighed and dropped back against the pillow. The motion was too violent: her leg throbbed. Remember the rules. “Did you at least make them with lamb?”

“Lamb,” Alouren agreed, shoving one of the pastries in her mouth. “Could’m gen ‘way wi’ beef.” She swallowed. “Tajel knows you hate it.”

“That’s a mercy. Give me some of the wine at least.”

Alouren passed her the mug. She took a deep drink, fighting the lightning that wanted to pucker her cheeks. Horcutio must have been especially angry when Kives fucked lemons out of him.

“So,” she said, working her jaw to get the sting out, “what’d she say?”

Alouren shrugged. “She said I shouldn’t be asking about the soul because it would give me tools to hurt myself. Then she said I should talk to a priest of Gamal again.”

“Do you remember her exact words?” Roel knew the answer already. Alouren had never mastered that skill in all their years of pretending to be whispers together.

“Sorry.” She looked sheepish every time, which was funny. Roel was in too much pain to laugh.

Roel settled for Alouren’s exact words instead, jotting them down on one of the journal’s blank pages. Above her stylus lay dozens of lines of observation about Ajarel’s occult knowledge. The details she let slip, the secrets she implied she had.

That writing was hers, not Lirian’s. She knew she was being an idiot: the gifts of a whisper were always poisonous. The wise decision was to give up the journal—or better yet, burn it.

But she’d lost a leg to these secrets. If she did the wise thing, it would be for nothing.

“Next,” said Roel. “I need you to run a secret mission for me.”

“I’m ready,” said Alouren, practically bouncing.

“Did Falerior leave a message in the dead drop?”

“I haven’t had time to check,” Alouren said guiltily.

“I need you to do it tonight,” said Roel. “And I need you to leave another letter while you’re at it. Here.” She’d already had it prepared—a passable copy of Lirian’s sketch of the knock-out device, instructions on how to deliver it to Roel, and a draft of three hundred drobol. Alouren secreted it under her shawl with a smile that Roel didn’t return.

“You don’t seem like you’re having fun,” said Alouren, sitting down on the bed with Roel—carefully, not jostling her leg. Roel offered her the mug. Alouren took a sizeable gulp; her face puckered instantly.

“I just need a distraction,” said Roel. “My heart’s not in it.”

“We said no lies,” said Alouren, bopping her on the nose with a finger. “If this were a cart and the horses died, you’d take the yoke yourself.”

Roel looked significantly at her crippled leg.

“Even so,” said Alouren.

She’d always known what to do here. In whisper stories, you kept dangerous truths to yourself, even as it drove you away from the people who loved. Sometimes that was enough to keep them safe. Sometimes it wasn’t. But it was supposed to be the safest road—for Merisites and their self-destructive secrecy.

Roel was a Maker. There was no such thing as a dangerous truth, only people who misused the truth. She never should have needed to make that choice. They’d promised each other that, back when this was just a game.

But now she couldn’t walk.

“Roel?” Alouren looked concerned.

Roel burst into tears. She felt Alouren’s arms around her, but the hug didn’t reach her heart. There was a wall there now.

“Please don’t make me answer that,” she begged. “It’ll break.”

“What will break?” Alouren said. “Roel, you’re not making sense.”

She wailed into Alouren’s shoulder.

“I’m so sorry about your leg,” Alouren tried. Roel responded with a squeeze, hating herself, hoping Alouren would accept that explanation and stop digging. Alouren squeezed her back.

“Do you want to talk to Kuril? I don’t think she has anything scheduled right now.”

Meaning she’s not having sex. Roel shoved her off. “No.”

Alouren looked helpless. “She’s worried about you. Everyone is.”

“She’s—” Roel bit off the rest of the sentence. She’s trying to have kids instead of taking care of her sister, and her chosen sashbearer is a scion of Alcebios. She heard I’ll recover and she stopped caring that I’m crippled now. She schedules! Her time with me! Like a customer!

“I don’t want to see her,” she said instead. “Leave me alone.”

Alouren looked anxious. “Um. Kuril said someone always needs to be with you.”

Roel looked at her blankly. “She made a schedule and everything, didn’t she.”

“She made a schedule and everything,” Alouren admitted.

“Why!?”

“That priest of Gamal—uh, Father Demedes? He said it’s a good idea,” said Alouren. “For, uh, people who get hurt.”

“Cripples,” said Roel.

“You’re going to get better,” Alouren protested.

“I’m a cripple,” said Roel. “Get out. Go tell Kuril if you want.”

Alouren fled, leaving Roel alone with the daylight slowly fading out of her room. She carefully returned the journal to its hiding place under the pillow, then collapsed. She wiped the remaining tears off her face and lay there, numb. She could tell she wanted to cry more, but she was stuck, like a gear that someone had forgotten to oil.

Her leg hurt.

The door opened a third time. She didn’t turn to see who it was.

“Lady Roel,” said Bofa. One of her sister’s new consorts. “I was asked to sit with you awhile.”

Roel screwed her face up. “I’m not talking.”

“You won’t even know I’m here,” said Bofa, sitting down in the corner of the room. The couch, by the sound of it.

“Yes I will,” she said. “You walked in and announced yourself. I’m not going to forget.”

“As my lady says,” he said.

They sat in silence for a bit.

“You know, Lady Ajarel laughs at you behind your back,” she said.

“To my face, too,” he said. There was a gentle smile in his voice. Roel wasn’t expecting that, and it left her floundering for some other way to attack him.

“I think I hate you,” she said.

“That’s okay.”

He didn’t sound defensive or anything. She rolled over in bed to stare at him incredulously. He was sitting with his arms folded and his eyes closed, but at her movement he cracked an eye open to look at her.

“It’s not okay,” she said. “I’m Roel Vitares. You’re new to the House. I’m more important, so you can’t have me hate you. It would ruin your life.”

Bofa listened and gave a ponderous nod.

“Better you hate me than yourself,” he said seriously.

She glared at him. “I told you I’m not talking to you.”

He nodded, closing his eyes again. “There is also healing in silence.”

“Then be quiet.” She considered. “You can be quiet over here, though.”

Bofa wordlessly moved to the chair next to her. He was a big man—Roel was mildly surprised the chair held his bulk—but he made no complaint.

Roel curled up into a ball under the covers. They sat in silence.