“Fine.” Saraida rubbed her forehead again. “My knight recognized you, and that one tells his priest everything. There are only so many strings I can pull. You’re facing charges for corpse-robbing, breaking curfew during the Harvest, and aiding the escape of another fugitive. It’ll be hard labor on the docks, and . . . Ysira, you might get life down there.” It would be easy to put Ysira away. Saraida didn’t know this, but there was no longer any official record of her existence. She might as well be a recurring hallucination to these people.
Just a ghost passing through, destined to be forgotten.
“What could you possibly gain by refusing to cooperate?” Saraida asked. “What do youwant,Ysira? I’m truly asking.”
It was a good question. A decade had passed since Ysira awoke with her memory of the last few cycles gone, body beset by changes as confounding as they were frightening. Day to day now, all she seemed to do was stay alive. Evade notice. Avoid the Church, who would do far worse than imprison her if they learned she’d escaped the gods’ judgment.
No one was meant to return from the Harvest. That was as much a fact of life in Zivora as the sun and its horrible shadow.And yet, Ysira had. “I’m trying to help you,” Saraida went on. “I don’t understand. You could still have served, made a difference, even if you couldn’t make the cut to be a knight.”
A small, pathetic part of Ysira wanted to confess. Precious few people from her old life knew she still lived, and none knew the truth of what she had survived. Butno onecould know. She couldn’t risk it. The only realistic option left to her was to keep her mouth shut, keep her walls up, and ensure Saraida would not seek her out again once she made her escape. Face-to-face with the living embodiment of everything she could never be, it was all too easy to summon the necessary ire.
“You’re right,” Ysira snapped. “I’m not a knight. I don’t have to sit here and tell you your shit doesn’t stink.” One of the few benefits of insignificance was that she could say whatever she pleased. Only a little power lay in that, but it was power nonetheless. “I don’t have to pretend you’re a hero for doing the Church’s bidding like a trained pigeon.”
Hurt—and maybe a touch of guilt—flashed across Saraida’s face. It was gone in an instant, and she eyed Ysira coolly. “Fine. Pretend this is about principles. But I remember when you would have given anything to be one of us.”
The worst part was that Saraida wasn’t wrong.
Like a slow-healing scar, Ysira’s old resentment still itched. She couldn’t believe she’d been reduced to feeling superior for having had the shit kicked out of her by a thorn eater—and not even for the first time—because didn’t this at least engender a sort of resilience that Saraida had never had to develop? One thing Ysira had thatshedid not?
Envy, after all, was not something with which anyone worthwhile should struggle. Anger could be righteous, hatred could be provoked, but envy necessarily required admitting you’d fallen short.
Saraida left Ysira alone beneath the baleful glow of the palestone lights. And no one knew, nor cared, that she was there.
3
EDICT
JACEN
The first time Jacen had seen a god, he was eleven years old. It was the year of his formal induction into the priesthood, in which he took his first vows, one step closer to earning back the memory of his first name.
Jacen had been three years younger than average when Brother Marez chose him as a novitiate, and he had never let anyone forget it. He’d thought himself terribly clever.
On the eve of the Harvest, the first in which Jacen would be allowed to witness the offering ceremonies and stand in the presence of the divine, Marez accosted him with a question:
“What is a god?”
Once he’d gotten over his initial surprise, Jacen answered with confidence. “The gods created our world and built Zivora for us. We help them fight demons and keep the evils of the Source at bay.”
“That is what theydo.It is not what theyare,” said Brother Marez. “Try again.”
“The gods . . .” Jacen frowned. “They’re the first and strongest telepaths, with power over the Source. We owe them our allegiance.”
“Some demons have power over the Source, and we owe allegiance to High Lord Semira.” Marez shook his head. “Again, novitiate.”
“They can’t die. Our weapons can’t hurt them.”
An older acolyte had told Jacen the legend of the last time someone tried. The would-be assassin, an agent of a heretical rebellion, had managed to infiltrate an offering ceremony and shoot an arrow at Turil, Lady of Pain. The goddess had turned as though she’d known it was coming and let it bounce harmlessly off her skin for all to see.
But this time, Marez smacked Jacen on the back of his head. “You’re describing mere attributes and missing the point of the question.What is a god?What makes them worthy of our worship and the tremendous sacrifice we offer?”
Jacen tried to think in more abstract terms. “They give us a standard for morality and truth. Their existence means there’s a purpose to ours—we’re part of something greater.”
He was proud of himself for that one, but it earned him another smack.
“Wrong.”
Desperate now, Jacen said, “The Zal word for the Source,Asal,encompasses what they believed?—”
