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“Theoretically,” Malcolm replied. “Nyxara’s power was here—obviously—but Apollius’s wasn’t. It didn’t manifest until the eclipse ritual, when it showed up in Bastian.”
“But it had to be held somewhere. The Shining Realm, maybe, or wherever it was Apollius was biding His time before He jumped into Bastian’s head.” Her arms went up, down, a futile gesture that meant everything and nothing. “So we… we find a way to send it back.”
Alie gave a delicate snort, eyes still closed. “Just like that, huh?”
“You found something in these incredibly lackluster mythology books to confirm your theory,” Lore said. “So we keep looking through them until we find out how to reverse it.”
“And what happens then, Lore?” Gabe’s elbows were propped on the desk, his fingers steepled in front of his mouth. “You read the story. You’ve seen what’s happening. The power has to have a vessel.”
No rain, broken seasons, blights on crops. The world, rotting.
When Lore spoke, her voice wavered. “So you’re just going to let Him have Bastian?”
Gabe’s eye closed.
“You can’t do that.” Her throat felt clotted. “Gabe, we can’t just give him up.”
He didn’t respond, but a tremor went through his clasped hands.
“We aren’t giving up.” Malcolm frowned down at the book in his hands as if it might help him find the words. “There might be a different solution. I still think we should look at the prophecy.”
His eyes darted toward Gabe, gauging his reaction.
Alie leaned forward in her seat, her eyes intent on the Priest Exalted as if this was a continuation of a larger argument, one she’d been waiting to start again. “Yes. We should.”
“That document is sealed,” Gabe said to the desk. “Ritualistically sealed. The only prophecies with that level of security are ones that could have dire consequences if read by anyone other than the prophet.”
“That has happened exactly once,” Malcolm rebutted.
“And that once got us the Night Witch,” Gabe replied.
“I thought it was a Tract that made her go mad,” Lore said quietly. “She misinterpreted a Tract, isn’t that what you told me?”
Gabe shifted uncomfortably in his seat, the first sign of real emotion he’d shown. “That’s what happened, in the simplest terms. She read a prophecy, that prophecy referenced a Tract.”
It shouldn’t surprise her by now, but the way the Church twisted itself into knots of apologetics was enough to do her head in.
“I mean,” Lore said, huffing out something that was decidedly not a laugh, “it sounds like maybe she wasn’t that far off, if you think I’m supposed to be Nyxara’s vessel now. Was she just the first one Nyxara tried?”
It was daylight, so the goddess in Lore’s head couldn’t make a real reply. But there was a dark flutter at the back of her mind, like the ghost of a nod. Nyxara hadn’t wanted her to tell anyone that She’d taken up residence in Lore’s mind, but it seemed She was resigned to it now.
“We were only taught to prepare for Apollius’s return,” Malcolm said. “Not all of them.”
And that dragged in a realization that should’ve been obvious, one that made Lore’s stomach pit. “This is what you wanted,” she murmured, speaking to all of them but looking at Gabe. “Isn’t it the whole point? Paving the way for His return?” Lore put out a hand on the desk to keep herself steady. It made her fingers come very close to Gabe’s arm, and she saw him flinch. “This is what every Priest Exalted has been waiting for since the fucking Godsfall. All of you must be thrilled.”
“No.” It came harsh, punctuated by Gabe’s hands slamming against the desk, making her jump back. “No, we are not, Lore.”
She shook her head, another one of those mad not-laughs clawing out of her. “You’ve been devoted to Apollius since you were a kid, Gabe, forgive me if I don’t believe that you aren’t jumping for joy at the confirmation that you were right—”
“We weren’t.” He’d schooled his voice even again, but he rose from behind the desk like something avenging, looming over her with lightning crackling in his one blue eye. “We weren’t right. Apollius was supposed to return from the Shining Realm and bring paradise to the earth, restore it to a place of peace for His faithful. Not… not live in the head of an Arceneaux asshole and play power games!”
The hard-won evenness eroded as he spoke, and by the end, he was nearly shouting.
A moment, then Gabe drew in a ragged breath, ran a shaky hand over his disheveled hair. It’d grown out more than he usually let it. “This isn’t how it’s supposed to be,” he said finally, and he sounded so… so wounded, like this was a personal failing, a personal slight.
“If you haven’t noticed,” Alie said drily, “none of us exactly believe the Church’s teachings as written anymore. At least, not the way they’re presented in the modern Compendium.”
Gabe frowned.
