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“Shh.” I put a hand to his mouth.
I’ve had enough of his ramblings to last a lifetime. So has everyone else, I imagine. As he struggles against my grasp, I picture the lake that lies at the edge of the village. The one where he drowned me all those years ago. I can never forget the smirk on his face when he did so, the look of sheer victory in his eyes.
He has always liked control, but much more than that, he always liked eliciting terror from others, while pretending that he was helping them. I wonder how he’ll react when the sandal is on the other foot.
When I turn, a door has appeared in the air behind me, the lake’s waters gleaming prominently behind it. I glance back at Elder Durkas. “You told me once that water was purifying to the soul. Do you still believe that to be the case?”
The elder glances at the lake, at the water now rapidly spilling through the door. When he looks back at me, his eyes are so wide now, the whites gleam in the temple’s gloom. “Surely you don’t mean to—”
“Throw you into the lake? Indeed. I assume you’d prefer that to the vale you want to send these children to.” I glance at the girls, still huddled behind the altar, fear shining in their eyes. “And wait, didn’t you drown me in this lake before? Was it my third death or fourth, I can’t remember. Those days in the cellar, they all blended together.”
The elder nervously licks his lips. “I was trying to save you. To purify you.”
I turn back to the girls. They still haven’t moved, but they’re listening to our conversation with the intensity only those scheduled for execution can maintain. Looking at them more closely, I realize that the oldest can’t be more than six years old. Children. Babies, truth be told.
“And what about them?” I ask Elder Durkas, grim. “What wrongs did they need to purify?”
“They are female. It’s their existence that created all this. Your existence.” He snarls, spittle flecking his lips. “I should have ended you when I had the chance. I should have buried you so deeply—”
I toss him through the door.
“Swim,” I say, turning my back to him as he flails in the water. “And perhaps if the Infinite Father favors you the way you so often proclaim, he’ll intervene and save your life.”
I close the door without another thought, a strange feeling washing over me. Not quite happiness, not quite relief. All those years I spent fearing that man, believing his every word. And he was nothing more than a charlatan.
But he’ll never again use his voice to oppress others, never again use his power to kill.
Finally, Elder Durkas is gone. The demon that wreaked havoc on so much of my life has finally been defeated.
Britta walks over to me. “Think he’ll make it back to shore?”
“Doubtful. If his robes don’t do him in, the cold will. And that’s assuming he can even swim.” I shrug. “He always did say it was an unnatural act.”
Britta puts her hands on my shoulder. “Feel better?” she asks, grinning.
“Like I could save the world.”
22
All that remains of the cottage I once called home is a shell.
Oh, most of the thatched roof and the walls, though blackened and crumbled, are still standing. But the entire back of the cottage is missing. Not consumed, as the rest of the village presumably was, by the vales, but broken by a fallen tree, whose bare branches protrude through the tiny quarters like grotesquely skeletal arms. I see them clearly from my position at what was once the front door. It has been chopped down to kindling, axe marks stark against the splintered wood. It’s the same with most of the furnishings—the ones that remain, that is. Most have been carted away, or are now in pieces on the floor. I ignore the debris as I step inside, keeping my eyes firmly focused on that tree, on those skeletal branches, which are still growing despite the fact that the tree they sprang from is broken and dying.
It’s a metaphor, surely. But one I choose not to unravel. I choose not to think anything at all. Instead, I will focus on those branches. Perhaps, if I stare at them long enough, I can ignore the missing furniture, the fact that every decoration, every item of value we ever had in this house, is gone.
And that, likely, includes Mother’s things. Especially the ones that carry her scent.
“Wha happened here?” Britta walks in after me, eyes wide. “It doesn’t look like the vales swept through this place.”
“It wasn’t the vales.” Keita picks a broken plate off the floor and sighs. “The entire place has been ransacked.”
“It was Elder Durkas,” I say, suddenly wishing I still had my hands on him so I could throw him in the lake all over again. “Whenever someone brings disgrace on the village, he leads the villagers in casting them out. Destroying their memory. No doubt the moment the jatu came to take Father, everything here was fair game.” Including the items we came looking for.
Britta must understand the implication of what I’m saying, because she looks at me again, worried. “So how do we find your mother’s things?”
“We don’t,” Belcalis says grimly. “Look around you. It’s winter. The village has been almost completely destroyed. If the survivors haven’t already stolen all the things that would have had her scent on them, the cold and damp will have.”
“Maybe we don’t need her scent.” When I turn to Britta, confused, her worry has gone, replaced by excitement. She rushes to explain. “Lamin said ye just need something that provokes a strong enough memory. An’ anything here can do that. The whole reason we came to Irfut is because of how deeply yer tied to this place. All the strongest emotions ye have around yer mother are here.
