“We need to be cautious,” Davilla says, but Emlyn sits with her hand out expectantly.
“Look, I want to be able to stop using whatever that is that you put in your poultices. It chases me, even in my sleep, trying to devour me. I don’t know how much longer I can keep it at bay,” Emlyn explains.
“You talk about it like it’s a living thing,” Davilla says warily.
“It feels like it is,” Emlyn shrugs, “I can sense its hunger. It wants to devour everything living, but it wants to start with me.”
Shuddering, Emlyn looks at Davilla, “I don’t know what is in it, but it is frightening.”
Thinking quickly, Davilla agrees, “We can begin cutting it back more aggressively, but you must promise to tell me if you have symptoms. If you do, we can discuss the severity and make adjustments accordingly. We’ve been lowering the dosage pretty quickly. I consulted with some healers who treat people with an addiction, and we’re already going much faster than they recommended.”
“I don’t seem to be having any adverse effects,” Emlyn shrugs, “and I would like to speed the process up even more. If you let me decide, I would stop it right this minute.”
“Adding the woad to your mixture, cut it by 1 part in 5 when we started,” Davilla explains, ‘but we have been increasing the amount of woad and decreasing the other ingredients for some time. We’ve cut that back to where it’s nearly half woad. In that process, I have also been substituting more of the datura and wingè berries for the p’zae. The p’zae was there primarily to stop the infections and to numb the places where you didn’t have skin. Since so much of your skin has grown back now, you no longer need so much of it.”
Suddenly, Vanya chimes in, “What if it’s not the p’zae that’s the problem? What if… What if it’s one of the other ingredients? Or maybe the combination? `Didn’t you say that we could substitute something else for the p’zae? Was there something you tried with her early on? Let’s remove it and see if that makes a difference. It might be uncomfortable for you after a day or two, but we can try it to see if that changes your perception of Davilla’s Special Brew. If that doesn’t work, we can try substituting for some of the other ingredients.”
Thoughtfully, Emlyn nods in agreement, “That sounds reasonable to me. I think some experimentation with the ingredients is necessary. I’m tired of having it chase me in my sleep. Now pass me another bottle of this new brew. I have to make it fifty-three steps from the door to the altar before I can start healing myself. I can have help kneeling and standing once I make my vows. They can carry me out afterwards, if I can’t make it back to the door, but I mean to take my vows as soon as I can. I need to start training again, but to do that, I need to heal. To heal, I need to make my vows so that I am bound to another deity again and can draw on that bond to heal myself. Like this… I am defenseless. I can’t fight anything. I can barely swat a fly.”
“Why,” Vanya asks, ‘is this so important to you?”
“I didn’t end up like this,” she says wryly, “as a birthday prank. I am sure that I’ve made some… powerful enemies. They may come looking for me. They might even find me here. If they do… I need to be prepared.”
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“Who might come looking for you?” Vanya asks, “We only know you as Emlyn, the poor, shredded thing that our Goddess brought to us. We know nothing else. Nor, in truth, does it matter to us. You need our help; the Goddess has sanctioned it, so we help. Ember already warned us that we should be very...quiet about your presence. Almost no one knows you’re here, and only a handful of us even know your name. “
“I’d rather not speculate on who or what I might have angered, but I do appreciate Ember’s caution. Do you think I might speak with him?”
“I don’t see why not,” Vanya shrugs, “he’s currently the head of the Order, and you’ll have to meet him at some point anyway. I can let him know that you want to talk to him.”
The next morning, instead of priests coming to educate her on the tenets of her new faith, Ember arrives. Vanya has brought her another bottle of the special brew that she’s concocted, and Ember cracks the door just in time to see her down it and to observe the blue nimbus that rolls across her. He watches as the girl rubs her throat and begins in a clear, but husky contralto to recite what seems to be poetry in a language that he’s not familiar with. While he’s watching, the girl on the bed giggles and hugs Vanya.
“Now, finally,” Emlyn grins, “I begin to sound like myself when I speak and not a bag of rocks being ground like grain between two millstones.”
Clearing his throat, Ember opens the door, “I am told that you wished to speak with me.”
With a friendly pat on Emlyn’s arm, Vanya departs, closing the door carefully behind her.
Ember stands for a moment, sizing Emlyn up, and Emlyn, to his surprise, returns this. Ember might have set aside the armor and sword for his current bureaucratic battle with paper, but his presence remains commanding. Draped in a deep indigo tunic and leggings, covered by the red and black Order of the Storm Crow tabard, at first glance, he looks more monk than paladin, until you meet his gaze. His silvering strands blend neatly into honey-blond hair. His blue-green eyes assess the world and everything in it. He’s a bit unnerving and yet utterly soothing, for Emlyn, probably because of the integrity and purpose that radiate from him.
“I wanted to thank you for your...discretion,” Emlyn begins.
Waving a hand at her, Ember drags up a chair and sits, “I’ve told the priests not to come by this morning so that we have plenty of time to chat. Gethin thinks that he knows who you are, but I’d like to hear it from you, directly.”
At the look on her face, he shrugs, “Part of my responsibility is for the defense of this temple. Until you make your oaths as one of the Four, I will remain the head of the Order, at which point that responsibility will pass to you. If there is something in your past that might pose a danger to this temple, I am one of the very few people who need to know about it.”
Swallowing hard, Emlyn nods, “It is at least possible that I have angered some other deities by killing Rigan, and they might come seeking revenge if they knew where to find me. Any of the followers of Rigan would also likely be a threat since I am responsible for the death of their god.”
“What exactly do you mean by ‘responsible for the death of their god’?” Ember asks her.
“The usual way in which you kill someone during a sword fight… You shove the pointy end into something… necessary. In the case of Rigan, that would have been his eye and his heart.”
Ember gives her a hard look, but Emlyn doesn’t flinch at all. “You’re telling me that you fought with a god,” Ember says slowly.
“And I won,” Emlyn finishes his sentence, “Five, maybe six, of my dearest friends paid with their lives to give me a chance to strike. We knew each other from the time we were small enough to all still be in skirts. I knew most of them from before our tattoos were started. They sold their lives to give me a shot at finishing that bastard. After what we went through to get there, I was either going to die or Rigan was. There was no way that he was getting away while I could still draw a breath. Not after all the things he did. Not after all the things he made us do. I don’t even know the right words to tell you everything he’s done. His paladins… his clerics… You know he turned us into his assassins, don’t you?”
She waits for a moment, and when he nods, she continues, “That’s not even the worst of what he did to us…. To my people. He didn’t suffer nearly enough for everything he did. If I had thought I could have managed it, his death would have been much slower and far more painful. I don’t particularly care if you believe me or not, but your Goddess can confirm every word of it.”
W
- Emlyn keeps chugging woad?potion like a dwarf at a brewing contest.
- She speaks of the frightening “hunger” in the poultices—raising the stakes considerably.
- Davilla and Vanya play alchemist?detective, trying to isolate the dangerous ingredient.
- Ember arrives for a long?overdue conversation, and Emlyn finally reveals the truth about Rigan.
- Gethin becomes the missing key, speaking her language—literally and emotionally.
- The full weight of Emlyn’s past comes crashing into the present, leaving Ember and Gethin reeling.
- A tapestry of grief, vengeance, survival, and steel?hard willpower is laid bare.
Boltir’s Tip Jar
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18 coppers
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One "Special Brew" Recipe: (Strictly for medicinal purposes, though I suspect it tastes like bog water and regret).
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A Silver Tongue: For Gethin, the only one who could get Emlyn to speak her mother tongue, Cymry.
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A Heavy Pouch of Iron Nails: To symbolize the strength it takes to pull down a keep on your own kin just to give them a grave.
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A Single Blue Nimbus: Captured from the air after Emlyn downs her vial.
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