The bottle stood in front of her in all its mundane normality. Next to it – a glass, no less ordinary. Aloralt sat against the wall, on a small, creaky chair, and his presence, his half-smile and his fingers running through a string of beads that held his keys, filled the room with an air of uncertainty.
Creak.
Creak.
Aloralt’s body did not seem to move, and Ona was aware that he was a human without magic, but somehow he made this cursed chair speak.
He led her into this room, with no windows or furniture, just bare walls, hidden in deep shadows, bathed in the soft light of three candles.
The darkness reached out to them with its tentacles, even on a clear day. Knowing what they were doing, they sealed all the windows in the temple. Bathed all the rooms in candlelight.
If you breathe night every day, you become a creature of darkness, so easily. Even if you don’t want it, it seeps into your veins with coal and soot.
Now she was given her first task, prepared for her by Sindr Alusa.
To drink from the glass. To see if her sins would allow her to follow the bright light of truth.
Ona suspected it was something they didn’t believe in themselves. Praetor was a mentally wounded child, and he certainly didn’t believe in any light, his own or borrowed from the goddess – or any god, for that matter. It was more a test to see how far she could go without fear. A test of her courage, for she doubted they expected her to show devotion.
The liquid in the glass waited for her, shimmering in the dim light. Pale, like starlight, milky and thick. It could be old milk, were it not for the greyish hue. Ona examined the glass doubtfully.
It could be anything.
Even a poison.
But if they wanted to kill her, they had many other, much more terrible ways of doing it. And it didn’t make sense – Sindr was genuinely interested in her service and knowledge, he wouldn’t gain anything by poisoning her on a whim.
“I see you are reluctant, scholar,” Aloralt’s tone was cold. His smile was still on his lips, but his eyes showed no amusement. “Does the texture of our water repel you?”
Ona’s eyebrows rose.
“Water? Is that it? My first task is to drink water from a cup?”
“Water is different in each region of Avras. Some are just thirst quenchers. But some… are more unique. Depending on where they have their source, they can give life or kill.”
“And you want to kill me?”
“More like give life,” he pointed at the bottle. “The Torch of Avras has decided for some reason that you are special. Therefore, your treatment will be special. If you dare to follow his steps, of course.”
Ona was aware that delaying this… task might have repercussions she wasn’t ready for. She knew it wouldn’t be easy, and in fact it was easier to get in front of the Praetor than she had first thought. He wasn’t guarded, and even when he told her why, it wasn’t fully explained. Sindr was a dangerous enigma – why and how he suffered was her most burning question. Why he trusted her was another, perhaps even more important.
Maybe he was more sick than she suspected, maybe he found a last chance in her.
Do not believe it.
He knows what he is doing, no matter how much he suffers.
Aloralt made the chair scream again. Ona suspected he could do the same to her, with the same emotionless smile.
“Time is working against you, scholar,” he mused. “Let me paint you a picture. A pretty one. You come here without letters or proof, claiming to know… something you claim to know. Perhaps you were deceived by the Praetor’s willingness to use your help. Perhaps you underestimate us now, assuming we are desperate enough to believe any lie you wish to tell. You saw the city…” creak, creak, creak. “But the city is just a surface. Dead, decaying, ugly, isn’t it?”
Ona gave him a bitter smile.
“The world looks different since I last checked.”
“Oh, definitely! The Fey spells, spreading sickly, destroying what makes us human. They enjoy our pain, they enjoy pressing their boot harder and harder. But the human race… is resilient. And we can endure much more, for much longer, if necessary.”
She almost heard her father’s words. “Until we breathe, we are alive. And if we are alive, we are not yet defeated.” But her father died as the Shadows took over Feirne. His last hours were the opposite of life.
But Ona still said those words to herself. Because she was alive. And she wasn’t ready to die.
“Do you see the picture, scholar?” Aloralt continued with a wry smile. “We are not fools. We fight for something better. For the victory of humanity. And we use every means at our disposal. But if a means is useless and doesn’t cooperate… why use it in the end?”
The chair stopped creaking and Aloralt bit into her with his gaze, burying it deep into her soul.
“If you don’t drink it now, you will be useless. And we will dispose of you, no matter what promises you hold in your head.”
Ona knew it was true.
She couldn’t back out now. Fear was not an option. Be that as it may… she stopped really being afraid when they took Isnan. Life was incomplete without her. Without her… her journey had no meaning.
She took the glass. Looked once more at the milky liquid inside.
And poured it down her throat.
She half expected to choke on it. A poison that would eat away at her insides. Something that would bring her to her knees.
But nothing of the sort happened.
The liquid had a silky texture and a sweet taste. Like the cough syrup her mother gave her when she was a child. It tasted like childhood and Ona couldn’t really understand what was wrong with it.
Aloralt smiled.
The chair creaked.
“Your devotion will be rewarded. And your help will be accepted.”
The rest of the liquid settled to the bottom of the glass, with gleaming dust.
*
When she awoke in the night, her insides were torn in so many places that she couldn’t pinpoint what really hurt. The pain was everywhere, digging into her with sharp claws and teeth. Her bed was wet… and she could swear it was blood. Blood.
Blood.
Not hers. Or hers?
Her body, sweaty, sore, as if it had been beaten with hundreds of wooden bludgeons, sprawled across the bed while someone moved about. A person. No, two. Or more.
She felt a touch on her forehead, and she felt someone’s hand between her legs, squeezing hard. But she was in so much pain that she couldn’t resist as fingers entered her, searching her like an empty drawer.
No…
No.
“A virgin?”
“Yes.”
“The Praetor was certain she was not.”
“She is young. She had to use the dust. He knew that too.”
“How much younger?”
“She may be sixteen.”
“A scholar. Of course. Lies.”
“The Praetor thought she might be touched?”
“Torch of Arelt knows everything. Surely he had his reasons for saying so.”
“Virgin or not, she lied.”
Ona groaned as the fingers left her. The pain in her innards was slowly, gradually, becoming harder to bear, and her consciousness was on the verge of collapse.
“Look, Sygyn, I think she knows what is happening.”
“I doubt it.”
“I feel she does.”
“Does it matter?” a cackle, a woman’s. Sharp and mocking. “She won’t remember us. She won’t even remember the pain. But she reacted like a witch. Light never lies.”
“But she did lie.”
“The Praetor will know how to use her.”
“He knows everything.”
“He knows everything.”
“He knows the thoughts of a drop of water.
Ona’s mind was slowly shutting down. Her insides were like coals and her limbs like sea foam. She heard them talking quietly, a murmur of whispers. And she felt hands on her tights, and a woman spoke again, as if through a hazy mist.
“The barrier between her legs won’t do. Virgins are useless when the magic of a goddess speaks.”
“Should I…?”
“She must lose her purity, otherwise it will stop the flow of power. Call Rhyn and Sabar. They are good, devoted men. Surely working in the name of Light will bring them much joy.”
Ona gagged and threw up, she could swear the vomit was crimson. The colour of her guts. Her mouth as if filled with broken glass.
And the sweet taste of the water she drank the other day. Her mother’s cough syrup. Served in a shattered cup.
Reality turned black.