Chapter 208

“What's the deal, banana peel?”

“I require more journals.” Nyssira was already on her feet when I arrived. Waiting.

Without sunlight, windows, or any meaningful day-night cycle inside her prison, I had no idea how long she'd been standing there anticipating my return. Five minutes? Five hours? A day?

I stopped.

On one hand, it was encouraging. She'd actually used something I'd given her. On the other hand, this was Nyssira. There was no guarantee she'd been writing. For all I knew, she had devised a new scheme requiring twelve journals, three copper pennies, and a roll of duct tape.

I glanced past her.

The sticks I'd brought earlier had been charred and worn down, ground nearly to nubs from use. Beside them sat the journal itself. Used. Heavily.

That was a good sign. Probably. One more journal wouldn't hurt anything. If she started asking for dozens, I'd have to begin removing the old ones first.

I stepped into the demesne, conjured another journal along with several fresh charcoal sticks, then returned.

“There you go.” I set them atop the transport pedestal.

Faith and mana flowed through the wards.

The supplies vanished from my side and reappeared inside the concentric rings surrounding her prison.

“Anything else I can get you?”

She ignored me completely. The moment the journal arrived, she sat down and immediately began writing. Not a thank you. Not an insult. Just writing.

I shrugged. Close enough.

Pulling over a chair, I settled in and turned my attention toward her Faith.

Nyssira remained one of the strangest things I'd ever seen. Her beacon resembled a swirling marble of impossible colors. Aspects churned and twisted around one another in an endless dance, beautiful and unsettling all at once.

When I'd first defeated her, those colors had been sharply divided. Segmented. Hostile. Each aspect pushing against the others like rival kingdoms at war.

Those divisions had softened over the years. The Faith hadn't blended together exactly - it had settled. The way sediment settles in water after a storm. Distinct. Separate. But no longer fighting.

Almost all of it.

The exception drifted through the rest like an eel through dark water. Gray. Sharp-edged. Predatory. The fragment taken from Letheris - the god of oblivion.

Unlike the rest, it had never settled. It didn't struggle against the others. The others recoiled from it. Like fish parting before a shark.

I couldn't measure Faith in any accurate way. But I would have sworn that gray mass was larger than before. Or perhaps everything else was becoming smaller.

Neither possibility was comforting.

If the fragment truly belonged to Letheris, then it wasn't merely coexisting within her - it was consuming her. Eating away at what remained. And if that was true, then it represented the greatest threat Nyssira faced.

Not the prison. Not the High Witan. Not the God-Kings.

Oblivion.

Slow. Patient. Endlessly hungry.

If I wanted to save her, I had to find a way to remove it.

I opened my journal and began writing observations. Comparisons. Theories. Questions. Cross-referencing old entries against newer ones.

Years of notes had accumulated into a small library - everything I could find concerning Faith. Gods. Ascension. Aspect interaction. Divine death. Divine birth.

The entire collection occupied a single bookshelf. Half of it consisted of my own journals.

A pitiful amount, really.

There were more books in the world discussing mana generation. More books speculating about life before the First Silent War. More books documenting the marriage customs of the winged peri.

Entire libraries had been written about less important subjects. Yet somehow almost nobody had bothered recording how gods actually worked.

Several hours passed.

I made next to no progress.

Eventually I closed my journal, returned it to the shelf, and carried my chair back to the wall.

Nyssira hadn't moved. Not once. She remained seated exactly where she'd started, charcoal moving steadily across parchment. She was already halfway through the new journal.

I stared for a moment, then sighed.

I stepped away, conjured another blank journal, and stepped back. I placed it on the transport pedestal and sent it through the wards.

She didn't even notice. Or if she did, she gave no indication.

I turned to leave, then stopped.

Something flickered at the edge of my perception. For a moment I wasn't even sure whether I'd seen it with my eyes or with my Faith.

Either way, it was there.

A thread. Thin. Silver. Stretching from me toward her.

I stared.

The thread extended outward. Reached. Almost touched, then collapsed back in on itself.

We weren’t connected. Not yet. But a connection was attempting to form.

Was it me? Was I slowly forming a bond with her? Or was she beginning to trust me? Depend on me? Understand me? Maybe it wasn't either of us individually. Maybe it was both of us. Two people who had spent years trapped in this strange arrangement slowly finding common ground.

I didn't know. I didn't even know what a silver thread to Nyssira was supposed to mean.

But for the first time in a long while, I felt like I'd learned something. Something important. And I was going to figure out exactly what it meant.

* * *

I stepped back to Kingsward and headed straight for Hawke’s office.

The waiting room was empty save for his secretary, who sat behind the desk buried beneath a mountain of paperwork.

I walked past him without slowing. “Sir, you can’t just-”

“It’s fine. I have an appointment.” I opened Hawke’s door and shut it behind me.

Hawke looked up from his desk, pen still in hand. Whatever color remained in his face drained away the moment he saw me.

“Have you had any contact with the Covenant since yesterday?”

“N-no, sir.”

“Good.” I dropped into the chair across from him. “New plan. How and when do they normally contact you?”

He swallowed. “They send a messenger. Never the same one twice. Usually someone from out of town. Sometimes a note gets slipped under my door.”

I watched him for a moment. “And you leave your replies in the shrine near the estate.”

His face went even paler. Slowly, he nodded.

“Who picks them up?”

“I don’t know.” He rubbed at his jaw. “I’ve watched before. People pass that shrine all day long. Travelers. Farmers. Children. Pilgrims. Some stop. Some don't. Sometimes the message is gone before sunset. Sometimes it sits there for a week.”

“How do they know there’s something waiting?”

“I leave a signal. A flower, usually.” His voice was quiet. “White means there's a message waiting. Yellow means urgent. A bundle of reeds means I need an answer. A wooden toy means emergency.”

I leaned back. “How did they first approach you?”

“Three... maybe four years ago.” He stared at the window as he spoke. “Bad winter after a bad harvest. Villages all over the region were hurting. We were stretched thin. Thirty-seven arrivals in Longnight alone, and winter wasn't even halfway over.”

His eyes unfocused. “There were families sleeping in basements. Two children arrived with frostbite. A cooper named Hen lost his shop in a fire. Widow named Ysabel showed up with three boys under ten and nowhere to go.”

His shoulders sagged. “Then two wagons of food appeared.”

I remained silent.

“Just appeared. Enough to carry everyone through until spring. Someone donated tools for Hen. Never signed their name. Never asked for recognition. The tools simply showed up at Miller's house, where Hen was staying.”

A humorless smile touched his lips. “I investigated. Lady Fenwick didn't even have to ask. People don't make anonymous donations unless they're hiding something.”

“And?”

“I traced it back to the Covenant.”

He shook his head. “By then the supplies were already distributed. The people needed them. Nothing could be undone. I informed the governess. She thanked me and told me not to trust them.”

His fingers tightened around the pen. “A few months later a man came to see me. Said he represented the Covenant of Mercy. Claimed they admired the governess's work and wanted to help.”

“What did you tell him?” I asked

“I told him to donate publicly.”

“And?”

“He said they preferred discretion.” Hawke snorted. “I told him no.”

“Who was he?”

“Merchant, I think. Never gave a name. Folks around town knew him as Hugor.” Hawke frowned in concentration. “Brown hair. Green eyes. Missing part of his left ear. Carried dried pears everywhere he went. Slight limp in his right leg. Friendly. Too friendly. Had the sort of face people trusted immediately.”

“And then?”

“He left.”

The silence stretched.

“A few months later a woman appeared.” His brow furrowed. “Light brown hair. Hazel eyes. Wore gloves despite the weather. Smelled like lavender and horses. Maybe a noble. I don’t know.”

His voice lowered. “She said she was from the Covenant. Asked how Ysabel was doing. Knew her boys by name. Knew we'd sent them to Briarwick. Knew the widow had found work with a tailor there.”

I frowned. “So she made another offer.”

“No.”

“No?”

“No.” Hawke shook his head. “Didn't ask for favors. Didn't offer help. Didn't make threats. Just stopped by to ask how they were doing.” His gaze drifted to the floor. “That bothered me more than the others. It meant they were watching.”

I let that sit.

“A sailor came next.” Hawke rubbed at his temple. “Said he'd heard we were struggling to place six people. Claimed the Covenant could help. I said no.”

“What was he like?”

“Esmorian, supposedly.” Hawke snorted. “Accent said Caldris. Most folks wouldn't notice. Blond hair. Brown eyes. Sailor's tan. Scar on his lower right side. Sharp blade, judging by the shape.”

Hawke sighed. “Then came Fletcham. Horse thief. No family. Violent temper. Six months of trying to place him. Six months of watching him sabotage every opportunity.”

His jaw tightened. “I wanted to help him. I really did.”

The room fell silent.

“Then another man came. Older than me. White hair. Expensive clothes.” Hawke's expression darkened. “Walked with a cane he didn't seem to need. He signed into the White Hart as Gilbor Bakryn.”

“And?”

“He said the Covenant could help.” Hawke looked away. “I was out of options.”

The words came quietly. “I gave them a chance.” His hands folded together. “They placed him. Dunmere. Farm work. Room and board. I got a letter confirming he'd arrived. I sent someone to verify it.”

His eyes met mine. “Fletcham was there.”

For the first time since I'd entered the room, genuine conviction entered his voice. “He was working. Earning coin. Last I heard he'd married a local girl.”

His shoulders slumped. “It looked like his life was turning around.”

I understood the trap immediately.

One success. One genuine success. That was all it took.

“When the next difficult placement came along, I used them again,” he said quietly. “Then another. And another.”

“You verified those too?”

“Every one.”

He looked down at his desk. “Then they said they had room for an orphan.”

“You had a placement available?”

“Yes.”

“Then why hand them over?”

His eyes closed. “Because I wanted to know if they were trustworthy.”

The admission sounded painful. “She ended up with a good family in Haleworth. Everything checked out.” His laugh was hollow. “That should have been my warning.”

“Why?”

“Because by then I wasn't using them because I had to.”

The room fell silent.

“I was using them because I wanted to believe.” He stared out the window toward the lake. “It wasn't until later that I found the first discrepancy. A redirected placement.”

“What did you do?”

“I investigated.”

“Find anything?”

“Yes.” His voice was tired now. “They weren't where the Covenant said they'd be. But they were somewhere else. Alive. Working.”

“So you convinced yourself everything was fine.”

A bitter smile crossed his face. “Yes.” The word barely escaped him. “Then confirmations started disappearing.”

His shoulders sagged. “I couldn't verify every placement. Couldn't find every destination.”

His gaze lowered. “But they'd helped so many people.”

There it was - the lie he'd been telling himself for years. Not that nothing was wrong. That the good outweighed whatever was wrong.

“By then the dead drops were already established,” he continued. “The messengers changed every time. I never met anyone face-to-face anymore.”

His eyes found mine. “I only sent them the difficult ones. The people I couldn't place myself.”

A long silence settled between us.

“But deep down,” he said quietly, “I knew something was wrong.” His voice cracked ever so slightly. “I just didn't know what.”

I nodded slowly. “Okay.” I leaned forward and folded my hands together. “Here's what we're going to do…”