Chapter 191

After dinner, I gathered everyone in my study - including Grams.

The stack of dossiers sat on my desk like a pile of unexploded bombs.

“Jackob gave me these,” I said, gesturing toward the papers. “Someone's been watching us. For a long time.”

Mirri frowned. “What’s in there?”

“A lot.” I rubbed at my eyes. “Way more than there should be. It’s not complete, but…” I picked up one of the folders. “Serah, was your mother's name Aurelyth?”

The room went still.

Serah's eyes widened. Slowly, she nodded.

I swallowed. “This tells how she died.”

For a moment, I couldn't tell whether she already knew.

Her expression tightened. She took the dossier from my hand and began reading. The color drained from her face. By the time she reached the second page, her eyes had gone glassy.

“I’m sorry,” I said quietly.

She didn't answer.

I wasn't sure there was anything to say.

I picked up another folder. “There’s information in here about you, Mirri. Your mother. Grams.” I hesitated. “Also about your father, Grams. There’s a file on James.”

Grams' expression didn't change.

“Why the fuck would somebody be watching us for this long?” Mirri asked.

“I don't know.” The answer tasted bitter.

“I have no idea who compiled these. Someone contacted Jackob, told him to go to Crownreach, and handed them over. All we know is that it was a woman, and she specifically didn't want me getting these until after Altara was born.”

Nobody looked particularly comforted by that.

“That's not all, though,” I continued. “There are files on gods too. Nyssira. Miralis. Lunythera.”

I looked toward Grams. “You said your father knew Lunythera. Did he ever say how they met? How often they met?”

She shook her head. “Never met her myself. Da just told stories.”

“What kind of stories?”

Grams snorted. “The adventures of the Waning Watcher.”

“Anything useful?” I asked

“Depends on your definition of useful.” She leaned back in her chair. “He used to say the moon doesn't watch the world.”

I frowned. “What does it watch?”

“Doors.”

The room was silent for a moment.

“Doors?” Mirri asked.

“Doors,” Grams confirmed.

I rubbed my chin. “Anything else?”

“Oh sure.” She waved a hand dismissively. “Said she had a thousand lovers. One in every village. None of them knew about the others.”

“That's certainly one way to maintain a reputation.”

Grams grinned. “He also claimed she had a library hidden beneath the moon.”

“A library?”

“Mhm.”

“What was in it?”

“No idea. I was ten.” She shrugged. “The important part was that all the librarians were naked.”

I closed my eyes. “Of course that's the part you remembered.”

“It was memorable.”

A thought occurred to me. “Grams, at Brinja's birthday party you mentioned your father kept journals.”

“A lot of journals.”

“With notes and sketches?”

She nodded.

“Can I see them?”

“Sure.” She shrugged. “They're in an old chest back home. Stop by tomorrow.”

“Thank you.” I made a mental note to do exactly that.

Then I flipped through another dossier. “There isn't much in here about you, Elise. Mostly observations. Notes about your parents. Estimates of your magical ability.”

Elise looked relieved by that.

I couldn't blame her.

I set the folder down and picked up another. “Ashie.”

Ashlara looked up. “Yeah?”

I scratched the back of my neck. “There’s some stuff in here about you. It kind of suggests Aurelion took a personal interest in your life when you were younger.”

Her brow furrowed. “Me?”

“Yeah.”

Confusion spread across her face. “Why?”

I looked down at the dossier. The answer wasn't in there. Or if it was, I hadn't found it yet.

“I have no idea,” I admitted as I met her eyes. “But I intend to find out.”

* * *

Benedrict made his way through the cedar trees that dotted the sparse forests of northern Caldris.

The journey back from Earth had been difficult. As broken and wounded as he was, the woundroot hadn't wanted to let him go. He was used to that.

The first time he'd traveled through the woundroot had been far worse. He hadn't known what awaited him inside. Hadn't known he would be forced to relive every scar he carried. Hadn't known he'd have to face his father again.

The first time he'd killed the man, he'd been thirteen. Lost. Afraid. Broken.

When the woundroot dragged those memories back to the surface, all the old feelings had come with them. The helplessness. The inadequacy. The certainty that no matter what he did, it would never be enough.

But by then he'd been a grown man. And he refused to be that frightened child again.

He'd beaten the corpse into an unrecognizable ruin before moving on and discovering an entirely new world. A world without magic. A world without gods.

The first problem could be fixed. The second was a blessing.

The gods' only purpose seemed to be the creation of suffering. Which was absurd, because mortals were the ones who had birthed them. Fed them. Given them shape in the first place.

His grandfather had been killed by Urzan-Brak. Not metaphorically. Not indirectly. The god had descended onto a battlefield, told soldiers on both sides that they weren’t doing it right, and slaughtered everyone.

His aunt and cousins had lived in Stormwall when Kaelira rode through on a tornado, ripping their home from the earth and scattering their bodies across the countryside.

Pyraeth had sent dragons to burn Bronzewell. His uncle died there.

His cousins survived only long enough to become monsters themselves. They'd lived with Benedrict's family for a time, tormenting him nearly as cruelly as his father had until they were eventually imprisoned for murder and theft.

And those were only the examples he could point to directly.

The drugs his mother tried to drown herself with after he'd killed his father surely traced back to Oriselle. The creature that had eaten his wife from the inside had been born from Urzan-Brak's rampant Faith.

Miralis had never answered his prayers for mercy as his father beat him. Athryx had never thrown a single coin his way when he was starving.

The gods watched. The gods took. They were parasites. And he was done with them.

He'd gathered others who felt the same. People abandoned by the gods. People broken by them.

And through those people he'd learned of the woundroots. Learned they led to another world. And they had been right.

Earth was loud. Dirty. Oppressive. Yet it possessed something remarkable.

Religion.

In a world without gods, people had somehow convinced themselves that gods existed anyway. No proof. No miracles. No evidence. Only conviction.

Not only that, they had convinced millions that suffering could lead to salvation. They had united nations under that one, crazy concept and had nearly taken over the world with it.

Nearly being the operative word.

Because unity remained elusive. Each group insisted their imaginary god was real while everyone else's was… imaginary. And it was all somehow done with belief in the absence of proof.

If humans on Earth could rally around imaginary gods, then surely mortals here could unite against real ones. If enough people stood together, the gods could be removed.

And if one source of suffering could be removed, then others could follow.

He had already found the path - the bloomed. Those who emerged from the woundroots changed. Reborn. Malleable.

They had learned that if the bloomed were found early enough, they could be shaped, guided, and controlled.

With enough of them, suffering could be minimized. Perhaps even eliminated.

So Benedrict planned, recruited, and organized. He gathered the brightest minds he could find and became a shepherd to the forgotten and desperate. Together they built the Mercy Engine.

And it had almost worked. It had come so close. For a brief moment he'd held the possibility of genuine change in his hands. A chance to place someone with a conscience above selfish gods who had never earned their power and never cared about those beneath them.

Then Seth destroyed it all. Seth - the one god who should have understood. The actual god of belief in the absence of proof. The god who possessed the power to change the world and chose not to.

He had preserved suffering. Protected it. Defended it.

And Benedrict would make him pay.

Miralis had been the first to appear after the Mercy Engine's destruction. She came to mock him. When words failed, she drove her spear into him and left him weaker than before.

Then came Aurelion. Not to help. Not to understand. To command. To lecture. To remind Benedrict of his place.

Benedrict refused. He would not kneel. Not to gods. Not now. Not ever.

So Aurelion abandoned him. Left him lost in the wilderness, his body a grotesque tangle of crystal, flesh, and thorned vines.

Good. He was better off without them. Better off without gods.

Days later he finally reached one of the Covenant's waystations. His people. Or at least they had been.

They didn't recognize him. He was a broken shell of what he once was. Something less than human. A creature that inspired fear.

As the workers fled, something inside him snapped. Vines lashed outward in rage.

One of the men screamed as he was seized and dragged back. Thorns bit deep. Blood flowed.

And then something amazing happened.

The man gave up. Benedrict felt it happen. The fear left him. The pain faded. His will crumbled as he accepted his fate.

In that moment Benedrict could have done anything to him - anything - and the man wouldn’t have fought back. Wouldn’t have resisted. Wouldn’t have suffered. He would’ve accepted whatever came next.

Cruelty. Kindness. Life. Death. It didn't matter.

There was power in that. Real power. Not the power to force obedience. The power to remove the suffering born of resistance. The power to quiet fear. The power to grant surrender.

Slowly, Benedrict pushed himself upright for the first time in days - for the first time since returning from Earth - using the man he was wrapped around as support. Serving as the skeleton Benedrict no longer possessed. The source of strength Seth had taken from him.

And as he stood, a new purpose took shape. If mercy was out of his reach, then surrender would be what he could offer.

* * *

We spent a good while discussing the dossiers, but eventually I left them with the others to read.

They had a right to know what was in them.

Around midnight, I stepped to Silvermere and immediately found myself in the middle of an argument between a husband and wife.

While they had originally been shouting at each other, my sudden appearance in their kitchen proved sufficiently offensive and unexpected that both redirected their anger toward me.

I apologized profusely, dodged a thrown wooden spoon, batted aside a pot, and narrowly avoided a punch before retreating through the front door.

The moment I reached the street, I heard the husband yell:

“And stay out of my house!”

“Sorry,” I shouted back. “Won’t happen again!”

I hurried away before either of them found something heavier to throw.

Stepping to places I'd never visited - or had only visited once or twice - was never exact.

My Faithscape resembled a field of stars. Some lights shone brighter because they were closer. Others burned brighter because they held more Faith. Most were some combination of both. Looking across an entire world made judging distance nearly impossible.

Two lights that appeared side by side might be separated by hundreds of miles. I overshot. I undershot.

And now that my Faith had twisted itself into something stranger than simple belief, I wasn't ending up primarily at crossroads and libraries anymore - I was ending up in the middle of people's lives.

Eventually I found my way down the switchbacks, stairs, and ladders that connected Silvermere's layered cliffside districts and made my way toward the docks.

Then south - toward the House of Red Lanterns.

The ocean wind cut through my cloak in sharp, icy gusts. Below, waves hammered the cliffs with enough force to send curtains of mist into the air. The scents of saltwater, fish, and kelp lingered stubbornly despite the wind.

Marble columns framed the entrance to the bathhouse, their surfaces worn smooth by centuries of sea spray. Crimson lanterns swayed overhead, painting the wet stone in pools of warm red light. Even half ruined, the place remained beautiful - regal in the tired way old things sometimes were.

The moment I crossed the threshold, warmth enveloped me. The sea vanished.

Instead the air smelled of mineral steam and damp limestone, softened by lavender, cedar, and sandalwood. The scents blended into something rich and soothing enough to make tired muscles ache for rest.

Behind the front desk stood the same blonde woman I'd met before. Her dress was expertly tailored to flatter without crossing fully into indecency. Golden hair spilled neatly over her shoulders. Her makeup enhanced rather than concealed.

Everything about her suggested effort. Maintenance. Deliberate charm. Even her Faith - a neat braid of silver and orange - seemed cultivated.

The moment she saw me, she blanched.

“Welcome to the House of Red Lanterns,” she said, forcing a strained smile. “How can I help you tonight?”

To her credit, her voice remained melodic and perfectly composed.

I offered her a warm smile. “The ninth curtain, please.”

Her smile tightened. “Of course.” She stepped out from behind the desk. “Please follow me.”

We moved beyond the velvet curtains and past the large communal baths. Steam drifted through the air in pale clouds.

“I wanted to apologize,” I said.

She glanced back.

“For my behavior last time.”

Her expression became subtly guarded. “You have nothing to apologize for, my lord. It was nothing.”

I stopped walking.

She continued several paces before realizing I was no longer following. When she turned, I met her eyes.

“I was upset,” I said. “And I took it out on you. That wasn't fair.”

Confusion flickered across her face.

“I behaved inappropriately toward both you and your mistress. I've already apologized to her. You deserve the same.” I bowed my head slightly. “I'm sorry. I'll try not to let it happen again.”

For a moment she simply stared. Then something softened. Not entirely, but enough. “Apology accepted,” she said.

This time her smile seemed genuine, though still guarded. “Please follow me.”

I caught up and she continued leading me through the carved limestone halls.

Soft music drifted somewhere in the distance.

When we reached the final chamber, she drew back the velvet curtain and knocked lightly against the hidden wooden door. A moment later she cracked it open, listened, and stepped aside. “The mistress will see you now.”

The smile was strained again.

I slipped through the doorway.

The chamber beyond smelled faintly of jasmine and frankincense layered atop the mineral scents of the bathhouse. Dozens of candles flickered throughout the room, casting pools of warm light and deep shadow. Dark velvet draped the walls, softening the edges of the chamber and making it feel smaller than it really was.

A steaming pool occupied one corner.

A low table stood near the center. Plates of fruit and delicate pastries rested atop it beside a bottle of spiced wine and two waiting glasses.

Across the room, Oriselle reclined upon a fainting couch.

She rose as I entered. The movement carried the lazy grace of a cat stretching in a patch of sunlight. “You returned.”

A faint blush colored her cheeks. Combined with the dramatic makeup, it made her look almost shy. Almost.

Her layered robes of black velvet and crimson silk whispered softly as she moved. Wine-dark hair spilled freely across her shoulders while burgundy eyes glittered in the candlelight.

The door clicked shut behind me.

“Please,” she said warmly. “Sit.”

I smiled and took the offered chair. “Thank you.”

She settled back onto the couch. “To what do I owe the pleasure of your company?”

“I wanted to continue our conversation from last time.” I hesitated. “And I wanted to see how you were doing. I know it can be… lonely here.”

Confusion crossed her face. Then curiosity. Then amusement. “You are a very interesting man,” she said.

“That's usually what people say when they're trying to avoid answering a question.”

Her laugh came easily. “And I see you've stabilized somewhat since our last date.”

I raised an eyebrow at that particular choice of words.

She smiled innocently.

I didn't believe it for a second. “It's been an eventful couple of weeks,” I admitted. “I don't know if I'd say I'm good. But I'm better, if that makes sense.”

“Perfect sense,” she replied. She poured two glasses of wine and slid one toward me. “Please help yourself to anything I have to offer.”

She gestured toward the table. “The pomegranates and persimmons are in season.” A hint of genuine enthusiasm entered her voice. “They're quite wonderful.”

I took a cautious sip of the wine.

It was different from last time. Still dark and rich, but brighter. Cinnamon, clove, honey, and citrus softened the tartness while subtler flavors lingered beneath.

While I wasn't much of a drinker, I was painfully aware of the irony of accepting too much alcohol from the Goddess of Addiction.

The persimmons, however, looked incredible. They'd been sliced into delicate cups and drizzled with honey and reduced wine. Cinnamon dusted the tops while whipped cream and roasted hazelnuts crowned each piece.

I picked one up and took a bite.

The fruit was soft and sweet. The honey deepened the flavor without overwhelming it. The cream added richness while the hazelnuts brought just enough texture to keep everything from becoming cloying. I closed my eyes for a moment. “Delicious. Thank you.”

Oriselle's smile brightened noticeably. The response seemed to please her far more than it probably should have.

She waited while I took another bite. Only then did she continue. “So.” Her burgundy eyes sparkled. “Same rules as last time?”

I considered that. “Do you think we need rules?”

For a moment she stared. Then laughter burst from her. Free. Joyful. Entirely unrestrained. And not remotely innocent.

“I think,” she said once she'd recovered, “we'll manage just fine without them.”