It wasn't a village, the collection of lean-to's and tents. A refugee camp full of starving people with hollow eyes huddled around oily, smoking fires. A family sat dejectedly around a cook fire, a skinny animal roasting on a spit that looked suspiciously like a dog. Linarra didn't like the way they looked at her. She only had a bond with Veshier, but she swore she could feel their hate, it glittered in their eyes, shone from their hopeless, dirty faces.
It didn't matter that he hated her or thought she was stupid, Linarra grabbed his arm in an iron grip, her hip brushing against his side. "Veshier," she said, voice wobbling.
"I know," he answered. "I am ready."
Linarra didn't know precisely what that meant. Ready for what? Why had all these people gathered here anyway? There must have been at least fifty to sixty people in the camp, all bedraggled and dirty, all of them looking hungry and cold. No one said a word. The people stared at them with open hostility but made no moves to harm them.
"We'll keep walking," Veshier said. "They've nothing to offer us." He kept his voice low so that only she could hear it. She felt his protectiveness wash over her and it straightened her spine a little.
They were almost clear of the camp when two men approached them, walking straight up the Path, carrying sputtering torches. Linarra needled her fingers into his arm, but she knew she he could 'see' them. He'd strapped the walking stick to his back before they'd reached the camp.
"Priestess," one of the men, the older one with a bent back called out, voice hoarse, but commanding still.
In one smooth motion, Veshier put himself in front of her and her at his back, stepping between her and the men. "The Initiate walks the Path of Ishahn. It is her sacred work. She's not to be deterred."
"You'll not pass," the younger man said, a kitchen knife clutched in his other hand. He trembled. "Until you help," he added, red rimmed eyes wheeling to her and to Veshier.
"If you're in need of healing, you will journey to the Temple," Veshier said, his hand moving to the hilt of his blade.
"S'not healin' we need," the older man said. "His daughter..." he trailed off.
"It's the Usurper's work!" the younger man said, raising the kitchen knife. "He's got his claws in my child. In the land itself. We come from Arith, just north. The plague's taken just about everyone. If not the plague...then...then it's whatever's wrong with my girl."
"It's evil spirits," the old one said. "She speaks in their language."
Possession, she thought. She'd read about it in the texts on the Usurper. He commanded a host of evil spirits, demons, and sent them into the bodies of the faithless, but how could a child be faithless?
"Linarra," Veshier said, his hand at his side again. "You will see this child." It wasn't a request.
"But," she said, voice small and weak. It annoyed her, how she could never speak up for herself. Every time she tried, people just talked over her, and she was sure Veshier would do the same.
"I...don't know what to do," she whispered, voice dying, defeated already.
"You will try," he said lowly to her. "Take us to the child."
The men nodded and they followed after them. She noted that the eyes of the people in the camp were less hostile and angry. They looked on with interest, though they still seemed afraid and guarded.
Out of sight of the camp was another derelict farmhouse. This one in worse shape. It was just charred brick walls. The doors and roof gone in an apparent fire. Inside the building, a little camp fire cast odd shadows on the walls.
"She's in there in a bad way," the younger man, the father, said. He kept his face down, refusing to look at her. "I won't be going in," he added and then held his knife out to her. "If you can't help...just. End it then."
Linarra shook her head. "Oh...no. I won't. I can't do that."
Veshier swatted the man's hand away, sending his bent kitchen knife skittering to the ground, his lip curled in a sneer. "I will do it," he assured the man, his tone cold. "You will pray for your child. Beg the Mother's forgiveness. A child is without sin. But sins of the father will visit his children. Come, Linarra."
Numb, she let him tug her along. If he was so damn sure of himself, let him do it, whatever 'it' would be. It would require an exorcism, but she'd never been taught to do that. They only talked about them, not the procedures. Not the verses.
The moment they crossed the threshold, the smell hit her like a physical blow. Shit and piss. Blood. Bile. So strong that Linarra stumbled back, arm thrown over her nose and mouth.
At first, she couldn't see anything in the dim, flickering light of the campfire, but then, huddled in the corner, was the 'child'. It was a girl of about fourteen or fifteen, her nude body painfully thin and covered in scratches and cuts and bruises. Dirt and feces smeared over her stick thin legs. Her chapped lips peeled back from her teeth, and she cackled at them.
She whispered things, nonsense words, as spit frothed and bubbled from her lips. For a moment, Linarra thought she understood the words. He comes. He wakes. Soon. Soon. Our Master rises from the Mountain like the sun to burn us all away. Soon. SOON. But the more she tried to focus, the more it sounded like gibberish. The more she doubted her ability, the less sense the babble made.
"She's saying things," she murmured to Veshier who stood, once again, between her and the girl. "That he's coming. Rising from the Mountain." Her brow furrowed. "Speak again, demon," she called out from behind Veshier. "I can understand you."
Sow! He'll cull you like the rest. You need not understand!
Veshier scoffed. "Don't listen to it. It lies. Speaks nonsense."
Being able to understand the garbled speech gave her courage. Maybe she had a gift after all. Maybe she was blessed with the power of the Mother. "I want to help you," she said, her voice stronger now.
The girl only screamed, tearing out her own hair, blood running down her scalp and over her face. She beat herself against the walls and rolled on the ground, arching her back, urinating on herself. It all happened in quick succession, all of it so horrible and shocking that Linarra could only stare in horror.
"Command it, Linarra," Veshier said, drawing his sword. "Or I will end this."
Her little spark of confidence was effectively snuffed out and Linarra shook her head. "I don't know how."
"Yes you do!" Veshier shouted at her. "Do it!"
She shook her head again, tears stinging her eyes as the girl thrust both of her hands into the fire, the flesh searing, bubbling while she laughed and screamed. The smell of her burning skin turned Linarra's stomach.
"Now!" Veshier needled.
Doubling over, hands on her knees, Linarra vomited bile and what little water she'd had to drink. Veshier kept ranting at her, but her ears were ringing. The girl's arms were black. She couldn't look away. Blood and clear fluid splashed onto the ground, made the fire hiss.
"Get out," she said weakly, wheezing. "Get out of this child." Trembling, she stepped in front of Veshier, wanting only for it all to end.
"Get out!" she cried. "OUT!" she screamed.
She felt something then. A rush of cold, a tingle of energy up and down her limbs. Her head spun and her stomach clenched. "I command you," she went on, her voice sounding strange to her ringing ears. "To leave this child. I command you. The Mother commands you!"
Something pooled in her chest, the cold and the electric tingling. Thunder snarled in the sky or in her head and it burst out of her in a rush. It sucked the air from her lungs and took the strength in her legs. Linarra collapsed, her vision disappearing down a dark tunnel into blissful nothingness.
#
When she slept, she rarely dreamed, or if she did, Linarra didn't remember them when she woke. Life in the Temple ground her spirit to dust. The same rituals and prayers, the same hymns. Even the weather, perpetual spring, made every day seem precisely the same as the day before it. It was hard not to see it as punishment. A perpetual prison sentence for what she'd done.
There, in the derelict house, collapsed from shock and exhaustion, she briefly dreamed. When she did remember her dreams, it was only ever the same dream and really more of a memory. The deception was that in a dream, she could change how it all ended.
Emory was only six years old and already he was better at everything. Linarra tried not to be bitter, sitting at the grand table in dining hall. She tried to enjoy the feast for her little brother's birthday. He sat at the head of the table, an honor usually reserved for her father and mother, with a gilded paper crown atop his brown, curly head. His cheeks were ruddy and smeared with sticky honey from his cake. Presents toppled and spilled to the floor and still more came.
He stood in the chair and proclaimed that he was six years old while holding up six fingers. How handsome and how clever, everyone said. Her aunts and uncles, cousins, mother and father. No one paid her any mind at all. Not that they should, she knew, it wasn't her birthday, but they hadn't made nearly as much of a fuss for her. Plain and dour in disposition, she wasn't as interesting or clever.
Most of the time, she loved Emory. He -was- a sweet and clever boy, but she wondered if that was because their parents actually loved him. Maybe she'd be those things too if they gave her even a tiny bit of the attention they lavished on their only son.
His favorite gift that day was a wooden sword. It wasn't even a practice blade, but he thought it was. Holding it aloft, standing on his chair, he proclaimed he'd be the High Priestess's Guardian when he was a little bigger. This charmed everyone, of course.
While they laughed and cheered, Linarra slipped away. The little gift she'd made for Emory lost in the pile of much nicer things anyway. She went to the stables to brush the horses and enjoy the soft, spring rain and the quiet. It was where she spent most of her time.
It was near twilight when Emory came to the stables, still wearing his rumpled crown and carrying his wooden sword. She felt irritated that he'd come to find her. She wanted to be left alone.
He made a loud show of slaying various things, swiping his sword through the air, startling the horses. They chuffed and stamped.
"Go play somewhere else, Emory," she scolded. "You're making the horses nervous."
He stopped, because he -was- a good boy. "Come play with me! It's my birthday. So you have to."
Lofting her chin she shook her head. "No, I don't. And I won't either. I don't want to. I'm -busy-."
"You left my party," he said, lower lip jutting out. "Mother said it's because you're ill mannered."
She shrugged, concentrating on brushing the horse, a bay stallion, her favorite. "Maybe I am. So what?"
"Please," he whined. "We can go play by the pond."
"It's raining, Emory. And mother said not to play by the pond. Go away. Go play in your room. Go bother cousin Tira."
"Tira's only three! She can't -do- anything!" Emory complained.
"And you're only six! I'm eleven. I'm too old to play. It's for babies," she said, feeling mean spirited. She knew it would hurt his feelings, but maybe that would make him leave her alone. It wasn't that she hated playing with him, she just didn't have the heart for it. He was the favorite. The best. She was a disappointment.
"Fine!" he huffed. "You're stupid anyway."
The dream continued. He walked away, stomping his feet. She watched it all, outside herself. No amount of screaming or begging made the memory change. She wouldn't go after him. She'd be happy he'd left her alone.
And in three hours, he'd be dead, drowned and at the bottom of the pond he wasn't supposed to be playing near. They'd find his wooden sword floating in the water. They'd haul him out, in the dead of night, with nets and hooks. His ruddy cheeks pale, bright eyes dull, lips blue. No one would blame her because she never told them she sent him away.
#
Linarra startled awake, the image of her little brother still just behind her eyes. Disorientated, she didn't remember, for a moment, where she was. The smell reminded her and she scrambled to sit up. Veshier was by her side, broad hand on her shoulder.
"You did it," he breathed, voice full of wonder and surprise, the bond filled with his approval. "The demon has left her."
The girl lay nearby, whimpering, muttering, curled with her back facing Linarra. The smell of her burned skin still filled the ruined house.
"She's hurt," Linarra said, her voice creaking. "I don't think I can fix it." She'd never so much as healed a scratch. Healing was the highest form of art, the highest gift from the Mother. Yes, she had a gift, but it certainly wasn't healing.
"She'll die if you don't," Veshier said, voice cold, the warmth of his approval fleeing with her uncertainty.
Brushing off his hand, Linarra pushed herself to her feet, weak and dizzy, mouth dry. She felt like she'd vomit again if she hadn't already. Carefully, slowly, she padded over to the prone girl, one shaking hand extended.
When she came around the front of the girl, she saw how terrible her wounds really were. Her arms were burned down to the bone. Her face was white and bloodless. Linarra wanted to say she couldn't because she -knew- she couldn't, but Veshier would only threaten her again or scowl at her. She'd try, even though she knew she'd fail. She knew, too, it only postponed the inevitable.
She lay her hand on the girl's shoulder and closed her eyes. Silently, she prayed to the Mother, beseeched her. She had prayed before, of course. It had been many years since she had last prayed, but that's because she never could think of anything to ask for. When she'd first arrived at the Temple, she'd asked to be free from it. To be struck dead. But her prayers were never answered.
Linarra didn't think this one would be either. Hadn't these poor people already prayed to the Mother? Why hadn't she answered them? Why was she so special that she'd be heard over them? It made no sense to her, but still, she tried.
She bargained when she felt no rush of power to her fingertips. She'd trade her life. It seemed fair. Priestesses were supposed to live for others, so why couldn't they die for people too? The girl had suffered so much, didn't she deserve another chance?
Silence and numbness answered her. Nothing worked. Not focusing. Not praying. Not bargains or curses. The girl only slowly died under her hand until she was still and cold.
Only then, when she felt the spark of life and breath leave the body under her fingers did Linarra feel anything stir. It felt like hitting her elbow on the corner of a dresser only on the inside of her body. She could make the flesh move again, make the eyes blink. It was easy.
The dead girl's limbs gave a jerking twitch and Linarra screamed, scuttling backwards like a crab.
"Veshier!" she cried.
"What...what abomination is this?" he muttered, unsheathing his blade again.
With no warning or ceremony, his blade hissed down and took the girl's head. The body gave a few more violent jerks and then went still, whatever power that had leeched out of Linarra went back to her, cold and final.
"The Usurper's work," Veshier said. "We'd best be leaving." He pulled a rag from his pack and wiped the blade free of blood. If he knew of or had seen the foul magic Linarra had used, he made no indication. She didn't feel any new shock or revulsion in their bond.
He could only see things that were alive, she thought. Maybe that's why he hadn't seen it. She wondered what he would have done had he seen it? Would she be dead too? Her head rolling on the floor of the destroyed house?
"What do we tell her father?" she asked as she got up, staying close to him even as she feared he'd learned her most terrible secret.
"We freed her soul," he said.
#
They left the camp even though every step was agony. Too exhausted to really walk, she shuffled behind Veshier, stumbling, head swimming. It felt like days, instead of hours and the cold rain pelted and stung her skin. Finally, she could walk not another step and sank to her knees on the Path.
"I can't," she said, unsure if he even heard her over the rain.
She could feel his exhaustion too, in every breath. His hurt became her hurt, and she was too tired to fight to keep the feelings separate. Quietly, she cried in the dirt and the muck, hands limp at her sides. She couldn't get the sight of the girl's father screaming and sobbing out of her head. He cursed them, but he shouldn't have bothered. They were doomed, she knew it. The world of the Great Temple was a lie. The Mother was deaf and powerless.
She barely registered when Veshier picked her up, cradling her like a child and carrying her. "It's not safe to stop here," he said. With her face pressed against his chest, she could feel his voice rumble before it left his lips. She didn't care if he found her weak and useless, she was too tired. He was warm and no matter what he said, his words were comfort.
"I tried," she told him as he carried her.
"I know," he said. "I felt you try. I heard your prayers. I saw the power of your faith as you expelled the demon." He almost sounded proud of her. "Something has happened. Something has changed. I was only fourteen when I came to the Temple. The world was...not like this."
Linarra wasn't so sure. She'd lived in a great manor house to the south near the sea. She hadn't seen much of the world. It was one gilded cage to another. She knew Veshier came from a wealthy family too. How would he know?
"My brother told me stories," he continued as though answering her silent questions. "Of how people would line the Path the entire way, throwing flowers and offering gifts, singing the Mother's hymns."
"What if they were just stories, Veshier? What if he lied? How could things have gotten so bad in seven years?"
He didn't answer right away, but kept walking, shifting her a little in his arms. "There is life up ahead. It's some ways away. A day's walk, maybe a little less. We'll stop soon so we can sleep. And my brother wouldn't have lied. A lot of people say...he wasn't a good man. But he was."
Grief. He blamed himself for some reason.
They had more in common than he realized. "I bet he was," she said, her voice, her head feeling like it was stuffed with cotton. "I had a brother too," she told him dreamily, slipping back into her terrible memories against her will. "I wish I'd died instead of him."
"Yes. I wish it had been me and not him," he said about his own long dead brother. He squeezed her a little harder against him, and she slipped into sleep, his words were like Emory's wooden sword, swatting phantoms away. She didn't dream.