Page 47

Sophos

“ A pologies for my lateness, Your Grace. My journey home was delayed at the Kalas pass.”

The Grand Bearer’s cloak makes a soft swish as it glides across the marble floor. The high temple’s forum is warm today, sunlight streaming through the glass ceiling as we walk beside the pool.

“No trouble from those heretics that call themselves the Hand, I hope?” he says.

“No, Your Grace. Just some landslips from the wet weather. The Hand of Ralus seem to have lost interest in targeting the roads lately.”

I file away the Grand Bearer’s assumption for another time. The landslips on the Wirstones were a stroke of good luck, allowing me to make a diversion to Xatus without needing to justify my extra two days’ absence. But if I’m to return anytime soon, I’ll need more excuses in my arsenal.

I don’t enjoy lying to the Grand Bearer, but in this case, it is the lesser of two evils—an unfortunate necessity that I pray nightly to the gods to forgive me for.

“I was eager for your return, Sophos. We’ve had some misfortune while you were away.”

Guilt twists my stomach. Perhaps my prayers aren’t working, and this is the gods’ punishment for my secrets.

“I’m sorry to hear that, Your Grace. What happened?”

“The Morelium’s man, Parvus, is dead. Which means not only are they yet to retrieve the object we sought at Vastamae, but the heretic Morgana Angevire is now out of our reach. Their spies tell me she has been taken to Lavail and is safely ensconced behind the palace walls.”

I briefly close my eyes, absorbing this blow. It was me who let the heretic, that dangerous solari, slip through our fingers. I’d had some hope since then that I’d been spared to put that grave mistake right, but it seems we are no closer to ridding ourselves of this blight.

“The gods test us, Your Grace, but we will hold firm.”

“It’s not the gods, Sophos.” The Grand Bearer’s voice is abrupt, far harsher than his usual smooth cadence.

“It’s our enemies. The gods handed us an unexpected gift when Parvus ran into her at the Lyceum.

But those fae demons have been helping her.

I believe she’s stronger now than when you encountered her last. It meant she could outwit him. ”

“Yes, Your Grace,” I say apologetically. He’s right. Ethira would not betray us like this. Parvus’s failure can only be down to mortal error. My error. If she hadn’t bested me at Otscold, she would not have had the opportunity to hone her stolen magic.

The Grand Bearer sighs, his face softening as he looks out across the pool.

“Never mind, Sophos. We will just have to find a clever way to get her to come to us. I’ve been thinking of—Ah, Bearer Tributin.”

My fellow bearer bows as he enters the forum, his long black hair swaying as he approaches. It doesn’t hide the envy that crosses his face at how close I am to the Grand Bearer, but I pay it no mind. Most of the bearers are envious of the special trust the Grand Bearer places in me.

“Your Grace, the cleavers have arrived with a celestial abomination,” Tributin says. “Do you wish to see the heretic now, or should we detain him for you to cleanse another time?”

The Grand Bearer runs a hand through his hair—as dark as Tributin’s despite his seven decades—and considers this.

“I’ll see him now, Tributin. Take him to the sanctuary.”

“Very good, Your Grace.”

“Come, Sophos,” the Grand Bearer says as Tributin leaves. “We can finish our discussion afterward.”

My heart sinks. I understand the cleansings are important—essential, in fact—but I don’t enjoy attending them. However, if the Grand Bearer needs me to bear witness to his sacrifice, I must find the necessary strength.

We walk in silence to his private sanctuary.

The heretic is already waiting for us there, bound on his knees and flanked by two cleavers.

He must be about thirteen. Most of the solari we find are young these days.

It’s rare for one to remain hidden until adulthood.

I assume it was only Morgana Angevire’s powerful parents that allowed her to stay undetected for so long.

The boy is pale, hair slicked with sweat and eyes wide. He knows what’s coming will not be pleasant, but it is the only way to save his soul. I know this is true…And yet, my body still rebels at what’s to come, my stomach aching and my mouth going dry.

The Grand Bearer gestures for the cleavers to take a step back, allowing him to approach the boy alone.

His Grace likes to perform all his cleansings here in the sanctuary, under the watchful eye of Ethira, depicted in the mosaic on the wall behind us.

The image shows him shooting his bow up into the stars, representing the moment when he pierced the celestial realm and became a god.

I imagine it reminds the Grand Bearer of his own divine mission.

His Grace lays a hand on the boy’s head as the child shakes with fear beneath his fingers. I try not to look away. This will be over soon. But the Grand Bearer pauses, closing his eyes for a moment; he looks tired.

Tributin has joined us, and—foolishly—he clears his throat now.

“Your Grace, are you sure you want to do this? We can hold off on the cleansing, or simply execute the heretic. You needn’t tax yourself like this.”

The boy whimpers.

“But I must, Bearer Tributin,” the Grand Bearer says, his voice severe, just as I could have told Tributin it would be.

The Grand Bearer dislikes when we question the cleansing.

It reveals how we’d prefer to take the easy path over the righteous one.

“We must do right by this child, not in spite of his crimes, but because of them. Would you have me cast him into the Gloamlands, uncleansed, when I have the power to free his soul of its evil?”

Tributin flushes, feeling the sting of the rebuke.

“The gods have gifted me with a special power,” the Grand Bearer continues, “and I would be as bad as a heretic if I didn’t use it.

I must take this burden on to save him. Only by purifying him can we ensure he goes to the celestial realm.

Anything else would condemn him to an eternity of torment.

Is that what you want for this child, Tributin? ”

The Grand Bearer fixes Tributin with a commanding stare.

“No, Your Grace,” he mutters.

“I should hope not,” His Grace responds before turning his attention back to the boy.

By now, he’s not just quivering with terror.

Deep sobs rack his body as tears slide down his small cheeks.

Nausea grips me, and I begin to pray, asking the gods to protect him from the pain he is about to endure, for them to quickly accept his soul once it is cleansed—anything to make this easier for him.

The fizz of magic fills the air, and the boy starts to scream, bucking under the Grand Bearer’s hand.

But it’s like the pair are now fused together, joined at the point where fingers meet skull.

His Grace’s eyes darken until they’re almost entirely black as he channels the tainted power out of the boy and through himself.

I want to look away, yet something glues my eyes to the scene.

Perhaps it’s the sense that this is a sacrifice that must be honored.

Turning away would be a betrayal to both the man and child who are enduring so much.

Still, I have to concentrate on my breath to remain calm as the boy’s cries become so loud his voice breaks, giving out on him so his mouth is left open in a silent shriek.

I’m always shocked by how fast the process is. When the fizz of magic fades, the boy is seized by violent convulsions. His body is starting to fail, unable to sustain itself without the magic he stole from the gods.

Caledon releases his hold on him, and the boy’s head judders on his neck, blood pouring down his chin from where he’s bit his tongue. His eyes roll to the back of his head, and he slumps forward onto the floor.

A series of sickening pops fill the air as various joints dislocate, ripped from their sockets by his spasms. Eventually, the tremors slow. His body twitches for only a few moments more before growing still.

The Grand Bearer steps back, adjusting the sleeves of his robes.

Rather than seeming like he’s taken on a burden, he looks less tired than before, almost rejuvenated.

I’m reminded that doing the gods’ will rewards us with a serenity that shows in our demeanor.

And no task is so worthy of reward as a sacrifice like this.

“We must remember that this is the noblest death they can have,” he says. “His soul is liberated of its sins, and he can join his ancestors in the Eternal Realm.”

I nod, trying to hold onto that thought as the cleavers remove the small, limp body. However broken his earthly form may be, at least now the boy is free.