Goddess Liv Savell (best autobiographies to read .TXT) 📖

He was fast, but Enyo knew she could be faster. Must be. She pivoted on her heel, whipping her fist around to his skull. All her existence, Enyo had fought larger, stronger opponents, had used speed and cunning to win her battles. Anticipating Mascen’s block, she yanked her knee up to his belly.

Surprise mingled with fury on his face. It was the tyrant's quandary, their fatal flaw: Mascen had not believed he could lose. He erupted upward and caught her under the chin, but Enyo ignored the clacking of her teeth and instead hooked her fist around to his ear, boxing it as one might a disobedient child. Mascen reacted quickly enough to bring his elbow up to block her, but now he was backing up. She swung again, and he parried, stepping once more out of her range, drawing her away from the others so he could escape and live to fight another day. Enyo kept her focus entirely on raining blows down on Mascen, fast and unrelenting so that he had no more time than to retreat. She wanted him to move back, wanted him to believe he had some means of escape.

Beneath his blocking fists, Enyo could see a cruel smile stretching over Mascen’s sharp teeth. Good. He thought he was distracting her. He thought he was slipping away, back into the city or the tunnels below. He thought she was too single-minded to wonder why he wasn’t attacking back, only thwarting her time and time again.

But it was Enyo’s turn to smile as Mascen stumbled to a halt. He glanced behind himself to see his folly—the fountain, filled to the brim with water. Water to banish fire. And it was too late to stop her. “Mother…” There was an edge to Mascen’s voice that had not been there before. Fear.

Enyo’s hand shot out, gripping his wrist and yanking his arm away to expose his chest. His clothes were in tatters, cloth burned away by heat and battle to leave him vulnerable. He should have shown more foresight. His father would have. But then, Enyo supposed the child did take after her in some ways. She grimaced and placed a red-branding hand against his heart. Mascen screamed and tried to shove her away, but already the wards were working, his power bound up neatly within him. He could do nothing but wobble, Enyo’s grip on his wrist the only thing keeping him upright.

“Goodbye, Mascen,” the Goddess murmured, and before he could spit or curse or beg, she let go. Mascen dropped back into the fountain with a hissing torrent of steam. There was a moment of struggle, of roiling water and thrashing limbs.  And then nothing. Enyo leaned forward to peer within. Empty.

Mascen had been banished.

Chapter XXVI

Eleventh Moon, Waxing Gibbous: Caerthleon

Delyth woke in fragments, her world a blur of pain.

But she woke.

Hot, bitter tears soaked into the thin linen that bound her scorched neck where magma fingers had gripped her as she remembered the events of the battle. She had fought Mascen, finally, despite Etienne’s interference. She had wounded him. Thrown herself at him without a blade.

By all rights, she should be dead.

And still, it wasn’t over. She had to go on like this. Broken. Bereft of everything she loved. Enslaved by her own oath.

It was supposed to be over.

Delyth’s fists clenched in the fabric of the cot on which she lay, panting for breath past the lump in her throat that would not let her scream. She swallowed against it but gave up, turning her mouth into the pillow and shaking against the force of her cries.

The world was dark again for sometime after that, and she drifted only distantly at the edges of consciousness. “She’s torn open her wounds,” a voice came, muddled and quiet. “Keep her sedated until they begin to heal.”

After that, the deep was more complete.

Delyth came to her senses again in a bare, white room that smelled vaguely herbal and clean. Like the mender’s wing at the temple in Glynfford where she had been raised.

The warrior made this connection only dully, her mind still fogged by the remnants of whatever herbs the menders had used to keep consciousness at bay. She was queerly empty, either from the medicine or so ravaged by the last few moons that she could no longer feel at all. She sat up slowly, her face towards the door.

Perhaps summoned by the sounds of Delyth sitting up, a young woman entered. She had dark eyes and hair like Meirin, her skin less copper and more bronze, but that was where the similarities ended. The woman instead had the soft eyes and gentle smile of someone who worked with the sick, and she bowed respectfully when she came to Delyth’s bedside.

“Do you want something to drink?” the mender asked, voice tempered and kind.

Delyth looked at the girl a moment, then turned away, unable to meet her gaze. She did not resemble anyone Delyth had known, but there was something familiar in her eyes. Was she thirsty? She didn’t much care, and all she could feel from her neck was a dull pain.

In the end, she didn’t speak at all, but the mender poured a cup of water anyway. She moved closer to help Delyth hold the glass and take a sip. Her touch was impersonal but not sterile, gentle as she bustled around Delyth’s bed, straightening the blankets and pillows. Coming to Delyth’s other side, the woman took the opportunity to peek under Delyth’s dressing and nodded sagely. Whatever she had seen pleased her.

“You are a brave warrior, Priestess Delyth. We were honored to heal you after the battle. For a time, speech will be challenging, and you might have dizzy spells.” She smiled warmly. “You might not fly until your ribs are whole again. But happily, I can report you will make a full recovery.”

Delyth looked down at the cup, her teeth clenched, and found her hands were shaking. “How long?”