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

Had the Gods left? Might she have some respite before Enyo came for her?

“Three days,” the mender answered, reaching to take the cup. “Are you in much pain?” She must think Delyth’s trembling was from that.

Delyth ignored the question. “There was a boy, a mage. Where is he? And… and Mascen. Is he gone?” It was a lot to say all at once with her throat raw like this, but she well remembered the feeling. Last time it had been Enyo’s fingers around her throat.

“Mascen is gone, thanks in part to you. Praise Esha.” The woman’s face lit up, perhaps remembering that Esha was amongst them once more. People all across Thloegr would have that look now.

“The mage? He was brought in. He hit his head badly; we think he fell off of the temple in Midon square. Really there is no explaining why he is not dead, but…” She lifted her shoulders in a graceful shrug as if saying there was no understanding these strange times. “He’s in his own room. When he is stronger, you can see him if you like.”

“No,” Delyth said and turned her back on the girl to drift again into the oblivion of sleep. “I don’t want to see him.”

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“Good morning.”

It was snowing outside Delyth’s window, winter finally breaking over the plains of central Thloegr. She felt as though she had known that for some time, as though she had been awake before the mender spoke, but only just realized it.

It had probably been snowing in the Brig’ian Mountains for moons. Glynfford would be draped in white.

But what place did she have there now?

“How long?” The words came out like a rasp, and Delyth winced. She could feel the pain in her throat, in her chest more acutely now. Had they begun to wean her off the sedative? She wished they wouldn’t. She wanted to sleep forever.

“Days since we last spoke? Two. The tinctures we’ve been giving you to aid your healing can make you sleepy. You’re well enough now that you don’t need so much of them.” Her hands moved as she spoke, feeling Delyth’s throat, brushing over Delyth’s ribs. Finding her injuries, assessing their progress. If Alphonse had been here, the warrior would have already been healed. In a flash of green light and warm touches, followed with some tea and admonishments that Delyth ought to be more careful.

Delyth closed her eyes. The thoughts were too painful, the gentle, searching brush of the mender’s fingers too like Alphonse’s healing hands. If she could not sleep, then she could not stay here.

Still, the motivation to get up escaped her. Where would she even go?

“First snow,” Delyth croaked. “I think. How will the city fare? After everything?”

If she could not convince herself to move, she could at least find other distractions—anything but sinking into memory. She hated self-pity. And she hated herself for wallowing here.

The mender brought the edge of Delyth’s thin tunic down, covering her battered ribs, and tucked the blankets around the warrior before finally speaking. “Much like you, the city is healing. There is hope.” Her dark eyes flickered over Delyth’s face. “The Gods are aiding the city. We will not starve or go homeless.”

“Just don’t swear them any oaths.” Delyth had the grace to feel a little guilty about the comment. She had certainly not expected the Gods to do any such thing. Perhaps they were taking the promises they made more seriously than she had given them credit for. Or else they were trying to embody the generous rulers they thought they deserved to be. “I'm glad. Thloegr has had enough suffering.”

The other woman’s gaze moved to the burn, hidden beneath clean bandages, on Delyth’s arm, and nodded slowly in agreement. “You have too.” She turned then, mixing some concoction of herbs and oils into a cup. She offered it to Delyth. “Your last tincture.” There was an unspoken message there that the dreamless sleep would be over after this.

The warrior downed the cup, the sour mixture still on her tongue as the world faded around her.

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When she woke once more, it was with a clearer head. The sun was low in the sky, bleeding in through the small window above her bed and painting the white room in shades of pink and peach. Delyth sat up again and pushed the thin sheets off. She was clothed in nothing but a linen shirt, though she could see her gear, clean and laid over the only other piece of furniture in the room, a simple chair.

Enyo came in while she was still struggling to push herself up, and under the Goddess’s eyes, she managed it, standing sword-straight despite her bandages or immodesty.

“Ba’oto—” Enyo started, but Delyth cut her off. Real savagery rose snake-quick within her, momentarily cutting through her lack of feeling.

“I have told you, Enyo. I am not your priestess.  I will never worship—” she had to swallow, her voice dying in her throat. “Not you, not after all of this. I only keep my oath.”

Enyo hefted Calamity, and for a moment, she seemed uncertain of herself. She watched as Delyth limped over to the chair and started to pull on her trousers, appraising.

“What would you have me be, warrior? Less than what I am? I chose this path so long ago, only the stars remember a time before me.” Somehow her voice was less hostile, less fierce than usual.“Just as she was careful and soft-hearted, so too am I unwavering in myself. It was that combination that made us such a poor pair. She would not let go of her soul, and I would not let go of mine.”

The Goddess raised her blade. “For my finest warrior.”

Delyth looked dully at the sword and then back at Enyo. She made no move to reply to the speech.