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

but they live in no greater filth than do Ingola’s small towns. In fact, the clans seem to do much better. Delyth has spoken of the free access to menders and education the temples here provide, of the trade between villages and clans. The small landowners of Ingola have no such opportunities. 

What is more, the land of Thloegr is home to more races and cultures than all of Ingola. I have not met the people of the Eastern forest, but I know that the mountain clans worship different Gods and celebrate different festivals than those that live in Gwynhafan. Where the people of the plains are tall, dark-skinned, and gentle, the mountain people tend to be pale, stocky, and proud. Islanders are more prevalent here than in Dailion, as they seem to face less flagrant mistrust, though I must admit that even in this mix of people, they are still not regarded fondly. I believe that I have even seen hints of peoples from beyond the shores of this continent. My traveling companion, Meirin, favors the descriptions of those from the land of Tupa Gali, and in my time in Gwynhafan, I believe I came across those from Zolela or Araria. The only people that are more prevalent in Ingola are the Cabot, of whom I have only seen one in Thloegr, and Ingolans themselves.

I believe this diversity—

The fire popped and Etienne jumped, looking up from his work to scan the clearing. Delyth still had not returned, and Meirin stared morosely into the flames. All was still quiet.

I believe this diversity is the result of Thloegr’s tolerance toward outsiders. Its borders are open for trade or travel or whatever else. I posit that the coastal cities have profited from this easy attitude towards commerce, and it has undoubtedly allowed the trade between Thloegr’s cultures to thrive. This ideology will doubtless seem inimical to the Ingolan scholar, given Ingola’s care to remain untainted by other lands. I realize that this stems from a desire to keep our magical knowledge from the hands of other nations, but I cannot help but think we are cutting ourselves off from understanding as well.

I suppose, in the light of my recent journal entries, that this topic may seem trivial. What is the population of ordinary people to the acts of Gods? However, I must ask you to think again. There are no less than four distinct cultures within Thloegr—peoples with knowledge and belief systems and understanding. This is what stands to be lost at the hands of the Gods. These people don’t deserve to burn.

Perhaps, Delyth is wrong. It is not Enyo that we should fear most, but Mascen. This creature that burns and pillages as though it were nothing...

“Caerthleon is closed to us.” Delyth stood before the fire, a looming presence with her face flicker-lit and her wings large and dark behind her. She might have seemed ominous in another life. They’d walked away from the town until the setting sun made it too difficult to continue, but still, the smell of ash lingered on the air.

Etienne couldn’t quite bring himself to stir from his slumped position beside Meirin. Her arm brushed against him—for comfort, perhaps? In the aftermath of the ruined village, he couldn’t seem to care. His ability to feel had been overwhelmed, burned out. This was more bad news, another change of plans. He should feel frustrated. Angry. He should want explanations.

When no one answered her, Delyth went on. “I saw it, flying north of here. There’s a scar where Mascen’s cut off the roads leading in.”

Etienne did look then. “And you can’t fly us over it?”

“I could. But the city is his. I’m not sure if, once we entered, we could get free again.”

And if Enyo followed them in, it’d be like handing Alphonse to him.

“What do we do then?” Etienne’s voice sounded exhausted even to himself. And for a long moment, neither of the others answered him. Delyth sat down. The fire popped.

“We can’t do this alone. We need help. Let’s return to Mynydd Gwyllt or Glynnford.” Meirin’s voice was as dead as he felt.

“And what if involving them only brings the village’s fate? What if The Mynydd Gwyllt is the next people slaughtered in fire? What if it’s Glynfford?” Etienne’s voice was raw. “We can’t bring anyone else into this.”

Maybe she wanted to argue, say something snappish or profound, but Meirin let her head drop, eyes closing. They were all too tired. “I don’t know,” the warrior finally murmured, rubbing her hands across her face, as if that would banish the day’s burdens. “I can’t think.”

For a time, there wasn’t any sound but the crack of burning logs. They hadn’t made dinner. None of them had the appetite for it. Delyth stood with the slow care of someone aching, as though she were infinitely fragile. “We’ll head towards the mountains. There are places amid the peaks where only the birds can reach.” The birds and people with wings.

She turned towards her tent, and Etienne let his head sag forward again, tired of holding it up. The mountains, the sea, the sky… What did it matter? None of those paths would get them any closer to saving Alphonse. Keeping the artifact away was, at best, a delaying tactic.

But what else could they do?

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Sunrises were a common thing for a farm girl. All Alphonse’s life,she had risen before the sun, worked while the sky was still painted blue and purple, and greeted the sun when it finally peeked its warm head from the pillow of clouds where it rested each night. She had seen thousands of sunrises, but she always found herself pausing in her work to admire the next one—a gift, each day.

The sky this morning bled oranges and reds, making her eyes sting as she watched the world transform from one of blue to yellow—a new day. Perhaps that was why she liked the sunrise