Chapter 32

I wanted to bare my teeth against the sound. It was louder than anything in the natural world had a right to be. Only the gods could create such cacophony. The pitch was so wrong it hurt my ears, and though I covered them, I could still hear its echo through my body. It made my very blood feel uncomfortable in its veins.

When it mercifully faded, I dared to lower my hands. "What was that?"

"You need a blessing," Bertie said simply.

He'd turned to me, his eyes round and luminous. He looked intoxicated, possessed by something bigger and stronger than he'd ever be.

He looked crazed.

"Who better than Félicité to give it?"

"You summoned the Divided Ones?" I hissed, horrified. "You can do that?"

Bertie held out his scarred arms as if that was all the response Ineeded.

"Oh, little mortal, we meet again." The unified voices of the gods curled out from a corner of the dormitory that suddenly seemed too dark, impossibly shadowed on such a sunny afternoon.

Then, a shift in the darkness and the Divided Ones moved into the light.

I frowned. "Hello, Félicité. Calamité."

I'd not seen them since I was twelve years old, and could almost trick myself into believing they'd not changed. Why should they? They were immortals, ageless and eternal. But there was a hint of difference in their shared face. Their eyes, devoid of both iris and pupil, looked fuller somehow, heavy with the impossible weight of their collected knowledge.

Bertie plummeted to the ground in abject devotion, pressing his forehead to the stone floor, spreading his fingers wide, palms up, as if hoping to catch any bits of favor the Divided Ones might offer. "My lords, welcome! Thank you for answering my call, thank you for the blessings of your presence, thank you for—"

The giant gods stepped over his prostrate form as if he were nothing more than a decorative tile, without sparing even a single glance toward him.

"What in all the mortal realms could bring the Dreaded End's daughter to our house of worship?" Calamité wondered. He swept their body in a circle, inspecting the room. "It looks different inhere."

"I was…injured…while working at the palace," I said carefully. "They brought me here for convalescence."

"Who heals the healer?" Félicité mused, as though thinking through a particularly tricky riddle.

"Apparently our devotees," Calamité quipped. "Something is different. I don't remember all these beds in here."

"We had to bring them in, my lords…for the children," Bertie said, still pressing his forehead to the floor with contrite reverence.

The Divided Ones glanced at the floor, only now noticing him.

"I take it you've met my brother Bertie?"

He dared to peek up, if only to offer a deferential bob of hishead.

Calamité ran his eye across Bertie's scars. "Of course. Bertrand is one of our most faithful Fractured. Don't you find his devotion most…impressive?" He smirked at me, somehow knowing I didnot.

"What's this about children?" Félicité asked, turning their head as she too noticed the rows of beds.

"The Rift has been taking in children orphaned in the bastard prince's uprising," Bertie explained, far more succinctly than I would have.

"Baudouin's trying to go to war?" Félicité turned her shoulder, initiating a private conversation with her twin. "What have you to do with this?"

Calamité made a face of disgust. "Why am I always blamed for things going wrong? If the king so badly wants to stay in power, perhaps he ought to put a stop to the madness himself."

Bertie spoke up. "He can't, my lords. He's sick. That's why I summoned you."

"Marnaigne is ill?" Félicité frowned, casting her eye first to her brother and then toward me.

I nodded.

Calamité tilted their head curiously, looking far too pleased. "What is it?"

"The Shivers," I responded. Neither god reacted. "His case is…most severe."

"So heal him," Calamité instructed, as if it were the easiest thing in the world. "That's what you're meant to do, isn't it? Heal?"

"I…I can't. Not this time."

Understanding flashed across their eyes.

They knew. Of course they did.

Calamité flicked his wrist at Bertie. "Théophane keeps the most delightful plum brandy in his study. There's a bottle hidden behind the Book of Schisms. Would you mind fetching us a glass? We're parched."

Bertie tensed, wanting to stay and listen but always ready to serve. "Certainly, my lords. Is there anything else I can bring you? Any of you?"

Félicité's smile was tight and thin, but she kept her voice melodious as ever. "You might as well bring the entire bottle. My brother's thirst is legendary."

Bertie nodded and rushed from the room, nearly tripping over himself as he went backward, bowing every other step.

"That should buy us some time," Calamité said.

"You could have just ordered him out of the room," I pointed out. "He is one of your postulants."

"And let our stomach go wanting?" He shuddered before returning to the conversation at hand. "So you've seen a deathshead."

I nodded miserably.

"Then what are you doing here in our temple?" Calamité asked. "Shouldn't you be swathed in black? Mourning your king's end?"

"I'm going to kill him," I protested. "I just haven't had the chance."

"Obviously," he said with a smirk.

"Something seems to be troubling you," Félicité observed.

"Well…yes. He's the king. If I am caught…if someone should even suspect me…they won't understand my calling. It would be seen as an assassination."

"It is an assassination." Calamité blinked, studying me. "You're a clever girl, I suppose," he admitted, most begrudgingly. "There is any number of ways to ensure your act of treason goes unseen."

My stomach flipped. Why must he call it that? "There's also the matter of the oracle."

"Whose oracle?" Félicité asked. "Surely not one of ours."

I shook my head. "She's from the Ivory Temple, one of the Holy First's reverents. She told the palace to bring me to court." I sighed, unsure how to articulate my concerns about Margaux. "She sees the Holy First's visions, yes? Isn't that how oracles work?" The gods shrugged, neither confirming nor denying. "Won't she see my intention? Won't she try to stop me? She has been shown that I am the one who will save the king. If I return to the palace with a different goal, I feel like she'll…" I trailed off as another thought occurred to me. "She saw the vision of me saving the king. That is what brought me to court. So…doesn't that mean that I'm supposed to save the king? If that's what the Holy First showed her, then…" My head ached, jumbled by all the possibilities. I felt like I was speaking in circles. "Who is right in this—the deathshead or the Holy First?"

Calamité tapped one of his fingers against their chin. "You're thinking too much like a mortal. The Holy First knows all, she sees all—not just in this moment but in all moments—so she already knew you would see the deathshead, and that by sending her vision to this oracle, she was actually bringing you to court precisely to kill the king."

I sighed, feeling hopelessly deflated.

Félicité squinted at me. "There are so many worries behind your eyes, little one. What makes this kill so much harder than the others?"

I shrugged. "I…I understand the purpose of the deathshead—I'm meant to take one life to prevent many others from being ruined. But the king…" I released a shaky breath. "His is such a biglife."

Calamité rolled his eye at my sentiment. "No one life is greater or lesser than any other. In the end, all mortals are dust."

"In the end, yes," I admitted. "My godfather comes for all. But before that…there are so many lives that the king has the power to affect. To protect. And with this war…" I trailed off, everything I wanted to express too large to be articulated. "I met my nieces today. Here, at the temple. I didn't even know I had nieces, but they're here. Orphaned. Their mothers—my sisters—are dead."

"I suppose you want me to apologize for that?" Calamité said, looking exceptionally put out.

"No, but it got me thinking…if the king weren't sick, how many of these orphans would be here? If I could find a cure for the Shivers, a cure for him, he could stop this war, keep his subjects safe. He could prevent so many other children from ending up like my nieces."

Félicité frowned. "It's a noble thought, I suppose. But a pointless one. You've been given a task—just like reading all those books so many years ago. Carry it out."

I pushed my hair back, tucking the loose strands behind my ears. "But…what if that task is wrong? Who determines that it's right?"

"Your godfather, I'd suspect," Calamité deadpanned, as if it were obvious.

I hadn't wanted him to say that. "But what if Merrick is wrong?"

"A god is never wrong." Even Félicité was beginning to sound annoyed.

"But more people will die if the king does than if he lives. Right? It seems so logical, don't you think?"

"We don't think," came the gods' reply, dozens of voices speaking in unison, as loud as a droning beehive. "We only know."

"Then you ought to know if I'm right," I snapped.

Félicité wrested herself away from her holy collective. "What is it you want from us, Hazel? What can we do to make this easier?"

I wasn't sure how to answer. When all was said and done, what did I want?

I didn't want to kill the king, but I didn't want to let the deathshead down. I didn't want people to die because he had, but I couldn't bear the thought that I'd endanger more people if he lived. I didn't want any of this blood on my hands.

Each of my wishes felt impossible, even for the gods of fortune.

"Bertie called you here to give me a blessing," I finally said. "He wants me to save the king and stop the war. But…" I pressed my lips together. I wasn't sure if I was holding back tears or a scream. "…apparently that's not what the Holy First wants. It's not what the deathshead or my godfather or any of the thousands of gods trapped inside you want. So…I guess I want a bit of a blessing too. When it comes time to…" I couldn't say the words, couldn't voice my treachery here in this room that housed so many unfortunate innocents. "When I'm about to deal with King Marnaigne, I would like everything to go right. To go well." I felt my eyes prick with tears. "I don't know what lives I save by taking the king's, so I suppose I'm asking you to help ensure that my own is safe. Let me get out of this disaster with my own skin intact."

There was a long moment of silence; then Calamité patted my back. "It takes a great amount of courage to show such cowardice," he said proudly, as if his commendation wasn't also an insult. "I quite like you, mortal." He reached into his side of their robe and withdrew a long necklace, a perfect match to Bertie's little set of bronze pipes. "When the time comes, blow on this and we will bless the endeavor."

He lowered the chain over my head and I slipped the bauble into my bodice, feeling sick.

"I suppose our work here is done, then," Félicité said, not sounding sure of it at all. "Shall we?"

"And miss the brandy?" Calamité pouted, but his sister was already raising her hand to whisk themselves away.

"Wait!" I shouted before they vanished. "Could I…could I ask for one other thing?"

The goddess stopped short, hope flickering in her eye. "Yes?"

"I can't save the king and I can't stop the war, but I should be able to do something about this plague, the Shivers. I'm a healer. I should be able to stop it, right?"

She waited, sensing I had more to say.

I swallowed, already pained by the admission to come. "I haven't seen the cure. I only see the deathshead on the king. And it's already killed so many, whole villages and towns, and I just…I need to know. Is there one? A cure?"

Félicité considered this. "All sicknesses come to an eventual end."

I wanted to stamp my foot with frustration. Did she truly believe that was an acceptable answer?

"But if I can't find someone alive to—"

Shouts rang out down the hall and we all startled, heads snapping toward the open doorway. For a horrible moment I feared the rebellion had reached the capitol, that forces had already descended upon the Rift.

"Just tell me. Plainly," I demanded, whipping back toward the gods. "Is there a cure?"

More shouts. One of the raised voices sounded like Bertie's. There was a great crash, followed by the sound of glass shattering.

Calamité sighed. "That would be the brandy. I suppose there's no point in staying now."

"Tell me!" I exclaimed, reaching out toward them.

The god rolled his eye. "So dramatic. Of course there is."

"And I'll find it?"

He raised his shoulder in a one-sided shrug. "You know how to find us. That's what matters, mortal."

Before I could ask anything more, Calamité bopped my forehead with all the irreverence of a bothersome uncle, and the gods were gone.

The patter of footsteps grew closer. I could hear laughter too.

My eyes darted about the dormitory, looking for a spot to hide, a weapon to use, anything so that when the soldiers arrived I wouldn't be standing in the middle of the room, empty-handed. I grabbed the first thing I saw—a brass figurine of the Divided Ones—and hefted it over my shoulder, poised like a warrior ready to strike.

A figure raced in, panting and out of breath. Bertie trailed behind, close at its heels.

I nearly dropped the statue in surprise. "Leopold?"

He smirked at my choice of weapon. "Come on, little healer. We're getting you out of here."