"You will do this thing, for the good of all, and you will not be afraid."
So the faceless man had told her, from behind the shielding veil. It was an unspeakable, unforgiveable sin they asked of her, for which she fully expected the goddess to turn her face away and leave her in darkness. Zotoh would regret the loss, but then again Kahalan had never done much to particularly earn her praise in the first place.
It was an evil of necessity they asked, one that must be done, for the good of all, and she could see no other way around it. For this demonic task she was the perfect tool, and so she must consent. To accomplish this horrific deed, she would craft her lackings into the perfect weapons, this hate and this anger that threatened always to burn her eyes red, and yet never did. The perversions of her soul would serve in this instance as nothing else, her knife and her chisel. In this way, she could make some good of the dark impulses within her. Ruthless, they called her. And perhaps she was, but she was another thing also, and that was capable. She could affect the changes required with unspeakable ease, and so it was only natural that she should take command and enact the causal chains that would ultimately bring about the ends that were so desired. Anger and hate fueled and shielded her as she twisted her personal darkness to the causes of light: she fought the pain of injustice and tyranny with the weapons of anarchy and terror, and made the name of Zotoh Zhaan an object of fear, and of grudging respect.
She rubbed the healing salve into the affected tissue of her fingers and hand and arm with mindless, repetitive motion—not noticing when she dug too deep and renewed the pain rather than soothing it—as she reflected on the day's activity with some little satisfaction. The bomb had been placed as had been decided, just where it would have the most effect. But a last-microt complication had left her overlong at the blast site, and perhaps the chemical mixture had been less than perfect, for it had detonated before she was clear, and she had sustained burning to the exposed limb. Zotoh could not repress a shudder at the memory, and at the unnatural tingling sensation as the cooling unguent began to take effect. She hated to be burnt the most of any other sort of hurt. It was a primordial sort of fear, she thought, left over in the long-memory of the time when her people had only stood and watched and whispered to each other. In the long-ago time when all had been sedentary sentries, standing impassive as they fed off the golden sunlight and were washed by the goddess's rain, speaking only as the wind passed through their leaves—a silent speech mind-to-mind in the Unity of an interlacing network of underground tendrils—fire had been a ravaging mindless terror, to strike at random and without mercy. At last, they had made themselves the masters of fire, when the boldest among them had at last stepped free of their roots and made speech with newly formed tongues, and closed their minds around fresh individualities, sharing Unity only with whom they chose. But even now, as the Delvia walked freely beneath the sun and moons, and swam in the seas, they remembered. They tended the Old Ones who had chosen to remain anchored and mute, grateful for the life they'd inherited and the gifts of mobility and sentience that Kahalan had bestowed, but still they all shared the nodes of memory that told of the terror, the rape of fire, and the peril of famine.
These were her weapons, flame and hunger, and the fear they brought with them. She detested fire—just as she did the anger that went with it—but at least it had the mercy of being quick and being clean. To starve was a slow, hateful process, to be taken by increments until at last one was petrified. That, perhaps, was the greater fear, but Zotoh left that particular task to others. Whatever else she might be, she told herself, she could not stoop to be quite that cruel. So fire was her weapon of choice, a half-tamed beast that fed on fear; that was the thrill of it, for while she set it to do her bidding oft it might rear back and bite her, too, as it had today. All things in life came at a price set by the goddess: this she understood. As an anarchist who strove for nothing more than to set the world on fire, watch it burn so that a new and unsullied thing could be rebuilt from the ashes, she danced closely with the ever-present risk of being burnt herself.
As her restive mind lingered on thoughts of burning, she found herself again considering the ugly task set before her. No better candidate could be crafted or found, if they tried for four hundred cycles. It was a silly fancy, for such a wait they could ill-afford. It must be her, and it must be now. The logic was inescapable: she could also not be allowed to forget the fact that it had been she who had volunteered. Her unique capacity to exist in anger and hatred, and remain unconsumed was an advantage that could not be overlooked or failed to exploit. As she turned the violence and chaos of flame and shrapnel to toil for a greater good, so she must become a well-crafted weapon of righteous vengeance. She was the dagger he would never see coming, cloaked in a sheath of enticing flesh. She was the poison he would never taste, a contagion that bypassed the clumsy vehicle of imbibement. He would never feel her, not until it was too late, a deadly spike to batter his skull from the inside out.
An end to tyranny; wrongs avenged. She was the holy vessel chosen to visit this retribution upon so deserving a one as him. There was no other who could perform this better than she. In the name of the oppressed she would rise—and strike to kill. An end to tyranny; so great a demand would necessarily be incumbent with a heavy price. And too many had all ready paid for this despot's arrogance. When nothing else would serve, one must fight fire with fire…evil with evil. Surely, for an end so noble, so good, the means could be overlooked, their bitter medicine swallowed quick and just as soon forgotten.
The opportunity might not present itself for some time, yet. She must work herself into the trust before it could be betrayed. Perhaps that would be the easiest bit: they were so trusting, with their minds innocent and clean of anger and hate and the dark impulses therewith. And that was the entire trouble of it. Evil for evil, it would be repaid. That she found the idea repugnant was of no consequence. It must be done, and none better to do it. Her chance might not come upon her for some time, but when it did she knew she must not hesitate, or blanche, or waver. Sin for sin.
The basin shattered on the tile floor, cool water pooling around her naked toes as its contents flooeded away from the fragments of ruined pottery. Zotoh braced her doubled-over body with both hands on the ledge, found herself laughing aloud in a soft, hysterical way that had no room for tears, and yet felt as if it should carry them. Perhaps the madness had taken her at last, its long overdue victim. But she laughed aloud, could not help laughing, thinking how the world would howl with mirth at her, if only they knew. She, their grand terrorist, and she was sore afraid.