I have stared into the face of evil for decades. Moons above, I myself was wicked at one point, though I now seek to assist the side of good. Even if I am too far gone to be good myself.
...
My lord has inquired about babies due to the annoyance they pose in the nursery. You mentioned that when Adora came through the portal, her screaming aggravated your ears. You are not the only one – Carmen also has immense discomfort whenever Catra yowls in our quarters. (I do not know the science behind it, but perhaps you would.)
I shan't tell you where babies come from without direct orders – it is a topic considered inappropriate for a second-in-command to tell her head officer. But I shall tell you about their benefits, and their joys.
As Shadow Weaver began a new paragraph in her report, Carmen entered the room with a yawn. Without concern for proper etiquette, the felinetta threw off her uniform, only wearing her underwear and bra.
As Shadow Weaver shook her head, trying not to think about her servant's oddities, Carmen spoke. "I'm due to go to the priesthood. Time to get the twelfth mark."
As Carmen pulled on a flowing white tunic and black leggings, tying on her open-toe socks – felinettas usually didn't wear shoes – Shadow Weaver's gaze wandered to her servant's arms. On her left arm, five red scars flashed; six were on her right.
"I will never understand," Shadow Weaver muttered.
"My lady, you can't forbid me from goin' to worship," Carmen said with a pout.
"Did I say I was forbidding you?"
The felinetta's cheeks reddened. "No, my lady. Forgive me."
"There is nothing to forgive. You may go, but leave Catra here." Catra wasn't a Kryteyan yet. She couldn't be until she was nine years old, and Shadow Weaver refused to allow the child to become indoctrinated by the strange religion Carmen followed.
Her servant nodded. "A'ight. I'll be back later tonight. You sure you can handle yourself?"
Shadow Weaver nodded tiredly. "Now go," she said with a wave of her hand. She sighed, and Adora cooed softly in question.
"It's no matter, my dear," she said softly to the baby. "Carmen is simply...going to get another scar."
And Shadow Weaver was helpless to stop it.
Carmen skipped out the doors of the main complex, then over to the C-Compound, where the skiffs were. Technically, soldiers weren't allowed to use the skiffs for personal trips, but Carmen had an exception from Shadow Weaver. As she did each month since she arrived at the Fright Zone, she boarded the skiff and programmed it to take her to the Old Clerbélia Priesthood.
The priesthood wasn't far from here, but Carmen needed to save her energy. Tonight, she would get a twelfth cut in her left arm – signifying her years of servitude since initiation at the age of nine – and she didn't want to gush blood all over the ground from running there.
Carmen arrived at the doors, smoothing her tunic and inhaling deeply. Then she stepped inside the priesthood. The room smelled strongly of gentian, its bitter tang always a reminder for those entering that they were under a terrible curse from God. Carmen waved at the other felinettas, despite it not being protocol, but they gave her no reply.
Trembling, Carmen bowed before Marh Jibril. Gritting her teeth, she chided herself; it wasn't the priest's fault he had the same name as her abuser, long ago.
Biting her lip, she remembered the failed coup against her lady. Jibril, she thought, grief and guilt in her chest. She tried to repress the anger, as it was truly directed at Raiya instead, even if she didn't fault God consciously. So many people died by her lady's hand that night – Shads didn't like to kill her own soldiers, but treason was treason.
After a long time, Marh Jibril spoke. "Carmen, servant of Lady Shadah Eevah. Rise."
Carmen did as he said, wiping tears quickly before he could see. "My priest."
Every adherent to Kryteya rose at once; Carmen tried to ignore the stares, though they felt like burnin' sun on her skin. They began to chant. "Yajib 'an tueani jamie alkayinat hataa tusbih naqiatan! Yajib 'an tueani jamie alkayinat hataa tusbih naqiatan!"
The noise became like a drone. A pit of instinctive dread dropped into Carmen's stomach – it was from Raiya, reminding her once again of her sins. Sins that she could never atone for.
"Yajib 'an tueani jamie alkayinat hataa tusbih naqiatan! Yajib 'an tueani jamie alkayinat hataa tusbih naqiatan!"
Marh Jibril stepped forward, pulling out a glass dagger and gripping her arm roughly. Carmen turned her gaze away, dreading what would come next.
"Yajib 'an tueani jamie alkayinat hataa tusbih naqiatan! Yajib 'an tueani jamie alkayinat hataa tusbih naqiatan!"
The knife bit into her skin like a rabid dog. Marh Jibril pressed it harder, harder. Carmen cried out in pain as the chanting grew ever-louder. The stench of the herbs clouded her nostrils until all she knew was pain.
The knife touched the bone. Marh Jibril stopped cutting. "Laqad dahiat litusbih tahrana."
"Laqad dahiat litusbih tahrana," the crowd shouted.
"Laqad dahiat li'usbah tahrana," Carmen gasped. "I have suffered to become pure."
Marh Jibril wrapped Carmen's forearm tightly in gauze. The pain was unbearable, but it was her lot in life. She was made to suffer for what she did – all she could do was pray for mercy.
A mercy that would never come.
Slowly, Carmen stepped away and joined the women to the side, who were all bowed in prayer. The agony of the cut still burned, but at least she was pure. At least she had done twelve years of service to the Kryteya.
"Wuead wahid min 'alf shams,
Airhamna jamieana,
Li'anah lak aleata' wal'akhdh,
wa'iiradatik 'an nartafie 'aw nasqut."
The prayer gave Carmen a small bit of comfort. And she began to chant in Felali, drowning herself in empty words.
...
Carmen entered the Fright Zone late that night, an antiseptic bandage wrapped tightly around her arm. She had cried the whole way home, the shock of the bone-deep cut having finally worn off. Walking into the A-Complex, she kept her injured arm bent at an angle to avoid stretching the wounded skin too much.
She deserved it, after all. Her entire existence was service, but nobody could be perfect at what they did. So they offered another punishment – a punishment that was supposed to be an honor – just in case people forgot that. While it was mighty kind of them to give reminders, Carmen lamented deep in her heart that it had to be so damn painful.
It'll heal, she reminded herself, walking toward Shads' room. It always does.
"Heya, Carm," a voice drawled from behind her. Carmen turned around, seeing Force Captain Tara standing in the hallway. The Silaxian ran a meaty hand over her buzz cut hair, wearing a one-sided smile.
Yet it disappeared as soon as she spotted Carmen's bandage. "The hell did you get that from?" she asked.
"Um..." Tara was one of the most anti-religious people Carmen had ever met. "Priesthood."
Tara took a huge bite of her ration bar. Around the food, she frowned. "Seriously?"
"Yeah," Carmen said. "Would'ja please leave me alone?" she sighed. "I gotta head back to take care'f my lady. She ain't exactly in top shape."
"Oh, please. She's fine."
"I'll pass it on," Carmen said with a scowl as she kept walking, shoving her good hand in a pocket. Tara was known to be somewhat brutal, and her blood boiled at the fact that Beck was hanging out with her. It wasn't fair that the newbie immediately went for the person Carmen had the biggest rivalry with.
Tara chuckled. "Suit yourself. But Carmen?"
"Yeah?" Carmen said, pausing for a moment.
"I ain't a bad person," Tara said, leaning against the wall. "Maybe you should come and hang with Beck and me. We'll teach you what having real friends is like."
Carmen scowled in the hallway, clenching her fists. Like I dunno that already. Shads was a good friend. And she was a heck of a lot nicer than old Tara.
"Thanks," she said. "But I gotta go to Shads."
Tara didn't respond as she walked away.
Carmen snuck into Shads' quarters that night, nursing her bandaged arm. Exhausted, she yawned and stretched, cracking her knuckles. "Why're you still up? It's almost midnight."
It was a stupid question, but Shads didn't seem to care. "I was waiting for you to return. I want to hear another story. The last one was so...gruesome." Her voice grew thicker as she pronounced the last word.
Carmen sat on the stool beside her lady's bed, fidgeting a bit. "The others ain't so violent, my lady. But I do have an interestin' one. One I think you'll like. It ain't exactly agreed on, but, um...it was s'posed to be a legend, 'specially in the offshoots and such –"
"That makes it even better," Shads said, closing the blank white eyes of her mask and laying back. "Tell it to me, Carmen."
Carmen smiled. "Well, y'know how I said Raiya's comin' back one day to destroy my faith?"
"I remember."
"There're legends we tell ourselves." Carmen leaned in. "Some say a hero will come to save us from Raiya's wrath. A person wieldin' great power an' able to appease a mad god. They call 'em...the Starwalker."
Shadow Weaver's voice carried an intrigued tone. "Starwalker? We...don't have stars anymore."
"I know. But in the legends, they say the stars'll come back."
"Absurd. We don't even know why they disappeared to begin with."
"Doesn't mean we won't find out."
"Just get on with the story," her lady grumbled. "How will the Starwalker do such things?"
Carmen frowned. "They're all vague. Some say they'll have a magic weapon. Others'll say the Starwalker don't need one – that their battle with Raiya will rely on power alone."
"Wait...battle?"
"Well, yeah, my lady," she said. Shouldn't this be obvious? "The Starwalker will fight Raiya. An' they'll lose. What idiot would pick a fight with God?"
"Someone who doesn't believe he's God to begin with."
The comment made Carmen's skin prickle. Frowning, she edged closer to her lady. "You got a magic weapon. Think it's you?"
Shads snorted. "Me? I don't think it's possible for your god to exist."
"Why not? Ain't it obvious? I mean, somethin' had to create everythin' here. It's just logical."
"Just because I agree with the notion that the world had a beginning," her lady said in a tired voice, "doesn't mean I must accept that a god who hates his own creation is real. Is evil not the lack of good? How can God do something that contradicts his very character? And he isn't absolutely just or loving – otherwise, you would not be condemned to hell simply for existing."
Carmen frowned. "I ain't smart enough to think 'bout all that. But my lady...if Raiya was real, would you worship him?"
Shads tilted her head. "What a strange question. Why must we be concerned with what could be? Why not with what is?"
Carmen's face burned. "Humor me," she dared to say, hoping it wouldn't piss off her mistress.
"My answer? It depends. Plenty have claimed to be God throughout the ages – moons, people even worship the Meyan queen." Shads shook her head confusedly. "If he was real, and if he could prove he is worthy of the title 'God', then yes. I will follow wherever the truth leads. I...have experience with things that are difficult to accept."
"Good answer," Carmen admitted – Shads was wise, if nothing else. "My lady...sleep well."
Shads nodded in her direction. "And you."
...
Power is morally neutral. But there are some forms that should not be tinkered with.
...
Early the next month, Shadow Weaver herself attacked Bel Delvala. Micah raced through mirror after mirror to get to the scene of the battle, the pressure causing soreness in his muscles.
Micah had been shot with a gun once, when he was thirteen. In retrospect, the shock had been worse than the actual wound. The metal-spitters – a rare, prized weapon in the Horde – shot bullets at blinding speed, far too fast to deflect with kinesis magic.
With a levitation-induced jump, he leaped to the top of the Delvala historium, looking for Shadow Weaver. He had to be careful – levitation burned a good deal of magic, and could easily tire a person out before the fight even started.
It's best to draw her to me, he realized, looking down at the wreckage. Blood made the cobblestones slick, and the contrast of dark crimson against the vanilla-pale skin of the Delvalians made him ill. But this was war. Even if Micah would rather bind up the wounded – or better yet, have this never happen to begin with – he was a general.
Soon, he would be a king.
Micah leaped off the building as a soldier leveled a gun at a woman with dark brown curls; her pointed ears quivered, and her veil was off, showing her panicked expression as tears streamed down her face.
No more. Micah pushed the gun away hard, and it clattered against the wall. He couldn't fight the man himself with magic, not without risking a toss against the wall, but he did have a weapon. Summoning his sorcerer's staff, Micah slammed the butt into the soldier's chest before he could react.
Micah took the gun; he wouldn't use such a weapon, but he couldn't let the Horde get ahold of it – such immediate power to end someone's life was inherently immoral. But just as Micah was about to pocket it, a hard push rammed into his chest.
Micah collided with the wall; Shadow Weaver stood at the top of another building, looking down at him with a mocking expression. The Horde's second jumped down, silently gloating over the situation. How can I engage her? Micah wondered. If he lunged at her, she would simply teleport away. What could he do?
He frowned. Light Spinner played dead when Illuras was attacked, but he had no visible wounds to testify to that idea. But maybe, if he acted wounded...
Shadow Weaver walked toward him, boots striding across the crimson cobblestones. The smell of blood and death choked Micah's nose. What was her vendetta here? What would Delvala hold for the Horde?
Micah sucked in deep breaths through his mouth, trying to drown out the metallic odor of blood. Shadow Weaver leveled her gun; one shot, and she could murder him then and there. Micah felt as though he was thirteen again, wallowing in blood not his own. They would die because he hadn't been strong enough to save them.
And once again, he was at the mercy of a dark sorceress.
He gritted his teeth, but Shadow Weaver lowered her gun, watching him struggle into a sitting position. As he clenched his fists, anger sprouted in Micah's chest. Rage that he didn't understand.
I will not be helpless again.
Then he propelled himself forward into her.
...
Shadow Weaver let out a grunt as Micah slammed her into a wall, hard. Her head smacked into the brick; the gun slipped through her fingers. She hadn't planned to use it against him. But now, her foe had the upper hand.
As she struggled to regain her bearings, Micah pressed his staff against her neck, trapping her. Shadow Weaver tried to teleport, but her nerves were too high. She couldn't envision the destination in her mind, not with Micah's weapon able to choke her with just a bit more pressing...
Micah got too close to her, and she thrust her knee into his gut. He dropped to the ground, sucking in a massive breath and dropping the staff, which disappeared as soon as it left his fingers. A shame – Shadow Weaver had seen the weapon in action. She'd been curious about what spells he'd charmed it with.
Micah glared up at her. "Why are you attacking these people?" he gasped. "They're innocent!"
No one is innocent in war, sweet Micah, she thought. Not even you.
Lifting him up by the collar, Shadow Weaver burned kinesis magic and swung her fist. She didn't enjoy hurting him, not really. But she had to. It was the only way that she could protect him, to train him for the day she would become an animal.
But deep down, she knew that wasn't the only reason.
Micah dodged her punch, but her claws grazed his cheek, leaving three trails of red. Backing up, Shadow Weaver pulled out her staff. Enough of these petty games; it was time for a real fight.
Micah summoned his own sorcerer's staff, accepting the challenge with a tired smile. They circled one another in the town square, Shadow Weaver barely hearing the cries of the soldiers as Rebellion and Horde dueled around them. It was time for their rematch – the one she hadn't gotten before.
Micah struck first, and she blocked, levitating to his other side. Shadow Weaver barely had time to react before Micah attacked again, and she parried, red electricity sizzling off her pole. A single charge struck Micah's hand, and he cried out.
Shadow Weaver had a mission to do; this attack was simply a warning. In his moment of distraction, she stuck her pole behind his and yanked it from his hands. Then she struck her spear across his chest. Micah fell backward, the Black Garnet's power singeing his clothes and popping off the fabric. Smoke filled Shadow Weaver's nose.
Micah scowled as he stared up at her. Then he cast a kinesis spell and squeezed. Shadow Weaver felt her ribs pushing into her body further...further...
Snap.
She heard the sound before she felt the pain. A sob ushered itself from Shadow Weaver's mouth, and she fell to her knees, clutching her chest. Every breath felt like torture. Bones stabbed her when she breathed. Pain, pain, pain.
She could barely stay upright, and burning magic was her only comfort. Tears came to her eyes. Cracked...ribs...
Teleport. Moons, please teleport. Shadow Weaver's magic was low; the Spell sucked more power than usual when she was injured. Glaring at Micah, a twisted mix of hurt and anger sprouted within her.
Shadow Weaver inhaled, trying to gain clarity. And it worked. She teleported away from the fight, her destination unknown. Only agony remained.
...
The Rebellion flag snapped in the wind over Bel Delvala's town hall. Micah's forces won, and he had sent Shadow Weaver away limping. He rose and accompanied his soldiers; they had stripped the Horde forces of their armor and were leading them to the carriages to be taken to Dryl for interrogation.
Micah, exhausted, opened a communication channel with Nell. The older man's face appeared on screen, and when he saw Micah, one of his pointed ears twitched. "Mike, what happened to you?"
"Shadow Weaver," Micah gasped, breathless. "Please, Nell, we need your help. We won, but only barely."
Nell bit his lip. "I'm coming, Micah. Do you need any help?"
Micah shook his head. "No. Shadow Weaver was the only one who got injured – I cracked a couple ribs."
Nell's mouth dropped open. "How'd you get close enough?"
"I didn't," Micah said, his voice numb. "I...I used magic." He didn't know how to feel. It had come in a moment of anger, of determination that he would not end up like Light Spinner. That he could use his power for good. That he wasn't doomed to repeat her mistakes.
Nell breathed out, running a hand through his hair. "We're on our way," he said. "I'll get you back to Illuras."
"Actually," Micah said, "If Princess Talyn is going back to Dryl soon, I think I'll accompany her. I have soldiers to interrogate."
"Then you'd better make it back quickly," Nell said, gesturing to his apprentices as he spoke. "She's headed back tomorrow."
Micah nodded. "Alright. I'll see you then."
...
Did you know...
- In my stories, I try to lean more on Shadow Weaver's scholarly side. I feel as though the show glosses over the fact that she was a teacher (and therefore a big nerd) in her younger days.
- I had a hard time drawing the 11.2 illustration because I worried it would seem either too gory or too sterile. Eventually I settled for the latter, since I didn't want to have to mark this book Mature.
- I debated making this chapter a bit more emotional, since Shadow Weaver is...y'know...kind of blowing her home up. However, I decided she probably would want to erase the memories she had there, especially considering the horrific trauma she endured while there with Micah in the previous book, Alura.
- I hope I'm doing a good job setting up Micah's character conflict. I'm doing it through several means in this first part of the book because I want to clearly explore and establish it, since it's super multifaceted, before attempting to resolve it.
Tell me what you think...
- What similarities do you see between Kryteyan scarring and real-world cults?
- Do you think Carmen or Shadow Weaver is correct? Why?
- How would Micah's reactions differ if he knew the truth about who Shadow Weaver was?