Birthright (The Technomage Archive, Book 1) - Complete Novel

Chapter Thirty-Two

Ceril had always possessed a very active imagination; however, one thing he had never wondered about was what it would feel like to have his arm ripped off. It had never seemed like an issue, so he never given it much thought.

If he had, he would have never been able to imagine the agony that actually came from having the flesh, muscle, and connective tissue torn and ripped until they were no longer part of his body.

If there were one positive for Ceril in that situation, it was that his arm was already broken. He was at least spared experiencing that pain at the same time he lost his arm. It was as though the Jaronya's high priest allowed him to atone for his heresy with an installment plan.

He saw his arm tear. He saw the flesh rend, and he saw the blood gush. The pain was the only reason he knew that it was happening to him. In one way, he felt disconnected from the torture, like he was watching a holovid back in his quarters at Ennd's. In another, far more painful way, he was connected all too intimately.

His screaming peaked when his arm was actually severed and dropped into the Conjured flames beneath him. Ceril watched his former flesh bubble and constrict, burn and char like any meat would. There was no indication that it had once been a part of his body. Blood flowed freely from the wound, fell into the fire, and sizzled into coagulation rather than pooling.

You Conjure as though you were the messiah, the high priest said inside Ceril's head. You blaspheme. You wear their divinity on your skin. You are a heretic. You wield the Ancestors' sanctified weapon as though you were a god. You commit sacrilege. Your presence here desecrates my temple. You kill my flock with no remorse. You are not welcome here. You are not divine. You are not the ones who will save us and return the Jaronya to their glory. You are pretenders, and you will die for it.

She stood in the fire, its flames licking her robes, but not burning her or her clothing. The fire might as well not have existed for her.

Ceril panted between screams. He managed to say, "I—never claimed to be—your messiah."

You did. Oh, you did. You came and you had their magic. Somehow, you had one of the swords.

"Yes," Ceril said. "We Conjured." He panted between words and sentences. He gritted his teeth and continued. "We are Charons—"

You lie, the priest said calmly. She waved her hand toward Ceril, and his head whipped to the side as though he had been slapped.

"No," said Ceril. "We are Charons—"

His head snapped in the other direction. You will not speak the sacred name of the Ancestors in my presence, unbeliever. You will not dishonor the gods.

Ceril closed his eyes. "If they are your gods, priest," he gasped, "then...I am not...an unbeliever." He spoke through clenched teeth. "My name is Ceril Bain, and I am the leader of a Charonic—"

Ceril barely felt the snap when the priest twisted one of her holographic symbols to break his femur. The loss of his arm had almost numbed him to lesser forms of pain.

"—team on a mission to find our way home," Ceril finished through clenched teeth. "I never claimed to be your messiah. We never meant to kill...anyone. We only did what we...had to do," he panted.

As do I, the priest said. She walked gracefully through the fire to Ceril. The lowest symbol on her collar became active, and she tapped its surface with three fingers.

Ceril dropped a few feet toward the flame, but he was still pressed solidly into the wall. His eyes became level with the high priest's, and their gaze met and lingered. The situation would probably have made Ceril uneasy under different circumstances.