The Matriarch's Daughter

Chapter Twenty-Seven: Her Worst Enemy

Four days later, Thepa stumbled off the ship, well past the setting of the sun, thoroughly inebriated. Somehow, she had made it back to her office despite the fact she was completely sloshed. If anyone had crossed her path or spoken to her, she had no recollection of it. What she did remember came to her in fragmented flashes: undressing, pulling out a cot, and collapsing onto its thin mattress. Sleep took her before she had the chance to think, pulling her into its dark, unforgiving embrace.

For the fourth night in a row, Rory haunted her dreams.

This time, the dream took the form of a memory, cruel in how it replayed before her eyes. Thepa watched from a distance as her younger self sat beneath a familiar tree, shoulder to shoulder with a younger Rory, both absorbed in their studies. The daylight dimmed, the setting sun casting a warm glow. Thepa knew the place instantly. It was their sanctuary, a tree they'd met under nearly every day during training.

"Do you ever think about right and wrong, Thepa?" Rory asked, her voice soft.

Young Thepa didn't look up from her book. "Not really."

Rory pressed, her green eyes pleading. "Why not?"

With a sigh, Young Thepa set her book aside, creasing a corner to mark her place. "I'd like to think I'm a good judge of character. Unless you're saying I'm not, and I should rethink my hanging out with you."

Rory nudged her playfully. "No, that'd be terrible." Her tone grew serious. "But how do we know we're on the right side of the war? Sure, we're more civilized, but maybe the beasts just want to live their lives, too."

Thepa remembered how absurd the question had seemed then, how she'd dismissed it as youthful idealism. Of course we're on the right side, she'd thought, still thought even now. But she hadn't said that to Rory. Instead, her out-of-body self-mimicked the same words she spoke to Rory long ago.

"Where are you going with this?"

Rory hesitated, her gaze drifting to the horizon. Thepa had come to know the look well, though she hadn't understood it in the moment. "Even if we're right about the beasts, why are we so shol bent on killing them? Two wrongs don't make a right. The Goddess is right..."

"Actions have consequences," came another Rory, older, but harsher. Thepa turned to see a second version of Rory, the one that haunted her nightmares. Around her, the memory dissolved, leaving Thepa face-to-face with her tormentor.

"Please," Thepa whispered, the words choking in her throat.

Rory sneered, her green eyes burning with disdain. "What's the matter, little satyr? Bottle not enough for you anymore? I'd say your mother's teat is still available, but you kill that too."

Thepa tried to avert her gaze, but weight of guilt held her firm. Around her, the darkness pulsed, growing thicker and more suffocating. "It's not my fault you died. I tried..."

"Oh, I see," said Rory, rolling her green eyes with mock exaggeration. "Big satyr, wants to play. Sorry, youngling, grown-ups take responsibility."

Thepa shrank, her body dwindling until she was half Rory's size, her voice a fragile echo of her younger self. "Go away."

Knock.

Rory's form twisted, morphing into Sister Zelphina, a freshly cut switch in her hand. Zelphina snapped it against her palm, her cruel smile slicing through the gloom. "Scared little youngling, pretending to be a leader. What you don't understand, Thepa, is that leaders don't get to play. They lead, leave, or die. And you've spent a lifetime running away."

Thepa glanced down and realized she had reverted to her youngling form. Small green top and earth-toned trousers barely covered a mud-caked body. Her hands, short and grimy, were clasped tightly together. She could feel herself unraveling. Desperation clawed at her, and she made a last-ditch effort to fight back. "I hate you," she spat.