III: The Endelese Breach, Part I

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          A bumpy ride back home in a steam carriage, her head on Auntie Thea's lap; it was all Awen could remember of what came after. In scattered moments of clarity, she had asked on Wyn. The horse had made it home safe enough, though the grim set of Auntie Thea's mouth suggested Awen should consider herself lucky—and she did, for she remembered every bit of that night, to the moment she'd lost consciousness. But where the creature had gone, and why, there was no way of knowing—and no one left to ask.

           It tore at her to think how much Auntie Thea knew. Even if the guildlorist had been in a candid mood, Awen could have never summoned the courage to ask about Lydia—Lydia, with those ridges carved into her arms, the dreadful way her eyes had gone red... had it been anything but a dream? If only; her shoulders still ached where the nails had dug, and at night she could almost feel the grip of those fingers closing around her throat.

           But that had been the Cothe, not Lydia. Did that make the creature the Cothe, too? Try as Awen might, she could never fully recall the nothing that had ripped itself from the poor girl's chest; it pained her head, like trying to imagine an impossible color. Each attempt became no more than the memory of Lydia's body, crumpled and lifeless, her chest unmoving. Because of me.

          She gripped the edge of her blanket until her knuckles went white, her lungs suddenly unable to hold enough air. Why had she been so reckless? She had known magic like hers was unholy, but to think it had harmed Lydia... it was more than she could bear.

           Yet bear it she must. It was her fault. No one had made her go to the Sombrien. She had disobeyed Auntie Thea, flouted the teachings of the Faith, and the result stood as evidence to God's perfect judgment: No great revelation, only harm and destruction. And punishment. Always punishment.

           For your iniquities, children, have built the wall from which heaven turns its face. Everyone knew that all the wrong in the world—the endless wars in the east, the Cothe, even the profane, quasi-mythical Breach—were no more than punishment for people like her; people who couldn't listen.

          The guilt covered nearly everything but her prayers. Morning to night Awen prayed, begging the Prophet, Let Lydia be well. Let Lydia be well. Meals that Auntie Thea brought went uneaten. For a day or so, she tried to return to her hobbies, reading small elvinrimes like West of the Sea and The Mostly True Tales of Taran Frith... until, in pious rage, she ripped the books to pieces, watching them fall to the floor like torn doves' feathers.

          No more dreaming. No more magic.

          Auntie Thea scarcely mentioned the Sombrien. Besides the necessary courtesies during recovery, the guildlorist barely spoke to Awen at all. She would go to Ehrnfeldt for days at a time, which was strange; she was only a guest lecturer at the lorestead, after all. The few times Awen ran into her downstairs, the guildlorist barely met her eye, until a morning several days later when she found Auntie Thea in the parlor with traveling bag in hand. Awen muttered the usual "good morning" and turned toward the kitchen.

         "Awen," came the voice from behind her.

          She froze. The punishment had been bound to come sooner or later. She took a deep breath. Whatever comes, you deserve it.

           But it was nothing of the sort. "Headmaster Frye called from Ilvany. If you feel well, it's time you return to school."

           "Oh," Awen said, and after another breath, "Auntie Thea—"

            But she was cut short by the sound of the closing door.

            For the first time in years Awen left early for school, and didn't stop once on the way. The lampposts were still on when she arrived. Though it was barely dawn, light flickered inside the chapel, and the scent of balsam scratched at her nose as she passed the red threshold. Though Awen had never been to another, she knew that every single chapel, across every landhood under the Holy Kingdom's banner, was precisely the same. Stained-glass windows shimmered beneath oil lamps, depicting the Acts of the Prophet, the Seven Tribes of Cyndoras, and other stories from the Hallothegn. These led behind the augur's altar to a triptych of windows that revealed Him in his full glory, surrounded by his seven earthly scholars, eyes raised to Heaven as golden rays fell upon his haloed face.

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