Those Who Would Not Be Gods

6. Search: Edith

Castelfiamma's streets echoed with the sound of her boots. All around her, narrow houses fought one another for a piece of the sky. The twin buildings of the Schola and Ignis' Shrine dominated the horizon, taller than anything else around. Broader, too; each one took up nearly a whole city block, what with the grounds, the fences, the outbuildings. Ordinarily, the streets would be full, lively with conversation, footsteps, the clop of hooves against pavement as carriages groaned and squeaked past. But it was well past midnight, creeping up on morning. Edith shared the streets with only a few truly dedicated drunkards, who shouted at her despite her loose shirt and trousers and braid tucked into her cap (she suspected they'd shout at anyone), and other ne'er-do-wells, who ignored her as carefully as she ignored them.

She could search during the day, but it was at night that she felt it strongest. The pull.

Overhead, the soulstream twinkled faintly, barely visible through the warmth of early spring. Once, she had been able to feel the stream faintly, a distant hum of power in the peripheral of her awareness, far too distant to pull on. Now her senses were dulled. She could barely feel anything emanating from the Shrine, something she knew should be white-hot with magic, much less the soulstream. But at least she could feel something.

The first year had been horrible. It'd been horrible, no, painful to be cut off from her magic. The deeper she went into Bosco, the worse the sensation got, until she began to despair that she'd lost her magic entirely.

And then she'd noticed that the sensation was changing.

It was nothing like what she was used to. Magic used to be so loud, so present, that it was almost hard to sleep some nights. When the soulstream was keening and the shadows were calling her out, out to play, it was hard to block it out long enough to rest. She remembered feeling drawn almost bodily into the woods, towards places where her magic collected in deep places and dark hollows. Magic had felt like warmth. Like a promise. Magic looked at her. It knew her. Knew her power. Knew what she should be. One day, they'll wish they were you, it had promised. One day, even Rebecca will be afraid to cross you.

Now, it felt like a dull ache, almost a pain. A reminder of what she'd lost, too faint to use, but strong enough she could feel it there. A reminder of what everyone else but her seemed to have, a home, a family, magic.

But she could feel it.

She hadn't had much to go on. "A large source of darkness" wasn't exactly the most descriptive line she'd ever heard. "A large soulstone" wasn't much help either. There were soulstones everywhere in Bosco, on the weapons of its guards, in the hands of its priests. They even sold tiny weak ones on the side of the road that held just enough magic to spark a fire or light a small room, useless for combat but enough to ease the lives of her citizens some small amount.

Those were something of a marvel to Edith. Anyone could use them, after all. Everyone knew magic could only be used by people with an extraordinary imbalance of one element. People like Edith, who almost had only the dark element in her blood. But those tiny stones—it seemed like any old person, no matter how balanced their elements, how unfocused their magic, could pick one up and use it. She'd tried nicking one to use on cold nights when her flint was being stubborn, but couldn't make it light, frustratingly enough. Maybe my imbalance is too strong, and I don't have enough fire, she'd thought. It let her control the shadows for a bare moment before it'd burned out and turned dark brown, and then she'd never been able to use it again.

She shook her head, forcing herself to focus. That wasn't what she was doing. The soulstones had nothing to do with anything. What she was after was the massive outpouring of darkness from somewhere in this town. Castelfiamma, or whatever.

She'd sent for him, because she'd thought that maybe he had a technique for finding it once she knew the general area. After all the years he'd been searching for it, it was a reasonable assumption. Edith sighed. Should've been smarter than to expect anything from adults. Of course he hadn't.

A shiver ran down her spine at the memory. She hated dealing with him. Always did. Hated the icy chill of his hands, the awful rasping voice, the way his green cloak shifted and whispered like a thing alive.

He'd looked down at her, eyes barely visible through the narrow holes in the mask, pale as ever. "You found nothing," he whispered, his voice even softer than usual. Yet somehow it had gotten across his point, his irritation.

She stepped back. "No, I told you, I found—"

A gesture silenced her. "You're wasting my time."

Beside him, the handsome man glanced up. He stepped closer, and suddenly she was caught between the men and the corner. The tavern's room was tiny, and now it felt smaller. Her eyes darted to the door. The handsome man smiled, back propped against it. To the window. The cloaked man stood, solemnly in her way. She backstepped, hit the wall. Nervously, she gulped. They didn't believe her.

Of course they didn't. No one ever did. They all underestimated her, but one day, one day she'd show them—

The handsome man was blurry.

She blinked, confused. In the same second, a hand wrapped around her throat. Edith squeaked as her back hit the wall, head snapping back. He appeared again, close enough she could see every detail of his brown eyes. Her feet left the ground. She gasped and clutched at his hand. Dug her fingernails in. No air, no air! He didn't twitch. Solid as stone.

"Cajetan," the cloaked man said.

He'd set her down, and she'd run for her life. She rubbed her throat at the memory. It still felt tight, days later. And it wasn't fair, because she'd found it. If only they'd listened—but no one ever listened. Edith turned, taking in the Schola, then the Shrine. It was here. She knew it. She just had to pinpoint the place, and then she'd find it and prove to them that she knew what she was talking about, once and for all.

They were still in town, the two of them. She knew them enough to know that was odd. Usually they were always on the move, as if constantly wandering the world would find them whatever tiny stone they were after. Probably stuck around because the High Priest died, she thought. There was going to be some kind of show or something, she didn't know, but everyone had seemed too excited for a plain funeral.

The sensation grew weaker. Edith stopped on her heel and turned back, then paced again, back towards the Schola and the Shrine. Maybe I'm wrong. Maybe it's just the Shrine after all. But... no. The Shrine was to Ignis, their fire god. And this... she closed her eyes and breathed in, felt the familiar way it ached in her gut. This was darkness. She felt the fire too, of course she did. But there was also darkness. And a thousand weaker elements.

It washere. Their soulstone. She surveyed the Schola and the Shrine again, and a lowsigh escaped her. A needle in a haystack, and one I'm not allowed into at that. She'd be ninety before she found it at this rate.