Those Who Would Not Be Gods

20. Sacrifice: Edith

It was barely a warning. More a command. Then she fell. A void opened up beneath her, much taller than she remembered the altar being. Her back smacked painfully into the stone, and then, a second later, she forgot all about the pain as the mummy came down on top of her. The awful crack as it landed, the disgusting feeling of—of something flaking off it and landing over her skin—Edith gagged. She wanted to puke, to scream, to push it away, to dust herself off and scream again.

She laid completely still, completely silent, and breathed through her nose. It smelled like old death, must and the scent of decay gone to dust. The mummy stared right into her eyes with its hollow eye sockets, bare teeth grinning inches from her mouth, wilted old chest pressed against hers. She could feel the stone, the Godstone, so close and so far. There was no way she could remove it without making a sound.

The sharp rap of boots echoed in her ears. Edith tensed. Silent. Completely silent. They were here. But she had the stone. She had the stone, right?

If you want it.

It was and wasn't a voice. She didn't hear it, but she heard it. It didn't echo in the cave, only in her mind, as if it was a thought she'd had. But she hadn't had it. It had crawled into her head and whispered itself, and if she hadn't been so focused on staying completely silent, it would have been so easy to mistake it for hers. For a moment, Edith forgot to shiver. Wrong. It was wrong.

It should be yours.

She was standing in a field in her favorite dress, black stone in her chest, magic beating in her veins where it should have always been. It wasn't fair that everyone else got magic. Stupid Raff, stupid Cecile, why should they be the only ones with magic? Why give the stone to the man in the cloak? He had magic. She didn't. It wasn't fair that he take the lion's share.

"He's going to give my magic back," she argued. Her words were snatched away by the breeze.

It laughed, a dry little noise. You think a man like that will uphold promises? You think he cares about you? You already know the truth. He will throw you away.

She stiffened. It sensed weakness, pushed. You aren't the only searcher. Tens, dozens, hundreds. You think he can reward every one of them? He will reward none of them, and you least of all. Think: why are you here? Why did you come down here, to these caves? Why aren't you shouting now?

"It's not something you can lose," Cecile said from behind her. Edith spun and found her standing there. Her hair billowed in the wind, hiding her face. "It's not something he can give back." The wind stopped. The hair fell away from her face.

"But they took it away! Someone took it away. So—so why can't he give it back?" Edith shouted at Cecile.

She said nothing. The field was silent.

Some things are more easily done than undone. Some things, you cannot reverse.

"He said—!"

Wind blew. The wheat rustled. It sounded like home. In the distance, she could hear the villagers singing. Her mother called her name, and it sounded like someone else's name without a Boscan accent accenting the wrong syllables.

She turned to look and found a smoking field. The song faded away. Nothing called her but the wind in her hair. Her mother was dead. The village was ash. She could never have it back. It wasn't fair, but it was true. No matter how much she wanted it, it wouldn't be hers.

"No one can give me my magic back," Edith whispered.

Take this power in its place.

The wind blew, rustling the wheat, sending her hair and dress dancing. She turned again. It wasn't Cecile anymore but a girl she'd never seen before, a girl who was perfectly white everywhere except the black pits of her eyes and her long, long hair. She wore not a scrap of clothes. Instead, shadows clung to her body, black as night, black as her hair, every small shadow utterly black. A small smile bit a black line into her face. The girl held out her hand, palm up.

Edith reached out. Her hand closed around cold fingers, hard as stone.

.

Her back was against glass. Glass rained down on her. From the shadow of the altar, she saw a handsome man holding Raff at knifepoint. Cajetan. He should be able to see her, but he couldn't. She was in the shadows. Safe.

She was gripping the stone, fingers wrapped around it where it was stuck in the mummy's chest. There was no fear, anymore. Not of the mummy. Not of anyone.

The stone came loose in her hand. Power coursed through her, more power than she'd ever felt before. It was a wildfire, a raging river, an eclipse swallowing the sun of her soul. Her heart swelled with magic. Every shadow, every dark place hummed with it, every secret that couldn't be told, every heartbeat. She was darkness. Ghouls shuffled through her, silent except for where they dragged on the floor. Blind white crickets fled their feet, at home in the pitch. Above. A rat paused to nibble a cracker, squealing with glee. She saw Sab in the courtyard above, Milo in the darkness of an infirmary bed. More. A thousand faces. Flashes of motion. Soulstones swapped for money. Powders and liquids exchanged. Whores calling from the alleyways. A drunkard puking. "They can't have gone—" "—make it?" "she has to be—" "—a damned deal for a—" Voices, voices, voices, all piling up, a thousand at once, a thousand secrets, confessions, moans, groans, grunts, squeals. She tried to clasp her hands over her ears and found herself paralyzed.

And then she was back. Black veins wound up her arm from her hand, climbing higher every second. Edith's heart raced. What is this? She tried to drop the stone. Her fingers refused to release it. She watched in horror as her hand bit deep into desiccated flesh, closing around the stone. Felt as her fingernails bit into its chest, dug the soulstone out. Edith flailed, or tried to. Her body was no longer hers to command. Her heart raced with fear, but her breathing stayed steady. Her muscles tensed from adrenaline, but her—her body's, its—motions remained calm. Her arm yanked the soulstone from the mummy's chest, and, though she wanted to scream, she could feel herself smile.

Slowly, inexorably, her hand pressed the stone to her chest. With every fiber of her being, Edith fought it. It wasn't her hand. It was someone else's. Someone else's hand, attached to her. She couldn't move it, couldn't stop it, couldn't even try to twist free. It was cool and hard, slightly greasy from—the urge to vomit welled up, except that it didn't. She felt as if she was holding it back, and yet not trying to hold it back at all, stuck perpetually in the awkward moment before actually vomiting but after swallowing her spit, full of the knowledge that it had to come.

The stone came to life. Tendrils of shadow spouted from it and burrowed into her, digging into her chest. Edith tried to scream, but her throat wasn't her own. It wasn't her body, but she could feel everything. It hurts, it hurts! Stop, please stop, please—

Blood welled up. She could feel it trickling down her body, warm, then cold. The tendrils dug deeper. They thrashed through muscle, worms seeking a warm place to thrive. When she breathed, she felt them pressing against her lungs. Her heart beat faster as they coiled around it. The tendrils pressed into her ribs, squeezing tight, so tight she was sure her chest would snap to pieces. And her body was not hers. She wanted to gasp with pain, but she breathed evenly. She wanted to scream and writhe, but she laid perfectly still, paralyzed.

Then the tendrils pulled, yanking the stone toward her body. Hard stone ground against her sternum No, Edith begged. It pushed harder, deeper. The bone cracked, a dry snap that resounded through her. She tried to gasp, tried to clench her hands, but there was nothing, nothing to distract herself from the pain. It came in waves, one crashing into another, chasing each other down, one not quite faded when the next smashed into her. It had a sickening edge to it; her stomach turned, her heart labored. At last, her body breathed faster, as though even it could not suppress the urge to react to this pain. The bone fragments twisted and turned at the whim of the stone. Tendrils shaped them back into place, discarded the ones she no longer needed. Tears dripped down motionless cheeks, screams unsung. Edith's chest was hot with blood, her stomach cold with it. Her consciousness waned, the world wobbling in and out of focus.

There is no gain without loss, the voice whispered, and it laughed, and laughed, and laughed, until Edith could hear no more.