Page 132 of A Game of Veils

His characteristically plain tunic and trousers contrast with the precious metal even more than his face. The gold is even etched with the lines of patches supposedly mended in the fabric.

He’s gazing down fondly at the two sheep nestled at his feet. A dove perches on his shoulder.

Despite the contradiction between the expense of the sculpture and the figure it depicts, the sight of my godlen soothes my grief just a little.

I tip my head back, my eyelids sliding closed. The lantern light glows through them. I picture the figure before me as if he’s made of that light rather than gold.

After tapping my fingers down my front, I press my knuckles against my godlen brand. Then my hands curl together in my lap, the sapphire on my ring pressing into the opposite palm. I let my stance sag as I give myself over to Elox’s guidance, emptying myself of personal will.

Elox, my godlen, I fear I’ve lost my way. Is it truly your intention that I continue on this course amid so much violence and pain? How can I heal what’s so very wounded? I would serve you, but I don’t want to cause even more harm. What would you ask of me now?

For the first several slow breaths, nothing comes to me. Then a gentle pressure settles on my shoulders like my mother might have rested her hands there when reassuring me. As if to say, I’m with you. I hear you.

I sink deeper into my meditative state. My awareness of the room around me dwindles. Even the ache of loss and guilt fades away.

There’s nothing but the steady rhythm of my breath and the thump of my pulse, on and on and?—

A vision swims up from some place beyond consciousness.

A sheep stands in a field of grass. The blades around it shine verdantly green; the rest droop, dry and yellowed.

A knife that’s little more than a glint of light slashes through the animal’s plump body from chin to chest. The sheep’s legs crumple into the gush of blood.

The crimson flood spreads out into the field—and new tufts of grass spring up in its wake, dappling the ailing areas with more and more vivid green while the creature deflates against the ground…

My eyes pop open. I stare up at the statue of Elox, a sharper pang resonating through my chest.

There’s a parable Elox’s devouts like to tell about a poor farming couple who begged for help against a band of raiders. Elox told them to slaughter their herd of sheep for the marauders.

“Surrender can be a weapon,” the godlen said, so the tale claims. “Sometimes blood must be spilled to prepare the ground for peace.”

My godlen believes I should shed even more blood than seeped from my feet tonight, however literally or metaphorically, before I’ve seen my duty through.

I can’t say I’m even surprised by the answer. More unexpected is the image that passes before my eyes as I lower them.

Just for an instant, with a shift in the lantern light, a beam streaks across my cupped hands in the shape of a butcher’s knife.

I peer at my hands for several heartbeats longer after the sign has vanished, as if I’ll find a clearer answer written there. But really, that’s as direct as the divine presences who watch over our world ever get.

The blade is in my grasp. It’s my choice whether I go forward.

Elox can’t force my hand.

Every cleric preaches that all people have free will regardless of what the gods might ask of us. But for whatever reason, my godlen felt the need to emphasize that point.

A choked laugh sputters out of me.

“Where else would I go?” I can’t stop myself from asking out loud, peering up at the statue again. “What else could I do?”

I remain poised there on the cushion for several more minutes, but he offers no answers to those questions. It’s my decision, and he’s told me what he thinks would be best. If I want to strike off in some other direction, I’ll have to figure that out for myself.

Here I am, then, with the cards I was dealt. I can throw them away and leave the empire’s fate—and my kingdom’s—to a woman like Fausta, or I can play the next rounds as well as I damn well can.

Gods help me, I might know how to surrender, but not to absolute oblivion.

I pick myself off the cushion, every inch of my body still filled with an unsettling combination of aches and numbness. As if every piece of me has hollowed out, leaving nothing behind but the lingering pain.

As I walk back through the halls, my mind has settled enough for me to take in the tapestries and paintings hanging on the halls. Around the bend from the temple, my feet jar to a halt in front of a particularly enormous gilded frame.

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