Page 57 of The War and Deceit Series omnibus

I can hear him moving around me, and the sound of the fire crackling in the forge, but I block them out, focusing on that place inside me where the Goddess seems to reside. Her presence immediately floods my body, and I feel the vastnessof her love for me. It’s overwhelming. That capacity for unconditional love is something I don’t understand. Why now? Why has the Mother decided to show herself to me only in the last few weeks? Is it because she needs me to perform this task for her? I still don’t even know exactlywhatI will need to do, only that I need to stay with Grayson. I shouldn’t question Her, but I’ve learned the hard way that kindness isn’t free.

I have always been here, my beloved.

Her voice echoes in my head, and images start to flash through my mind. That little push, the instinct that would tell me not to take a certain corridor, or to wait an extra couple of minutes before walking back to the slave quarters—that had all been Her protecting me. I should feel embarrassed I had doubted her, but she soothes the thought away. A feeling floods through my system, and I know what we need to do.

The Goddess’s presence fades, and I open my eyes. I don’t know how much time has passed, it feels like only minutes, but I’m sure it was longer since I see Vaeril over by the forge, working on a new piece of weaponry. I don’t move, but he seems to know I’ve finished praying, his eyes flicking over to where I kneel. As he meets my gaze, he puts down whatever he was working on, his stare unwavering.

Pushing up from the floor, I brush off my skirt. It’s ripped and tattered around the hem from when I was dragged around by the guards earlier, so I don’t know why I try to save it—habit, I suppose, because you have to make clothing last as long as possible as a slave. I walk over to the work bench and come to a stop on the other side. I’m opposite Vaeril, the bench acting as a buffer between us.

“You pray.” It’s not a question, but I nod anyway. He pauses and seems to mull over something. “And did your Goddess answer?”

My eyebrow shoots up at the inquiry. “You know about the Great Mother?”

He snorts, a slight glint of humour lighting his eyes, but it’s gone after a second and I think I’ve imagined it. “I’ve been trapped here for over a hundred years, and those guards are not exactly quiet.” He inclines his head towards the closed door, where even I can hear the murmurings of male voices without the benefit of his supernatural hearing. Shock floods my system. Over a hundred years. I’d known this already, but it always surprises me. My eyes run over him as I try to judge his age. He doesn’t appear any older than mid-thirties at the latest, but his looks make it difficult to judge. “Besides, we know of your Goddess, she’s in our teachings,” he continues, interrupting my musings and surprising me once again. Filing that information away for a later date, I make a note to ask about how he knows of my Goddess.

He picks up the item he’d been working on and twists it in his hands, holding it up to the light as he assesses it with a critical eye. This whole situation is surreal. Here we are, having a chat, and he’s working on weapons for our captors as if we aren’t plotting our escape with our impending deaths hanging over us. However, I can see the tension in his shoulders and around his eyes. He’s as stressed as I am.

“You learn a lot if you pay attention,” he murmurs, and I nod in agreement. I learned that firsthand. People don’t seem to see slaves, so their tongues are looser and they say things they wouldn’t around other people. Part of how I managed to survive twelve years of enslavement was by listening to the ridiculous situations these people seemed to get themselves into.

“Are you going to tell me what she said?” he queries, after the silence between us stretches, an edge in his tone as he narrows his eyes. “You are asking a lot from me.”

He’s right, and I wish I had a better answer for him.

“Yes, I am.” Taking a deep breath, I look up at him, meeting his gaze. “All I know is that we are exactly where we’re supposed to be.”

He barks out a laugh, but there’s no humour behind it. His face twists in anger as he lowers the weapon and braces his hands against the workbench, his knuckles turning white as he grips the surface. With the furnace behind him, the red glow makes him look even more supernatural than usual as he leans towards me. It’s then that I remember who I’m talking to—an elf. The murderer of my kind.

“You believe that’s enough for me to put all my trust in you?” he spits, and I instinctively take a step back before something inside me hardens. No, I won’t back away from anyone ever again. The old me, 625, would cower away, but I am not her anymore. I am Clarissa, beloved of the Great Mother, and I’m stronger than they let me believe.

“It’s going to have to be,” I retort with a strength I didn’t know I had. “I’m not strong enough to break the spell on the other cuff yet,” I tell him honestly. I’m still not sure how I did it in the first place, but a deep exhaustion is creeping up on me. I know that if I tried to break the spell now, I would suffer for it and pay a price I’m not willing to pay. “I’m not sure when I’ll be back,” I say, remembering the carnage in the courtyard above us. I don’t know when the priests will bring me back here, but I’m sure they will, they enjoy my suffering too much to stop. “But I will be back, and when I am, Iwillhave a plan to get us out of here.” My voice is absolute, sure, and I wish I was as certain about this as I sound.

He’s watching me intently, and after a few painfully quiet seconds, he nods in agreement. I release the breath I hadn’t even realised I’d been holding. He picks up his weapon once again, holding it up as he examines it, his brow pulled into a frown that is starting to become familiar.

“What kind of weapon is that?”

He looks at me with a blank expression, as if deciding whether or not to answer. “It’s a zecharthe.” The word is completely unknown to me, and as I try to speak it, the foreign word sticks on my tongue.

“Zech… Zereeef…”

I stop when I see the smallest upturn of his lip and realise he’s laughing at me. Snorting, I focus on the weapon as my cheeks tinge pink with my embarrassment. It’s silver in colour, the blade coming up and arching into a curve, the honed edge glistening in the light, and I just know it’s wickedly sharp. There are engravings on the flat of the blade, and I can’t help but admire how beautiful it is.

“Why do you make it so beautiful? Why add the carvings if it’s for your enemy?”

“The carvings have magic in them, the only magic these allow me.” He raises his wrist, indicating his cuffs. “I am forced to produce weapons to the best of my ability, I have no choice. It is how I was taught.”

This is the first mention of his own magic, and it makes me curious about his elven power works. Again, I’ve heard the stories, but I’ve never seen it or had anyone to ask about it before. I open my mouth to voice my questions, but I back out at the last second, choosing a safer topic instead. “Why a curved blade?”

“If you are proficient in this type of blade, it is deadly. Look.” He raises the weapon and, slowly, angles it towards me. I see how he would do it, the blade would easily slice through my throat.

A huge, booming noise has us freezing again, but it’s much closer this time. The guards’ shouts travel through the closed doors and fear rises up inside me. Has the fighting reached us?The sounds get closer and I spin to face the entrance where the commotion is coming from.

The doors suddenly fly open as if a great gust of wind has forced them apart. Out of the gloom of the darker entryway, Grayson storms towards us with three other people dressed in the same clothing as him. It’s as if everything is moving in slow motion. I watch as he punches Vaeril and knocks the curved blade out of the elf’s hand. I see his cloak billowing behind him as his face twists in anger. Grayson’s arm flies out ashis face twists, shouting something in a language I don’t recognise, as the feeling of magic makes the air thick around us.

All of a sudden, time seems to speed up, and I hear a choking noise behind me. Spinning, I see Vaeril frozen in place with a look of hatred on his face as he snarls at the magicians, and it’s then I realise what’s happened. Grayson seems like he’s trying to control his anger as the three other magicians come to stand with him, their expressions ranging from concern to fury. They aren’t just any magicians. Their dark blue uniforms and golden lined cloaks mark them for who they are—high magicians. Grayson brought the high magicians to rescue me.

Mother above. Is this what She told me to wait for? It sure makes things more complicated.

Vaeril makes another choking noise, and I know I have to stop this before it gets out of hand. Grayson thought the elf was trying to hurt me, but he wasn’t, and I need to explain that.

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