Page 26 of Kissed By the Gods
The Annals of the Winged, a canon text in the Synod Reckoning Hall
CHAPTER TWELVE
Their questions circle endlessly,until my brain is fuzzy and my eyelids droop. They ask about the soldiers in the field—how many, their weapons, what happened, how I killed them. They want me to recount every movement, every strike, every moment that led to their deaths. They don’t seem upset that I killed them. If anything, they’re intrigued, dissecting my answers as if they’re studying something mechanical, something they can break apart and understand. They’ve even quizzed Ryot about our fight in the woods, asking him questions about my speed, my reactions, my meeting with Einarr.
They pry into my lineage, tracing every branch of my family tree, searching for connections I don’t understand. Who were my parents? My grandparents? How far back can I trace my bloodline? The question comes again and again, edged with suspicion. If my powers are what they think they are, then they need to know—how could I come from Selencia?
They ask about Selencia, and their ignorance of the protectorate is shocking and sad. What professions do Selencians hold? Why am I so skinny? Has there been a famine? It takes me no time to understand the depth of their ignorance—these men, who claim such power, who interrogate me like I am some unknown quantity, don’t even understand the people who live under their rule. Most of my answers surprise them, their eyes widening, their lips pressing together. A couple of times, one of the archons, Archon Robias even glares at the king in the back of the room.
My mind races ahead, trying to find possible pitfalls in every question, looking for ways I could hurt my brothers or my people, or even myself with every answer. I tried to lie—once, about my brothers—before Lyathin tapped a whip he’d laid out on the table and assured me that “any feeble attempt at deception” would be punished. Now, I don’t answer questions when I’m unsure of the consequences. They have more patience for that than they do for outright lying, because they keep going with another question.
Still, as much as I’m sure they’ve learned about me, I’ve learned a lot about them.
The Synod comprises four vanguards, each with about 100 Altor warriors. There’s Stormriven, which houses Ryot and the archon with the thick arms and quick smile, the one with a bad eye, Archon Robias. There’s Fellsworn, which Archon Lyathin heads. The other two vanguards are Atherclad and Skyforge, headed by Archons Nile and Hilian. The Elder is the highest-ranking position in the Synod. He has authority over all four vanguards.
Wards are the lowest rank at the Synod. They’re apprentices and are matched with a master who provides one-on-one training, like Maxim with Tyrston or Thalric with Leif. Ward training lasts between three and five years, and after that, master and ward stay in the same vanguard for the rest of their lives, creating something like a clan or a family unit that the men call a cast. Each cast is made up of about 20 men.
The most important thing I’ve learned, though? These men are not idiots.
The archons ask the same questions a dozen different ways, though they each have their own style. Archon Lyathin is direct. He doesn’t waste time on pleasantries, and even his silences serve a purpose.
Despite Archon Robias’s frightening exterior—he’s a hulking man with black scars that streak down his face, including one that cuts through his left eye, rendering the eye itself solid black and useless—there’s a gentleness to him. He has more patience with my measured answers, and keeps his expression carefully measured. His one brown eye is assessing, but not unkind.
Archon Hilian looks more like a tavern brawler than a commander. His frame is stocky, and the sides of his head are shaved, emphasizing the braid that runs down the top of his head. He’s the only one who looks like he still fights—his hands are calloused, his knuckles bruised, and there’s an open slash on the side of his face. His temper is quick to flare and as quick to cool. He fidgets in his chair and flings his questions fast and sharp. He doesn’t give me time to think, barely lets me answer, before he’s flinging another one. He pushes with impatience, unlike Archon Nile, who pushes with cruelty.
Archon Nile is the smallest man in the room, not in stature, but—I suspect—in the way he’s regarded by the others. He makes up for it with aggression. He’s always the first one to demand I speak up, speak faster, or give more, as if forcing the words from me will give him more power. Unlike the others, who study me like a riddle to be solved, I think Nile wants to break me open and then sift through the pieces.
“When did you first exhibit powers?” Archon Lyathin asks, the scratch of his quill against parchment a nonstop sound over the last few hours.
This again. I bite back a sigh, because they aren’t a group that cares for dramatics. And given that we’ve been in this chamber for hours, with no food or water for any of us, I would really like to finish. I’m tired, sore, and emotionally numb.
“I’d turned 18,” I tell them, holding onto that numbness with everything I have. It helps me think.
Each of them wing up their eyebrows. “So young,” Hilian mumbles.
“What did you do?” Lyathin asks, without looking up from the paper.
“I moved my scythe, barely, with my thoughts. I pulled it from the fence it was propped on, and it fell to the ground while I was still several lengths away.”
“It didn’t come to you?” Lyathin confirms.
My heart slams against my chest. They didn’t ask this last time. “No,” I answer, clipped. If it had, if I’d had more control over my abilities, maybe Irielle, Levvi, and Alden would all still be alive.
Lyathin pauses his writing and raises his eyes to mine. “This memory bothers you.”
I quirk my eyebrow at him. What, does he want me to clap for him? We all already know they can sense my emotions.
He lays the quill on the table, and steeples his hands together. “Tell us about that day.”
Fury rises hot and potent, melting the numbness. No, I need the numbness, the blankness. Without it, I might break open.
I cross my arms over my chest. I’m done. I’m so, so done. “No.”
Lyathin’s expression doesn’t shift, but his fingers press together, the only movement a slow tap of his thumbs.
Robias focuses his good eye on me. “You understand, Leina, that there’s never been a female Altor? Nor an Altor born of Selencia? Not in the 1,000-year history of the Altor, not since theAltor were created by the goddess Thayana to defend humanity against the Kher’zenn.”
