Page 33 of Kissed By the Gods
Lako’s hells. If it weren’t for the scar, which is raised and jagged and pulsing, I would think I’d dreamed the entire thing. But the scar is real.
Even the brush of my fingertips over the ridges makes my stomach churn, my knees wobble. It hurts, but I can’t stop. My hand keeps drifting back to them as I piece together memories the way you’d piece together a shattered window—with bloodied fingers, knowing you’ll never get it quite right.
As I touch the scar again, flinching at the pain, it hits me—the gods are real. Not metaphor, not myth. Not only pretty prayerswhispered over altars or carved names on temple walls. Real. And I’ve stood before one.
I’m still holding that thought—heavy, holy, horrifying—when there’s a knock at the door.
It’s jarring. I spin to face the door, but the sharp motion sends another shockwave of pain coursing through me. My fingers spasm against the mirror and the glass slips from my grip to crash to the floor, breaking into countless jagged shards. I’m close to tears, knowing there’s no piecing them back together. If my mother were here, she’d say this is no time for theatrics, but a truth settles deep in my aching bones as I stare down at the shattered glass.
I’m broken. And like the mirror, I’ll never be whole again.
The insistent knocking penetrates my reverie, and I jerk my gaze to the door.
No one has bothered to knock since I first stepped foot in the infirmary on the day of the Kher’zenn attack. Not the servants who deliver trays of food and clean clothes; not Nyrica who comes to check on me sometimes; not the Altor guards who stand outside the door; and certainly not the archons.
They all turn the key in the large, wooden door and let themselves in. So, the knocking … that’s new.
I glance around the room in surprise, expecting to have somehow missed someone who merits the courtesy of a knock—another Altor patient, maybe. There’s no one, but there is something else sitting in the corner. Ignoring the knocking, I leap toward it, my joints still protesting.
My scythe has been stunningly recast. It’s now forged from dark adamas, but hints of the original silver weave throughout the black, creating an intricate design of loops and curls. I trace the patterns along the shaft as I realize it’s a script I can’t read. And yet … it’s familiar to me.
It’s also longer than it was, stretching nearly six feet from end to end. The hooked blade, about two feet in length, is so sharp that I slit my finger with the barest of touches.
My gaze falls to what used to be my pruning shears, but they couldn’t be mistaken for a simple farming tool anymore. I pick them up reverently. They, too, were reforged in adamas and measure a full foot in length. With a twist, they unhinge at the center to separate into two daggers, each one honed to a lethal edge. There’s also a set of chainmail in gold and a pair of knee-high boots. Everything looks so similar to the goddess’ that I can’t resist a shiver.
Is this my gift?
The knocking grows more insistent. “Leina Haverlyn?” A soft voice asks from the other side of the door. “I’m getting quite worried, Leina, so I’m coming in.”
I snatch the weapons, the boots, the chainmail, all of it—and shove it under the bed before grabbing a robe. Lifting the hood up over my temple, I turn as the door groans open.
A woman I don’t recognize walks into the infirmary. She’s dressed simply, in a plain tunic and brown leather pants. But nothing else about her is simple.
There’s an almost ethereal beauty to her, but it’s tempered by wear that you can see in dozens of little ways. Her vibrant gold hair is pulled back in a braid that’s starting to unravel at the edges, her simple white tunic is smudged with streaks of something—dirt, maybe, or dried blood—and her shoulders droop ever so slightly.
Despite how tired she is, her eyes—a clear, deep blue shadowed by dark circles—scan the room with quiet focus. Two Altor flank her, and a servant boy trails behind, his head down, carrying a tray with a steaming pot and a silver pitcher, which he sets quietly on the nearest table.
The woman doesn’t pause. She strides toward me without hesitation and reaches for my arm, her cool fingers gliding from shoulder to fingertips before I can think to move. She finds my hand behind my back, wrapping hers around it like we’re old friends long separated. Her grip is firm, but there’s a twitch in her fingers when she comes into contact with my bare skin.
I’m thrown off by the boldness of the touch, the casual invasion of my space. By the time heat begins to rise in my cheeks, she’s already letting go, stepping back.
“I’m Elowen,” she says smoothly. “And I’ve come to heal you.”
Then she turns to the guards by the door and flicks her hand at them. “Your presence is unnecessary.”
They leave without a word.
She walks over to the small table set up against the wall but pauses when she sees the mirror. “Oh dear!” She steps over the shards, and I expect a reprimand for my clumsiness. “Be careful of the glass until we can get someone in here to clean it up.”
And then she starts pulling jars and bottles down from the shelves, mixing herbs with a mortar and pestle. She starts to hum. There’s something about her … something about the way she moves.
“You look familiar,” I manage to force out through my dry throat, but the words are a struggle, and she winces when she hears my garbled voice.
“You poor thing.” She glides over with the steaming hot cup. I don’t think anyone has called me “poor thing” since my grandmother died. Not that Elowen is a grandmother. She’s probably about 30, but she has an energy about her that’s peaceful.
She presses the cup into my hands. “Drink this,” she says. “It will help.”
I drink, the hot liquid coating my throat in something that soothes and heals as it goes down. I sigh in relief, and she gives a satisfied little smile before she turns back to her preparation table and starts mixing herbs.
