Blood magic existed as a perversion of the natural order of life. At its crudest, the Void pulled life from one source to prolong another, yet as always entropy did its work and the transference was ever flawed. Death would inevitably leave its mark wherever blood magic tainted life.

Chapter 33

The hand clutching her chest gripped snugly, embedding the soft fibers of her nightclothes into the leaking scabs surrounding her festering blood runes. Trynneia groaned in pain as she awoke to the suns bearing down upon her, their own heat matching the burning flesh of the fever ravaging her body. Nearly imperceptible flecks of color darted away from the edge of her vision, blurry as it was. The jostling clop of the horse beneath her, with its slow shuffling, only pushed her nausea to its tipping point, and she retched a mixture of blood, beer, and bile all over herself and the hand that held her.

“So much for my bath, Oathbreaker,” Lord Elanreu grumbled, momentarily switching his grip to flick the putrid mess off himself. “And yours too, it seems,” he mused. But his voice carried a subtle murmur to it, undercutting the chesty sound itself, and different streaks of light carried past the edges of her vision to accompany the noisy thrum. “We’ll reach Praxoenn by nightfall.”

Trynneia felt her pulse surge as she remembered where she was. Her fever dream had left her shaking and disoriented, unable to determine if any of it were real, or just ravings of insanity. She tensed, newly alert to her surroundings, and Lord Elanreu halted the horse to dismount. “How much do you remember?” he asked.

Too much. Oh, too much, she thought as she remembered her mother’s grisly murder, her banishment. Ditan… Trynneia’s mind raced, trying to blur out what she’d done to him. Only look forward now, not behind. “Praxoenn…” she sighed, daring to look up at the road ahead. Her eyes remained fixed on what she saw even as Elanreu lifted her down and began removing fresh clothing for her from the saddlebags of Honey, who had trailed behind them by a lead.

This side of Stebadd ran a real road, well paved with sturdy stone and lined with low hedges. The terror of the desert remained behind as the Falsyn Oasis gave way to a more moderate climate and low-lying grasslands. To the far distances on either side of them were farmland, but ahead, for the first time in her life, Trynneia beheld a city. A real city! Even from this distance, she could make out buildings that towered over all the others, and an amalgam of smaller multi-colored buildings whose purpose she could not comprehend.

No building she’d ever seen had stood more than two stories tall, save an inn or two and several silos for food storage. This defied her very perception of how many people could live in one place, and she stood in awe even as Lord Elanreu gently removed her soiled clothing and wiped her down.

She took the fresh change of clothes he offered, and winced at how thin she looked as he helped her dress herself. When did I get so thin? she thought to herself even while her weak arms fumbled their way into the faintly blue tunic and light trousers. Elanreu tossed her ruined clothes to the side of the road, not wishing to drag their stench with them.

“I’d forgotten you’d never seen a real city before, Oathbreaker. What do you think?” he gestured grandly, as if he’d had something to do with its construction. Trynneia coughed and her head spun.

“I think I want you to stop calling me Oathbreaker,” she muttered weakly, shifting her gaze to the Lord who was himself beginning to change his clothing. Elanreu tossed his shirt to the same pile as her nightclothes.

His cold fingers forcefully tilted her chin up, and he gazed down at her. “What, child, makes you think you could enforce that?” Trynneia’s skin crawled as she recoiled, and underneath it all came that strange vibrating echo of something she still could not describe, as purples and reds whipped about his frame. She grabbed his hand to pull it away, but failed. “Even a kitten has more strength,” he observed.

“You don’t frighten me, Elanreu,” she whispered, hoping her voice sounded more convincing than she felt. The Lord smirked.

“Let me make this simple for you then, Oathbreaker,” he said, switching his grip to the base of her neck and pressing his free hand into her chest, right into the worst of the etched runes. Fresh blood seeped into her clean tunic. “This witch’s mark,” he continued, twisting his hand painfully against it, “is killing you. Now, you can fight me, or whatever it is you’re trying to do, or go to them.” He nodded upwards towards the city. “You’re here to receive Light’s Judgment. There is only one way to absolve yourself.”

I don’t even know what she’s done to me, Trynneia thought. She coughed and groaned, continuing to struggle out of his grip. “Please let me go,” she croaked, what little defiance she’d mustered fleeing at her own weakness. What fate awaits me? Elanreu released her and she dropped to her knees, sobbing on the road.

“Modius and Sariam really did a number on you, didn't they? And they came so close, too,” he reflected as he reached a hand down to pull her up. So close to what? She wondered. Trynneia felt the weight of her sins crash upon her as a gust of wind blew past them, down the road to Praxoenn. Trailing motes of brown and orange danced a tangle of confusion around the two travelers and their horse.

“I don’t want to go,” she blurted, wiping blood from her lips, fear of Light’s Judgment, and worry about her mortality crowding into her as she followed the different colors flitting past. “You said you had a place nearby? Can we go there instead, at least for the night?” She took his hand and he pulled her up.

“My lands are on the far side of Praxoenn, to the east. You’re in no condition to make that journey, child, and I have no doubt that the Regency knows of our impending arrival. This is the fate that has awaited you, Trynneia.”

She looked up at him as he fastened a belt around her waist, even as she felt it bore the dagger sheathed upon it. Despite the brightness of the day, dark colors clustered near his flesh, almost like a protective film of deep purples, blacks, and reds. Trynneia couldn’t see them directly, just at the edges of her sight.

“What is your darkness, Lord Elanreu? What suffering have you-” He jerked the belt tighter than he needed.

“My darkness is the one that sees an abomination standing before him. Is that what you want to hear, Oathbreaker? You are a being of the Light. You were Lightblessed. But now you are a murderer. Not of necessity but by choice.” He tugged at the dagger. “You chose this path. Consciously or not, it doesn’t matter.”

“So I am an abomination,” she despaired. “What does the Illuminari Regency want with me, Lord?” she spat, her blood splattering upon the ground. Hatred glimmered in her eyes, and the colors faded. “I feel broken inside,” she growled, “ And it’s not me. It’s not me. I don’t feel myself.”

Lord Elanreu smiled at her, purple and red lights flickering away from his brow, turning his almost amiable face to one of glowering foreboding. “I am not a man who gives idle fancies of fate more than a passing glance, Trynneia. The Light has driven you before it and made of you what it will.” He inhaled sharply. “Fine. Do what you want, Oathbreaker. There is nothing to fear from the Illuminari Regency. I work under the Light, and you’ve experienced the hands of my servants. I have not been purged for my sins, or theirs.” Elanreu pointed at Honey.

“Take her and go wherever you wish. Or come with me. Too many times of late the choice has been stolen from you.” He mounted his horse and looked down upon her. “Do not fear darkness, Oathbreaker. It always comes before the Light.” Lord Elanreu kicked his horse to a gallop, and sped down the road.

Trynneia slumped against her own horse, fury and feverish weariness sapping her strength. She did not want to contemplate her own darkness, and hated having it thrown in her face like that. Every instinct tore at her to abandon this journey, to turn back, to at least bury what remained of her friends and countrymen.

What had convinced him that I was an abomination? What does that even mean? “I am not well,” she whispered. “Momma, what would you do?” Colors of azure and turquoise hovered about her, interspersed with pale ambers and lush greens, undulating silently to the thrum that shivered in her chest.

Behind her, the colors faded. Somewhere down that road, Stebadd hid behind the twisting vegetation, but there also lurked a darkness with popping colors of crimson, orange, and midnight purple that filled her with dread. She felt it turning in the way her fever pulsed at her temples, covering her in beads of sweat and her breath drew shallow. Trynneia narrowed her eyes, and turned to the distant city.

The thrum increased, and the brighter colors slowly filtered away, bleeding towards the city as the twin suns burned their light down upon it. Of the two paths she could take, it seemed less ominous, and for that she trusted it not.

“Do you seek absolution?” came Rendrys’ voice, and Trynneia started. No one was nearby, but it repeated, “Do you seek absolution?” from her left, so she followed the voice through the bushes and off the path. Trynnieia pushed forward, coughing with her exertion, tentatively peeling the blouse from the wound on her chest. A shallow divot lay before her and within was a bundle of carved twigs, bound with hemp, decorated with paint.

The totem! How did it get here? Trynneia’s mind raced, last remembering it at her “trial,” evidence of her complicity to murder. So many months ago… It seemed different now, so many colors swirling about it through music she could almost taste. Light touched her, ever so faintly, and for just a moment she felt the healthy warmth of her Lightblessed runes, before they quenched themselves once more. Trynneia lifted her tunic to see the ones upon her side, sunken so far into her flesh they pulled inward, her skin torn and raw as blood began to bead up.

Blood trickled down her face, and began to wick through the thighs of her trousers as well. Wiping blood, sweat, and tears of pain from her cheeks, she grabbed the totem. Trynneia’s vision changed in an instant, everything fragmenting into dots of color, each color representing a sound that tasted pungent and smelled even worse. She retched once more, dry-heaving her pitifully empty stomach. Every sense flared and she fell to her knees and hands, the totem digging into her palm despite her scant weight. Trynneia screamed a howl of ungodly pain, its pitch clashing with her fever, forcing her to curl into a ball, twitching.

“Seek your absolution, Trynneia,” she tasted, somehow understanding the fusion of her senses. “I don’t know how, momma,” she whimpered, slowly lurching like an inchworm back toward the direction of the road. “I can’t do this,” she said through gritted teeth as her hand felt ablaze holding the totem she refused to relinquish. With her free hand she dug in, pulling herself along until she felt the lower branches of the bushy hedge that lined the road. Muted screeches of pain accompanied the bloody path she left behind her and she dragged herself through to the paved road, heartbeat fluttering as she stared up at the twin suns while Honey licked her face. As she lost consciousness from the pain and blood loss, Trynneia’s head lolled to the side, and the last thing she saw was Praxoenn taunting her across the distance.