Mona filled a bucket with warm sand and bathed alone, basking in a shaft of orange-red light from a rectangular window near the ceiling. It was a perk of being High Priestess to have her own bathtub and even a window. The junior priestesses used a communal facility, and the most junior ranked priestesses had rooms closer to the tower core, windowless and moldy.
She took the time to scrub every inch of her body, the sand rough and abrasive against her scales, until her pink skin felt raw and new. As much as she had enjoyed bathing with her Master, it was easier to clean herself to her usual fastidious standards when she was alone and free of distractions. And besides, her room, while sparse and unimpressive, had a functional charm that was lacking from the chambers above.
Once she was finished she pulled on her robes and sat at her writing desk, dipping her quill and setting to work on the day’s sermon. She still had some old ones in the chest by her bed, but she could tell the other priestesses were starting to notice her self-plagiarism. Sadly, it was difficult to sermonize when you didn’t believe. When you knew you were lying with every word.
“My dear brothers and sisters of the Void,” she began, whispering under her breath as she scribbled. “We live in momentous times. Our god has returned to us, and even now plans the salvation of our people and all Void-touched.”
Except he doesn’t. Part of her wanted to return to his chambers, beg him one last time to stay, or at least, consider it. Despite his new tome—where did he get that, anyway?—escape would take a while to be feasible even if he was a genius. And so far, he sure as hell didn’t seem like one. In the meantime, whether he liked it or not, he still needed to convince the rest of demonkind that he was legitimate. That he was to be respected, if not feared.
I pushed him too hard, didn’t I? I told him he needed to sacrifice himself, that he needed to die if necessary. I should have been more gentle with him. From his perspective, without his memories, he has already lost too much.
“It is important, during these times, to place our faith in those we have chosen to follow—”
Her quill stalled. The words tasted bitter to her now. No one had chosen to follow, and their faith would not be rewarded.
She wet her quill, then set to it again: “The truth is that we live in difficult times, and we will be tested. Our Lord asks much of us and expects that great sacrifice will be needed to prevail in our struggle.
“We have fought for our existence for millennia, but we have never needed Greg-Theryx. Our God has always needed us, needed our service and devotion for his own purposes. Without Greg-Theryx, we would still exist. Without demonkind, however, Greg-Theryx would wither and die.
“Perhaps he has died already. Perhaps he has abandoned us here and left us to our dismal fate.”
It was blasphemy, of course. That didn’t make it untrue, but it did make it dangerous. Mona dropped the parchment in the waste basket by her desk, then muttered an incantation and set it on fire. It had been soothing to write, though, and there was a sense of catharsis in seeing the words turn to ash.
She would have to make things up as she went, she supposed. She had improvised some of her best sermons. Or at least, this is what she told herself.
Without thinking, she left her room and stalked down the hallway. She realized where she was only once she’d reached the changing room for the saunas. Thankfully, it was currently empty. She stepped inside the one farthest back from the changing area, closest to the tower’s center, then closed the door behind her.
The room’s walls were volcanic rock on every side, with a furnace of black stones, which Mona stoked with a fire that erupted from her hand. She summoned another flame, a larger one this time, and carefully passed it back and forth between her outstretched palms. After a few bounces, she spread her hands and projected the fire towards the far wall of the room.
The fire hit the rock with a loud boom, and the floor shook. A backdraft of hot air crashed upon her. The warmth of it was pleasant on her skin, but it did not last long enough to reach her muscles.
She stretched, shifting her stance through different meditative forms she had learned at the Academy in order to better focus her Will. She drew out the fire once again, the ball of flame forming in her hands as if emerging from thin air, as if the fire itself felt a hunger for destruction.
She held the flame in one hand, floating above her palm, a flickering, fiery sphere. Mona imagined Phaedra standing in front of her, then flicked her wrist and sent the fire careening forward, smashing into the stone wall again, harder than before.
The heat that washed over her this time was exquisite, and she closed her eyes to bask in it as it soaked into her bones. She felt light-headed from the heat and steadied herself with a hand against the wall, taking deep breaths.
On her way out, she saw Lilith in the changing room, who must have heard the noise or felt the vibrations and was watching Mona with a concerned look. But Mona coldly stared back at her for a long moment, and the other priestess smiled and bowed her head.
“An auspicious day, High Priestess.”
“It certainly is,” Mona replied, forcing a smile. “But they all are these days, aren’t they?” She summoned upon her face the feigned smile of normalcy and calm that had become her mask while deep inside her chest, a scream waited in vain for a chance to escape her.
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Mona stepped up to the podium two hours after sunrise, after a brief introduction from Yeni, the one she had seen earlier in the hallway. Mona scarcely knew the woman and had never really spoken to her, but she seemed collected and poised in front of the congregation. Her blue skin was pale like ice. As was tradition, the morning service contained a reading from the Book of Grievances given by the High Priestess, which Mona thankfully knew by heart.
It seemed somewhat sad now, but she had taken her studies very seriously at one time, painstakingly memorizing every verse of the Book and most of the commentaries.
Today’s passage, timely enough, was on a central question—why the demons had rallied to Greg-Theryx during the first crusade. It was a story she had never grown tired of until now. Now, it all seemed a joke. And yet, the schedule of readings was set, as unalterable as a Generated name.
“Greg-Theryx asks much of us,” Mona said, her voice high and clear, sounding from deep in her chest, projecting throughout the temple. Before the reading itself, it was expected she would provide an introduction, including some commentary. “So it is natural, I suppose, that as demons, we ask ourselves—why? Why follow him?”
Perhaps she had improvised too hard, for a scattering of gasps sounded in the pews. But with the red morning light shining in from the windows at the top of the temple sanctum’s roof, almost blinding in its intensity, Mona had difficulty seeing beyond the first couple rows. So she had no idea who she’d offended and had no choice, anyway, but to press on.
“Today’s story illuminates this for us.” She cleared her throat and flipped to the correct page in the Book, though her eyes barely glanced at the words. “So it is said that in the years following the Great Cataclysm, when the world was still young, during a time of peace, it was not unheard of for Void-touched to travel freely in the Brightlands.”
“But why would they go to the Brightlands, High Priestess?” The voice came from a young child in the front row. This type of call and response was also written into the Book, and the convention was for audience members, usually though not always children, to speak these parts. “Did they not know this is death?”
Reading from the Book was more of a performance than a recitation. “I am glad you asked,” Mona said. “This was before even the first crusade, and some still thought that perhaps the people of the Void and the people of the Aether, both the Voidlands and Brightlands, could find peace.” Mona paused for a moment, considering the following line in a way she never had quite before. “They did not yet know this was doomed to failure.”
She took a slow, calming breath before continuing.
“Forty-six years after the Cataclysm, three Void-touched—a demon, a dark elf, and a beastkin—were arrested in the realm of King Menides and brought before him on charges of murder. The three were traveling merchants who had killed no one—we know this because they had only arrived in the city the night before, and the murders they were accused of had happened almost a week earlier.”
“Why were they accused, then?” A different child spoke up from the front row this time, a young girl who reminded Mona in some distant way of herself decades ago—a naive waif, seeking to prove her worth.
“Because they were a demon, a dark elf, and a beast,” Mona answered. “According to the laws at that time, an accused could not mount their own defense. They were only allowed to have someone else speak on their behalf. But no one would speak for these three.”
Mona paused and looked around the temple. Though the light was still in her eyes, she smiled at the people she imagined were watching her.
“King Menides looked around his court, and he rubbed his beard, uncertain what to do. In all his reign, this was the first time an accused had been brought before the court without anyone to speak in their defense. Since the three travelers were new to the area, no one knew them, and few humans or elves would deign to stick their necks out for such a sad assortment of Void-touched.
“The King felt troubled by this, for he had enough of a sense of justice to feel guilt. He turned to his most trusted advisor, a celestial named Naal Tiran—” As Mona said the name, many demons in the audience hissed under their breath, as was tradition. “—who was said to have wings that could form geometric patterns so complex, they would cause hallucinations in anyone who saw them.”
Mona paused, looking down at the pages and realizing she had failed to flip them. She decided to offer a brief aside from what was written. “Consider this—why would someone who was truly righteous need the ability to make people see things that were not there?” The crowd murmured approvingly. It was true that any light-based magic, even illusion, was considered a heretical skill among demons.
“Naal Tiran leaned close to Menides and whispered in his ear, ‘It does not matter what you do to them, my King. They are sad, wretched creatures. If no one will speak to their defense, send them to the gallows.’ The King hesitated, but reluctantly followed his most trusted advisor’s words. The King gave the order, scheduling the execution for the next day.”
She raised a hand in the air.
“And who was it that emerged from the crowd?”
The crowd, this time, roared, and almost everyone shouted in unison, “The Great One!”
Such devotion, she thought. Such conviction. They still believe in him. I wish I could say the same.
“The King’s jaw hung in astonishment as a demon emerged from the King’s courtiers. The assembled began to gasp and shrink away from the newcomer.
“‘I will speak for them,’ he said.
“‘And who are you?’ demanded the King, as his guards stepped forward, their spear tips arrayed against the tall, imposing demon.”
Mona tried not to smile, for as she had discovered, “he” was not that imposing. But perhaps, back then, he had been.
“‘Does it matter who I am?’ our Lord answered. ‘If I am here in good faith. If all I say is true. Then, what else matters?’”
Why couldn’t he have been like this? It did not seem fair.
The crowd murmured approvingly at this part of the story, and Mona smiled at their reaction. She felt it, too, the righteousness of the only one who had deigned to protect them.
The sun rose enough that it was no longer shining on the podium, and as Mona’s eyes adjusted, she realized she could see everyone who had gathered there. As her eyes scanned the crowd, passing from one face to the next, she felt a brief sense of respite from her dread. Perhaps, if she could give hope to these people, that would be enough. That was her duty, after all, and so what if it wasn’t true?
But when her eyes reached the back of the temple hall, they fell upon Greg himself, seated in the back row, looking at her with a strange expression she didn’t understand. His eyes held a look somewhere between confusion and revelation, as if he was privy to some deep secret.
Mona smiled in spite of herself. He had come here to see her. So perhaps the rift between them could be mended. For the rest of the sermon, she could not help but imagine herself speaking only to him—to the man she still wished to call Master, if only he were willing. If only he could remember who he was supposed to be.