23 - Faith

 

When Calvin and his brother exit the room to go speak for the first time in nearly a year, a resolution builds within Callie. Incomplete, deconstructed, yet slowly forming. She holds her elbows, forearms resting across her chest, and absent-mindedly traces her fingernails over the newly formed scars, still healing. 

The rest of the assembled room clears, leaving behind the two current and one former Devotia. It dawns upon Callie that this might be the most Devotia gathered in one place in nearly a century. 

Ellava studies Junivere and Callie with something like apprehension in her eyes. She stands tall, wary, as though prepared for flight at a moment’s notice - yet no part of her seems afraid. No, there is a commanding confidence in her, still. The tan, deep skin of her face forms into a frown, little wrinkles in the corners of her lips and eyes. She’s perhaps thirty, just a few years older than Junivere, and wears her rich, black hair in a long braid that descends down to her waist. 

“Hal Devotia,” she bows politely, half-hearted. Her eyes find Junivere. “We’ve met before. Do you remember?” 

Junivere nods, an equally polite and reserved smile finding her. “You visited Tulla during my first year.” 

“You were so young and fragile then. Not anymore - you’ve a look about you.” She steps more fully into the room, turning and drawing her gaze at Callie. It’s difficult not to feel as though dissected by glare alone under her firm stare. “I have you to thank for my return from exile.” A beat. “It seems you have survived excommunication.” 

And I did not, hangs the implication as a bitter knife. 

Guilt pangs in Callie’s chest, gripping her. Her fingers clench along her forearms and her eyes drop to the floor. “For what it’s worth, I’m sorry you did not.” 

“Don’t be. It isn’t you who I am angry with.” 

Junivere steps closer to Callie, a quick finger under her chin to lift her face. “So, weeks ago you sent Salome to retrieve her. Why?” 

Ellava is tense. “I am curious as well.” 

“Optimism that change could be possible,” Callie feels herself choking on her words, stinging with the humbling violence of her past weeks. Change feels considerably less attainable. As though to accent the point, another telling boom shakes in the distance, betraying the continued conflict outside. 

The former Devotia turns to Junivere, almost as though she was a peer and Callie was not. “So this is the Devotia going to war with tradition; who’s somehow split the Imperium.” Her gaze lands on Callie once more, inceptive. “She doesn’t look well.” 

“She’s survived eight assassination attempts from Velena,” Junivere defends protectively. 

Bitterly, Ellava finds a chair and sits. “Who hasn’t?” It’s unclear whether or not she means it. A breath passes between them, and her stare softens into pragmatism. “Why am I here, Callana?” 

Feeling pitiable, Callie replies in a quiet voice. “You deserve your life back. And Calvin, his brother.” She sucks in a defeated, half-way naive breath. “I was hopeful we were righting the wrongs of the past. Moving forwards in a new way.” 

Ellava once more regards Junivere instead. “Is she naive or does she sound this way because she is exhausted?” 

“She’s optimistic,” Junivere corrects. Though, she concedes, “And tired.” She turns to the windows and peers out the shutters. “The fighting does seem to be slowing as night draws near.” 

Almost as though trying to contradict her, another explosion echoes over the city, closer than the previous one. 

“I don’t like seeing Solva like this,” Ellava says quietly. She rises to the window as well. “Devotia Callana, what is your plan?” 

Junivere replies faster. “We’re trying to convince her to leave with us.” 

Ellava considers Callie again, more impressed. “Stubborn and optimistic.” 

And for her part, Callie allows her tired body to drop down onto the bed, flopping onto the side of it and kicking out her weary legs. Mykah’s and Rian’s work on her threading helped considerably, though now her body is groaning with wear. “Presently the plan is survival,” she sighs and folds her head into her palms. 

I will protect you, says something within her. Something continually stirs in her stomach, and she tries to dismiss it as anxiety. But something is assuredly there, like the feeling of standing at a high place and knowing you can step off and fall at any time. 

“You can’t run forever.” 

Junivere kneels before Callie, her hands prying Callie’s from her face. Her emerald eyes study her softly, trying to tend to her fears. Suddenly, Junivere’s brow furrows. “Please don’t make that face,” she warns. 

“I’m not making a face.”

Junivere shakes her head, insistent. “What are you concocting, and why do you think I’m going to hate it?” 

“Nothing yet,” she grumbles. A nagging sensation pulls at her head. “It’s Yala who might be.” 

She notices the two other Devotia in the room tense. It’s Ellava who voices it first. “It’s dangerous to trust in the protection of a goddess.” Junivere grimaces in agreement. 

Callie finds herself staring out the window. Down in the plaza below lay the fountain where Yala first spoke to her, first giving her the hope of something radically different. 

And it occurs to Callie that every time she came to hide in Solva, she came to the Fleeting Fox. Every time, she stared out into that pool and wondered whether or not she should disappear entirely - becoming nothing and no one. And every time, the goddess disagreed. 

The priestesses who chose her for anointing came to her while she was here, at the inn. They’d found her taking a break from serving tables and resting against that very pool. 

When she’d almost ended things with Calvin, swore she’d leave everything behind, Yala appeared to her from that very water. 

And now she feels an itching, gnawing pull inside of her, drawing her nearer and nearer to the water. She doesn’t even notice standing, though she plays it off as stretching her legs. Junivere rests a kindly palm between her shoulder blades, comforting and loving. 

I will protect you. 

The words are nearly forming upon Callie’s lips when a knock on the door interrupts her. Junivere opens it to find Calvin waiting behind it. His face entreaties into the room, and, a little sheepishly, he asks, “Might I borrow Callie? Forgive the interruption.” 

Callie remains frozen in place, staring at the window, and it takes a breath to register his request. She shakes herself and quietly slips out into the hallway alone with him, shutting the door behind them. 

“Is everything alrigh-,”

She’s interrupted by Calvin throwing her into a fierce hug. His strong arms squeeze firmly, warm with an air of necessity. “Thank you,” he says into her ear. He steps back and shuffles awkwardly. “I… I didn’t realize how badly I needed to see my brother again. I’d let myself believe what people said about him - that all this time, he was manipulative, deceiving, ambitious to a fault, but he isn’t. He’s as I remember him.” He shakes his head. “I’d forgotten what he was like, but seeing him again…? Thank you.” 

“Of course,” Callie smiles, her hand drifting to rest against his arm. “I thought it’d make you happy.” A little defeatedly, she admits, “And I hoped it’d be a part of a new Solva.” 

Calvin embraces her again, and when he pulls back, his face is beaming with that infectious optimism that had led her to these decisions in the first place. That is, until his brow furrows, too. “You’re making that face. Why are you making that face?” 

“Am I so easily read?” 

“What are you planning?”

She rolls her eyes. “If I’m planning something, apparently I’m the last to know it.” 

His fingers gently curl around her hand, pulling it up and squeezing it. “I know you don’t want to hear it, and I hate to be so insistent about it, but we need to be preparing to leave.” His grip tightens worryingly. “None of us want to lose you.” 

Callie can’t find words to say. Inside, it’s as though anything she could say would be simultaneously unspeakable and obvious. She releases a low breath and forms her way around a different, seemingly unrelated thought. “Do you think Rookwell would welcome me back? As I am now?” 

Calvin looks concerned. “What about Tulla?” A pause. “You’re thinking about returning?” 

“Could they? She repeats, something surely stirring inside, hidden behind her words. 

And Calvin shrugs. “After a miracle, I suppose.” 

– – -

 

Even before her first failed attempt to sleep, tucked away between Calvin on one side and Junivere on the other, Callie knew well where her feet would take her. Something insistent carries her out of those soft sheets, away from their lovely bodies, and out to the courtyard below. 

She glares into the pool, remembering again the miracle of it shattering and forming the shape of her goddess. She remembers being chosen again, given a new hope for what her life could be. 

She sits on the ledge and waits. Then she attempts a prayer, though the words feel sloppy and unpolished. 

Callie stirs at the sound of the door shutting quietly behind her. Footsteps, and then she’s surprised to find Ellava lowering herself to sit on the edge of the pool beside her. The older Devotia looks lost in thought, and for a long minute, feels comfortable with the silently shared reflection. Callie sits, one leg upon the floor and one curled up on the stone rim. 

“They all really love you,” says Ellava, nodding her head towards the inn. Her voice is sweet, though weighted. “But they don’t really get it, do they?” Callie exhales and settles into herself. Ellava purses her lips, processing something. “Being a Devotia - it’s like nothing else. When I was removed, it wasn’t pretty. I always thought that ‘kicking and screaming’ was just an expression.” 

Callie allows herself to picture Ellava being ripped away from it all. She can so easily understand the horrible, frigid dread of standing before the Imperium and having her life taken away from her for simply loving someone. 

And she finds herself staring again at the pool, as though waiting for it to shatter and for Yala to appear and tell her what she should do. 

She swallows. “There’s something itching inside of me, nagging at my mind. I can’t figure it out.” She sighs. “Earlier today, I was begging to quit and be done with all of this.” 

“But you can’t,” the ex-Devotia nods, understanding rather than imploring. 

“No,” Callie agrees. “I can’t.” 

“So what are you going to do about it?” 

Inside of the Inn is nearly everyone Callie loves - save Cirene, sheltering in her home with a personal escort of paladins under her own dime. Calvin, Junivere, Mykah, the priestesses, and a host of close friends and allies. Her palms clench into frustrated fists. 

“I can’t fight Velena.” 

“Probably not.” 

“I can’t run. I can’t wait it out.” Her head falls into her hands, and for a moment she appreciates the quiet of the night. The fighting has ceased, for now. “I’ve got no plan but all of the will to enact one.” 

“It’s midnight,” Ellava shrugs. “Everything is necessary and unsolvable at midnight.” 

“What would you do if you were me? Am I a fool for not running?” 

At that, Ellava is quiet. The sort of thoughtfulness that comes with an impossible question, demanding an inexplicable answer. Callie knows she can’t possibly expect Ellava to take this unsolvable problem from her - but she desperately wishes the older Devoita could. 

So when Ellava speaks, careful with her words, Callie follows intently. “I love Gellen,” she says. “I loved him practically the moment I met him. Even in exile, I’ve had a life with him that I have cherished.” 

She stops for a moment, considering her words. When she speaks again, there is a quiet fury in her eyes. “But I had friends here. Family. Lovers. Memories. Everything. And it was taken from me simply because I wanted, as everyone does, just a little more.” She laughs, low and bitter, and shakes her head. “I ought to have dueled Velena then and there. She’d always despised me.” 

Callie isn’t sure what to say, and accepts the harsh quiet until her predecessor speaks again. 

“I don’t have advice, Callana,” Ellava exhales. “I’m still bitter. I will be for some time, no matter what. A small part of me hates you for all this. Wants you to suffer as I have.” She swallows. “It’s life. Sometimes there’s no clever way out, no tidy solution. It’s just harsh and unfortunate, and they,” her eyes lift accusingly to the sky above, “rarely help.” 

And, in conclusion, she spits at the ground. Then, she softens. “Get some sleep. Nothing is solved at midnight.” 

Then, Ellava leaves her alone, slipping away back into the inn.  

Callie shudders in the cold of night, a tremble born out by that terrible feeling inside of her. Unasuaded by Ellava’s just anger, she finds herself considering the moon with harsh intent. 

She’d fled Rookwell under cover of night. She met Yala fleeing at midnight. 

And she’s not willing to run again. 

A pang in her chest. She fixates on that luminous sphere above. 

“You’ll protect me?” 

Nothing answers her. She sighs and shakes her head. 

“Faith. Stupid thing that.” 

Callie returns her focus to the Fleeting Fox, and all those precious, irreplaceable loves it boasts within. She considers how sorely they’ll hate the decision she’s come to. 

It’s difficult to give voice to the choked way her lips form, “I’m sorry.” 

And Callie turns away, marching off into the night with a horrible, stupid, terrible plan inside of her heart. 

– – – 

 

Magister Hamada is furious in a different way than Callie has ever seen her. Her face is missing the scorn or righteous indignation it saves for Magister Velena, nor does it possess petty frustrations. It’s an emotion Callie can’t quite place, but begrudgingly accepts. 

“Of your many inconceivable ideas, Callana, I consider this to be quite easily the worst,” says the recently awoken Magister. Her hair tangles into thin, long, black fibers, and exhaustion decorates the purple bags under her eyes. She flicks her arms across her chest, causing the folds of her robes to whip out. “I cannot understand why you would - no, I suppose I can understand, I simply think it’s unimaginably self-destructive.” 

“I could give you a blessing and put you to the task instead.”

“That is the only worse idea you could propose,” she scowls. Hamada marches around the atrium of her home, a tidy and functionally airy manor tucked nearby the College. Despite not being able to see them, Callie could feel the weight of the monstrosity of wards protecting it.  

“I will likely not survive a ninth attempt on my life,” she rebuts. “I suppose I am ready to take a more active role in my self-preservation.” 

“By dueling the most powerful mage alive.” Even Hamada can’t convincingly form the words with any reasonability. Her brows can’t possibly furrow deeper. 

“She can’t refuse it - it’s a direct solution to her problem. And yet, should she accept, she’ll have to kill a Devotia in front of the whole city.” Callie tries to make it sound more thought-through than it is. “How will she possibly govern after a crime like that? The smoke and daggers of her assassinations is what keeps her hands clean. She has never directly attacked me.” 

“You fail to consider that there are a great many people who would applaud her for your death.” She paces in short, tight steps. “Martyrdom is exclusively of benefit to the survivors, you realize.” 

“Will you help me or not?” 

“Callana, the spell you are asking for does not exist. Even I cannot bend the Arcana to my will.” 

“You’re the second most powerful mage alive - can’t you come up with something similar? Take the idea and run with it.” 

“It’s as though you believe magic to be a fickle, easily moldable art,” frowns the mage. “It’s metric, scientific. If this spell does exist - and I’m not saying it does - it would need to be carefully crafted over a course of years.” 

“I don’t need the specifics, I think. I just need to know it’s conceptually sound.” 

At this, Hamada’s pacing marches its way around a harsh circle in the atrium. She stops and considers a large, sweeping potted plant for a moment before continuing. Her arms wave in the air, billowing trails of sleeves lagging behind, as though drawing runes to test her ideas. A few minutes pass before she glowers and halts. 

“It is hypothetically possible. The premise of it, at least.” She hastily adds. “The survivability is far more dubious.” 

Callie gently folds out her sleeves and shows Hamada the scars on her arm. A fierceness grips her as she says, “I just need to know that it’s enough power that I might be able to take her down.” She swallows dryly. “I don’t know if I could convince myself to try without a narrow chance I can… win.” It’s difficult to force out the words.  

Hamada’s eyes narrow, flicking between her forearm and face. She steps closer to examine the scars, fingers tracing the wounds, before peering into Callie. 

“To desire to kill… that’s no small thing, Callana.” 

Callie purses her lips. “It feels only fair that I consider it, after what she’s done to me. It’s some level of self-defense.” A pause. “Besides, she’ll try to kill me again, anyway. The least I can do is force her to be the one to do it, and to give myself a fighting chance.” 

Hamada studies her expression, seemingly considering the passion in her features. She steps back, arms once again folded over her chest. “You’d have to set the time to night, of course. During the day she’d destroy you before you could ever even attempt this.” She’s pacing again. “And even then it’d be contingent on surviving her initial barrage, which would be formidable.” 

“This is why I need you,” Callie inclines her head. “Help me work out how to attempt this magic and build a plan to pull it off. I watched your duels with Markin and Velena - I’ve seen how you strategize.”

“Do remember that she all but bested me, hal Devotia.” 

“But she won’t be fighting you. She won’t expect anything from me - everyone knows my magical aptitude is middling at best.” 

“So, advantages,” Hamada begins, counting out on her fingers and seemingly accepting the challenge. “Midnight, so the Yalani Arcana will give you your maximum amount of power, while putting Velena at her hypothetical lowest. Strategy from an accomplished duelist with experience versus Velena. An impossible spell that will almost assuredly kill you in the process. A crowd so there’s witnesses. Am I missing anything?” 

“The backing of a goddess,” Callie says wishfully. 

Hamada snorts and dismisses the idea outright. “Disadvantages: everything. Need I spell them out?” 

“I simply need you to help me. We announce the duel tonight, call for a ceasefire during the day to protect the city, and before tomorrow night, you and I figure out how to pull this off.” 

“When I asked you to find the gaps in her armor, I did so with the intention that you would assist me in slaying Velena.” 

“Will you help me or not?” 

Hamada peers into her, eyes flicking across her whole form as though cataloging every possible weakness, every pro and con of her seemingly inevitable demise. She squares her shoulders. 

“Allow me to enlist Baris and we will see what can be done.” 

Callie feels a surge of relief accompanying a spike of dead coursing through her. No small part of her was hoping Hamada would abjectly refuse and Callie could walk away from it all, content in the idea she’d given it an honest effort. Hamada’s acceptance opens up a grim host of outcomes, few of which Callie wanted to accept. Her eyes flick to the sky, disrupted by the domed ceiling above. 

“What will you tell your loved ones?” 

Callie exhales slowly. She can’t possibly bring herself to say anything further. There’s no way she could face any of them and inform them that this is what she was doing. 

“I see,” says the Magister. 

– – – 

 

“I can’t possibly see why I ought to be the messenger,” Cirene shudders. She’d made a significant show of dropping down into one of the lounge chairs in her atrium when Callie had delivered the news. Her blonde hair, ruffled from a similarly quick awakening, and the occasional sound of a nighttime guest moving about upstairs betrays the sudden disruption of her night. A trio of Paladins patrol the exterior of the home. 

“I don’t think I could convince anyone else.” 

“But you could me?” She grimaces. “This idea - I don’t understand it at all. I can’t. I won’t. Callie - I just think that, well it’s not so much that…” She sighs, quickly and heavily. “I’d rather like it if you didn’t get yourself killed.” 

“Neither would I like to,” she admits. “But my mind is made up.”

Cirene’s head rolls up to peer into her. The sweet pools of her eyes, soft and innocent and precious, betray a sort of horror. “She’ll kill you.” 

“Something inside of me tells me she won’t.” 

Cirene frowns. “How is it that you’re suddenly the religious Devotia? Wasn’t that always more Junivere’s disposition?” 

“I can’t explain it, I just feel it. Yala is going to protect me, or use me, or… I’m not sure. But something is going to happen.” 

“And you’re okay with that?” Cirene rises and takes Callie’s palm into her hand. Her anxious fingers flitter along the backside of her palm, lightly tugging against her tendons and circling the soft skin. “You love your agency more than anything else. The whole point of everything you've done lately has been to secure your freedom. Now you’re allowing a goddess to dictate what you must and must not do?” 

Callie considers this for a moment. An automatic response comes quickly, only for her to dismiss it and force herself to consider it even further, under more scrutiny. A few long breaths pass before she can find herself saying, “I keep thinking of Rookwell, where I came from, and how much they would hate me for who, and what, I am now. But maybe that could be changed. I don’t know how, or what it would take, but maybe the world could be different there. And then I wouldn’t have had to flee everything just to be me. 

“But this is Solva. And Solva also needs to change, and it won’t just do it on its own - something has to make it change.” She looks away, eyes finding the curling waves of marble underfoot and following them. “Gods, I’ve been such a coward my whole life, Cirene. Don’t make that face, it’s true. I’ve spent my whole life running from something, and maybe there were plenty of things I should have run from, but there’s also been so many things I should have stayed and fought for.

Water wells up neatly behind her eyes, and something catches timidly in her throat. There’s a buzzing in her chest of something important. “I… I’m just not fucking running again. This is my city. My city. My home. Everything I love is here. Everyone I love is here. And she’s trying to take it away from me. I just want us all to be free to live and love - none of this other bullshit. 

“I don’t want to only serve the powerful - I want everyone to be blessed by the goddesses. I don’t want to be under the thumb of the Magisters - I want to be free to follow my heart, my gut, and the guidance of the people I love and trust. Who know me. And I am not going to let Velena take it all away from me. Us. 

“Maybe Rookwell could change. Maybe not. Maybe Solva can change. Maybe not. But I cannot stomach the idea that I didn’t try.” She turns back to Cirene, who almost seems frightened when Callie growls, “I’m a Devotia, dammit! I’ll never have more power, more resources, more allies than I do now - and if I do nothing with that, if I let Velena take it all away without fighting back, I’ll never be able to live with myself. 

“I’m not running again. I refuse to be scared. Maybe Yala will protect me, maybe not. But I know that I am going to do whatever it takes.” She exhales, bitter and determined. “This is the only way I can think to fight back. And I’m willing to pay the cost. If being a martyr is what it’ll take to defeat her, to make this city what I want it to be, then I am ready.” 

Cirene’s trembling hand is clammy against her palm. The woman seems so fragile beside her - or perhaps Callie just feels indestructible. But Cirene’s face is wrought with pain. 

“None of us want to lose you, Callie,” her voice breaks softly. “None of us want to live in a Solva that doesn’t have you.” 

And Callie doesn’t know what to say, other than to let her feel the conviction in her heart, the passion in her voice, the finality of her decision. “I’m not running again. I need your help, and I think you’re the only one who will understand me on this.”  

With tears now dancing along her lovely cheeks, with pain in her eyes, and a reverence of her being, Cirene slowly nods. Then, she drops down to her knees, head bowed deferentially. 

“I am at your service, hal Devotia.”