Priests and clerics clustered around the bed, their voices a low, urgent murmur. “She’s not even of age,” one priest mutters. “We’ve spent days and a fortune on her care. For what?”
Another shakes their head. “Whoever heard of a paladin making demands of a goddess?”
A portable altar stands nearby, incense thick in the air. The goddess herself shimmers at the edge of the gathering, her presence half-seen, half-felt, her gaze fixed on the swaddled figure.
“She is worth every effort,” the goddess says, her voice slicing through the debate. “You question my choice, but I have seen her heart. She is the most promising candidate I have found in centuries.”
A third priest tries to protest. “But the Choosing...”
“There will be no Choosing,” the goddess interrupts, her tone final. “She has given her word. That is enough for me.”
The priests fall silent, chastened. The goddess crouches at the bedside as the girl stirs, waking to find divinity watching her intently.
“Good,” the goddess murmurs, her voice a ripple in the girl’s thoughts. “Would you mind stating for the priests what our agreement was?”
With effort, the girl rasps, “We agreed I would take my oaths as your paladin as soon as I am able. When you think I am fit, we attempt the Test of Pain. If I pass, I join your Four. If not, I remain your paladin. You agreed to amend my oaths so I can leave your service if you go mad or become evil.”
“I have her oath. It is sufficient,” the goddess says.
One by one, they bow and withdraw, leaving only the goddess, the girl, and the clerics tending to her.
A quiet settles over the room, broken only by the soft chanting of the remaining clerics.
An older man, leaning heavily on a cane, steps forward. “I have a suspicion as to who lies in our temple. Some of Rigan’s former paladins found a way to free themselves. I suspect this is one of the Renunciates.”
“Gethin,” the goddess acknowledges, “I should have known you would see the truth of it. And see how remarkable she is to have survived.”
Gethin gestures at the bed. “If that’s who I think it is, that’s Melfyn ferch Ardan ap Draig’s granddaughter. Melfyn was one of the finest generals the Cymry ever produced. He said his granddaughter was independent, the most promising of her siblings. She always placed well in the annual trials. Even had a Ban Gwyr offer for her...rare as a blue moon.”
The goddess’s gaze softens. “What is your opinion?”
Gethin chuckles. “If you can save her, she may become the most remarkable paladin ever to serve you. Under Cymry law, she’s still mostly a child. If this is what she’s capable of now, imagine her in a decade. Melfyn said she could be mouthy and difficult when her temper’s up.”
The mental image that comes is of a place bathed in white light, and where everything seems to be lit from within.
Rigan stands before her, his face twisted with fury. “YOU DARE TO DEFY ME!” he roars. “YOU ARE MY SWORN SERVANTS AND YOU CANNOT LEAVE MY SERVICE!”
She sees her companions’ defiance. Midir spitting, screaming back at the god. Then the horror: with a single gesture, Rigan spreads him across the wall like berry jam. She has only moments to react before the god’s attention turns to her. She drags herself to her feet.
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What comes next is the dance of blades between mortal and deity. She summons her father’s blade, her body moving with the skill of a lifetime of training. But Rigan is a god, and no mortal can match his strength. He toys with her, deliberately prolonging the battle, meaning to make her suffer before the final blow. She presses forward anyway, trading blows when she knows she cannot win, fighting because the alternative, submission, death on her knees, is unbearable, unthinkable, and unacceptable.
He drives her toward exhaustion. Her arms burn. Her breath comes in ragged gasps. She is about to die, and she knows it. In that final moment, as he raises the killing blow, she calls upon the only thing left to her: the ancestor magic of her bloodline. Her grandfather answers. With both swords and the last of her strength, she strikes through his eye and his heart.
Even in his death throes, Rigan nearly kills her. The backlash of divine power tears through her, burning her from within and without. Pain beyond measure. The world goes white with agony, then dark with unconsciousness.
When she wakes, she is shredded and burnt, her body ravaged beyond recognition. And yet, she is alive. Dying, but alive. Through the red haze of pain and fear, she hears a voice. A goddess is speaking to her. Everything in her screams to run, to hide, to push away. Every god she’s encountered since Rigan has tried to trap her, to bind her with oaths and service. She is dying anyway.
At least if she can make herself repugnant enough, this one will leave her alone to die free.
“Another buggering god,” the figure spits, each word a calculated weapon. “Well I’m not rolling over for you. Get on with it then. Then you can go find your brother and make a replacement for that asshat.”
“If you will let me, I will take you into my service.” The goddess’s voice is gentle, patient. It only makes her more afraid.
“Your service,” the wretched figure snorts, her voice hoarse with pain and desperation. “You really are all inbred lunatics. Why don’t you go grow a dick so you can shove it up your own ass? Leave me be and let me die in peace.”
“Let me help you. You are an orphan, and I would take you as a daughter into my house.”
Kindness. Offers of family. The very things she needs most. The very things that terrify her. She fights harder, weaponizing despair. “Maybe you can find a troop of monkeys who can run a train for you,” she gasps, each word costing what little strength remains.
“There is not enough left of me to eliminate yet another inbred lunatic deity. Rigan’s been quite enough, thanks. I’m done with gods. The whole sodding lot of you. Instead of bothering me while I try to die with some shred of dignity, isn’t there a donkey somewhere you can give a hand job? Isn’t that the sort of thing your lot goes in for?”
Still not put off by the obscenity or the hostility, the goddess patiently gathers her skirts and crouches beside her. “You prayed to any who would listen for aid. I have heard your plea for aid in a battle in a just cause. I have not seen such a just cause in eons. You have wrought well for mortals, all of you. You are an orphan, and I would take you as a daughter into my house. One of my aspects has been lost in battle. Normally, there is a Choosing, but I can think of no sterner tests than the ones you have already passed. The only thing that remains now is for you to pass the Test of Pain. I must see if you are a fit vessel for my power. If you wish, I will amend your oaths both as my paladin and as one of my Chosen so that you can remove yourself from my service in the event you feel I have become evil or gone insane. If you want to live, let me help you. If you give me your word that you will take the oaths when you are able, then I will trust your honor for the rest.”
The shared vision cuts off, and Gethin roars with mental laughter. “Gods! Melfyn might have underestimated her. Burnt and shredded and still willing to fight. I am surprised that she is still on this side of the veil.”
“Davilla’s poultice has been instrumental in that,” the goddess replies. “We will need to handle that very carefully. The p’zae by itself is addictive enough, as are the datura, badu tree sap, and wingè fruit. Together, while it’s a blessing for her now, it may well become a curse to her. Her burns have stopped getting infected, and she’s stopped screaming and thrashing. Now we can begin incrementally healing her and start weaning her off that poultice. The good news is that we haven’t had to resurrect her yet again for a few days.”
“Gods and martyrs,” Gethin grimaces.
“Yes,” the goddess replies. “Apparently the internal injuries were so severe that even after being resurrected so many times I’ve lost count, she still looks like that. She should, by any estimation, have passed beyond even my power. Yet she has not, and each time they ask her, she insists that she wants to live, so we go on.”
Grumbling, the priests make their way out, leaving only Gethin and the goddess at the bedside. Gethin lays a gentle hand on the girl, whispering a blessing. A blue aura rolls across her, and her sleep quiets.
The Plot Thickens (Like Davilla’s Poultices):
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The Renunciate: We learn that the "mummy" on the bed is likely the granddaughter of Melfyn, a legendary Cymry general. She’s a "Renunciate", one of the few who broke free from the service of the god Rigan.
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The God-Slayer: Through a shared vision, we see the impossible: Emlyn, at the end of her strength, used ancestor magic to strike down the god Rigan through his eye and heart.
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A Diabolical Deal: Despite calling the goddess Morrighu an "inbred lunatic" and suggesting she find a donkey for... well, unspeakable activities, the goddess is impressed. They strike a deal: Emlyn becomes a paladin but keeps the right to quit if the goddess goes crazy.
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The Cost of Living: Davilla is using a cocktail of addictive and toxic ingredients, p'zae, datura, and badu tree sap, just to keep Emlyn’s ravaged body from rotting away.
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