Chapter 19: Chapter Eighteen: Mercy

Light filtered through the window and her ears perked to the faint clatter of a spoon against tin. The air smelled of tea. She pushed herself upright. The blanket slid from her shoulders. Her tail had wrapped around her calf in her sleep; she uncoiled it with clumsy fingers.

“I’m sorry, I was just –”

“No need to explain.” Mallow sat on the edge of his bed, book balanced on his knees, the morning’s light streaking across his dark hair. A tray rested on the stand between them: two mugs of steaming tea, several slices of bread, and a bowl of porridge.

He raised an eyebrow, examining a page. “What do your kind call that, then? Stroking the velvet?”

Lain flushed horrendously. She ducked her head, flush rising in her ears again. He could joke about it; she could not.

He smiled into his mug, not looking up. “Hope I didn’t wake you. Just imagined you might like to see what’s left of the morning. Thought I’d have to fetch a bell to rouse you, but seems you’ve got that… handled.”

Lain blinked blearily. “How long have you been up?”

“Long enough to make friends with the innkeeper’s kettle,” he said. “She’s a kind woman. Told me pilgrims aren’t usually such deep sleepers.”

She frowned, rubbing her eyes. “I didn’t mean to –”

He waved her off. “No harm done. You earned the rest. What little you got of it, anyway. You were tossing and turning half the morning. Guess now we know why.” Finally looking up, he passed her one of the mugs. “Drink this before you fall over. It’s got willowbark and ginger. Might ease that glazed look you’ve got.”

The tea was hot and bitter. She took a small sip, wincing. “You’re making fun of me.”

“Just observing,” he said lightly. “You look like someone who’s been kissed by a thunderstorm.”

Her cheeks warmed. “That’s very poetic of you.”

“Don’t start,” he said, though his mouth twitched toward a smile. He gestured at the food. “They were all out of sausage by the time I reached the kitchen, but hopefully this will suffice.”

“This is perfect,” she said, reaching for the bread. “I can’t eat sausage, anyway.”

Mallow raised an eyebrow. “Why not?”

“Meat makes me feel ill.”

“Oh, right. I forgot. The Kelthi don’t eat meat.”

Her brow furrowed. “Is that true? How do you know that?”

“Of course it’s true. Why don’t you know that?”

She couldn’t meet his eye. She didn’t know that because she’d never met another Kelthi. She didn’t know that because the Dagorlind seemed to know very little, if anything, about her. She didn’t know that because Elder Tanel hadn’t told her; he was the only one that engaged with her Kelthi side from a place of trying to understand her.

Instead of answering, she broke into a piece of bread. The scent of yeast made her stomach turn pleasantly, but as she tore another piece, she caught the flick of his gaze. He’d gone back to his book, but his thumb rested against a page she recognized: the entry on Starbloom. A faint smear of pale yellow marred the corner.

Mallow didn’t look up when he said, “You went through my things.”

Her heart stuttered. “I –”

He turned the book slightly toward her, showing the evidence. “Cheese,” he said, almost lazily.

Lain sank back against the wall. “I’m sorry. I was… I needed something to read. To keep my mind still.”

“How’d that work out?” He closed the book, resting his hand atop it. “Still, if you wanted to know about Starbloom, you could’ve just asked.”

“I’m sorry,” she repeated.

“Don’t be. If you’re trying to piece things together, I’d rather you know the truth than whatever those spirefolk fed you.” He took a slow sip from his own mug before adding, “So. Tell me what you think you learned.”

Lain hesitated, then set the bread aside. “I’ve decided something.”

“That so?”

“I’m going with you,” she said. “To gather the Starbloom.”

“Change your mind about Ivath, then?”

“Yes.” Her voice steadied. “The Dagorlind have been lying to me.”

“You don’t say.”

“They’ve been lying to everyone. They said they were preserving the Underserpent, keeping it safe in sleep. But they were keeping it bound.” She leaned forward, eyes bright. “That’s what the Starbloom does. It keep the wyrm dreaming, half alive. If I gather the flower and brew it in daylight, I can wake it.”

Mallow’s brow furrowed. And then, unexpectedly, he smiled. “Then I suppose we’ll both get what we want.”

Lain tilted her head. “What is it you want?”

“Gold,” he said too quickly. “Always gold. At any rate, that means we should try to avoid the pilgrim’s way. If the Dagorlind send anyone else, that’s where they’ll look for you.”

“Is there another route?”

“There’s always another route.”

They dressed in silence. Mallow tightened the strap of his pack while Lain adjusted her cloak. The sounds between them were ordinary, companionable.

When he reached for the door latch, she stopped him. “Mallow.”

He turned, one eyebrow raised.

She searched his face. “Last night. Why didn’t you…” She flushed, the words catching. “You could have taken advantage. I wouldn’t have stopped you.”

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He let out a breath, half a laugh. “Saints, you really know how to thank a man.”

“I’m serious.”

“So am I.” He shifted his weight, his tone easy but not unkind. “That’s not how an honest sellsword does business.”

She frowned. “You think yourself honest?”

“Compared to most men, Sister, I’m a bloody saint.” He opened the door, letting in a breath of cold air. “Come on. We’ve both got things to atone for.”

Lain followed, her hood drawn low. As she stepped into the narrow hall, she caught his reflection in the dark window, the faint tightness around his mouth, the look he didn’t mean her to see.

He felt guilty. She could sense it, though she couldn’t say why. Still, as they left the inn and the door shut behind them, something inside her felt lighter, as if the path ahead, for all its peril, finally belonged to her.

The road wound low through the foothills, narrow where meltwater cut dark veins across the path. The air was cold and bright. Frost clung to the roots of the pines and the stones glittered faintly in the sun. They walked in silence for the first hour. Mallow’s boots marched steadily on; behind him, Lain matched pace, her breath curling in clouds. Her legs were stiff after days of hiking, but the ginger and willowbark eased the pain. The quiet was pleasant, fragile, both lost in thoughts that might shatter if either of them spoke.

By midmorning, the valley began to open, and soon they were climbing again. Before them, the path rose between two snowy peaks. Lain’s senses were quieter today, though her body still carried the faint echo of Heat. The memory of the inn clung to her like perfume. She thought of the warmth of the fire, the kiss. She pushed it down.

Mallow glanced over his shoulder. “You’re quiet today.”

“I’m thinking.”

“Dangerous habit.”

“I was thinking about the Underserpent.”

“Of course you were.”

“It shouldn’t be sleeping. It was made to sing. I used to feel it in my dreams. The way it used to move under the Spire. It’s so… muted now.”

“Muted,” he repeated. “Is that what they call it, when you people sing storms off their course? Muting?”

She frowned. “What do you mean?”

He stopped walking. “I mean when the Bellborn sends a tempest away from Ivath, it has to go somewhere else. The sea, the mountains, the lowlands, wherever the wind catches it next. You push it off your holy doorstep and let it tear someone else’s roof off instead.”

She blinked, startled. “That isn’t true.”

“Isn’t it?” His calm tone belied his piercing gaze. “That’s how balance works, Sister. You don’t banish a storm, you move it.”

“Ive never… I didn’t…” she faltered. “When I sang, I never thought –”

He turned back to the path. “No, you wouldn’t have. That’s the point of faith, isn’t it? Believe hard enough, and you don’t have to see the cost.”

She followed him, her chest tightening. “You don’t know what it’s like, Mallow. The song isn’t mine. It moves through me. I’m just the vessel.”

“Vessels still spill blood when they break.”

That silenced her. The wind carried only the softest hiss of their breath and the crunch of snow underfoot.

After a while, he said, “So what were you? Glinnel girl? Priest’s pet?”

Her voice came out small. “The Bellborn.”

He stopped again, this time more abruptly. “The what?”

She met his gaze. “You asked what I was. That’s it. The Bellborn of the Dawn Spire. I carried the serpent’s song. Until I – until I was sent out, to gather the Starbloom –”

“Sent out to die, you mean.” He stared at her, long enough that the sound of the breeze filled the silence between them. “Saints,” he said at last. “They chose a Kelthi.”

Lain’s hand went to her throat, where her bell once lay. “It’s not what they normally do.”

“Oh, I’m aware.” His tone had turned to flint. “The Bellborn sings to calm the wyrm, yes? So it doesn’t turn the land to ash?”

She shook her head. “No, of course not. We sing to guard Ivath. To protect her people. But they used the flower to keep it sedated. Dreaming. If I can wake it –”

“Wake it,” he cut in, his voice rising. “By what? Singing again? Another holy song from the Spire?”

Lain flinched. “You don’t understand –”

“I understand plenty.” He walked on, facing the sun. The light made his profile harsh, carved with old anger. “Do you even know what your songs have done?”

She stared at him, uncertain. “No, I didn’t.”

He turned toward her. “Sure you didn’t. And here I was thinking you were just a stray nun with a knack for trouble.”

Lain lowered her eyes. “You hate us.”

“I hate what you’ve done. What you stand for.”

“And yet you’re helping me.”

He huffed a laugh. “Don’t mistake convenience for mercy.”

They walked on in silence. The wind had picked up, curling through the trees, carrying with it the scent of wet bark and distant smoke. Lain kept her eyes on the road. She told herself she shouldn’t care what he thought. He was a sellsword, a wanderer, a man obviously bound by coin. But his opinion struck deeper than a sermon. When he’d spoken of the storms, she’d seen something behind his eyes, something akin to loss, and she hadn’t known what to say.

The worst of it was that part of her believed him. She knew what her voice could do. She’d believed the Dagorlind when they said she was saving lives. But what if it hadn’t been mercy at all? What if every time she’d sung to still a storm, it had only shifted the suffering somewhere else?

A cold ache spread through her. She wrapped her cloak tighter, watching her breath vanish in the chill air. Mallow walked ahead, silent still, his shoulders tense beneath his coat. She wanted to say something, anything, that would unmake what had passed between them, but no words came.

She’d thought he was becoming a friend. Someone who saw her as more than what the Spire had built. Now she wasn’t sure he saw her at all.

The hills opened wider ahead as they reached a gap between the peaks. Below them, smoke rose from the next village, a small scatter of rooftops crouched along the riverbank. But further on, near the glinting curve of a river that ran from the mountains on the far side of the valley below, buildings lay half-buried in the remains of a landslide. Roofs torn, fences splintered, the mill wheel stilled in a pool of gray water. A few homes had collapsed where the river had overrun its banks. People moved like ghosts among the wreckage, their shovels biting at the mud.

“Terrible,” Mallow muttered. “Looks like a storm tore through here.”

Lain’s stomach twisted. “When?” she asked, too quickly.

He blinked. “How would I know?”

“I mean…” she gestured toward the splintered trees, the broken roof beams. “It looks… recent.”

He nodded. “Well, they’re digging out. River level’s not so high, but there must’ve been flooding at some point. A week, give or take?”

A week? Her breath hitched. She remembered the night in Ivath, the storm before the Bellborn ceremony. The stormsong had coiled from her throat, pressing the clouds back and to the north. She’d thought she was saving the city. She’d watched the clouds retreat, feeling triumphant, her throat raw with the power of it.

A little over a week ago.

He looked her over. “What’s wrong with you? Think this is your handiwork?”

He clearly meant it as sarcasm, but she couldn’t bring herself to play along with it.

“I don’t know,” she mumbled. She stared into the valley, the drowned fields, the broken homes, and the realization settled cold in her gut.

His eyes darkened. “Sent a storm off a week ago, did you?”

She said nothing.

“Did you send it this way?”

She shook her head. “I don’t know.”

“You don’t know.” he spat. “You don’t know what villages are around your Spire, when you strike them with a storm. You don’t know anything about the people that live outside of Ivath. You don’t know Kelthi don’t eat meat. You didn’t know what they’d done to your own god, even. You don’t know much of anything, do you, Kelthi girl?”

Her hands shook. The wind carried the faint smell of rot and water from the river, and she wondered if this was what the world smelled like after her mercy passed through it.

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