“A frightened little girl?” She smiled. “Of course not, Taigdh. I’ve learned to wield magic. I’ve learned to heal the sick and wounded. This is just one step further. This is —”
Before she could finish, the lad spun his heels and sprinted out towards the tunnels.
“No, Taigdh! Come back!”
Morrígan gave chase, but the boy was too fast for her. She lost sight of him as they passed through the tunnels, but she kept on running. She called out after him, but only the empty echoes of the cavern walls answered.
When she reached the exit looking over Roseán, she saw him run off into the distance and disappear towards the tiny lights of the village.
Tears filled her eyes.
What if he’s right? She started running again, her pace slowing as she reached the troll and her old family farm. What if he’s right to be afraid? What if it’s right to hate me?
She remembered a time when she once felt as if she loved him, but that feeling had somehow passed her by.
Even when he started courting Sorcha. I wasn’t even jealous.
In truth, she hadn’t really connected with anyone since she started hacking corpses apart with her uncle.
What if it changed me?
Silver moonlight illuminated the petrified troll’s weathered, stone face. Its mouth hung open with rows of familiar stone teeth.
Morrígan gritted her teeth. Inside her chest, her heart pounded to the beat of grief once more.
“It’s all your fault!” she screamed, looking up at the beast. “This never would have happened if you never came here! Mother wouldn’t have died, I wouldn’t have gone to live with Yarlaith, and….” She paused, looking down at the flint-rings on her fingers.
I never would have learned magic.
That much she was glad for. At the cost of her mother’s life, she had grown into a powerful mage. Without other capable trainee mages to work with, she had no way of really gauging how good she was.
What if I’m one of the greatest? What if I’m as powerful as the mages in the battalion?
She closed her eyes, focusing on her power, and touched the stone flesh of the troll. No, it didn’t feel like touching stone with Geomancy.
It’s flesh turned stone! I feel it with Necromancy!
The green-cloaks had said that they weren’t even able to grasp the troll, but Morrígan could. It was there, in her hands, the stone and flesh as one.
She tugged at it, but it didn’t budge. She tried again, thinking of the other tiny weights that pulled down on her heart—sorrow, joy, fear—but still nothing happened.
There was one more weight, though, stronger than the rest: the great pendulum hanging from her heart that had smashed the glass beaker when she first learned Hydromancy.
She reached in for it, feeling its weight in invisible hands.
This is for my uncle, the coward.
Power surged through her body.
This is for those too afraid to offend the Gods. This is for the battlemages, who blindly follow their orders. This is for the Gods themselves, who chain us with their ancient creeds. This is for the backwards people of Roseán, who will never understand what it means to change the world!
Her hands balled into fists and her nails dug into skin.
Taigdh took one look at our work and ran, but he will never understand what it is like to wield power as strong as this. None of them will!
She opened her eyes and focused on the troll.
I hate them. I hate them all.
As the pendulum swung forwards, a huge force pushed back against her, knocking her to the ground.
In a daze, Morrígan raised her head; the troll was nowhere in sight. She jumped to her feet and ran towards the edge of the cliff, just in time to see the stone beast crash into the retreating tide below.
Chapter 14:
The Godslayer
Morrígan didn’t sleep much that night. She shuffled in her bed, painfully aware of the painting of King Móráin the First on the opposite side of the room, his golden wings glimmering silver and grey in the moonlight. The scene depicted the Apotheosis of the Trinity: the moment King Móráin transcended to godhood, sprouted glowing wings behind his back, and blinded the Simian natives with their holy light.
All it took was for him to claim this land for himself to become a god.
The wind howled outside, beating against a wooden gate somewhere across the street. The trees along the High Road crackled and rustled in response.
Again and again, just as she was about to fall asleep, she woke abruptly, remembering what had happened.
We did it. We achieved what mankind has been struggling with for centuries. She balled her hand into a fist. Healers and alchemists strive to prolong life; how are we different from them?
She closed her eyes as her mind recalled the image of Taigdh, sprinting across the fields.
He was just startled. She rolled over again in the bed. If only I just had another chance to explain.
It seemed like an impossible task: using rationality to fight the irrational. She knew the people of Roseán, knew that they were blinded by their faith, and that left little room for reason.
They live their lives in the shadow of the Gods, ignorant of the light of which they are deprived.
Morrígan opened her eyes. Her beadhbh cloak hung on from hook on the wall like a black figure, watching her in the darkness.
“Creation,” she whispered, remembering one of Yarlaith’s lessons from long ago.
Nothing can be truly created or destroyed, he had said, for Creation is an artform reserved for the Gods. Morrígan’s hand reached up to her chest, and her fingers found the silver necklace Darragh had given her.
We both witnessed Creation tonight, but Yarlaith was the only one afraid of usurping the Gods.
Morrígan ran her finger around each of the three rings.
Some of the bravest warriors and the wisest scholars live by the teaching of the Trinity. Would they all be in agreement, if they too had seen Man overcome death? Surely, they’ve lost the ones they’ve loved too….
