the skin with a blunt bone needle. Illestros will drag it across our flesh when the deed is done, depositing umber deep beneath the surface. There is no room left upon our skull. Now the tattoos trail down our neck and onto our back and shoulders like sand stuck upon the skin after a day at the shore.
We sigh, remembering running naked on the beaches of Fata Madorna when we were young and alone in our body, no one to care for but ourselves, no worries but how long we would be allowed to stay out before Mother called us in for dinner. We ate the flesh of our father’s human cattle in those days, ignorant of the great wrong we did. The prophecy had yet to be revealed, and the time of the enlightened transition was decades away. Our family was innocent of how soon our world would change, or how great a role we would play in the goddess’s plan.
Somewhere inside, at the core of ourselves, beneath the rustle of the souls filling us to the brim, beyond the murmurs and sighs, we are that girl still. We are simple Eke, too young to have earned the rest of our name. How ancient and silly the stories of the Lost Mother seemed to us then. Now, they are our only truth, and she our only comfort.
“My queen.” Illestros lifts the goblet, bowing as he offers it to us.
The raven caws in protest as we set it the floor and take up the cup.
“May you live and die in wisdom,” Illestros whispers, “and always blessed be.”
“Blessed be.” We lift the goblet and close our eyes, focusing as we prepare to draw the girl’s spirit into the altar glass.
“Please, please have mercy,” the girl shouts. “Please, wait!”
We open our eyes, though we know talk will do no good. This human has been fooled into worshipping false gods and cannot fathom the paradise that awaits her soul when we lay our treasures at the Lost Mother’s feet.
“What is it, child?” we ask.
“I stole the milk.” The girl’s grime-streaked throat ripples as she swallows. “But I only done it for the babe, muh lady. Mum says my milk won’t come if I don’t drink it while the babe’s inside, and our cow died last winter.”
We reach out to the girl with our magic, pressing past the layers of fear wavering around her like heat escaping from stone, until we sense the swift rhythm of her heart and, beneath it, the swifter pulse of the babe growing within her. It is a new life, not quite five months formed, but big enough that a spirit has come to dwell within it.
We close our eyes and send out a prayer of thanksgiving. Such bounty. Surely it is a sign that the Lost Mother blesses our plans.
“She tells the truth.” We meet Illestros’s gaze, nodding in answer to his unspoken question. He bows and turns to exit the throne room, going to fetch more ink. The umber pigment is a sacrament used sparingly. Illestros only ever brings enough for one coin. He will need more to mark me twice.
“Don’t be afraid, child. Your babe will dwell in peace and joy in the kingdom beneath and you along with it.” We sigh as we reach out with our magic, snatching the child’s soul away as easily as plucking an apple from a tree. Having had so little time to grow attached to its body, it comes to dance in the glass quite willingly.
The girl, however, proves more difficult. She seems to sense the departure of the child’s spirit, clutching her belly and moaning like the cow she thieved from. Her fearful whimpers become a wail of mourning, and then a scream of rage born of the love she felt for the unborn babe.
Love makes her stronger, and our task more difficult. She fights us bitterly, writhing on the floor, cursing us for long hours until her last breath shudders from her body with a ragged sigh and her soul flickers into the altar glass moments before we become too dizzy to stand.
By the time we draw the souls from the glass into the goblet, we are trembling with exhaustion, but as soon as the spirit mead flows down our throat, we are restored. The souls feed
We sigh, remembering running naked on the beaches of Fata Madorna when we were young and alone in our body, no one to care for but ourselves, no worries but how long we would be allowed to stay out before Mother called us in for dinner. We ate the flesh of our father’s human cattle in those days, ignorant of the great wrong we did. The prophecy had yet to be revealed, and the time of the enlightened transition was decades away. Our family was innocent of how soon our world would change, or how great a role we would play in the goddess’s plan.
Somewhere inside, at the core of ourselves, beneath the rustle of the souls filling us to the brim, beyond the murmurs and sighs, we are that girl still. We are simple Eke, too young to have earned the rest of our name. How ancient and silly the stories of the Lost Mother seemed to us then. Now, they are our only truth, and she our only comfort.
“My queen.” Illestros lifts the goblet, bowing as he offers it to us.
The raven caws in protest as we set it the floor and take up the cup.
“May you live and die in wisdom,” Illestros whispers, “and always blessed be.”
“Blessed be.” We lift the goblet and close our eyes, focusing as we prepare to draw the girl’s spirit into the altar glass.
“Please, please have mercy,” the girl shouts. “Please, wait!”
We open our eyes, though we know talk will do no good. This human has been fooled into worshipping false gods and cannot fathom the paradise that awaits her soul when we lay our treasures at the Lost Mother’s feet.
“What is it, child?” we ask.
“I stole the milk.” The girl’s grime-streaked throat ripples as she swallows. “But I only done it for the babe, muh lady. Mum says my milk won’t come if I don’t drink it while the babe’s inside, and our cow died last winter.”
We reach out to the girl with our magic, pressing past the layers of fear wavering around her like heat escaping from stone, until we sense the swift rhythm of her heart and, beneath it, the swifter pulse of the babe growing within her. It is a new life, not quite five months formed, but big enough that a spirit has come to dwell within it.
We close our eyes and send out a prayer of thanksgiving. Such bounty. Surely it is a sign that the Lost Mother blesses our plans.
“She tells the truth.” We meet Illestros’s gaze, nodding in answer to his unspoken question. He bows and turns to exit the throne room, going to fetch more ink. The umber pigment is a sacrament used sparingly. Illestros only ever brings enough for one coin. He will need more to mark me twice.
“Don’t be afraid, child. Your babe will dwell in peace and joy in the kingdom beneath and you along with it.” We sigh as we reach out with our magic, snatching the child’s soul away as easily as plucking an apple from a tree. Having had so little time to grow attached to its body, it comes to dance in the glass quite willingly.
The girl, however, proves more difficult. She seems to sense the departure of the child’s spirit, clutching her belly and moaning like the cow she thieved from. Her fearful whimpers become a wail of mourning, and then a scream of rage born of the love she felt for the unborn babe.
Love makes her stronger, and our task more difficult. She fights us bitterly, writhing on the floor, cursing us for long hours until her last breath shudders from her body with a ragged sigh and her soul flickers into the altar glass moments before we become too dizzy to stand.
By the time we draw the souls from the glass into the goblet, we are trembling with exhaustion, but as soon as the spirit mead flows down our throat, we are restored. The souls feed
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