“And when your wall fails to keep out the undesirables?”

“It won’t.”

“You mean to say that your plan, in it’s entirety, which is meant to last forever and protect you against all manner of divine fragments, shattered spirits, and, presumably whatever scavengers manage to scrape together an existence outside our domains is to simply ‘not fail’? That’s really the beginning and end of your preparations?”

“Yes, though not how you are supposing.”

“Well then enlighten me if you would be so kind my dear Sasirai?”

“Certainly. Ask me this question though; given that the gods themselves are not proof against destruction, what defense can withstand any conceivable assault?”

“One which considers every possibly avenue of attack and plans for them all?”

“And this is your plan, in it’s entirety? To simply be so brilliant in the limited time we have that eternity itself cannot overmatch your cleverness?”

“We must each play to our strengths.”

“Oh, I am very much playing to my strengths. You see my wall will never fail because the Thickets aren’t the true wall which will defend me. They can be bypassed, or burned, or torn down, though it will take a rather monumental force to manage that. Enough that the divine fragments, and shattered spirits, and scavengers will probably believe them to be impenetrable enough to not even warrant an attempt at breeching them.”

“And for those who choose not to believe that.”

“Then they will find my people waiting for them. My loyal, faithful, and entirely expendable people.”

– High Accessors Vaingloth and Sasirai reviewing their plans for the defense of the Last Cities.

I ate my breakfast with a smile of relief. (Fake). Food at last! (I wasn’t paying attention and had no idea what it was) We could all agree that we were starving after that joyful assembly! (I was too full of worry to have any room in my stomach at all).

“Be home early tonight, we will need help preparing for your brother’s celebration” my mother said as I finished the last of the…I guess it was bread?…on my plate and rose to do my part of the clean up work after breakfast. 

Everyone was in a hurry and rushing through the chores which had been delayed by the gathering at the Roothall. That didn’t mean the work was sloppy though. My mother passed back every plate which wasn’t cleaned to a new shine since our period of judgment had started the moment we returned home and any impurity would be weighed heavily against us.

Not that there were any Tender Acolytes around inspecting the quality of our chores.

Why would there be? They didn’t weren’t actually measuring us for purity. All they cared about was finding an intruder they wouldn’t even tell us about.

I nodded and offered an unreserved and cheerful ‘yes mother!’ even as I felt my muscles turning to jelly and breakfast making a solid attempt at a return trip. 

It wasn’t Kam’s fault I was terrified and weak and sick. I had a responsibility to do my part for his celebration, so I would be there. If I couldn’t manage that everyone would be angry enough that they’d toss me over the Thicket without any need to notice I was possessed.

Here, my demon said and my nausea subsided. I’m not going to do anything about the worry. Not that she couldn’t, I noticed, she wouldn’t. That’s right. Wouldn’t. You’re enough of a mess, and I’ve never been a delicate touch with things like minds.

I couldn’t thank a demon. 

But I still felt grateful.

She wasn’t wrong that I was a wreck and keeping that hidden was probably only possible because people were so distracted by the upcoming festival.

Normally I would have had almost a half hour after breakfast for prayer, purification, and proper dressing. That wouldn’t have been enough for me to put myself together, not after a night without sleep, but it would have been something.

The five minutes I had to put on my Ministerial Apprentice robes and say the bare minimum of prayers not only failed to let me catch my breath, they drained what little energy sitting down for breakfast had given me.

My robes had to be perfect, as usual, and I couldn’t run to make up the lost time, both because I was too tired to manage even a jog and, more importantly, because Ministerial Apprentices were expected to behave with demure decorum at all times.

That’s quite convenient. For someone.

I knew that! Damn demon! Did she think I was stupid?

I couldn’t help it. Anger broke the serene rictus I’d held my face masked in. 

I wanted to cry so bad I felt tears welling up in the corner of my eyes and snapped them shut.

One foot in front of another.

Breath.

Go slack.

Rebuild expression.

Rebuild posture.

Keep walking.

Open eyes.

Smile.

Everything was wonderful

I was safe.

I was among the faithful.

I knew what was expected of me, and what I needed to do.

I was a good Sylvan.

I was a faithful Daughter of the Garden

I was untroubled and clean of mind and body, ready to give all that I am and all I could be to Holy Mazana from which all life and grace flows.

It wasn’t a prayer. It wasn’t structured or devout.

But that didn’t matter.

If I gave myself to it, if I believed, then I could make it real.

And if I could make it real, I could live.

And I wanted to live.

They wouldn’t take that from me.

No one saw that. You’re still safe.

My fatigue lessened (unnaturally, thanks Demon). My worry diminished (or at least it didn’t shatter me, but the lessening wasn’t unnatural, thanks weird brain juices). I continued on (because what else could I do?).

By the time I got to the Ministry of Piety, I’d regained…well if not my composure, at least enough numbness to put my usual mask back on.

My demon wanted to say something. I could feel…I don’t know…concern? Something. But she was quiet. 

Best to not provoke the mess of a girl you were possessing when she was so close to falling apart I guess.

You’re not falling apart.

My demons words weren’t a reassurance. They were almost a threat? Or a promise?

I pushed them aside and stepped into the Ministry to find the line assembling for my first class. I was late enough that I wound up third from last, when I was usually the second out of the twenty four girls I took classes with.

In quiet submittal, we filed down the hall when our instructor arrived, past all the younger children who were doing the preliminary work to be able to test into the Ministry.

I’d passed those tests years ago.

Despite being possessed.

Which probably should have told me something.

More blasphemy? I was too tired to scold myself about it.

I’ll remind you later.

Good. Good. Having a source of personal torment was great for remaining faithful it seemed.

You are not as incorrect as you imagine there.

Our instructor rapped on his lectern.

Apparently we’d arrived in class and I’d taken my seat.

“Many gifts have been granted to you by Holy Mazana though you are as yet unworthy of them. Let us offer a prayer of our unending gratitude that we may make ourselves a pleasing receptacle for Holy Mazana’s grace and wisdom.”

I was not a natural singer, but, even tired as I was, I raised my voice high in song along with my fellow students. 

The prayer was brief but it spoke to things I could still believe in. My unworthiness. The feeling of calm serenity that was gifted to us when we exercised the gifts Holy Mazana had granted us. Our pledge to strive for ever greater purity no matter how debased we were.

By the time the song was done, my mind was centered and my body was balanced enough that I was ready for the test which followed.

It wasn’t a surprise, despite there having been no announcement of a test today. Most of our classes were tests, either implicit ones where the instructors were watching for signs that our grasp on Mazana’s gifts were flawed, or the explicit ones were we were called upon to demonstrate the techniques for the coming lecture.

Failure in the explicit tests came in two varieties. For those who performed the new and untaught technique close to correctly, there was acceptance. For those who displayed a lack of the fundamentals the techniques were based on, there was dismissal.

Like many of the other girls, I feared dismissal because we had all grown old enough to be clothed as Aspirant Brides if the Ministry judged it had no need of us.

Some girls preferred that of course. They either knew who would select them as brides and were agreeable to the arrangement, or they held so little aptitude for the gifts Mazana bestowed on us that they didn’t see a point in struggling with the Ministry tests and being flunked out early.

I’d opted for the Ministry path for several reasons, one of which being that I found working on the gifts I’d been given soothing. It brought me closer to the serenity of Mazana’s light than anything else. (I’d also watched each season’s crop of husbands since I’d come of age and there really hadn’t been any winners in their ranks in years).

“Today’s test will be one of sight and perception,” the instructor explained. “With Holy Mazana’s blessing, our eyes can look beyond the mundane and glimpse the sublime glories of the heavens and the profane depredations of the hells. Through these glimpses we can understand where corruption lies and spy those who have been led astray.”

Should that have worried me? Better question, was I capable of worrying any more than I already was? Answer to question the second, no. Answer to question the first, also no.

In theory, if anyone could do what the instructor was requesting we do, I would have been instantly revealed and dead moments later. Since I was still painfully alive though I knew that Mazana’s gift of sight was for a different sort of corruption than the kind which afflicted me.

Mazana’s blessed sight revealed rot and fungal infection and other physical maladies. The claims of it revealing spiritual issues were possibly true, but only the First Tender or maybe a saint had a close enough connection to the Holy Light to reveal that sort of thing.

“Who will demonstrate the Blessed Eyes technique?” the instructor asked and swept the class with his gaze until, of course, because I am cursed, he landed on me. “Jilya. Rise and come show the class how the Blessed Eyes are invoked.”

Only invoked? 

Huh.

He was going easy on us.

Almost like he actually wanted to teach us something?

Like a good Daughter of the Garden would have, I rose immediately, made no complaint, showed no signs of discomfort, and went to the front of the class to stand in the Blessed Circle.

There were a lot of ‘Blessed’ things in the ministry. And a lot of ‘Holy’ things. And a lot of ‘Divine’, and ‘Sacred’, and so on things. In the case of the ‘Blessed Circles” though the term always seemed well warranted to me.

Asking untrained people to call on gifts they had, at best, dubious control over would have been perilous in the extreme without the ability of Blessed Circles to limit to scale and scope of the manifestations of those gifts.

I’d been afraid long, long ago that in using an unknown gift I might call my Demon out into bodily form, but the Blessed Circles had ensured that never happened, and so had earned a great deal of trust from me.

The slight tingle I felt as I stepped into the circle confirmed it was alive and once again I placed my trust in it.

Only for that trust to be betrayed.

My call for the unfamiliar gift of sight rose to Holy Mazana along with my song, clear and bright.

What descended and filled my eyes was neither though.

Mazana didn’t bless me with sight.

Instead darkness poured into me and the whole world went black.