Mortals & Deities by Maxwell Alexander Drake Page B

emotions had crept into her mind two winters past. At first, she had been frightened of them. She saw them as a weakness—Humans had emotions. Anger, frustration, excitement, pride, lust. All could be used against the wielder if one knew how. And her instructors had taught her how to use them all. Until recently, however, she had never experienced them. It was a secret she held close without understanding why. The priests always treated her well, gave her a purpose, training, and all that she needed. Still, they taught her to be cautious. To follow their direction and the teachings of the Twelve, yes. Yet, cautious above all else. And it was this caution that nagged at the back of her mind to hold the fact that she felt doubts, fears, and—
    Her mind pulled up the image of Jarill standing before her, a thin red line of blood encircling his throat. The image laughed. Did it not care that it was dead? Jarill’s image laughed the guarded laugh of one not used to the privilege. The one he and the other slaves used when alone. The feeling of loss crept back into her and she tried to rid herself of it. To run and hide from it.
    Yet, how can she run from her own mind?
    A scream welled up from deep inside her over what she had done to Jarill and the others, squatting on the point of release. She wanted to laugh at herself for having these absurd thoughts! They were not the first Humans she had sent to the Aftermore.
    Why does she have these feelings?
    Suddenly, she found herself looking at a painting her mind told her she should not be seeing. The gods Bathane and Mash’ayel stood with blue fire shooting from their outstretched hands enveloping Saphanthia, the Goddess of Wisdom, who cowered between them. The painting depicted the story from the Book of the Twelve when the deceitful Bathane and the war mad Mash’ayel imprisoned Saphanthia for her disobedience. The story had always disturbed her, more so for the fact that the Book of the Twelve never spoke of her escape. Though Elith knew the goddess must have, for she was still worshiped and free with her gifts of wisdom to her followers.
    Though the story bothered her, she realized it was not the actual painting she should not be seeing, it was its location. Glancing around, Elith noticed that during her fight with her own thoughts she had passed the High Priest’s audience chambers. Retracing her steps, she took a side corridor and soon stood in front of a set of wooden double-doors. She picked up the small silver bell from a side table and rang it once, returning it when done. One of the doors cracked open, and a dark-haired youth of about ten stuck out his head.
    The young boy was beautiful, as were all of the High Priest’s personal attendants. He wore an almost translucent white robe cut to accentuate the thinness of his boyish frame and unblemished olive skin—a skin tone that named him a local of the Komar Isles. Big green eyes, uncommon for a Komarian, looked up at Elith before the boy spoke. “His Highest do be expectin’ ya, Shikalu.”
    Elith frowned at the boy. Though the Priests worked hard to quell the local accent from the slaves who worked in the Temple, this boy’s remained thick.
    No doubt his beauty helps the Highest overlook the boy’s speech. It is not the boy’s voice that has him working as one of the Highest’s personal attendants.
    No, the boy’s accent did not cause her grief. It was what he had called her. Shikalu— assassin . It was the title she had held since childhood, since the priests began training her. It was never more than that before. Just a name. Still, with Jarill’s accusing eyes boring into her from the back of her mind, the title mocked her now. She fought back the taint of her new emotions—they weakened her, gripping her spirit tighter and tighter. The desire to scream almost overwhelmed her once more.
    Redirecting her thoughts, she looked at the boy. He was pretty, and she knew his duties to the High Priest included more