Something to do with Magdalynn, he decided, not that it mattered to him—he was happy for the second cup of watery rum. Without it, he’d not the courage to visit Lilum’s room come the hours of the evening. It was one thing to want a woman from afar, and another to be invited into her bed. Their first night aboard The Ashen Maid, she’d taken him aside and whispered of the different ways one can make a man—by blooding or by Moontide. He recognized the former at once, the ritual murder which had stood between him and becoming a sacrifice. Of the latter he knew naught, but the way she rasped the name told him all he needed to know. Then she sent him away to return on the morrow.
Adnihilo lay awake in his hammock the whole of that night, every nerve excited. Sunrise came before the first wink of sleep, followed by Ba’al informing the pastor’s son and half-blood that they’d been volunteered to man the oars. The first day must have been torture, Adnihilo surmised by the anguish on Adam’s face. He couldn’t feel it himself. Lilum’s offer had numbed his exhaustion and pain, sniped midflight any thought that strayed. Not until supper did he finally feel tired enough to rest. He was sat on the bench, bread and beef in hand, when sleep hit him like a dagger in the back. He slumped dead on the table and woke again in Eemah, a child. Cain stood before him, a giant wielding a strange, bonze blade. Adnihilo tried but failed to mimic his movements, then his mother behind him would bare her disapproval, a glare hard and pale as salt and consuming as fire. Inside, the boy cried—outward, he tried again, failed, and now it was Jezebel scowling at him. “Kill the boy,” she uttered.
The giant Cain frowned, lifted his sword, and said, “You are yet unblooded.”
Frightened, Adnihilo turned to Jezebel for help but found that she was Lilum now. “Where is your sword?” asked the priestess, disgusted.
The boy’s mouth went dry. His father’s sword would not belong to the unblooded, yet without it, how was he to shed blood?
Cain’s voice boomed in answer. “Kill the boy,” he said, cleaving dream-Adnihilo’s neck down to his navel.
The half-blood awakened shaking, his face dripping with grog he’d spilled in his sleep. Sadaf’s men were laughing. Adam asked if everything was alright, and Adnihilo shook him off, shoved beef and bread into his mouth, then fled to his hammock. It was there he slept for the next five nights, too afraid to even look in the direction of Lilum’s cabin. He didn’t deserve her, this woman who bore Jezebel’s form. And even if he claimed worth equal to Cain, what did he know of lying with a woman? So for two more nights he hid in fear, but come the third morning, a golden sliver appeared to the naked eye on the horizon. This evening would be their last aboard The Ashen Maid.
The working hours flew like sweet winds against Adnihilo’s sail. It was his own doing. He’d withdrawn into himself, his practiced reflexes operating by themselves while his mind wandered. It wouldn’t be so bad, he thought, if I could just work for Sadaf and oar forever. But the spirits of Cain and Jezebel haunted him, their faces glowering in this waking dream. He wished he could forget, yet instead, he remembered the song of the Mad Dog and the purpose born from his horrible revenge. Adnihilo’s eyes opened. He saw himself and for the first time became aware of the spirit inside—not the dream images, but that same will that had wrought destruction to Umlomo Village: The Spirit of Vengeance. All at once, his dream made sense—he was berating himself for his cowardice. How could he forget his pain and anger and the life stolen from him—worse, how could he want to forget?
The brand burned at his neck. It’d been so long, he’d forgotten that too, but now he remembered. Now it all made sense to him, Ba’al’s story, and Lilum’s. He was to become an instrument of his father’s plans, to carry the sword of the Old One, the legate. To this end, he must take the first step. “Kill the boy,” he whispered aloud every stroke of the oars till his hours were done.
That evening, he stood before the priestess’s door, his brand burning like Hell, his head swimming with grog, fear, and abandon. He knocked, and inside a voice answered. “Come in,” she said, and Adnihilo entered. It was a simple room: a desk, a chair, a mattress, and oil lamps in the corners glowing a soft yellow. She was seated on the bed leaned back on her elbows, her robes laid flush with the contours underneath. Her deep, dark eyes stared bored toward the wall until the door creaked shut behind the half-blood. Her lips curled, and with a sidelong glance she unsettled him. “I knew you’d come tonight. I could feel it under my skin like my blood was on fire.”
Adnihilo stood, silent.
“Something wrong?” she hummed then jabbed at him, “You’re not frightened, are you?”
“No,” he lied, forcing his feet one step at a time till he stood beside her. She rose from the bed, looked him in the eye—the look itself a question that paralyzed. He thought again and felt her presence watching him. Then at last he answered, “I’m terrified.”
†
“You’re sure you want Sadaf to leave you here?” asked the Mephistine privateer, looking over the parchment scrolls detailing his payment. “There won’t be another ship to visit this…” he scanned the scuttled remains of what was once Babylon’s dock. “What Sadaf means to say is he’ll be
