A red-painted monk guarded the entryway to the women’s long hut. He inclined his head as she passed within. The dim glowbulb spread enough light to guide her to the furthest corner, past softly laughing Sumadan women making a point of ignoring her. Some of these women were old enough to be grandmothers; others may have still been in school.
Her thin bedroll and blanket laid out, Terese leaned on the wall, inhaling its dry loamy scent, concentrating on the smell instead of the turmoil in her head. Oh, to be alone! To have the entire hut, or even the whole settlement to herself. Just to be able to speak out loud to herself, or even whisper. But Lijjen’s spy mechanism still hummed in the back of her head, at the edge of her senses, eagerly awaiting just one word out of line or even so much as a hint that she knew more than she should about the Immersion Chamber and its renegades.
But even more than speaking, Terese wanted to cry. And she would not allow Lijjen a hint of victory. All she could do was gather her rage and glare at the overhead glowbulb’s stuttering nimbus. She closed her eyes, leaving a purple imprint where light had been. More women came from the hill, wrapped themselves in blankets and slept. Terese didn’t move.
Sifting through her anger and frustration, she took her time isolating exactly what had her so enraged. Certainly, she was irritated at Sumadan bigotry, but that wasn’t it. Worries over her reputation here in Sumad were nothing. Just quick, meaningless flickers at the sides of her career. Keeping her breathing constant for Lijjen and the women in the hut, Terese allowed questions to churn.
Lijjen was hiding things. Years ago, that would have outraged her. Seekers should have little need of secrets. But after her failed taking, while her status and stability unraveled, she’d accepted the persecution. Because she had secrets and had no right to resent Lijjen for keeping his own. And because she was tied—had tied herself—to a blunder that had killed hundreds, she’d built an edifice of lies to keep her life intact.
Gods, that was what enraged her. Patzer’s advice had been appealing.
They were both liars, her and Patzer. They worked for other liars, chasing lies around a Polis she’d come to as part of a grand lie that had fallen apart before she’d left Armer. The only reason a creature such as Patzer could give her advice was because she’d descended to his level.
She was no better than Patzer. This was where her ambition had led her. Far from her daughter. Sent camping in a wasteland, taking orders from a bounty hunter, trying to put right what she’d bungled. This was the end of her journey. Sleeping alone under a thin blanket in a mud hut in the middle of nowhere, while simpletons sniggered at her.
Her entire life had unraveled over just one lie.
Memories came, unbidden. Her parents and sister watching her being sworn in as an Assistant, at her Girdle ceremony. The Girdle artifacts imprinting ink and vibrations into dozens of backs while she spoke the oath, her mother and sister beaming, her father letting slip that smile of grim satisfaction. The oath that she’d help others and obey the Royals. How long had it been since she’d directly assisted another human?
This wasn’t what Seekers did! How did rounding other humans up for experiments serve the Gods, or even the Royals? Could she, Holder Moorcam and the others they’d worked with on the Immersion Chamber, still call themselves Seekers?
Tears flowed. Gods, how had she come adrift? Her shoulders heaved and she clamped a hand over her mouth. Through the night, she stifled silent sobs. Soft snores rose around her.
Once she heard Patzer laughing raucously in the dark distance.
As night lengthened, her sobs came as random jolts, occasional hiccups bunching her stomach and rippling outward. She was tired but couldn’t sleep, even after a long day and month journeying the Wastes. Even with the sores on her feet and the recording mechanisms in her clothing.
Gray light whispered through the hut door’s top grate. The teachings said it was bad luck to make important prayers at night. But night was ending. Terese slipped off her skinleaf plate, replacing it with loose shirt and trousers. Seekers weren’t supposed to leave their valuable plate armor alone. She’d even folded and taken it with her during occasional steam baths. Lijjen would know.
Let him wonder.
She paced out through the door barefoot and, shivering, strode to the hill. Patzer and his rules be damned.
Another dreadlocked red monk, on guard at the break in the hill’s fence, stood at her approach. She could have played many excuses. Showing her tattoo would have worked, but she wasn’t on Seeker business.
A faint chant drifted lightly on the dawn’s wind.
“Please. I must ask forgiveness.”
The monk shrugged and stepped aside.
The stiff grass sliced at her numbing, bare feet. At the hill’s flat top, she knelt on the hard soil, her breath steaming the air. The softly chanting, brightly colored monks were focused on an orange glow beyond the eastern RimWall.
Words didn’t form easily. She’d watched every word for so long that even the thought of speaking her mind scandalized her. So much energy had been wasted on pushing away uncomfortable thoughts that she stumbled over the right words.
Speaking to any Polis other than Armer wasn’t forbidden, and Polis Sumad was the only one who could hear.
“Sumad, God and Polis. Twelve years ago, I took an oath to serve Your brother and His people. To help others progress by not fearing the Darkness. And I fulfilled those vows. But I stopped helping people help themselves. Instead I worked for abstract rewards, chasing the illusion of progress and help. I was not good to others, working instead for things I was promised if I closed my mind and
