A Gift God.
Jularra stood silently, unsure of how Vilfarin’s execution would be received.
“The impetus for our visit, Jularra, is dark, but fateful,” it announced. “The use of your gifts to deliver such carnage demonstrates your ability to look past the idea that magic can be classified as good or evil. You instilled horror tonight. You became death, and it was right.”
The stones around the pit glowed brighter. The fire lit up the clearing like daylight, and Jularra raised her hand to shield her eyes. With a flash, the fire extinguished itself, and the stones' glow died. As the bright silhouette of the Gift God faded away, the faintly glowing image of a Credellion replaced it.
Jularra stood slowly, grimacing at her injured side, and eyed the beautiful shape of the Credellion. Her eyes welled up again, but this time it was for a different reason.
Her question had been answered. Her doubts had been assuaged. Her judgment was sanctioned. She was not in the wrong. Vilfarin’s execution was right.
She was right.
Five
After the Gift God's visit, the fire started to die. Jularra threw in an occasional leaf or twig, but let the flames slip away as she sat and reflected on the night. Though her judgment of Vilfarin and the manner in which she dispatched him was seemingly approved by the Gift Gods, something continued to scratch on her conscience. She swatted the mental gnat away and stood up.
She brushed her bare bottom and walked back to the pit’s outer stones. With long sweeps of her feet, she raked over and kicked in a few waves of sand and soil to smother the embers left in the fire. She tried to stop herself scouring for any sign of Vilfarin’s remains, but still felt relieved when she saw none.
As the bits of remaining fire disappeared under the earth, so too did her last sliver of guilt. Jularra pressed her fingertips against her face and, with a quick jerk, shook the semblance of Aleusa back into place.
The trail home was lit by the earliest spears of light making their way through the dense forest canopy. An early bird whistled, capturing the morning's silence for himself. Jularra breathed in slowly as she walked. Like taking in a fine wine or a hot tea, she sampled the cool, damp air—part of a breath through her nose, and then the rest through her mouth. With the next breath, she would reverse the method. Other breaths, she would flick her tongue back and forth, rapidly alternating between breathing methods. On one breath, she smelled notes of earthy moss with hints of minerals. On other breaths, she could almost taste rotten logs and decaying leaves. These were the moments that cleared her mind of all else.
Further down the path, however, was a reminder of reality. She huffed upon encountering the clothing she had strewn about the night before, returning her breathing to a less-enlightened state. She plodded along, half-ashamed and half-entertained by her own antics, picking up each piece of clothing as she came across them. Before too long, she was once again dressed and ready to get back for the second round of council meetings. An especially persistent beam of light poked through and taunted her over her previous night’s excess. She restored her face disguise with another quick touch of her fingertips.
As Jularra approached the trailhead, the hints of soft light between the leaves were overcome with the growing silhouette of Morganon. After passing into the field adjoining the southeast side of the city, she stopped to take in its imposing might, lit by the pale blue dawn. The sun hadn’t yet crested the mountains and it gave the city a wholesome hue of innocence and wonder.
She took her time in admiring the city, in no rush to look away or get back to the residence tower. But the creaking and squeaking from the wagons of the morning’s first merchants broke her concentration. Reluctantly, she resumed her march to the walls.
She loved traveling in disguise. It was so efficient. There was no needing to wait for the opinions and suggestions of escorts; no stopping and discussing things; no banter, questions, or need for decisions. No formalities. No greetings. She could just go from one destination to the next, without disruption, fanfare, or performance. Each person had their own business, and each person kept their business. She could be a nobody to others, and others were of no consequence to her.
Her disguised face was trained on the ground as she ambled along. Not for fear of being recognized—her enchantment made that impossible—but because the freedom of anonymity allowed her to do so, to forego the pressures and concerns of her day-to-day responsibilities. She didn’t have to care about what was around her, or in front of her. She knew where she was by the sounds around her, as well as the condition and color of the dirt or stones beneath her feet.
The market already had a bit of life to it, despite the early hour, but there were no entertainers yet. The lack of a crowd in the courtyard where musicians and storytellers would usually perform helped her keep her bearings. After a left turn and a stroll through the blacksmith’s corridor, there'd be just two more streets before she neared the residence tower.
But as she prepared to exit the market courtyard, she stopped in her tracks, caught off-guard by two pairs of feet in her peripheral vision. Both were bare, and one pair was particularly small and dirty. She followed the feet up to the faces of their owners. A one-armed man sat on the ground next to a little girl. Spread across both their laps was an open sack containing only an apple, a small piece of dried ham, and a single copper rock. Though the Acorilinians had minted their coins with metal for centuries, Jularra recalled, they were still referred
