I’d not seen them since I was twelve years old, and could almost trick myself into believing they’d not changed. Why should they? They were immortals, ageless and eternal. But there was a hint of difference in their shared face. Their eyes, devoid of both iris and pupil, looked fuller somehow, heavy with the impossible weight of their collected knowledge.
Bertie plummeted to the ground in abject devotion, pressing his forehead to the stone floor, spreading his fingers wide, palms up, as if hoping to catch any bits of favor the Divided Ones might offer. “My lords, welcome! Thank you for answering my call, thank you for the blessings of your presence, thank you for—”
The giant gods stepped over his prostrate form as if he were nothing more than a decorative tile, without sparing even a single glance toward him.
“What in all the mortal realms could bring the Dreaded End’s daughter to our house of worship?” Calamité wondered. He swept their body in a circle, inspecting the room. “It looks different inhere.”
“I was…injured…while working at the palace,” I said carefully. “They brought me here for convalescence.”
“Who heals the healer?” Félicité mused, as though thinking through a particularly tricky riddle.
“Apparently our devotees,” Calamité quipped. “Somethingisdifferent. I don’t remember all these beds in here.”
“We had to bring them in, my lords…for the children,” Bertie said, still pressing his forehead to the floor with contrite reverence.
The Divided Ones glanced at the floor, only now noticing him.
“I take it you’ve met my brother Bertie?”
He dared to peek up, if only to offer a deferential bob of hishead.
Calamité ran his eye across Bertie’s scars. “Of course. Bertrand is one of our most faithful Fractured. Don’t you find his devotion most…impressive?” He smirked at me, somehow knowing I didnot.
“What’s this about children?” Félicité asked, turning their head as she too noticed the rows of beds.
“The Rift has been taking in children orphaned in the bastard prince’s uprising,” Bertie explained, far more succinctly than I would have.
“Baudouin’s trying to go to war?” Félicité turned her shoulder, initiating a private conversation with her twin. “What have you to do with this?”
Calamité made a face of disgust. “Why am I always blamed for things going wrong? If the king so badly wants to stay in power, perhaps he ought to put a stop to the madness himself.”
Bertie spoke up. “He can’t, my lords. He’s sick. That’s why I summoned you.”
“Marnaigne is ill?” Félicité frowned, casting her eye first to her brother and then toward me.
I nodded.
Calamité tilted their head curiously, looking far too pleased. “What is it?”
“The Shivers,” I responded. Neither god reacted. “His case is…most severe.”
“So heal him,” Calamité instructed, as if it were the easiest thing in the world. “That’s what you’re meant to do, isn’t it? Heal?”
“I…I can’t. Not this time.”
Understanding flashed across their eyes.
They knew. Of course they did.
Calamité flicked his wrist at Bertie. “Théophane keeps the most delightful plum brandy in his study. There’s a bottle hidden behind the Book of Schisms. Would you mind fetching us a glass? We’re parched.”
Bertie tensed, wanting to stay and listen but always ready to serve. “Certainly, my lords. Is there anything else I can bring you? Any of you?”
Félicité’s smile was tight and thin, but she kept her voice melodious as ever. “You might as well bring the entire bottle. My brother’s thirst is legendary.”
Bertie nodded and rushed from the room, nearly tripping over himself as he went backward, bowing every other step.
“That should buy us some time,” Calamité said.
