The Garden of Evil

Date unknown
The Realm of Wyn Avuqua

“Hold your breath. Breathe not. Do not speak a word. I know your story, for it is mine also…”

Cynthia speaks slowly with crystalline elegance, each syllable sharp and cutting, each word weighted with its full meaning.

“We the Banished. And now we are returned.” There is a longing in her timbre—a cello-bowed fullness and want in her pace.

“I am the Summoner, but it was not I who called you to this distant land. It was the voice of Thi.” Her long hair glimmers in the flickering light. She stands motionless and waits as if to allow the roaring fires a moment to speak. “It was not I who made you. It was the word of Thi,” Again the fire hisses and crackles in answer. Her glittering eyes track from uplifted face to face, but it seems to Loche that she is staring at him alone. “It was not I who filled your hearts with vengeance and a thirst for blood. It was the tale of Thi that kindled you, that lit you, that burns in you now.”

Her arms open outward and spread, “And behold, we have each awakened. Each of us gods! Your blindness is healed, and you find yourselves within the paradise you have pined for. Though it was not made for you. A fleeting moment within the glory and joy of Thi’s work. Though we have been starved of it and long ago banished from its shores. Thi has granted you entry to Its most prized garden—Its beloved jewel—Its masterwork. Though only to perform a single, bloody task. You are gods! You walk upon Thi’s Earth, among his children. And for this brief season, Thi grants our will in this place. All for the price of obedience.”

She raises her hand in a gesture of warning, “And what does our Lord command? For It did not open Its gates idly. He has given us a purpose, has He not? A valiant and noble task, yes? He has bred within us a fury toward his disobedient subjects: the guardians of this coveted place in existence—the rebellious, treacherous, Immortal race. They who have hunted and slain our kind since the beginning.” Her long arm gestures to the northwest—a finger pointing like the tip of a blade, “The Itonalya’s city of Wyn Avuqua will be destroyed. We shall grind its walls to dust! We shall put to flame its houses, its temples, its words! We will fill the lake waters with heads and build a bridge across Thi’s sight!”

The roar of furious approval rattles Loche’s ribcage as if his heart is raging against the bars of a cell. Cynthia watches and listens for a moment and then raises her hand against the din. The voices quiet. The fires crackle.

“It was not I who summoned you hither to kill. It was Thi.” The woman lowers her arm and appears to consider a sudden thought.

Her sparkling green eyes widen and an overdramatic expression of round-mouthed wonder appears on her face. “But something eludes me, my dear brothers and sisters. Something so very confounding. Tell me, if you can, why does the mighty Lord God, Thi call upon… us? Have we not been banished from this place? Am I the only one here that is confused by this? Has He no other way to shepherd and punish His flock of undying guardians than to call upon… us? And now, after refusing to share paradise, to capture it back for himself, he uses us?” Her incredulity recedes and a look of grace and thoughtful piety forms. “Shall I show you how I feel about this hypocrisy? This injustice?”

The fires snap and breathe. The throng is silent. Loche turns his head to learn if their faces are answering her question. Those he can make out seem pained and empathetic, as if they are being injured by some hidden weapon and then asked to worship both the weapon and the hand that wields it.

“Shall I show you my pain? For I know it is yours also.”

A collective agreement begins with nods, quiet mutters of, “Aye,” and the stamping of feet.

“Very well.” The armored woman smiles and turns her face in Loche’s direction. Loche flinches as her focus pierces through the shadows and brooding atmosphere of the host—through to his very soul. A violent chill slides down his back and he feels his disguise has been compromised. His hand raises to steady himself in the doorway.

Cynthia points, “I shall also share our pain of exile with our Maker, our Lord God! Behold, Soldiers of the Void, the mighty Thi has come to us! And I shall place Him before you!”

Loche turns to see Edwin’s bier now being hoisted just behind him. The hooded priests lead the procession bearing tall poles with suspended oil lamps. The throng obediently provides a narrow aisle as they pass into the enclosure.

Loche falls in and takes a position following just behind Edwin’s sleeping face. His boy is an arm’s reach away.