“I do not know why I was chosen. Be that as it may, it is my calling. I must see it fulfilled.”
“So you believe whatever the gods tell you?”
“As Oracle, naturally I must.”
“So if you weren’t the Oracle, you wouldn’t have that faith? You wouldn’t need to believe?”
At that, Lunafreya became aware of a new expression on Sol’s face. She seemed to be on verge of tears.
“It is my opinion,” Lunafreya answered carefully, “that each person has the right to adopt or reject faith as they see fit. But in my case―”
Sol cut in, her words more shouted than spoken. “I used to believe, too!”
“Sol . . . ”
“I bought into all of it, right up until the day everything came crashing down. I was left with nothing. I begged them, you know. All of them. I begged them not to take it away.”
Sol turned her face away, jaw clenched. The frustration in her profile was something Lunafreya had seen before. It hadn’t been often, but every once in a while during her travels as Oracle, she’d caught sight of that expression. It was the face of those for whom prayers had gone unanswered and faith had been shattered. In Sol’s eyes was the look of one who had long cursed the gods for her misfortune.
“Where were the gods then?” Sol asked. “What were they so busy with when I needed them? But who cares about the prayers of a child, right? They’re beneath the notice of the mighty gods.”
Among Lunafreya’s duties as Oracle was to bring relief to those suffering from disease. But that did not mean she’d been able to help everyone. There were those for whom she did not arrive in time. Never had she faced open criticism from the friends or family of the deceased, yet there were times when people looked away as she approached, their anger and sorrow visibly held barely in check.
The gods did not deliver succor to everyone. To those struggling with loss, Lunafreya offered words of comfort as Oracle, ritual expressions and phatic utterances. Not the type of things Sol would want to hear now, but with those words unavailable, she did not know what else to say.
As Lunafreya fumbled for a response, Sol ended the conversation herself with, “Sorry, forget it. It’s not like talking about it with you will change anything.”
Then after a pause, “Pathetic. I sound like a little kid, expecting someone else to fix things for me.”
Still turned away, Sol’s face grew blank and hard. No trace of the earlier anger or tears remained. She merely bit her lower lip and muttered, “It’s up to me. I won’t let them die.”
And then she was climbing onto the motorcycle and motioning for Lunafreya to get in the sidecar. She no longer seemed like a petulant child, or an adult who blamed the gods for allowing her loved ones to perish. Her demeanor was that of one determined to protect others through her own will and strength alone. She would not suffer loss again.
It made Lunafreya think.
What about me? she asked herself. What have I wrought by my own strength alone?
Perhaps she had not accomplished all that she believed she had. So you’re just gonna go along with whatever the gods say? Sol’s words had lodged deep in her breast, like a thorn that could not be pried free.
As soon as the exchange was over, Sol was already regretting her words. Why had she taken all that crap out on Luna? She’d acted like a little brat. It felt a lot like how she always seemed to end up behaving around her mother, but when she’d lashed out at the Oracle, there was another, slightly different dynamic at work.
It probably had to do with Luna’s exasperating devotion to the gods. The Oracle never framed things in terms of herself―she was always thinking and talking about what the gods wanted or what was best for the Star. The woman never took a moment to think about what she wanted to do. Every action was based on some calling she was convinced she had to live up to. Sol couldn’t wrap her head around it.
The only thing worse than someone who believed only in themselves was someone who was blindly devoted to a higher power. There was no guarantee that such an entity would be a force for good, but because people like that would never allow themselves to question their faith, they couldn’t ever stop and reevaluate things with a critical eye.
When Sol was young, she’d known plenty of adults like that, those who unquestioningly placed their trust in their emperor and his vision for their nation. Not once did it occur to them that what was happening around them might not be for the best. As the emperor steered Niflheim toward its doom, they were all right there alongside him, up until the very end.
Sol’s adoptive mother was different. She lived by her own rules. If you asked her why she went out of her way to help others, she’d laugh and say she only did it because she felt like it. There had been a time when Aranea let herself be constrained by orders, back when she’d been a soldier, but by the time she met Sol, she had left that part of her life behind.
That was why Sol had respected her mother, from the very first moment they’d met. As far back as Sol could remember, having her mother’s approval had felt like the most important thing in the world.
Wait. Why was she thinking in the past tense?
This was Biggs’s fault. The man couldn’t lie worth a damn. She could tell from his voice alone that he’d been on the verge of panic. And now he had Sol fearing the worst, too.
Mom, please be safe. I’ll be there soon.
She repeated the short prayer to herself for what must have been the hundredth time.
“Sol! We can’t go this way! Stop!”
Sol snapped back to reality. A daemon was straight ahead of them, blocking the road. If she’d been paying attention, she’d have noticed it earlier, and they might have been able to circle around. It probably would have saved them some time, but it was too late now. The daemon had sighted them and was closing in fast.
Regina skidded to a stop, and Sol pulled out her shotgun. Luna jumped from the sidecar, spear held at the ready. Fortunately, this wasn’t among the biggest daemons they’d come across, but neither would it go down easy.
Sol steadied her aim and let loose on the approaching enemy. The shower of hot metal slowed the daemon down some, but the wound was certainly not fatal.
“Luna!”
“I’ve got it!”
The daemon stumbled closer, now nearly in melee range. Luna flung her right hand out. The monster shuddered, and a stream of its sickening black miasma began flowing straight into her palm.