Page 2 of These Godly Lies
Anna looks at him, committing to memory every fleck of green in his irises. It’s a habit she’s developed recently. Her heart’s way of coping with having lost him for over a decade. There is still a nervous itch under her skin every time he leaves. It hums in her ears, settles over her heart. Sometimes she lays her hand over her chest and the ache is so great she can imagine the vibrations against her palm as clearly as if she placed it on one of her hives.
She thinks that, maybe, he feels it too.
There’s a shadow at the edges of his farewell smiles, cast by the looming presence of his past mistakes. It doesn’t matter that she’s forgiven him—doesn’t matter that she believes him when he promisesnever again. Part of her still fears that he will leave and not come back. She suspects it might take decades before it fades completely. Silas was right when he told her that trust takes more time once it’s broken.
Anna frowns, the thought pulling at her. It’s not any of her business, not really, but the question nags her. “Silas mentioned something to me, back when he was helping us rehouse children during the famines.”
Another kiss, this one to the corner of her mouth. “The Shepherd?” he murmurs. He seems more concerned with tracing the line of her jaw with his lips than their conversation.
“He prefers Silas,” she huffs. “I don’t know why you and Eira are so stubborn about using his name.”
“He has yet to earn the privilege.”
“Keeping our secret isn’t enough to earn your respect?”
“He has my respect as well as my gratitude,” he corrects, a sighin his voice. He pulls away just enough to meet her eyes. “Mytrustis not so easily given. I don’t offer my friendship as easily as you do, Anna.”
“Perhaps that’s why you have so few.”
“Better a lonely fool than a dead one.”
“You can’t die.” A reminder, for both of them.
His lips twist, a resigned sort of half smile. “There are different kinds of death,” he murmurs, his palm cradling her jaw. His thumb traces the line of her cheek, his eyes dark with nightmares that carry her name. “Ask your question, Anna.”
Swallowing down the impulse to chase away the shadows in his gaze, Anna wets her lips. “What happened to Eira? All Silas would say is that she was right to be distrustful of him—that she had been betrayed.” She frowns, trying to recall the memory. “It felt like he was implying that you both were.”
Khiran releases a long sigh, pulling away from her and laying flat on his back. “I was expecting a different line of questioning.”
“But you’ll answer it?”
“Yes. I just don’t know how well Ican.” He stares up at the ceiling, brow creasing in thought. “I was there when it happened, but I was still young. I didn’t understand it all.” He shakes his head. “Or maybe I did, once, but it wasn’t a memory I held on to.”
Young. The word rings in Anna’s ears. Somehow, she knows even before she asks. “It was when you were still mortal.”
He looks at her, the crease in his brow deepening. “He really didn’t tell you anything else, did he?”
“He said it wasn’t his to tell.” She shrugs a bare shoulder, pulling the quilt closer to her chest. “I suppose it isn’t yours, either. It’s Eira’s.”
“You’re wrong.” Behind him, the log on the fire shifts, sparks erupting from the bed of embers. “It’s mine more than anyone’s. It was the betrayal of Eira’s trust that put immortality inmy hands.”
The story goes like this:
Once, when the world was young, so was Eira. They called her by many names—Eir, Hygieia, Panacea—but they all called her merciful. She healed their sick and aided their mothers. She was beautiful, and her soul was vibrant and full of hope. Most of all, she washappy. She cared for the people and the people cared for her.
Until they didn’t.
The world changed. Slowly, the number of mortals seeking her help waned and the voices of skeptics rang louder than the truth. The remedies she provided went from wanted to scorned. All that hope she once carried for humanity and their potential withered and, with it, so did she. Her golden hair turned gray and her hands became as weathered and gnarled as her heart. Bitter and wounded, she shut herself away.
Some say she found the cottage in the meadow, others say she built it herself one stone at a time over years of heartbreak. Either way, she stayed. Put all the love and care the mortals refused into the soil and treated her sorrows with the warmth from her hearth until the home she made became as much a part of her as her own heart. The magic she held, the same magic she once used to ease other’s pain, evolved to provide mercy for herself.
For years, no one looked for her. The paths leading to her became overgrown; the forest swallowing it up as if it never existed. A century passed, then two, then three. Soon, only one trail remained—so narrow the forest reached out and brushed one’s shoulders with every step.
Every season, Eira planted her seeds and tended her garden, but there was no love in it. No pride in the meals she cooked or the bounties she harvested. No joy. She went through the motions and every year felt like the one previous. Until one fall morning, she woke to the frost dusting the meadow in a layer of glittering ice, and the monotony of her life was broken by the discovery of a set of small, shuffled footprints.
Somehow, a child had stumbled down her path. A waif of a thing, wearing nothing but tattered clothing and filth, curled up amidst thewoodpile for shelter. Eira thought he looked more like a frightened animal than a child.
“What is your name?” she asked. “Where did you come from?”
