To partake of Narcissi’s godsblood is to be healed, rejuvenated, empowered. In short, it is to be reborn anew. It is the greatest blessing the world has ever known. But every great blessing must be balanced by an equally great curse.

The Forsworn Oath by Cintra con Narcissi

Thirteen

Perfidy

Northpoint, Finfalla

“They cain’t condemn ye fer sumthin’ ye never did, Ma, an’ that’s the truth of it.” Perfidy Tress’s mother didn’t respond, didn’t even turn to look at her through the bars of the half-window outside the jail. “Ma? Did ye hear me or do ye have too much wax stuck in yer ears? Ye have nuthin’ to worry about. We’ll have ye outta here faster’n a goat can lay a turd in the yard, make no mistake.”

Finally, her mother turned, and Perfidy knew her well enough to know when the smile she planted on her lips was forced. “Thank ye, sweet girl. Did I ever tell ye ’bout the blue jay an’ the cardinal?”

“Only ’bout a hunnerd times, Ma.”

“Well, cain’t hurt to tell it a hunnerd an’ one, can it?” She didn’t wait for a response. “See, there was this blue jay whose poor mama was keeled in an unfortunate accident. Ye see, it flew straight into a bear’s mouth. Thought it was the hollow of an oak, it did.”

Perfidy snorted. “Ma. Last time ye said poor Missus Blue Jay was keeled when it flew into a twister thinkin’ it was a big ol’ nest ’cause of all the flyin’ debris.”

“Did I?”

“I’m certain of it.”

“Then, fer the sake of argument, let’s jest leave it at poor ol’ Missus Blue Jay died of unfortunate circumstances.”

“Agreed.”

“Well, the baby blue jay was distraught, of course, an’ dinnit know whut to do. All she had was her mama, an’ she hadn’t bin taught half the things she needed to be taught. She couldn’t even fly yet, though she flapped an’ flapped her wings with all her little strength.”

“But then one day…,” Perfidy prompted, having memorized the story by heart a long, long time ago.

“Then one day, a bright red cardinal was flyin’ along, weepin’ a thousand tears behind her. Ever’where she cried, a flower would sprout up an’ bloom, leavin’ a lovely trail borne of grief behind her. Grief fer her own baby, who’d fallen out of the nest an’ died.”

“Never seen a bird cry,” Perfidy pointed out. “An’ don’ see how any tears could grow flowers.”

“Well, they were magic tears, of course,” her mother said, her standard answer to her daughter’s protests.

“Ma,” Perfidy said. “Given yer current predickyment, I don’ think ye should be usin’ the ‘M’ word.”

“Magic?” her mother said. “It’s jest a word, innit? Only one who’s truly deservin’ can give it any power.”