Igniting Darkness (Courting Darkness Duology #2) - Robin LaFevers Page 0,70

master by twelve years of age. Besides, were any of your decisions made out of malice?”

“No!”

“Revenge?”

“No.”

“Then it was not your fault. You did what any number of us would have done in your place. What you were trained to do. Used your judgment and Mortain’s guidance—if he bothered to offer any, which he did far too infrequently. The gods seem to amuse themselves by using us at their whim to achieve their own ends.”

As she speaks, it feels like an invisible bucket of warm water is being gently poured over my head, sending rivulets of gentle heat down my limbs, across my skin, seeping, somehow, into my very bones. My body feels heavy with relaxation, and I want to laugh with relief and cry from the sheer magnitude of it.

Grace. It is one of Father Effram’s words and reminds me of that moment when I first experienced the souls of the dead. First experienced the fullness of Mortain’s gifts.

Except the fullness of this moment is wholly human.

Unsettled by how quickly my body accepts the forgiveness she is giving, how hungry I am for it, I grumble, “Easy for you to say, when you’ve never made such a monstrous mistake.”

A gale of laughter bursts from her, so sudden that she slaps a hand across her mouth lest others should hear. As she laughs mirthlessly into her palm, I cannot help but feel I have just made yet another blunder. In trying to push away the comfort she offered, I have caused her pain, which has never been my intention. And yet, I realize glumly, it is what I do with everyone.

“If you only knew the sheer number and horror of the mistakes I have made,” she finally says, the shadows back in her eyes and darker than before. “The lives I have cost.” She looks bleakly at the wall above my head.

“Surely if my mistakes are not my fault, then neither were yours?” I offer.

Her gaze snaps back down to mine. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Mayhap,” I concede. “It would not be the first time. But surely if I am absolved of my crimes for having made the best choice I could with limited knowledge, then that would also apply to you.”

She opens her mouth to argue, and I long to put my fingers to her lips to shush her. But am not quite that brave. I hold up my hand instead. “How old were you?”

“For which mistake?”

“Let’s start with the first one.”

She looks down at the jug in her hand “Ten.”

“So younger even than when I was sent from the convent. And, according to your earlier story, not even aware that you were one of Mortain’s daughters. Was your decision made out of malice?”

She blinks slowly, as if trying to orient her mind to what I am saying. “No.”

“Revenge?” I ask, more softly.

She glares at me, and I am struck again by her beauty. “No.”

“Were you trying to prove yourself?”

“Protection. I was looking for protection.”

The word reminds me of my mother and my aunts, so many of whom spent their early lives looking for that very thing. “Well,” I say crisply. “I cannot think of a single decision a ten-year-old could make while looking for safe harbor that would be anything other than innocent.”

“But—”

“While a child may be able to burn down a farm, if he has not learned the power of flames, how can it truly be his fault?”

“I was playing with fire,” she mutters, not to me, but to whatever ghosts lurk inside her. “But what of when I was old enough to understand its power?”

I stare at her, only barely able to imagine how many horrors she’s endured. “If no one showed you where the bucket was kept, or even how to use it to douse the flames, how can you be expected to simply know such things?”

“I was trying to use the bucket,” she whispers. “I wanted so badly to put out the fire that ravaged our lives.”

“What happened to . . . the bucket?”

“It was consumed by the flames.” Her words fall softly into the silence, but fill it almost beyond bearing.

“Not your fault,” I say firmly. “A tragedy that was simply playing itself out.”

She holds my gaze, before finally closing her eyes. For a moment, I imagine I hear her heart beating. Tha-bump, tha-bump. A tendril of panic tries to rise up, but she is so clearly not dead that I beat it back down. Then, just as quickly, the sound is