Goddess by Liv Savell (autobiographies to read txt) 📕

Delyth drifted, letting a warm air current buoy her up, the world cold and silent but for wind in the absence of wing beats. Below, the earth was a featureless plain of pale yellow, broken only by the twisting ribbon of the Afonneidr’s western branch and the occasional square of farmland. The rest of her party were so far below that they might have been fleas or lice on the back of some enormous, wrinkle-skinned animal.

The rest of her party. Delyth’s stomach clenched, and she beat faster just to get farther away from them, away from the torture of being near the person she most loved once again, of seeing Alphonse’s lips twisted into sneers, of seeing her touched by someone whose hands she would not want anywhere near.

What am I doing? 

They were working with Enyo again, traveling with her despite knowing what she was capable of. Was this a fool's errand? Was this all doomed to fail?  Was her need to see Alphonse restored only putting Delyth in a place to be manipulated by the Gods? She should know better this time. She was no longer the faith-blind priestess, raised to serve a Goddess she did not understand.

Delyth shifted, caught another draft, let her frantic pace slow. Perhaps she should let them make her the Vassal just so that she would not have to see Enyo misuse her lover. She didn’t pursue the idea long. It had curled itself in a circle in her mind and spun there for days, always thwarted by a single question: What would happen to Etienne and Meirin if she did?

The warrior snapped her wings closed and just fell. A hundred meters. Two hundred. She opened them again when she could see cart tracks in the road below, letting the pain in her shoulders pull her back to reality. She was spinning again. Pointless thinking. Unpractical. She needed to scout ahead, to look for a Vassal. To save Alphonse. To keep Meirin and Etienne safe.

So she beat back up, focusing on the pull and release of the muscles in her back, her wings, on the breaths thundering from her throat. Once, flying like this had felt powerful.

Far to the east, the trail split and she turned a wide vulture-circle to give herself time to think. The left road, she thought, was broader—more space for carts and horses. A trade route perhaps? It would be the busier option. She flew down it and was quickly proven right by the lumbering forms of a merchant’s caravan. Rather than stay and be spotted, she turned and flew back to the others.

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“If we take the left fork ahead, we’ll meet a number of travelers with carts and horses.” Delyth announced as she landed before them. With wind tossed hair and any shadow of happiness gone from her face, Meirin thought Delyth looked like a wild creature. Something made for prowling woodlands or nightmares. It shamed her, but Meirin could understand how people might be afraid ofDelyth.

This Delyth, at least.

Meirin missed the simple days of traveling with Etienne and the winged woman, the two warriors teaching him the basics of hand to hand combat and staff work. Sharing chores and cooking meals. She and Etienne sneaking into the city to have a taste of a different life. How could those memories only be a week old? It seemed like moons and moons ago.

Wordlessly, the group turned to take the left fork. Enyo glared at Delyth, but blessedly neither seemed interested in resuming their argument.

Increasing her stride, Meirin caught up to Etienne, who wandered ahead of her, journal in one hand, pen in the other. He scribbled away like a person possessed. “Etienne?” As he looked her way, Meirin smiled. “I’ve been thinking about Gwynhafan.” Well, not really, but she needed any distraction from the death march they found themselves part of. Watching Enyo grow weaker, Delyth turning more and more into stone alongside the body of her lover. It was unrelentingly depressing. She didn’t want to think about collecting another Vassal and unleashing the Gods and the fight that would ensue with Mascen. She didn’t want to think about that piece of truth that Esha and Enyo had given them, that the Vassals very well might not survive at all.

This entire ordeal would have been pointless if that were the case.

“Oh?” Etienne dragged himself out of whatever thoughts were possessing him, as though he'd been in a trance and she was waking him.

“Now that you’ve seen one of our great cities and one of yours, which do you think is better? Thloegr or Ingola?” Meirin knew it was an impossible comparison, but one of Etienne’s best traits had proven to be the ability to prattle at length on any given topic. Just the distraction she yearned for.

“I don’t think one is better than the other,” he said, turning to look at the land sprawled out around them. “This is a freer place, but also more dangerous to settle. Ingola’s rural areas aren’t so different, except that they follow stricter belief systems and don’t have to learn the sword. Ingola’s cities are bigger, with more craft, trade, and scholars, but they also struggle with crime and poverty. I haven’t seen any beggars in Thloegr.”

No, there were no beggars. At least none Meirin had ever experienced. Any clan worth its weight would not allow a single member to fall into such neglect, and she suspected that while larger cities were easy to get swallowed up in, the same principles applied. The temples and the leaders would ensure everyone had a piece of something. Even if it was a small piece. But scholars didn’t sound too bad. “Fine,” she flipped her hand, eager to move the conversation forward. “Which lands have the most handsome people?” Despite herself, Meirin felt a coy smile stretching across her face.

Etienne didn’t hesitate. “Yours, of course.”

“Oh?” Meirin looked down at herself,