The Multitude, стр. 73

“Have you no sense of symbolism?” She spoke English this time.

Good. At least they could communicate. “I’m Henry.”

“Abelia.”

* * *

Having been abandoned by the mysterious Henry, Maynya staggered alone through a tent full of human statues. Her greatest urge was to race away, unlock the gates to the bridal pool, and set the women free. Only about a dozen of them stood frozen in the tent. Scores more might be unguarded now within their wood-fenced compound near the palace.

But Henry Stoddard had handed a fistful of papers to her before carrying Abelia out of danger, and the ink on the pages began a seductive dance, drawing her eyes to the wriggling words, pulling her with a hypnotic rhythm she couldn’t fight. With no choice but to read what had been written, she sank to her knees.

Maynya,

A year ago, the Mystic ruler, Sylvanus Graccus, happened upon my cabin in the woods. I made arrangements with him to leak the location of a certain witch named Maynya to his border guards. Those superstitious soldiers then revealed your whereabouts to barbarian slave traders from Virtus, in the hope these fiends would seize you, thus ridding Sanctimonia of a dangerous conjurer.

The plan worked, as you know all too well.

I offer no apologies for my action, nor do I ask for gratitude in return. You had reached the age of thirty, and the time to send you on your ministry had come. You are the messiah for my fallen people, thanks to the death of your sister, Carla.

What? Maynya’s hands trembled so badly she could scarcely read more of Gabriella’s scrawl. In a brief fit of insanity a few minutes earlier, she’d imagined herself to be this Carla, even to the point of speaking in a strange tongue. Yet how could she trust the words of Gabriella, someone who had just admitted a terrible betrayal?

She cast the pages aside, or tried to, but they clung to her fingers like a spider’s silky threads to a fly. The written words wriggled again, demanding to be read.

Carla was your other half in a different world. When she passed, your gift for casting illusions was born. You’ve thrived since then if I can believe half the stories. But word has recently reached my lonely cabin of a plot against you by the warlord who rules your terrible new home. A soldier named Quintus Laskaris can protect you from danger, I think.

Yes, Maynya, the warlord’s brother. He has a psychic connection with a man who loved Carla very deeply. I brought those two together, but that’s another story.

Find Quintus. He may be the key to greater power.

Maynya’s head swam. She’d never desired power. But this soldier, Quintus, stirred knee-buckling emotions of love, loss, and longing in her soul. If he could somehow also conjure more Carla moments, like the one she’d had earlier…

The papers heated, nearly burning her hands.

But whether you find this man or not, I need to share a message from God I almost overlooked. Twenty-eight years ago, during a shared precognitive dream with Carla’s mother, I hurried down a stairway after the man possibly responsible for Carla’s death. In my haste, I rushed past these words pasted on the wall: Exodus, return engagement, October 4.

I closed my eyes a month ago, and God brought the dream to me again. Do you know what I missed the first time?

Perhaps you’re familiar with the Bible. I’ve taught it from my cabin for many years. Exodus 10:4. “If you refuse to let them go, I will bring locusts into your country tomorrow.”

I have no use for locusts. God’s message must be meant for you. Do with it what you can.

Yours,

Gabriella

Locusts? Maynya shoved the useless note into her pocket and gazed up at the statue who’d been Quintus, still frozen and perhaps dead along with all of the others in the tent. Dead. Her stomach churned. Maybe if she touched Quintus, or kissed him? No. Mystic fairy tales wouldn’t save the day.

Someone’s hand gripped her forearm from behind. “You’ll burn at the stake for what you’ve done!”

Maynya gasped. She tried to twist away from the king’s sister, Orelea, a woman no longer frozen.

* * *

Henry found himself squeezing Abelia’s hand as they trudged through the woods together. He pulled his away. By all that was holy, he wouldn’t fall for this wisp of a woman, no matter how achingly pretty and red-haired she happened to be. He needed to find his way back to Gabriella’s cabin and, hopefully, the portal of smoke. This funhouse mirror of a duplicate world made his skin crawl. “Tell me again how Maynya knew English.”

“She channeled subconscious memories from the other half of her soul.”

He swept a low-hanging branch from their path. “And how do you know English?”

Abelia’s intoxicating green eyes glittered with the hint of mischief. “I never told you, and you won’t like the answer when I do.”

“Try me.”

“I picked the language out of your head.”

He stopped walking. “So, you’re just another fallen angel.”

She shifted her hands to her hips and stared him down, the picture of innocence—bare feet, peasant dress, freckled cheeks. Abelia didn’t have any of the ageless guile he’d so often seen in Gabriella’s eyes. Perhaps he’d misjudged her.

“You did misjudge me,” she said.

“Are you rooting around in my head again?”

She kicked dirt at him. “I’ll root where I want, you old fool. You insulted me! Fallen angel, my ass!”

Henry doubled over with laughter. This Abelia had moxie.

Abelia stormed past him, swatting branches out of her way with such fury a few caught fire.

“Wait up!” He hurried after her, choking back a guffaw. “And stop burning things!”

“Apologize to me.”

Fallen or not, these angels were a greater trial than he could bear.

“You’re only digging a deeper grave for yourself,” she said.

A broken branch near his feet burst into flames. He cursed and stamped it out. “If I apologize, will you spare this forest?”

“Apologies should be unconditional,” she said.

“I’m sorry. You’re not fallen. You’re just