The Year of the Witching(71)

“No, but you are her daughter. You’re more like her than you are anyone else, despite all my prayers and efforts, everything I did to keep you from sharing her fate. I see that now. I was foolish to think it could be any other way.”

Immanuelle took a half step toward her. “Martha—”

“No.” The woman raised a hand, flinching away as if she feared Immanuelle would lash out and strike her. “You’ve made your choice. But know that if you go tonight, there is no returning. Once you step out that door into the darkness, it’s done. No coming home again.”

Immanuelle wiped her nose on her sleeve, trying to collect herself. She could barely see Martha through her tears. “I didn’t mean to disappoint you.” Her voice broke on the words. “I wanted more than anything to make you proud, but I know now that I wasn’t meant to do that, and I am sorry. I’m so sorry.”

Martha said nothing, but as Immanuelle turned toward the door a sob broke from the woman’s lips, and she clasped a hand to her mouth in a vain attempt to muffle it.

In that moment—watching Martha weep—Immanuelle almost broke. She wanted to drop her knapsack right there, repent of her sins, gut a ram on the coming Sabbath to atone. Perhaps it would be enough. Perhaps the plagues would pass and she could begin again, go back to the life she’d led before.

Maybe it wasn’t too late.

But then she thought of her nightmare—the church slaughter, corpses strewn across the aisles and slumped in the pews, her loved ones among the dead. If she stayed, she’d forfeit their lives, and the lives of countless others.

She couldn’t do that, not for a dream that had died the day Miriam carved her name into the walls of that cabin.

And so, without another word, Immanuelle turned her back on Martha—on everything she had ever known—opened the door, and disappeared into the night.





CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE





With darkness comes sin.

—FROM THE WRITINGS OF THE PROPHET ENECH





IMMANUELLE FLED ACROSS the plains, running through the night, finding her way through the Glades by the light of the purging pyres. She and Ezra had agreed to meet at the Haven’s gate, halfway to the village proper, along the main road. She pressed a hand to her side as she ran, gasping for every breath, her lungs burning from the pyre smoke. But she kept on, sprinting through the pain, through the black that seemed to thicken with every stride.

It took Immanuelle less than an hour to reach the Haven’s gate. Ezra was waiting for her beside his wagon, which was hitched to a dark steed and loaded with supplies.

“I only needed the warrant,” said Immanuelle, stunned by his generosity. “You didn’t have to provide all of this.”

“Of course I did. Getting you through the gate won’t mean much if you don’t have the supplies you need to survive the wilds beyond it. Now, come along, we should be on our way before the Prophet’s Guard patrols. As it stands, we both have warrants to get through the gate, but if my father discovers our plans to escape and revokes them, we’ll be in more trouble than enough.”

Immanuelle paused, noticing for the first time that Ezra wore a pack like hers on his back. “Wait, we?”

He nodded. “I forged warrants for both of us. The wilds are too dangerous to traverse alone.” He patted his horse on the neck, and it gave a gruff whinny. “I’ll get you as far as you need to go.”

“But you’re going to be the Prophet someday. This is your home, your flock—”

“Which is why I need to see that you make it to your grandmother. As the Prophet’s heir I have as much of a responsibility to end this as you do. From now on, what we do, we do together.”

“You’ve done more than enough already. You don’t have to leave everything behind.”

Ezra set his jaw. “Weeks ago, I made a promise to help you protect those that couldn’t protect themselves. So I’m going with you to find a way to end these plagues. Whether you like it or not.”

And so, the two of them started down the long road to the village. Ezra urged his horse onward, and Immanuelle noticed his hands were so tight around the reins, his knuckles were bone white. Immanuelle sat by him, dressed in a dark wool cloak that Ezra had loaned her, the hood drawn low over her brow to hide her face from those they passed in the night.

They were halfway to the village when the cathedral bell tolled.

Immanuelle turned in her seat, straining to see through the darkness. “Did you hear that?”

Ezra nodded, reaching into the back of the wagon to retrieve something.

“Do you think that’s for us?” Immanuelle asked. “Do you think they’re looking?”

“If they are,” said Ezra, turning to face the road again, now with his rifle in hand, “they’ll regret it.”

The sound of the bells grew louder, the tolls ringing in time to Immanuelle’s racing heart. “Ezra. You can’t be serious. We can’t—”

Ezra snapped the reins, rousing the horse into a full gallop. He yelled above the thunder of the pounding hooves. “I promised you I’d get you through the gate, and I mean to keep that promise.”

The woods blurred alongside them, shadows smearing as the horse picked up speed. Ezra peered over his shoulder and swore. “Damn it.”