Benjin gently took her hand. "You must not scratch no matter how bad it itches."
Catrin looked at her hand. Layers of dead skin, peeled and cracked, encased her like a dried husk, and her blackened fingernails curled back away from the nail beds. Despair shadowed her soul. How could she go on like this? Who had done this to her?
Barabas.
The name was like a sledge landing between her ears. He had done this to her. She had been ready to depart this world, but Barabas somehow sent her back. This was his fault, and she hated him for it. Tears stung her eyes and tickled the sides of her face. She wanted to reach up and soothe it, but she could not. Even if she'd had the will to raise her arm and scratch with her wasted nails, Benjin would stop her, and she hated him for that. "Go away. All of you. Get out."
Benjin frowned, and she thought he would resist, but he nodded slowly. "Rest some more for now, li'l miss. Things'll be better when you next wake."
"Leave me alone," she said, hating herself for it.
Weeks passed as Catrin recovered. Her fingernails fell off, and eventually she was allowed to rub away the dead skin. Still she itched. Her skin appeared whole, but it was as if the air itself offended the new skin, leaving it blotchy and irritated. Slowly, her strength returned, and when Benjin arrived for one of his daily visits, she actually smiled.
"Would you like to walk?" he asked, and her soul soared. The thought of getting out of bed, standing upright, and walking in the sunlight thrilled her. She was ready-more than ready. Benjin moved to her side and helped her sit up, but her confidence faltered. The world moved unpredictably, swaying from side to side, and her stomach protested.
"Deep breaths. Be calm. Close your eyes if it helps."
It didn't help. Instead she focused on the doorway. Concentrating on the angles, knowing what they should look like, she willed her mind to see it the way it truly was. Gradually it stopped moving, and it felt like a victory when Catrin saw clean, right angles. After a few more deep breaths, she nodded to Benjin; she was ready. He eased her legs over the side, and the cold stone felt good under her feet. She wobbled as she stood, and she leaned on Benjin heavily at times, but she was standing-another victory. They did not walk in the sunlight as she had hoped, but even darkened halls were far better than being confined to bed.
After he'd helped her back into bed, Benjin handed her a small mirror. "Don't be alarmed," he said.
When she mustered the courage to look, she saw a stranger. Her skin was reddish and looked as if it would crack into a thousand pieces if she moved too quickly, but it was her hair that brought tears to her eyes. Still short, the tips looked as her hair always had, but the roots were as white as goose down.
"I look like an old woman."
"It's not so bad," he said, "and it may wear off. You're already looking better. Do you want me to cut it for you?"
"No," Catrin said. The part of her hair that retained its color was a part of her old self, and she refused to let go of it. So many things about her and her world had changed, and she clung to anything that reminded her of her old life; precious little remained, and she cried herself to sleep.
Each day brought new challenges and new accomplishments. Training herself as she would a horse, Catrin walked a little farther every day, slowly rebuilding her strength and endurance. During this time, she learned of things that happened after the destruction of the statue. Barabas's body had not been found, as if he had disappeared into the statue. Morif and Millie had dragged Catrin and Benjin away from the arena, searching for a place to hide.
People began to rise up against the Zjhon, and most within Adderhold sought to flee, but one man came looking for Catrin: Samda, a Zjhon Master and former servant of Archmaster Belegra.
"He's shown nothing but compassion for you," Millie said. "He's kept us hidden and safe. You can trust him."
Catrin didn't believe a word of it. How could a Zjhon Master want anything other than her death? Yet he could have had them killed or imprisoned and had not. He could have left her to die but had not.
"Why did you come to our aid?" she asked him one day.
"I did what I believed was right, m'lady."
"And when the Zjhon invaded the Godfist, did you believe that was right?"
"At the time, m'lady, I did," Samda replied, his eyes downcast.
"But you no longer believe that?" she asked, and he only shook his head in response. "What changed your mind?"
"Many things, m'lady: the explosion of the statue in the Westland, Archmaster Belegra's disregard for human life, and his refusal to admit he'd been wrong. He chose, instead, to make up lies about you, and that I could not abide. But mostly, m'lady, it was you," Samda said, meeting her eyes. She saw no guile there, no deception, only deep regret.
"What about me?"
"At first, it was your presence here when the other statue exploded. I could find no way to explain it. There was only one logical conclusion: we, the Zjhon, had been wrong. We had interpreted the holy writings to say what we wanted them to say. I suspected it many years ago, but I could not discard my beliefs so easily. Can you imagine suddenly realizing that everything your family ever taught you was false? It wasn't easy, but you and Archmaster Belegra convinced me. He threw away lives as if they were of no value, and even as men sought to end your life, you wept for them." Tears filled his eyes.
"I didn't want to believe, even then," Samda continued, "but how could I deny it? I considered fleeing with the rest, but where would I have gone? What would I have done? How could I have lived with myself, knowing so many lives had been lost because of my folly? I could not. I had to find some way to right my wrongs and those committed by the Zjhon empire. I had to help you, and I made my decision. I stopped thinking and started acting. I brought you here so you could heal in safety."
Here turned out to be a complex of caves and tunnels, deep beneath Adderhold.
"There were only a few within Adderhold that know this level of catacombs exist, and of those, I am the only one remaining," Samda said. "The rest have either fled with Belegra and his elite guards or have disappeared."
"What of Belegra? Where do you think he has gone?"
"I believe he seeks the Firstland, m'lady," Samda said. "I was not privy to all his plans, and we did not often discuss the possibility of defeat; it seemed unlikely. But I do know that he'd been studying ancient texts, searching for sources of power. I suppose that is the greatest irony. He speaks of your powers as abominations, yet he seeks those very same powers with relentless ambition, and it seems he has talents of his own-as you have seen for yourself."
"The power to coerce and enslave?" Catrin asked, a fury rising within her. "Yes. I've witnessed it." It was that power that held Prios in thrall and prevented his freedom. The connection between her and Prios was difficult to understand, but she was connected to him nonetheless, and she detested Archmaster Belegra's mistreatment of him. "Who are the robed figures he used to attack me?"
"His cadre, as he calls them. They are from all over the Greatland, ranging from highborn to slave. Before the appointed time of Istra's return, Belegra gave orders: Anyone who manifested powers of any kind was to be brought to him, in shackles if need be. I know not how he learned to coerce them and use their powers, but I fear he seeks even greater and more dangerous arcana within the halls of the ancients."
Catrin wanted to ask about Prios, but she did not yet fully trust Samda, and she decided to keep their connection a secret. "Is the location of the Firstland known?"
"Not to me, m'lady, and if Belegra knew, he'd have kept the knowledge hidden. It's a long-standing Zjhon practice-keep secrets close and only ever reveal part of the truth. This is how the Godfist was taken by surprise, you see. Hundreds of years ago, when the Zjhon held the only copies of many ancient texts, new copies were created and filled with false information. Rather than remove the sections that told when Istra would return, our ancestors changed the dates-among other things-while preserving the original texts in sacred vaults."