Viridian Gate Online: Schism: A litRPG Adventure (The Heartfire Healer Series Book 2)

by E. C. Godhand

Blindfolded or not, I shut my eyes and prayed she wasn’t about to do what I thought. I had nine other fingers she could break instead.

  “The Auditor was right to turn you in. I wonder though, are these truly your friends?” she asked. She laughed. “One has already betrayed you. Oh ho, you should hear what scandalous things they say about you. You’re lewd and vulgar, with a drinking problem and an Affka addiction.”

  “That all is true,” I replied, not wanting her to see me shaken.

  “The Auditor herself described you as”—I heard her pause as she flipped through pages—“‘a spiteful, belligerent pain in the ass who makes life difficult for others’ in her official report.”

  Yvonne and I didn’t always see eye to eye on things, but we’d laughed together and worked together. “Well,” I said, “they can’t say anything worse than I say about myself.”

  I felt her weight sit on my lap and her arm drape around my shoulder. “Darling, your so-called friends already handed you in. Your resistance is meaningless. You’re looking at permanent branding and at least seven years hard labor, if not execution.”

  “Oh,” I said as calmly as I could. “And what’s the bad news?”

  The Receiver didn’t acknowledge me. “If you confess and tell us about them in return, we’ll appreciate the cooperation enough to commute your sentence.”

  I thought about this one, but not in the way they wanted. Choosing what benefitted me the most meant I could win a little and possibly avoid a bad fate, sure. But choosing what benefitted my friends, if the Inquisition was lying to me and they hadn’t sold me out, gave the highest reward for each party if we cooperated. I could incriminate myself all I wanted. But my best act was to stay silent about my friends and hope they chose the same.

  “I’m not a Darkling,” I stated. “I have rights. Show the evidence against me.”

  “Hmm,” said the Receiver, standing off my lap. I heard her heavy boots pacing around the iron chair I sat in. “You were heard saying ‘Serth-Rog sends the cooks’...”

  “A common saying. It means mortals can screw up anything good.”

  “Like how you let Cian go free?” accused the Receiver, pausing her steps.

  “I don’t know who released him, but it wasn’t me.”

  “Oh, I’m sure. Let’s say I believe that,” said the Receiver. “Then why didn’t you apprehend him?”

  “With what spells? I’m a priest. I’m forbidden from taking damaging spells. What was I going to do, heal him?”

  “Then why didn’t he attack you?” she asked.

  “I honestly don’t know,” I said, and meant it. “Is that a crime? To not be assaulted?”

  The Receiver chuckled. “Word is, you were pretty sympathetic to the man.”

  “It’s complicated.”

  “Morsheim hath no fury like a woman scorned,” recited the Receiver. “I have time though. Educate me.”

  I had already told them my truth, but it wasn’t what they wanted. The Receiver couldn’t possibly understand how it felt to be a healer in a system where the deck was stacked against you and Death beat you no matter what you did. And if you can’t beat ’em, join ’em, as the saying went. Why not go with the goat-faced daemon prince who promised power and a peaceful world under his iron rule? Especially when the alternative was a world where whole cities burned and little girls with kittens had to be smuggled out.

  But any indication I gave the Receiver that she was right would lead to me being executed.

  I thought back to the first offer she gave me. If my options were to confess and get executed, or not confess and get executed for lying, then I didn’t have much incentive here, did I? They kidnapped me, so we could both be stuck here unhappy. I’d be a spiteful, belligerent, stubborn pain in the ass who makes life difficult for others. Mama always said to be yourself, after all.

  The Receiver patiently waited for an answer I didn’t have. I tilted my head towards where I last heard her voice. “And let you go home early?” I said, laughing. “We were having so much fun though. No, I think you’ll miss dinner with the family tonight.”

  The Receiver frowned. I couldn’t see her, but I could feel its heat boring into me. She snorted and played with my hair, wild and dirty and unkempt from being dragged on the floor.

  “You realize, sister, we don’t need your confession. Any of the twenty-five in your little ragtag band would do. One even wrote everything down for us,” she said. “But we like you. The name ‘Liset the Blessed’ precedes you here in the Empire. Losing you would be a blow to morale, and we cannot afford that right now. Your cooperation will go a long way to getting the Inquisitor to believe you don’t deserve the full sentence. I am trying to save your life, after all.”

  She said that, but she put a firm hand on my throat that added pressure with each accusation.

  “Just tell us you’re working for Serth-Rog, and this will all be over. The exarch has already told us you took Cian’s deal. That you got yourself jailed to let him out of the dead bind room in Rowanheath, while your new allies, the Crimson Alliance, created a distraction and murdered Carrera with a cursed blade.”

  I couldn’t swallow. I wished people would stop touching my neck as I felt spit fill up my mouth. I parted my lips to speak, and she gave me a chance to breathe.

  “Now, how, exactly”—I coughed to clear my throat—“would the exarch know of Cian’s deal when he wasn’t there unless Cian told him himself? His Holiness thought I was dead because he was the one who put the hit on me.”

  The Receiver let go of me and playfully slapped my cheek. “See? You’re helpful after all,” she said. “Get some rest. Inquisitor Morton will be here in a few hours.”

  She left without another word and turned out the lights. I wasn’t sure if she took the blanket or not, but the place was silent and cold as a tomb again.

  After a few minutes, I felt I was going mad without the Affka to take the edge off. Crying wouldn’t fix anything. I needed to keep it together, so I tapped my toes and counted to keep my mind focused on something.

  The tapping echoed back to me in the small, circular room. I smiled and tried humming.

  The acoustics amplified my hymn and let the room sing back to me. The crystalline reverb off the walls made it seem like there were more of me, that I had a chorus of myself, and I didn’t feel so alone or lost.

  I sang myself to sleep to avoid going insane. Maybe the gods couldn’t hear me in this hell, but I would sing for them anyway.

  My life flows on in endless song;

  Above earth's lamentation,

  I hear the real, tho' far-off hymn

  That hails a new creation;

  Thro' all the tumult and the strife

  I hear the music ringing;

  It finds an echo in my soul—

  How can I keep from singing?

  The Confrontation

  I woke up the next day. I think. I passed out when my voice gave, so it was hard to be sure. Nothing had changed in the dark room. Had I slept at all? At some point, they took my blindfold and put the blanket on me. I didn’t feel like I had the Affka withdrawal anymore, either, but I had to admit I missed that feeling. It was a hell of a high to know I could take 40% more damage and not go down without a fight, all so I could be the big damn hero and keep everyone alive.

  Kismet had been right. Maybe Jericho was right, too, in accusing me of being a martyr getting high off the flames. At least it couldn’t get worse.

  I heard the outside door open with the screech of metal on stone, then the clank of the gates being rattled. You know what they said though: when one door closes, and another opens, you’re probably in prison.

  I flinched as they turned on the lights.

  “Ah, see? She’s repelled by holy light,” I heard a haughty, familiar voice say. “The corruption of Serth-Rog is surely inside her.”

  My heart caught in my chest and panic filled my veins. His sheer presence made my skin crawl. I wanted anyone else in that room wit
h me other than that ketchup-dicked asshole. Bring back the Receiver. She was more pleasant.

  Exarch Jericho, Supreme Pontiff of the Temple of Areste and spiritual father of the Holy See to the Ever-Victorious Viridian Empire, appeared on the other side of my prison bars. He flashed me an unnaturally white smile like he was baring his teeth to see me finally caged. He was a wolf in sheep’s clothing of a royal blue cassock, a gold fringed cape, and a white skullcap.

  Gaia, I prayed to myself, no matter what your plan for me is, how dare you put me through this. I dared anyone to tell me to remain positive in these circumstances.

  “Liset, my dear disciple,” he said paternally with a tsk-tsk, “when you don’t make a decision, decisions are made for you. Perhaps that is best. You have made many, many unwise decisions.”

  I ignored the fact he called me his disciple, and not Areste’s. My head hurt to look upon him. My right arm where I had been infected went numb. I couldn’t pull at my bindings. I couldn’t chew my own limbs off. I couldn’t get free. My heart raced and my throat closed up on its own without the exarch having to throttle me himself.

  I didn’t have to stay calm because who could? I did need to breathe, though, so I started with that. I made out a shadowed figure with his arms crossed behind Jericho. I couldn’t see his face, just the remains of stubble on his strong jaw, but I assumed that was Inquisitor Morton himself.

  “Accusations from a narcissist are confessions,” I managed to say through heaving breaths. “Is that why they brought you here?”

  Jericho frowned. “Daughter, does it physically pain you to be cordial?”

  “With you, I have to give up politeness and decorum to maintain sanity.”

  “And here I was so relieved when I learned that you had survived your self-exile in the desert, chasing ghosts,” he responded, shaking his head. “You hurt me when you stole the holy artifact and hid for days. When the Inquisition told me you were detained, of your... situation, I came at once.”

  I tugged on my bindings. “Oh, I bet you did.”

  Jericho rolled his eyes and let out a heavy sigh. “Can’t you see that I am your only advocate here? You’re my disciple. The Inquisition recognizes the divine right of an Exarch to shepherd his flock, and you are a lost lamb. If you know what’s good for you, you’ll show some respect.”

  I smiled politely at his demands, then denied him. I was willing to walk away. He wanted to make me his problem again? Fine. I had already died once. Twice, now, in fact. He wanted me dead, so I would make him remember why.

  “You were just as shitty an administrator on Earth as you are here. You’re like if the Surgeon General gouged healthcare prices and released a plague on the world and sold them the cure. And you want me to be polite to you while you’re actively hurting people in the name of your Aspect?”

  “Watch your words, priest,” warned the Inquisitor from his shadows, his voice a rich monotone. “You’re out of line.”

  I did not watch my words. I didn’t know if I’d ever get a chance to see Jericho again, and while the idea excited me, I wasn’t going to bite off my tongue for their comfort.

  “You’re a coward, and your methods have led to more deaths than if you murdered them yourself,” I said, spitting on the ground. I pulled at my chains, but my right hand went from numb to burning pins and needles. I winced and braced myself as the pain washed over me. “The only people you care about saving are those who can pay for it, and they’re probably named Turdus Maximus.”

  Jericho scoffed. “Senator Maximus is a faithful tither to the temple, and I will not have his good name—”

  I stopped listening as a ghostly whisper brushed past my ear.

  Your allies have abandoned you. No one is coming to save you. Except me.

  I could barely make out the words, but I felt them in my arm like I had when I faced Cian. Like when Serth-Rog spoke through his mirror. Why could I hear him now?

  “You won’t even tell us who Areste is an Aspect of! I bet it’s Thanatos, given how you deal in death,” I said, changing the subject.

  I regretted saying that though. The Inquisitor’s shadow rested his chin on his hand and tilted his head forward as if he wanted me to say more. I spoke in jest, but if I was right, and I was a member of the temple, then...

  I blanched. Then the Inquisition’s accusations earlier were correct, and I was guilty of being a Darkling and not knowing it. Cian and I had always been part of the same temple. I didn’t want to consider the thought. The last crumb of sanity I had hindered on the fact I had a choice in joining Serth-Rog. No wonder they had such trouble getting through to me. What did the Inquisition know about Jericho that I didn’t if that’s the conclusion they wanted to lead me to?

  I started hallucinating. I must’ve. I didn’t have any more Affka in me to justify it, so the madness of being in solitary must’ve gotten to me, because I saw the ghostly purple outline of Lola, one of Cian’s underlings, standing beside me. There was no way someone could stealth in here, and all messages were supposed to be blocked.

  Lola’s ghost, to her credit, didn’t seem angry I had gotten her eaten by a lake monster a few days ago. The tall, pale Hvitalfar giggled and trailed her hand down my cheek, though no one else seemed to notice.

  “I’ve seen this before. He offered me the same deal he’s going to make you. He offered it to everyone who opposed him. When you refuse, he’ll ask them to put you on a death watch and kill you over and over again, just like they did me. When you give up this charade, maybe we can play together again. We could always use more Psychomancers,” said Lola. She disappeared in a puff of smoke.

  I shivered and pulled away from her touch, but there was nowhere to go, and no one there.

  I hadn’t paid any attention to Jericho, and by now he was screaming at me.

  “Liset, I am calling you to repent, and you preach heresy!” he yelled, his face beet red and swollen.

  “There is merit in heresy,” I said, still eying the spot where Lola’s ghost haunted me. “Nothing forces you to look for the right answer quite like hearing lots of wrong ones”—I turned to look at him—“of which you have many.”

  Jericho steepled his fingers and took in a deep breath. “I’m going to need you to meet me in the middle here. There must be a way to save—”

  “Every time you ask that, why do I imagine you taking a step back?”

  He pulled his hands over his face and sighed heavily. “You’re lucky there’s no baptism here, Liset. It’d take an ocean to cleanse you of your sins.”

  “Oh yeah, you’d even set up a festival,” I said. “You could do a dunking tank. One gold to dunk and baptize the sinner and cleanse her soul, and maybe you’d have enough people to pay the forty gold to save a life.” I scoffed. “But to tell you the truth, Exarch, if there were baptism here, I’d drown myself before you had the chance.”

  My head felt like it was full of swamp water. I shut my eyes tight and heard the inhuman whisper at my other ear now.

  You’ve died twice. Once more, and you’re mine. You cannot escape Death.

  “No, I’ve only died once!” I shouted. “You can’t count Earth. That’s not fair.”

  I didn’t realize I spoke out loud until after the fact. Jericho leaned in, intrigued.

  “Who are you talking to, Liset?” he asked, his voice soft and curious. “I didn’t believe it when I heard you had given yourself over as concubine to the Dread Lord, the Dark Prince of Morsheim himself, but I wouldn’t put it past you.”

  I couldn’t breathe. The weight on my chest from the icy pain crawling up my arm, like skeletal fingers, wouldn’t let me. This was all wrong. I should’ve known there was no winning a fight with him. Everyone always wanted me to be the bigger person, but I was only just over five feet tall and grown. I wasn’t big to start with, and I could not possibly be any bigger. I couldn’t argue empathy with a man who had none. People were dying on Earth and he simply did not care. That didn’t change when he came to this wor
ld. He could pretend he was helping me all he wanted, but I knew as soon as he thought he was alone with me, or that he could get away with it, he’d destroy me. Any sentiment of human feelings starved in the wasteland of his soul.

  Serth-Rog cackled in the back of my mind. I wanted to cut off my right arm, even if I could never heal again, just to make him shut up. I didn’t understand why this was happening. I had been cleansed. Corvus’ research indicated that the plague replaced parts of the person with a doppelganger loyal to Serth-Rog, and Veracity only severed the connection, but the only times this had happened was around the cursed daggers and when I stood in front of the Daemon Prince’s reflection.

  “Hey, if we’re pointing fingers, I got two middle ones for you right here,” I said. At least the bindings left me some room for expression.

  Jericho turned red again. “I will have them hold you in contempt of court.”

  “You don’t have that power,” I said. I looked to the shadow of Inquisitor Morton for confirmation. The man stood still with his arms crossed and stared at us. “You aren’t seriously going to let him do this?”

  “The Inquisition knows their place,” said Jericho.

  “Tch. If it’s your court, I don’t care. I am in contempt,” I answered.

  “I will have them add seven years to your sentence for every time you show disrespect.”

  “Get bent.”

  “There’s seven,” he said, raising a finger.

  “It’s a death sentence. Who cares?”

  “Fourteen,” he said, lifting a second finger.

  He looked like he was holding a peace sign and I laughed at how red his face got.

  “Kiss my ass.”

  “Twenty-one.”

  “You know why we have to charge so much for our healing? We have to pay you AND your ego.”

  Jericho folded his hands as if praying for patience, and, not finding it, looked to the Inquisitor and gestured towards me as if to say “see what I have to deal with?” The Inquisitor remained unmoved.

  “Perhaps you’re right. Not even the Daemon Prince of Morsheim himself would want to burden himself with you,” said Jericho, slowly moving all his jeweled rings to his right hand, one by one. “But I took you in, this penniless, pitiful, scrawny woman who thought she knew better than Areste, whose infinite mercy wishes to save all, even this despicable, selfish, insubordinate, annoying failure of a priest.”