Shara whispers, “How are you alive?”
The mhovost begins waltzing across the circle, twirling gracefully.
“I very much wish to kill this thing,” says Sigrud. The mhovost spins around and waggles its bony behind at Sigrud. “Much more than I do most things,” he adds. “And we have killed Divine creatures before. …”
“Listen to me, abomination,” says Shara coldly. “I am descended from the man who killed your race, who pulled your Divinities down and laid them low, who ruined and ravaged this land within weeks. My forebear buried dozens, hundreds of your brothers and sisters in the mud, and there they rot, even to this day. I have no qualms doing the same to you. Now, tell me—is your creator, the Divinity Jukov, truly gone from this world, never to return?”
The mhovost slowly stands. It appears to reflect on something—for a moment, it almost appears sad. Then it turns around, looks at Shara, and shakes its head.
“Then where is he?”
A shrug, but not half so malicious and gleeful as its others: this gesture is doleful, confused, a child wondering why it was abandoned.
“These two men who were here. One of them was fat and bald, yes?”
It starts pacing the edge of the ring, walking in a frantic circle.
A yes, Shara assumes. “And the other one—what did he look like?”
The mhovost adds a decidedly swishy step to its pace; it puts one hand on its hip, bends the other hand effeminately at the wrist; and as it pivots across the ring, it strokes the bottom of its bill as if luxuriating in its gorgeous features . …
That, thinks Shara, does not sound like the sort of person Wiclov would normally dally about with.
“How did Wiclov trap you here?” she asks.
The mhovost stops, looks at her, and bends double in silent laughter. It waves at her as if appreciating a merry joke: What a ridiculous idea!
“So it wasn’t Wiclov,” says Shara. “Then who?”
It bends its wrist, affects a feminine posture, and shakes its head in a manner that could only be called “bitchy.”
“The other man trapped you here. Who is this other man?”
It performs an agile flip, assumes a handstand, and begins trotting around on its palms.
“Who was he?”
The light in the room flickers as the candelabra flames dance. And all the flames bend, Shara notices, at the exact same angle. …
A breeze?
She examines the walls. In the far corner, deep in amber shadows, she thinks she spies a crack in the stone—perhaps a panel, or a door.
She looks down at the floor. The salt ring fills the room almost perfectly: it’s impossible to reach the door without going through the mhovost’s little enclosure. Like a guard dog …
“What’s through that door?” asks Shara.
The mhovost looks up at her, does yet another flip, and lands on its feet. It cocks its head, canine-like, and theatrically scratches its bald head with one quadruple-jointed finger.
The Divinities, she remembers, could only be killed with the Kaj’s weaponry. But their minor creatures were more vulnerable, and all had their own weaknesses.
Shara comes to a decision. “How many have you devoured during your imprisonment here?”
Again, it doubles over in mock laughter. It dances over to where Sigrud stands and mimes inspecting him, pretending to squeeze his thighs, test his belly. …
“I believe it was many,” says Shara. “And I believe you enjoyed it.”
In one swoop, the mhovost slides over to her. It runs one finger along the sides of its mouth: a disturbingly sexual gesture.
Shara looks at a candelabra beside her. “These are very illegal, of course.” She picks up one candle, flips it over. Inscribed on the bottom, as she expected, is a symbol of a flame between two parallel lines—the insignia of Olvos, the flame in the woods. “These candles never go out, and give off such a bright white light.” She holds a hand to its flame. “But the heat they give … That is quite real, and no illusion.”
The mhovost stops, and slowly withdraws its finger from its mouth.
“There’s a reason all these candelabras are here, isn’t there?” asks Shara. “Because if by chance you got out of your cage, a dusty, dry creature like you would have to step very carefully to avoid catching alight.”
The mhovost drops its hand and takes a step back.
“I bet Mrs. Torskeny ran to you, didn’t she?” says Shara softly. “Seeing a little girl in need.”
Shara remembers the old woman bent over her coffee: I tried to learn. I wanted to learn to be righteous. I wanted to know. But I could only ever pretend.
Angry, the mhovost flaps its bill at her: fapfapfapfa-
With a flick, Shara tosses the candle at it.
The creature catches afire instantly: there is a whump sound, and an orange blaze erupts from its chest. Within seconds it is a dark man-figure flailing in a billowing cloud of orange-white.
Somewhere in the back of her head, Shara hears children screaming.