Page 130 of The Thirteenth Child
“Lives,” he corrected me flatly. “The point at which lives end.” When I frowned with confusion, he sighed and continued. “We see things very differently from mortals. You perceive everything around you in a linear fashion. This happened, so this happens, which will cause that to happen. But the gods…” Merrick waved his long fingers in a giant cyclical gesture. “We see every version of every choice, every effect every cause can trigger.”
I remembered my small taste of the godsight with a queasy stomach, then felt a sense of déjà vu wash over me. I was certain we’d had this exact conversation before.
But not about the Holy First.
It was about…
“The First wanted me to save lives,” I said, putting it together. “Not just as a healer, but…”
“She is the reason you see the deathshead,” Merrick confirmed. “It’s her will you’re meant to carry out. It’s never been mine.”
“Oh.” I stared at my fingers, still clutching the knife. I didn’t know what this meant, what it meant for me, what it meant for him, but my chest ached. “Was it her choice or yours that I become a healer?”
He shrugged, the body of his robes hefting up before wafting down into rippling shadows. “At the time, it didn’t matter to me what you did. You’d not even been born yet. I only knew that I loved you, that I’d want all those extra years for you. I didn’t care much what needed to be done to get them. I never considered the toll it would take on you.”
“Was she…was she very upset about Marnaigne?”
He nodded.
It was difficult to imagine an angry Holy First. In all the stories of her, she was made out to be a benevolent, motherly figure who was far more likely to leave you smothered in guilt over all the ways you disappointed her than to ever raise her voice. But…
“I think she took my gift away,” I admitted.
Merrick frowned.
“I can’t see cures any longer. Not since…not since that day in the cavern. It doesn’t feel like it’s ever going to return.”
He made a pained noise. “Probably not. I suppose it’s a good thing I made you read all those books, then.”
I smiled, as if he’d made a joke.
He grabbed the knife from my hand and I flinched. “Give methat,” he said. “You shouldn’t have to cut your own cake.”
Part of me wanted to sit back and let him serve. We’d eat it in stilted silence and it would be horrible, but it would be the firstsmall step to getting back to the usual rhythm of us. I just needed to keep my mouth shut and let him celebrate my birthday.
“Merrick?”
I wanted to pinch myself. All I had to do was stay quiet and this disaster of an afternoon could soon be at an end. But it was like an aching tooth. I couldn’t not poke at it. I had to keep testing the pain, seeing if I could handle it.
He grunted.
Don’t do it, Hazel. Don’t do it, Hazel. Don’t—
“Do you ever regret making me your goddaughter?”
The knife fell through the cake as easily as a guillotine. “What?” he asked.
I winced. “Sometimes it feels like all I do is disappoint you, and I just…I’ve always wondered.”
“Always?” he echoed, sounding hurt.
“When I was little…when you didn’t come for all those years, I thought it was because you realized you’d made a mistake.”
“All those years…Did it truly feel so long?”
“Merrick, I’d been waiting my whole life for you.”
He stared at me with shock and sadness, looking impossibly ancient, looking every bit the god he was. “I never thought of it that way.” Merrick shook his head. “I’ve never regretted that moment. Not once. And I never will.”
