《Tears for the dead》


 Chapter 1: The hunter

    Objo preened, feathers as magnificent as hers required constant upkeep. She combed through the dark blue plumage with her hands, the hooked talons tipping her fingers pressing each feather to lie flat and glossy. The delicate white speckling on the plumes made a starry sky when she spread to her full wingspan, a proud twenty feet. Though a harpy now, she had not always been so. Originally a black barn owl before the transformation, she was, in her opinion, the most beautiful of her harpy sisters. Though her sister Ooi, the resplendent quetzal decked in emerald greens, was a close second in terms of beauty. She scowled at the thought of her pseudo sister. Though not originally a hunter she had adapted to the role well, becoming almost as accomplished as Objo. A fact she frequently taunted the older woman with.


    Now acolytes to the chthonic god of vengeance Nemia, the rites performed upon her body for her ascension to priesthood had been an agonizing but necessary sacrifice. The golem body her god had formed for her had required Objo to personally extract and place each of her organs within the thick paste of volcanic ash forming the earthy construct. It had taken her a brutal seven days to complete. A beautiful number, Nemia had cooed, cradling the hatchling in her magma encrusted fingers, after her new daughter¡¯s rebirth.


    Objo sat tucked in the branches of a thorned acacia, midnight shadows cast from the revelry below her feathered feet dappling her face and wings as the warm wind of summer whispered through the leaves like a promise. She watched the witches with sharp eyes as they danced below. Followers of Zsa Zsa, the piebald deer witch god, were holding their ceremonial rites, twisting and writhing around a massive bonfire, higher than the top of her tree. They tossed in handfuls of powdered minerals, turning the flames brilliant blues, greens, and magentas as they whirled, light from the flames glinting off the gold of their jewelry. Objo watched dispassionately, a vicious smile twisting her lips. Soon they would be her prey.


    The witches practiced kin killing, ritualistic sacrifice of their own family members to the crazed god as a form of tribute, supplicating the god for riches and power. As kin killers, they were barred from the afterlife, leaving them only the realm of the living, a place they sought to stay as long as possible. They besought Zsa Zsa the witch-mother, to increase their longevity, to keep them for just a little longer from their inevitable fates as lurking ghosts doomed to travel the earth in agony. Their kin killing customs are what drew Nemia¡¯s acolytes to them, Objo and the other harpies fulfilling their sacred duty of punishing those guilty of the most egregious of crimes, of which kin killing was taramount.


    After capturing the damned, Objo and her sisters would bring their prey to Nemia, through the obsidian tunnels beneath the dormant volcano Urtel, depositing them before the god for her brutal judgment. Objo paused in her grooming, watching carefully for the witch that would be her quarry tonight. The one that would channel the god and thus doom herself. The witch was already drenched in blood, her teeth red with it as she bared them wildly, her grin widening past human limits as Zsa Zsa channeled through her. Gold jewelry decked her every limb, clinking as she spun. Soon. Soon they would learn regret.


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    She eyed her current mark, a witch with a gloria of vibrant red hair braided complicatedly over top her head, long strands breaking free from the crown to billow like flames, glossy bronze in the firelight. The witch laughed wildly, lips bloodied from sipping the sacrificial wine, passed to her by the coven¡¯s witchmother in a heavy chalice. The viscous liquid spilled down her chin as she drank deeply, seeping into the bodice of her dress, staining it a dark burgundy.


    She twirled away, spinning round and round her layered skirts rippling around her legs, the complicated steps of her dance bringing her to a sudden stop in front of a bound, wide eyed girl, red hair as bright as her own, her features so similar to the witch¡¯s. A knife appeared in the witch¡¯s hand, bronze and jagged. She held it up to her mouth, licking the blade, her lips parted in a violent grin, flames dancing in her eyes.


    Without warning she slashed down, slitting the girl¡¯s throat in a single fluid movement, a spray of blood splattering across her face. A cry went up from the gathered, somewhere between a cheer and a wail. They collapsed around the slain girl, shoulders swaying like waves as they continued to dance, lifting her body on their collective shoulders to lay her atop the fire, now a funeral pyre for the newly departed. The witch killer watched with a grin, something predatory and eager. The flames burned brighter still, leaping high with a roar.


    She collapsed on the ground, body spasming, eyes rolling back in head. The other witches gathered around her, whispering, chanting, arms around each other as they swayed rhythmically. The witch stopped spasming, body so so still. A twitch in her fingers, and she came back to animacy, standing up, something different in her stance than before, something arcane moving her limbs. She smiled and it was a different smile, something older, colder, and far more dangerous. She held up her hands to her cheeks, pointer fingers at the edge of her smile, othering fingers clasped in a fist, thumbs up pointed in the air, stretching her grin wider still, beyond what a human¡¯s lips should. The witch-god had come to join, summoned by sacrifice.


    Objo watched the proceeding, eyes narrowed in disgust. This was not her first time watching the summoning of Zsa Zsa, and it wouldn¡¯t be her last. I never failed to disgust her, the disposal of kin for personal gain, the most egregious of crimes she brought to judgment by her god. The details of the ritual varied coven to coven, but the end result was always the same. A kin member slain and the murdering family member possessed, the goddess embodying the sacrificer, granting them longevity, for a while, until another sacrifice was required, to continue the life loaned.


    She would wait a while more, until the witches were fast asleep and the witch-god departed,, before slipping into their midst and snatching her prey. The longevity granted would not keep death at bay, not from another god.

 Chapter 2: Travel

    Objo flew with her catch, the witch shrieking as her talons pierced flesh. Objo ignored her, she felt no compassion for the woman, she deserved none, for what she had done. It didn¡¯t matter that if this was her first or one hundredth offense, soon her every crime would be exposed before Nemia, she always knew every offense. Her goddess was unforgiving, and Objo had unquestioning faith that all would be laid bare before her righteousness.


    She flew for days, unwavering, untiring, the witch¡¯s cries giving way to whimpers, then silence. Eventually Nemia¡¯s volcano appeared on the horizon, smoke lazily wafting from its crest. The volcano hadn¡¯t been active for centuries now, not since Nemia had judged the surrounding area to need a purging fire, to wipe her lands of the sickness of men. A flood of cleansing magma surged down from its peak, the heavy ash skies blocking the sun for miles and miles. It had been before Objo¡¯s time, but the stories had been passed down among her acolyte sisters, spoken of with reverence as to Nemia¡¯s might.


    Objo soared downward as she approached, skimming the treetops, descending towards the obsidian caves that indicated the chthonic entrance to her goddess¡¯ domain. Wild poppies marked the path, a sea of reds leading inward, downward, plunging into the underworld. The sounds of the forest cut out sharply as she entered the tunnel. This was a world of shadows, glassy obsidian reflections warping any light that made its way into the depths. But Objo¡¯s eyes were used to the muted light, her original owl eyes enhanced by the benevolence of her god, curved moonstone lenses layering just over the iris of her eye, enhancing the muscles, directing even the smallest light inward. The heat intensified as she approached Nemia¡¯s throne room, the light of the magma deep in the bowels of the volcano replacing the sunlight of the outside.


    A cacophony of chirps and trills met her, drowning out the renewed whimpers of the witch in her grasp, the woman shivering in her sharp hold. A thrill went through Objo, anticipation of greeting Nemia with her catch sending a jolt of glee down her spine, her muscles tensing with nervous energy.


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    With a final beat of her wings she soared into the throne room, a massive chamber, lit brightly by the pool of magma bubbling dangerously in its center. She deposited the witch in the center of the room just shy of the pool, the woman rolling as she hit the floor from where she unceremoniously dropped. The cackles of Objo¡¯s sisters echoed through the cave as they espied the witch, jeering at the kin killer. Objo alitted on a rocky outcropping, jutting from the chamber walls, joining the other acolytes to watch the judgment.


    Clothes now shredded by the journey and Objo¡¯s talons, beautiful braids now tangled, the witch picked herself up to stand wide eyed, eyes fearful as she regarded the harpies surrounding her.


    ¡®Do you know why you are here?¡¯ A voice asked, seemingly coming from everywhere, filling the chamber, while simultaneously resonating in the mind, surrounding a being in with its rich sound in entirety. Nemia¡¯s voice was a beautiful thing, heady and compelling, and to be so encompassed by it was to be humbled. Stumbling back from the magma pool the witch shook her head wildly, her hands going to her ears to stifle the god¡¯s voice.


    A figure emerged from the depths of the magma, flames licking down her humanesque form, clothing her nakedness. Her skin was charred, magma visible between the cracks, stumps where arms might have been. Giant magma hands emerged from the magma depths to lay ominously in front of her, clasped. Nemia was a fearsome being to behold, Objo shivered, awed even after all this time.


    ¡®Fourteen counts of familicide you are accused, fourteen counts of familicide you will pay,¡¯ the witch¡¯s eyes widened and she gasped, pleadingly ¡®it is way of my people,¡¯ she beseeched, collapsing to her knees, hands clasped in front of her in supplication. ¡®Please, please! It is the will of Zsa Zsa!¡¯ her voice cracked on her gods¡¯ name. Nemia looked at her for a long moment, before throwing back her head, a long rough laugh ringing from her lips, filling the chamber with her voice once more. Her laughter abated, though echoes lingered, ¡®child, your ways are an abomination,¡¯ she hissed venomously. ¡®And now, you will be held culpable for your sins.¡¯ With a massive magma hand she slowly reached for the woman, drawing out her panic, ¡®please! Please!¡¯ The witch sobbed, fear striking her immobile. Unmoved, Nemia grasped her in one hand, the witch shrieking as she burned, just as her kin had, days ago. Nemia smiled, satisfied with her judgment. Objo watched in thrall, leaning forward as the woman was fully consumed. Not even a ghost left in her place as her whole soul was righteously extinguished. Nemia had spoken, and all would be as she willed.

 Chapter 3: Revel

    Nemia withdrew with a small smile, submerging once more into the depths of her pool, massive hands the last to sink, bubbling sluggishly into the thick surface. ¡®Well done, little sister,¡¯ Atzi commended, the older harpy aliting next to Objo with a slightly ungainly step, her golden wings settling against her back. Originally a golden pheasant, the woman¡¯s red chest shone iridescent in the murky light of the cavern. High priestess of their flock, Atzi was Nemia¡¯s first born, the oldest and first of her thirteen acolytes.


    ¡®Must be easy when your original bird form is so well suited to hunting. Some of us have to actually work for our kills,¡¯ Ooi murmured, her resentful voice just in hearing range. Objo tried not to scowl at her, she wasn¡¯t at fault for her natural affinities, and she refused to let Ooi shame her for them.


    There were among the harpies a range of strategies for collecting the witches. The ground bound birds, Vaara the cassowary with brilliant blue skin and dark feathers, Bia the great roadrunner who sported speckled wings and a tuft of feathers emerging from her forehead, and Atzi the golden pheasant, all ran down their prey. The song bird Asil, a violet-backed starling her plumes a brilliant amethyst, enthralls her witches with an otherworldly voice, whereas Imita the lyre bird with a single long, curved and striped tail quill, surrounded by wispy white feathers, mimicked other witches¡¯ voices to coax out her prey from their coven. Viline the marvelous spatuletail her chest of iridescent blue feathers and a unique fanned feather emerging from a long thin quill in her tail, as well as Ooi the resplendent quetzal, her green wings tipped in black, both tempt their game with flashing wings and enticing dance. Similarly, Iloin the secretary bird, orange markings around her eyes and a crest of spiky black feathers, captured her prey with a whirling, violent dance, tiring them until they succumbed to her. The fishing birds, Altul the great egret, sleek and white, and Daich the scarlet ibis, the same but in rosy red, both walk among the sleeping witches and spear fish, whereas Leiden, the weaver with a chest of cheerful yellow, built traps. It was unclear to Objo how Hrae, the king vulture hunted, whose eyes were an unearthly and guarded silver and whose face was fractured with a lichtenberg scar from when she risked a storm flight.


    Objo did recognize her advantage. Compared with her sisters she was most suited to their god given task, but that just meant that their goddess¡¯ was granted more witches for judgment, it wasn¡¯t a reflection on her harpy sisters¡¯ abilities. She huffed, refusing to engage the bitter bird. Atzi shot Ooi a disparaging glance, but said nothing to counter her point. Turning back to Objo she offered a comforting smile, ¡®let¡¯s celebrate your twentieth retrieval!¡¯ Several harpies shrieked in excitement, the low hoarse voice of Hrae the vulture among their eerie chorus.


    They flew as a motley flock to a deeper chamber, the ground bound birds running in their wake, the pattering choir of their feet echoing. The tunnels were less dark here, despite being deeper in the depths of the volcano, the walls were lined with volcanic glass reflecting warm orange light, keeping their pathway alit. Down, down they went, and then deeper still. The tunnel widened, before suddenly opening into a large chamber, the ceiling high above them. Dangling nests created by Leiden the Village weaver bird, swung from varying heights above, accessible by thin winding trails in the rocks for those ground bound.


    ¡®Let¡¯s revel!¡¯ shrieked Viline, the marvelous spatuletail, as she emerged from the tunnel, soaring high above the others to twirl in the air. Her acrobatics were an impressive display that she was uniquely able to perform, thrumming wings beating faster and faster. She twisted nimbly around their shared nests, darting into hers briefly to grab several long iridescent strips of fabric. She continued her agile flight, draping them from wall to wall, adding cheer to their room. Daich, the scarlet ibis, clamored up the narrow pathways along the walls to her own nest, dragging out long ropes of cured fish, tossing several out to her sisters before bringing down the strands to share with the rest. Imita the lyre bird brought out her harp, strumming it experimentally before breaking into a boisterous song, the words something arcane and indecipherable. Ooi and Iloin, the secretary bird, immediately broke into dance, twisting and turning such that their feathers spun out around them, catching the light, Ooi¡¯s long green tail trailing behind her beguilingly. Though Ooi was beautiful to watch, her feathers as brilliant as gems, Iloin was the better dancer, and could dance for hours on end without pause.


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    The bacchanalia continued well into the night, though Atzi and Hrae, the king vulture retreated to their shared nest, after making conspicuous bedroom eyes at each other across the flames of the fire that the birds had erected in the room¡¯s center, a volcanic vent whisking away the smoke in the high ceiling. The pair often coupled high in the sky, Hrae carrying Atzi in her arms when she couldn¡¯t fly any higher, before falling to earth as they intertwined, but room was limited in the deep caverns of the volcano. They were well matched, the regal and mysterious Hrae and the quiet dignity of Atzi.


    With Atzi retired, Vaara the cassowary brought out her contribution to the evening; an assortment of substances for her sisters¡¯ indulgence. She gleefully passed out her contraband. Laddeled from a thick jar came a fizzy drink that gave buoyancy to the ground bound birds. Bia the great roadrunner quickly threw back the drink without hesitation. She giggled, slightly delirious, a side effect of the beverage, before leaping from the ground, spreading out her wings to slow her descent further as she floated back to the floor. The other birds laughed raucously, delighted as Bia jumped about, bouncing off walls as she enjoyed the effects.


    Vaara doled out eye drops to those birds that had remained in her vicinity, a glittery viscous fluid in an ornate delicate vial, shaped after the flower the nectar was harvested from. The flower¡¯s anatomically correct pistol was pulled out to be used as a pipette to administer the eye drops. ¡®Oh Vaara! You¡¯re all, all scattered¡¯ Altul the great egret exclaimed, the usually haughty bird rendered almost incomprehensible. Altul looked around with wide eyes, taking in the fractaled world around her.


    Bia bounced down, eager to join the others with the next imbibement, her speckled wings flapping around her. Objo watched her warily. Bia was always the first to drink the buoyant drink, often drinking to excess, to a point of delirium that required her sisters¡¯ help. Objo had tried bringing up her concerns with Vaara, naively hoping the other woman would restrict Bia¡¯s access, but Vaara had just brushed her off, claiming the other bird was an adult and could make her own choices. Objo understood her perspective, to some extent, but they were sisters, shouldn¡¯t one of them care enough to say something? She wasn¡¯t hurting anyone but herself, exactly, but seeing her careless of her own well being twisted something inside Objo. It felt selfish to try to soothe that part of herself that hurt with her sister¡¯s actions, like she was taking Bia¡¯s addiction and making it about herself, but she couldn¡¯t change how she felt. And everytime Bia rejected Objo¡¯s suggestions to slow down, to maybe drink a little less, everytime Bia snarked that Objo was such a buzzkill, she withered a little inside. She cared, she just really cared.


    Her musing was interrupted by Vaara¡¯s call, ¡®you too, Objo?¡¯ she offered, the pipette poised for her use as well. The nectar was a group favorite, its visual effects fractaling the world around them, but allowing the user to also see an aura around other beings, loosely corresponding to one¡¯s emotions. It allowed the flock to see each others¡¯ energy, their feelings, before an individual was even aware of it themselves. It allowed for a ripples of emotion to move throughout the group, as they riffed off each others¡¯ energies. The synchronicity was even more pronounced when they flew together while on nectar, their flight patterns aligning, making smooth murmurations in the sky.


    ¡®Hey! Hey! I have some news!¡¯ Asil said, as she stopped her dancing with Iloin and Ooi to join the growing group surrounding Vaara. Iloin continued to twirl to Imita¡¯s song, but Ooi looked over at her departed sister curiously. Asil wrapped a violet clawed hand around Objo and Vaara and leaned into them, as if what she was about to say was an exciting secret, though she made no efforts to lower her voice, her eyes alight with excitement. ¡®I heard something from the witch I¡¯m working on enthralling, she was talking about a celebration coming up, a massive ritual that witches from all over will come to! So, I was thinking, why not organize! We could all go together! Hunt them down as a group! It could be so fun, we could catch so many if we all work together. What do you say?¡¯ It was an idea with merit, Objo thought, looking around at the speculative eyes of her sisters, some more interested than others. It could be a good opportunity to help some of them make their first catches, to boost their confidence and give some subtle tips that wouldn¡¯t ruffle anyones¡¯ feathers. ¡®Let¡¯s do it,¡¯ she said boldly.

 Chapter 4: Approach

    They organized the next afternoon with Atzi¡¯s approval, after a late morning lie in recovering from the previous night¡¯s delights. Atzi was even more appreciative than Objo had been, complimenting Asil on her findings. Asil preened at the praise, her violet chest feathers puffed with pride. Objo smiled at her fondly; Asil was a personality that thrived with commendations. Heading out, the flighted birds leading the way from the skies, the grounded birds following their lead.


    They traveled steadily for several days, their dedications to Nemia giving them supernatural resilience, allowing them to travel without rest for weeks at a time. It was not the hardest pace Objo had ever set in her own hunts, but it was grueling. Once the volcano had finally disappeared over the horizon and they entered the deserts, they reached the edges of the witches¡¯ territory. Spiked skulls decorated with brightly colored feathers marked the boundary as they left the deep forests of their home. Objo scoffed at the slight. They could pretend all they liked to be predators, but both groups knew the reality, and the witches were not the apex. Viline, however, eyed the display nervously. As the smallest harpy, and one that hunted with temptation, Objo supposed she was the most endangered by the witches, and one to whom the warning would be most sinister to.


    They made camp some distance outside the witches¡¯ sacred village, the central hub that the many roaming tribes returned to for ceremonies. It made sense that this would be the site for a celebration for their whole wandering nation. Objo had flown over several times, but had never hunted from within its walls, too worried about the attention she might garner, though her hunting style was not unsuited to navigating the short structures. When she was still an owl, untransformed, she had hunted within the forests, her wings silent as she swept among the trees. She could do the same for the buildings within the village, but there was less cover for her, and she wasn¡¯t willing to risk attack.


    It had been a long time since she had been a true bird, rather than the mighty being she was now. It had been a long time since Nemia had called for her. The god had seen into her heart, how she longed for a more meaningful life. A life where her hunts were not just for food, but towards a larger goal. The god had offered her to become something more, something mighty, so she had lept at the opportunity. She wondered how the others had been called, but it was a taboo subject, too personal to share, a sacred pact between god and acolyte. Objo felt slightly ashamed at her past self, how eager she had been for power. She had been an ambitious bird, with lofty aspirations. She was more humble now that she had found her place in the world. She could cringe now at the folly of her youth, even if it had led her to who she was today. The author''s content has been appropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.


    ¡®What are you thinking about, so seriously,¡¯ Imita asked in her lilting voice, sidling up to her where she sat at the edge of their encampment, staring at their soon to be prey. Objo hummed, considering whether to answer truthfully. ¡®Before, when I was just a bird. I would never have guessed that hunting would be more than just for sustenance. I knew something was missing from my life, but I couldn¡¯t pin down what it was,¡¯ she finally said, bordering on the private topic. Imita was quiet for a moment, considering. None of the birds talked much of their time without Nemia, their devotion to her outweighing the importance of their life previous.


    ¡®I don¡¯t remember much of my time then,¡¯ Imita finally replied, her voice hushed, so as not to disturb the others who had settled down to wait for night to arrive. Objo peered her from the side of her eye, uncertain if the other harpy was telling the truth. Imita looked at her, her eyes guileless, a self-deprecating half smile on her lips. ¡®It probably sounds untrue,¡¯ she said, as if aware of Objo¡¯s inner thoughts. ¡®I suppose maybe it¡¯s because I wish to forget. It was hard, before Nemia. I had a son,¡¯ she quieted, turning away from Objo to face the village, her words fragmenting as she choked them out. ¡®He was so lovely,¡¯ she continued, her voice soft, ¡®such a beautiful voice,¡¯ her voice cracked. ¡®I can¡¯t, I can¡¯t,¡¯ she whispered, shaking her head, unable or perhaps unwilling.


    Objo turned her head, allowing the other harpy some privacy, the intimacy of what she had already shared overwhelming. ¡®It¡¯s why I took these tail feathers, despite them being those of the males. I wanted to remember him. To honor him, even in this small way,¡¯ She turned back to Objo, a smile on her face, despite the faint sheen of tears in her eyes. Objo returned her smile, eyes soft. ¡®Thank you. For listening.¡¯ They sat in silence, watching the sun dip low, casting long shadows as it disappeared over the horizon.

 Chapter 5: Massacre

    They had had a plan. It may have even been a good plan, Objo reflected dispassionately, as she stood tenuously before the violent leaping flames of the witches¡¯ massive ceremonial bonfire, one wing limp by her side as her sisters fought on, wrapped in their own dire battles. It was a moot point now. The line between life and death was a knife¡¯s edge thin, and many were teetering on its brink, both friend and foe alike. Lifeblood sprayed around in a gory arc, painting the hungry ground at her feet, wet and hauntingly warm. She did her best not to dwell on that.


    She panted heavily, her lungs aching, breath coppery, as she battled a manifest and capricious goddess. Imita¡¯s headless body was somewhere to her left. The older harpy had been briefly holding her own against Zsa Zsa¡¯s vessel, until she wasn¡¯t. A single vicious swipe from the talons of the witch skeuos containing the old god and suddenly Imita had fallen, a felled marionette with snipped strings, slackening to the ground in a final, fatal heap. A puzzle of limbs that would never again contain the other woman no matter how they were reassembled. Something cracked in Objo¡¯s chest, a deep seated ache forming. Her eyes itched, tears, she thought distantly. Her sister deserved a proper burial. She needed to be laid to rest, not discarded in the middle of a witch city. Who knows what horrible things would happen to her remains here. She couldn¡¯t leave her!


    But no, she couldn¡¯t think about that now. There would be time to grieve for her sister later, she soothed herself, trying to dull the screaming horror inside her so that she could focus on her own life threatening fight. Her ears were ringing, a shrill constant buzzing like a film over all other sounds in her ears. Her tongue was heavy in her mouth, as she tried to swallow back her grief.


    Imita. The corpse. Her sister, her comrade, and just more recently, friend. The woman who wore a skin commemorating her lost son, a woman who played the lyre with such haunting beauty, a music she now recognized as a tribute to her lost kin. The woman whose blood should have been inside her body instead of. No. focus. She couldn¡¯t think of her, of the woman who she had just been beginning to understand.


    Hrae shrieked from somewhere, breaking her distraction. ¡®Focus,¡¯ snarled Vaara beside her, drawing her attention back to the fight. Objo didn¡¯t even like the other harpy, resented her, for her role in Bia¡¯s struggle with sobriety, and yet now she needed to act in perfect harmony with the other woman¡¯s combat in order to even stay alive as they together took on what was irrefutable one of the most malicious known gods. Zsa Zsa, the piebald deer, the silent god who speaks in hands, the unholy witchmother. She had many many names, each more ominous than the last.


    Objo eyed the corrupted body of the witch before her. The woman herself was young, her dark hair a thick sheet down to her knees, glossy in the flamelight. Gold jewelry glittered from wrist to elbow, completely covering her forearms, and more still dangled from her neck and ankles, jingled from belts cinched around her waist, trailing tendrils of chain behind. She was otherwise nude, skin painted with the blood of fallen sisters, both her own and Objo¡¯s.


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    Despite her human appearance it was easy to tell she had channeled the god. She moved with a jerkiness, as if she were unused to the angles of her own joints, each step taken as if she were reminding herself of how to operate that limb. But when it came time to strike out, to counter or attack, there was no hesitation. All that residual wavering from occupying an unfamiliar conduit fell away and only frenzied violence was left with each swipe of gold nails, individual talons of cast metal tipping each digit. Her face, Objo shuddered, that too was perverted by the witchgod¡¯s influence. Her eyes were eldritch, cold and glittering with malice. But where the god was too clear was her mouth. She could see the god in the witch¡¯s too wide smile, her jaw unhinged to show all of her filed sharp teeth between split carmine lips.


    However, more than the subtle physical distinctions, it was her aura that signaled the presence of something sinister, an unnerving wrongness with the woman that permeated the air around her, prickling Objo¡¯s skin, indicating that she was in the presence of something tainted.


    The woman¡¯s hands flitted about her, forming shapes unfamiliar, speaking to her with Zsa Zsa¡¯s soundless voice. She had never seen someone sign before, but the woman¡¯s meaning appeared in her mind regardless, forced in by the god¡¯s deific power. ¡®You dare to challenge me, hatchling?¡¯ she asked, the words invading Objo thoughts, painfully reverberating in her psyche. ¡®Have you and your brood inherited Nemia¡¯s vanity? She was always such a sanctimonious little upstart.¡¯ Despite the lack of tone from words, the message was mocking.


    Vaara bristled beside her, ¡®Shut up! You are unworthy of having her name on your tongue!¡¯ she hissed. Objo marveled at her audacity in rebuking a god. The witch-vessel threw back her head and laughed, ¡®Worthy?! Your mother has the gall to claim me unworthy? She! Who burned away my city with a genocidal flame! Who consumes the souls of my supplicants for her own glorification!¡¯ Her voice raised as she continued, until the final word was a shriek of divine wrath as she jolted forward, charging Vaara. A slash of the witch¡¯s gold plated claws drew a bloody welt and a puff of feathers as Vaara just barely managed to get her wing up in time to block the blow to her throat, weathering the attack rather than dodging.


    ¡®But! It¡¯s justice, we are only delivering punishment to those who deserve it for their crime, it is a befitting retribution! Kin killing is despicable.¡¯ Objo objected, darting forward to try and alleviate some of the attention from her sister, baring her own talons. The god turned to her, smile eerie. ¡®Is that what you believe? That dear Nemia is simply requiting righteousness? Is that the lie she has concocted for her infractions?¡¯ she snorted, stalling as her hands moved once more, ¡®then she should first punish herself! She burned away her own kin along with my children, sacrificed her unwilling worshipers to ascend to stolen godhood! And even then, their deaths weren¡¯t enough to assuage her insatiable appetites. She still pursues my children, still!¡¯


    Visions filled her head, a sudden torrent as if a flood was forced through a needle, the current of the gods thoughts overwhelming and painfully past capacity for her more delicate mortal mind. A bustling city with mudbrick buildings, a skyline of familiar mountains with Nemia¡¯s volcano among them, a strange people with witches intermingled but not the majority. She could sense Zsa Zsa¡¯s fond nostalgia for this past place, her pride in her peoples¡¯ prosperity. And then. Fire spitting from Nemia¡¯s peak, floods of heavy super heated rock crushing the city and its inhabitants in an inescapable deluge. Screams. Many many screams as an entire people perished.

 Chapter 6: Confrontation

    ¡®Liar! You lie and are the mother of lies, false god!¡¯ Vaara screamed, pushing through the pain of the images to attack the witchgod once more.


    There was a sudden ache, a dull emptiness as the space where Zsa Zsa had been was suddenly vacant, a vacuum left by her retreat as she turned to weather Vaara¡¯s enraged charge. Was that what had happened? When the purging fires of holy flames ripped through the forests so long ago, a veritable tsunami of magma? Objo wavered, unsteady on her feet after the mental barrage.


    A roaring filled her in its absence, her mind scrambling, thoughts messy, confused, hurt, as she tried to fit this newfound information with the image she held of her goddess. Her mother, the wise and endless sage that governed Objo and her sisters with gentle benevolence. Who had found her as a young bird, seen something worthy in her and elevated her from her previous life to a new one, had given her purpose and meaning. Which were now sullied by the possible duplicity of Nemia¡¯s motives.


    Nemia claimed they were ridding the world of the truly wicked, her directive to seek out the worst the witches could offer and bring them before her for their righteous ruling. But if she herself was the greatest perpetrator, how could she be qualified of judgment? The hypocrisy twisted Objo¡¯s stomach, disgust at being deceived by one she trusted, one she revered. And Objo had been a part of it, had enabled her witch hunt, and was in fact Nemia¡¯s most capable hunter. It was sickening.


    But no, it was the witchgod who had imparted the visions, and the witches were wicked, immoral, devious. Vaara had called Zsa Zsa false god, and was she wrong? The goddess demanded the blood of kin, was it outlandish for her to be capable of the smaller vice of lying, and to her immortal enemy¡¯s children. She could have twisted the truth, designed her visions in such a way as to mislead Nemia¡¯s disciples. Objo shook her head roughly, trying to dislodge the unfaithful thoughts. Later. She would deal with her misgivings later, right now was not the time.


    The witch-vessel was on the defensive now, laughing as she dodged Vaara¡¯s swinging claws, the cassowary harpy¡¯s powerful talons raking through the air as the smaller woman danced around her. Then with one quick moment, the witch ducked under a heavily thrown strike, ducking under Vaara¡¯s guard to land a vicious slice, through her plumage deep in Vaara¡¯s stomach.


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    Vaara fell to the ground, hands at the wound, trying to hold in the blood from where it was escaping far too fast, her hands dark forbidden red in the firelight. There was a shrieking, high and piercing, a broken sound that shouldn¡¯t have been reached by any human voice. It was impossible to tell who was making that horrible shriek, that sound of a woman unraveling. It may have been Vaara, or Objo herself, but she could see too Hrae on the other side of the bonfire, the vulture harpy¡¯s mouth was open, screaming too words lost in the fray.


    Standing upright now, her expression vicious and satisfied, Zsa Zsa smirked down at her latest victim. Flames sparked in her eyes, despite the fire being behind her. She turned to Objo now, fixing her in place with those horrible eyes, the fire in them growing, an inferno rather than the embers they had been.


    ¡®It¡¯s not kin blood, but I will accept this offering,¡¯ she murmured, glancing back thoughtfully at the fallen Vaara, as she advanced on Objo. She was on her knees, now, bowing before the might of the god, her legs sinking into the bloody muck of the well trod ground, trampled by decades of witches and their gruesome religious rites. How much of this was earth and how much was decades of dried blood, Objo wondered, distantly, coming back to herself, the shock of Vaara¡¯s defeat wearing off in the face of this imminent danger. She hadn¡¯t thought the other woman would fail. She was so strong, stronger than any of the other harpies, stronger even the Hrae. And still she had fallen. What chance did Objo have? She was a hunter, not a fighter.


    The witchgod came closer, until she stood before Objo, standing over her kneeling posture as if Objo were a supplicant at her altar. And she may as well have been. The fight had gone out of her, probably back when Imita had first fallen. She had thought she was shocked then, but now, paralyzed before the majesty of the witchmother, she understood to a new depth. This was true fear.


    The goddess bent, reaching out a dangerous finger to tilt the conquered harpy¡¯s head, looking deep into her eyes. If she looked too long would she burn? She could feel phantom tongues of flame licking at her wings, the heat of it curling her feathers. The god seemed to like what she found there, a pleased smile spreading on her lips, less sharp than the one she had when she was battling Objo¡¯s sister. ¡®You will pass on my regards to dear Nemia, won''t you fledgling? And treasure my gift, I have given you something precious.¡¯


    And then she was gone. Not the body, of course, but the god. Left this plane back to whatever eldritch plane it was she had come from. The witch before her fell to the ground, but Objo was too shaken to take advantage of her vulnerability. Hrae however was not. She snapped the woman¡¯s neck with an efficient and practiced ease that would have alarmed Objo at any other time. But now she was just grateful. ¡®Collect yourself, tend to Vaara, we¡¯re leaving,¡¯ she rasped, words clipped. Did she begrudge Objo her weakness? She didn¡¯t have energy to dissect the firm look on Hrae¡¯s face, the shadows flickering strangely over her lightening scars. Facing down a goddess had drained her. She stood, wobbling, but seeing Vaara moaning had her hurrying over to help the other woman.

 Chapter 7: Returning

    The trip back was much more subdued. The missing in their ranks were obvious. Though their number had increased as several witch prisoners had been secured. Imita, Leiden, and Viline. The fallen. She wasn¡¯t surprised Viline had fallen, though as soon as the thought formed she felt ashamed. But the slight marvelous spatuletail had been fragile in a way that had often made hunting a risk. She should never have risked an outright confrontation. The harpies had been too caught up in their own prowess, and their hubris had cost them dearly.


    Objo¡¯s thoughts frequently dwelled on Zsa Zsa¡¯s last words to her. Why had she been spared where Imita and Vaara had borne the god¡¯s wrath? What gift was it that she had given? Was it the deaths of the other harpies? Had she been cursed to bear Zsa Zsa¡¯s power by the sacrifice of her sisters? She shuddered, horrified that she might have somehow benefited from the death of her loved ones, that she might even now be carrying some intangible blessing. Or was she referring to the visions bestowed, the images that lingered of the holocaust Zsa Zsa claimed Nemia had wrought. They were true, she resolved, they lined up with what little she already knew of the holy cleansing purge that had swept through Nemia¡¯s lands, before Objo¡¯s conversion. But that didn¡¯t mean the witchgod hadn¡¯t twisted events somehow. She clung to that thought, that she was just misunderstanding. That Nemia had good reason, that the witches they brought her were for judgement, and not some nefarious, other reason.


    She glanced over at their witch captives. They were a woeful looking bunch, clumped tightly together, their finery from the ritual now bedraggled. There were three of them, and Objo mourned that the flock''s numbers were thirteen still, three killed, three retrieved. She only wished it had been her sisters returning with them instead, she would have rather they returned home empty handed than have these three cursed witches with them in place of her sisters.


    One of them looked up, a girl, really, dressed more simply than the others, who wore heavy gold adornments. Her dress was simpler too, still reds and purples, as witches tended to wear, but the pattern was a more demure cut, with a subtle flower pattern in the weave. Despite having spied on many witches, she had never paid that much attention to them as individuals, her focus mainly on finding the one witch central to the ritual in order to capture them in the act of kin killing. And then was the traveling, ignoring their sobs or pleas or sometimes even manic laughter as she carted them to judgement. But now, traveling on foot with the flock, as necessitated by the wounded among them, she had time to really observe them.


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    They looked different, without the cloak of night and firelight, her usual hunting conditions. The older two wore their hair in complex braids, but the younger one wore hers loose, like Objo¡¯s usual victims, the witches she snatched just after Zsa Zsa had left their bodies, the blood of their victims drenching them. Was she a kin killer then? But there was no blood on her, not even a drop. And she had no jewelry except for a single circlet on her head, a gold band with a pale purple gem in its center.


    Ooi approached the trio, skewers of cooked meat in her hands. Daich scoffed at her kindness, turning her head angrily from where she stood guard, her red crested head ruffled from lost sleep monitoring their captives. She and Ooi had offered to watch the witches, though they had separated out the tasks with Daich responsible for keeping watch to prevent their escape and Ooi taking over their basic needs. The older two accepted the meat, but the younger one gently demurred. ¡®Eat it, the witchmother will understand,¡¯ the taller one said, but the girl shook her head. ¡®The goddess abandoned us, why cling to her,¡¯ the other one said, her tone bitter as she tore into her own skewer. The tall one, eyes still on the girl, responded curtly, ¡®if this is the path the witchmother has chosen for us I will tread it even to death. Perhaps I will haunt my corpse,¡¯ the last sentence was said more lightly, a teasing tone meant to lighten the harsh words. The other woman snorted, ¡®if the birds even leave you a corpse. Or a soul. The dead never return, either as zombies nor as lurking ghosts.¡¯ The tall one looked at her sharply, but made no more replies.


    ¡®You will be judged,¡¯ Daich interjected, the first time she had spoken to the witches directly, ¡®and when you are found guilty you will be immolated by righteous flame. You are lucky, our goddess will purge you of your impurities,¡¯ she gave the witches a nasty smile, her eyes trailing from witch to witch.

 Chapter 8: Dissent

    ¡®Do you ever wonder,¡¯ Ooi whispered, later that night, once most of the harpies and their witch captives lay sleeping, ¡®why is it that we don¡¯t stop them, only judge them for their past crimes?¡¯ She was speaking to Altul, the great egret whose turn it was to keep watch, and her words were faint, but among all the sisters, Objo had the keenest hearing, a lingering benefit of her owl heritage. She hadn¡¯t been able to fall asleep, had been restless ever since Zsa Zsa had spoken to her, had been in turmoil ever since. Objo mulled over Ooi¡¯s question. Nemia was the god of vengeance, she supposed, a punishing god, not one interested in repentance, or anything so forgiving. She was only a small step away from a god of wrath. Objo shivered, perhaps she truly had destroyed her own city.


    ¡®Careful,¡¯ Altul murmured, ¡®questioning Nemia is hearsay,¡¯ she paused a fraught moment, ¡®but yes. I have wondered.¡¯ She quieted again. ¡®I knew a witch, once,¡¯ she began, voice quieter still, ¡®before I was a harpy and I was simply a great egret. We represent divine guidance, you know, in augury. Witches seeking guidance would come to my lake, pray to their witchmother. It wasn¡¯t power or wealth they sought, those wishes were saved for their rites, but smaller things. Simpler,¡¯ she trailed off. ¡®That younger witch, the one you captured, she is innocent. They have a caste, those that are innocent are decided at birth to be so, they don¡¯t eat meat, even the ceremonial blood skips their hands. They are the sacrifices, the ones that are sent to the after life too soon. It''s an honor. Some are willing, others not. I¡¯ve seen them both at the shores of my lake. They live a privileged but sheltered life, usually. She sighed, ¡®I don¡¯t know how Nemia will judge her. I hope,¡¯ she trailed off. Objo waited for a while, but neither bird spoke again, and eventually she sunk into restless slumber. She dreamed of her fallen sisters. Imita with sad eyes, whispering she couldn¡¯t find her son, Viline trying desperately to flit away but feathers falling from her wings, Leiden cut open, but inside she was just half-woven grass, flowers blooming from her mouth only to shrivel. And the witch filled by Zsa Zsa¡¯s spirit, whose eyes morphed into Hrae¡¯s unreadable ones as she lifted Objo up from the ground.


    She woke with a start, Ooi settling down beside her as she and Altul were relieved by the next harpy on watch. Her eyes met Ooi¡¯s as the woman settled on her side. ¡®Sorry, I didn¡¯t mean to wake you.¡¯ Objo shook her head, ¡®it was a dream.¡¯ Ooi hummed, ¡®I¡¯ve been dreaming too.¡¯ It was the first time she could remember that Ooi hadn¡¯t met her with hostility.


    ¡®I see the witchgod in mine, and our sisters,¡¯ Objo offered softly, hopeful for a relationship that wasn¡¯t full of spite. She had never quite understood the other bird¡¯s dislike for her. ¡®I saw you, back then, in front of the witchgod,¡¯ Ooi whispered. She paused, gathering her thoughts, ¡®I resented you, you know,¡¯ she cleared her throat, ¡®I wasn¡¯t like you, born to hunt, I mean. Resplendent quetzals are mostly fruit eaters, though smaller animals and insects are not uncommon. But not like barn owls. You have all this talent and I guess it felt unfair, that you didn¡¯t have to try as hard, everyone just expected you to be the best hunter and you never once disappointed. I was jealous, I think, that I tried so hard, had to overcome so much and didn¡¯t get the same recognition. But then I saw you in front of the Zsa Zsa. You, you didn¡¯t falter, didn¡¯t turn away, faced a god! You weren¡¯t ever going to be a match for her, but you still faced her. I don¡¯t know if I could have done that.¡¯ Objo shook head, ¡®I was terrified. Am still. It wasn¡¯t bravery. I faltered, I kneeled,¡¯ she said emphatically, despairing at her own cowardice. ¡®I don¡¯t know why she spared me. Sometimes,¡¯ she took a heavy breath, ¡®I wish she hadn¡¯t.¡¯ Ooi slipped her hand in Objo¡¯s, squeezing. ¡®I¡¯m glad it wasn¡¯t you.¡¯


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    ¡®Zsa Zsa showed me something.¡¯ Objo said, just as Ooi¡¯s eyes were beginning to drift shut, ¡®something I hope is untrue. About Nemia.¡¯ Ooi looked at her, eyes expecting. ¡®I think our goddess might have, well,¡¯ she faltered, unsure how to put the scope of the visions into words. ¡®You know the story of the last eruption, how everything around Nemia¡¯s volcano had to be purged? There was a city, Nemia¡¯s city. I think she destroyed it in the eruption. I think she may have killed her own people, all of them.¡¯ She waited, wondering if Ooi would understand the implications, the significance of such a thing. The blasphemy of thinking such a thought, let alone putting it into words.


    Ooi gasped, her eyes widening, ¡®you think she is a kin killer too?¡¯ Objo stuttered, ¡®I mean, it was from the witchgod, so, maybe they were false visions, or twisted somehow?¡¯ But Ooi wasn¡¯t listening to her, ¡®I knew there was something wrong with our directives, it¡¯s such a strange thing, we¡¯re to capture the kin killing witches and bring them for judgement, but if goddess is so against the practice why not try to stop them? The hypocrisy! It must be a grudge between her and Zsa Zsa!¡¯ Objo hushed her hurriedly, looking around to see if anyone else was waking at their voices. Bia and Asil were watching the witches now, but neither seemed to notice. Ooi continued, her voice lowered once more, ¡®who else saw?¡¯ ¡®Vaara definitely, and maybe Hrae.¡¯ Ooi scoffed softly, ¡®Hrae, of course. She wouldn¡¯t tell us even if it is all true. Atzi may lead but it''s Hrae that Nemia takes into her confidence. She wouldn¡¯t care if our entire sisterhood is based on a lie. You should be careful. If she thinks you are doubting, she won''t hesitate to tell the goddess. And then,¡¯ she trailed off. Objo pictured the violent death of the last witch she had given over to Nemia, and nodded.


    ¡®What are we going to do?¡¯ Ooi whispered. ¡®What can we do?¡¯ Should they free the witches? Leave Nemia? Was such a thing even possible? She had never heard of harpies leaving once crafted. ¡®We wait,¡¯ Objo said after a moment,¡¯ weighing her words carefully, ¡®Nemia may be a biased judge, but we shouldn¡¯t condemn her without knowing the truth.¡¯

 Chapter 9: Falter

    ¡®It blooms three times, see here, how this bottom flower is different from the one starting to bloom at the top? And each flower is different, even though they are on the same plant. We call it the koltre. The three different flowers represent the body, the mind, and the soul. And when all three are present and in bloom on the same plant, they are in harmony.¡¯ The youngest witch, Nevin, Objo had learned, was showing Ooi one of the plants native to the witches home. It was quite beautiful, a long grass with a three colored stalk, red, purple, and a soft gold. The one blossom in full bloom had five petals, with a protruding stigma surrounded by several stamens. The other blossom, though not yet fully bloomed was a compound flower, with multiple florets. The color was not yet clearly showing through the encasement, but it hinted at a deep red, different from the pale purple of the first.


    The shorter witch, who had begrudgingly shared her name to be Temero, was watching the two, ¡®it¡¯s a sacred plant, it shouldn¡¯t be shared with the birds,¡¯ she grumbled. The taller woman, Jin, interjected, ¡®let them be.¡¯ Temero shot her a short glare, returning to the berries Ooi had given her for breakfast. Nevin, the young witch, had not forgone this meal, and the remnants of the berries'' juices stained her hands. Objo stared at them for too long, remembering the stains of a different red on the witch vessel¡¯s hands.


    Though Ooi¡¯s words had soothed her last night, they did not altogether diminish the guilt and confusion she felt about her confrontation with Zsa Zsa. The witchgod had let her live for a reason, and she was terrified to find out what it was. She hadn¡¯t shared the goddess¡¯ parting words, they were too raw, and she feared the other harpy¡¯s reaction to knowing she may bear a cursed blessing. The young witch tucked the flower in Temero¡¯s braids, despite the short woman¡¯s protests. ¡®A little bit of home for you,¡¯ she said.


    They made good progress that day, though it was still much slower than their journey to the witches¡¯ celebration. But with Vaara¡¯s slit stomach and Iloin¡¯s broken leg the going was slow. They had constructed two litters for the injured harpies, and the other sisters took turns pulling them. Vaara was stoic, for the most part, but Iloin¡¯s cries whenever jostled hurt to hear.


    They had taken a midday break for a meal, Objo and Hrae capturing small desert prey for the group. Objo was wary of the older woman now. She had not given much thought to the older woman¡¯s dedication to their divine mandate, but Ooi¡¯s comments had her reflecting back on her previous interactions with the king vulture harpy. She knew relatively little about her, just that she was Atzi¡¯s lover and a competent hunter. The older harpy was mysterious, her quicksilver eyes often indecipherable. She kept to herself and Atzi, even during their bacchanalia, often retreating early to her nest.


    Objo sighed, turning the skewered lizard over to cook the otherside. She had considered bringing up the visions Zsa Zsa had pushed into her mind with Hrae, but something held her back. What would happen if Hrae recognized the reservations Objo was having about their goddess? She wanted to talk about it, though. Her feelings about the visions changed from moment to moment, she wanted reassurance that their goddess would never commit such a crime, she wanted to tell everyone so they could see Nemia¡¯s hypocrisy, she wanted simply not to have a secret.


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    Perhaps she should start with Vaara. Vaara had definitely seen the visions, had screamed her displeasure to the witchgod¡¯s face. She had seemed so confident that they were lies, maybe she had seen something Objo hadn¡¯t. Objo stood, charred lizard in hand, walking over to the incapacitated harpy and offering her the stick. Vaara grimaced at the burnt creature, but accepted the skewer, careful not to jostle her wound from where she lay on her makeshift litter. Her blue skin was pale and clammy, but she was awake and alert. ¡®Couldn¡¯t find me something a little more appetizing, huh?¡¯ she joked. She had been doing that a lot during their journey back, using humor to deflect from her condition, which was steadily getting worse. Any injuries were usually dressed by Leiden, but with her among the fallen Asil had been attending to Vaara and Iloin. Objo had seen Asil carefully cleaned and stitched the wound, her hands shaking. Vaara had been stoic as the violet-backed starling worked in the stiches, but Iloin had shrieked horribly when Asil had set the bone of her leg.


    ¡®I can get you some fruit if you¡¯d prefer, it doesn''t require any cooking, so there is no room for me to make a mess of it,¡¯ Objo tried to match her levity. Vaara bit into the meat, ¡®it¡¯s alright, I like lizards. Even these strange sand ones, they are kind of earthy.¡¯ Objo hummed neutrally. It was good she still had an appetite.


    She wasn¡¯t quite sure if it was a good idea to raise the visions with Vaara, the other harpy was recovering, and she didn¡¯t want to cause her undue stress, but she was desperate to talk about them with someone who had seen what she had seen. And she was too intimidated to approach Hrae.


    ¡®I, I wanted to apologize,¡¯ she started, ¡®I should have been there during Zsa Zsa¡¯s attack. You should never have had to take the full brunt of it. I¡¯m sorry, it¡¯s my fault you were hurt.¡¯ Vaara cocked her head, golden eyes sharp, ¡®the fault for my injury is on the witchgod, not you. Yes, you should have been there, but she was the one who cut me. Though,¡¯ her eyes turning back to her meal, ¡®I do understand your distraction. Her visions were designed to make us falter.¡¯


    Objo leaned forward, ¡®you don¡¯t believe them, then?¡¯ Vaara looked startled, ¡®they were intended to distract us and shake our faith in Lady Nemia, of course they were false.¡¯ ¡®But the purge! They align with,¡¯ Vaara cut her off, ¡®they were from the witchgod,¡¯ she said firmly, ¡®and all witches are reprehensible. Don¡¯t let her lies shake you.¡¯ She sighed, looking at the distant horizon, back the way they had come, ¡®the witchgod, she¡¯ll tell you anything to coax you. Promise you anything you¡¯d like, if you bow at her altar.¡¯ Objo paused, ¡®did, did she promise you something? While you were fighting?¡¯ Vaara shook her head, ¡®not exactly, I just understand, well, I understand what it¡¯s like to want more. When I built this body, I built it stronger, faster, but I still built what I knew. Sometimes, I see you, and the other flighted birds, and I wish,¡¯ she trailed off. ¡®I¡¯m not like Bia, I know restraint when it comes to the buoyant drink, but sometimes I wish I was like her, that I could let myself indulge. I¡¯m sorry, but I need to rest now, I¡¯m so, so tired.¡¯ Objo stayed a moment longer, helping her settle, if she was tired enough that her humor was gone, she must be worsening. It would be unkind to push her further about the visions.

 Chapter 10: Pyre

    By nightfall Vaara was feverish, shivering and sweating on the litter, trapped in restless slumber. She would murmur occasionally, but her words were garbled and intelligible. They had stitched together a blanket of sorts for her, their combined donated clothes a patchwork of cloth under Asil¡¯s needle. They needed to make it to the forests, they knew the plant life there, could forage for herbal remedies if only Vaara could make it that far. It was still days away, and the outlook was grim. Bia had offered to interrogate the witches, to see if she could coax out what local medicinal foliage there might be nearby. Objo could see her talking with the shorter one from where she sat next to Vaara, a cooling hand on her forehead. She was surprised it was the shorter one, Temero, that was offering, the young girl Nevin and the tall witch Jin had seemed the more open to the harpies, from what she had observed. But perhaps the hope of mercy was loosening Temero¡¯s tongue. It was a futile hope, but she wasn¡¯t about to tell the witch that.


    Bia and the witch set off, presumably to look for phytomedicines under Hrae¡¯s watchful gaze. They returned soon after, arms full of greenery, Temero showing Bia how to process the herbs on a flat stone by the fire. They made a poultice for the wound itself and some strengthening broth, Hrae insisting firmly that the witch try the medicines first, before she allowed them to be administered to Vaara. ¡®Shhh, it¡¯ll be ok,¡¯ Bia hushed the delirious harpy as she propped her up, gently tipping the broth between Vaara¡¯s chapped lips, ¡®drink this, you¡¯ll feel better soon.¡¯ Objo wasn¡¯t so sure, she hadn¡¯t looked at the wound, but had seen Asil¡¯s face pale when she had changed the dressing. It might already be too late.


    The next day did seem to see Vaara improve, her fever hadn¡¯t yet broken, but she was less agitated in her sleep. Iloin too, seemed bolstered by the strengthening broth, and seeing how much better she was they had fashioned her some crude crutches, though Asil made her promise to return to the litter if she felt too tired. ¡®And don¡¯t try flying! You aren¡¯t yet strong enough to land on just one leg.¡¯ she cautioned.


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    It took them a while to realize that Vaara hadn¡¯t made any movement. It was unclear how long her soul had left her body, how long they had been traveling with her empty corpse. Bia had been distraught, they all were. But Bia was delicate, and shared a kinship with Vaara that Objo couldn¡¯t understand, both of them being flightless. Atzi rested a hand on Bia¡¯s shoulder as she sobbed next to Vaara¡¯s cold body, her eyes closed and so so still. ¡®She was getting better! Her fever was going to break and she was going to recover! It¡¯s not fair, why did Nemia not save her?!¡¯ Atzi looked pained, but made no response. Objo couldn¡¯t tell if she agreed, or was merely holding back on account of Bia¡¯s grief. ¡®Was it the witch? Did she poison her?¡¯ Daich asked, looking down at her fallen sister. Bia looked up at her, anger and heartbreak on her tear soaked face, ¡®you are so spiteful! Our sister is dead! Let me mourn her in peace! I tried the medicine, Iloin tried the medicine! Vaara fell to her wounds and you are busy with blame! If you want to blame someone, blame Zsa Zsa for injuring her in the first place, or Nemia for forsaking her! Not the ones who tried to heal her, you spiteful, vicious hag!¡¯ Daich looked taken aback by her words, ¡®I¡¯m sorry,¡¯ she murmured, cowed, turning away.


    They decided to rest for the rest of the day, and send Vaara off with full rites that night. Objo and the others collected fallen branches for her funeral pyre, and flowers to lay on her body. Objo wished they had been able to make it to the forest, the flowers here were lovely, but she would have preferred to send Vaara off with more familiar blooms, ones that had meaning to her. Traditionally poppies from the volcano¡¯s entrance would be included, to guide her soul home to Nemia. What message would Vaara make of the orange blossoms she held, she wondered.


    Bia insisted on moving Vaara herself, only allowing Atzi to help. They gathered around, the witch trio lurking in the background, as Atzi and Bia lit the pyre. Flames built quickly, petals curling in the blaze until Vaara¡¯s serene face was once more visible. Atzi stepped forward, one of her golden feathers, a primary one from near her wing tip in her hand. ¡®Fly free, little sister,¡¯ she said, lighting the feather, letting it smoke before placing it into the flames, ¡®let the smoke from this fire take you finally into the sky.¡¯ Bia sobbed, lighting her own feather next, her own words whispered, out of even Objo¡¯s hearing. Once she had placed her feather, she pulled out a flask, drank deeply, then poured the rest on the fire, the flames hissing with the addition of volatile fuel. Objo followed, placing her own feather. ¡®It shouldn¡¯t have been you,¡¯ she whispered, her feather going up in smoke and ash.

 Chapter 11: Defection

    ¡®Where is Bia!?¡¯ Atzi was shouting, stirring Objo from her sleep. She had been dreaming again. Imita with a tiny egg, cooing to it as she cradled it in her hands before crushing it, the yold running thickly through her fingers. Viline trying to fly with smouldering wings, burning feathers falling out in a flaming path behind her. Leiden weaving, weaving her own intestines into bloody baskets. And the new addition of Vaara, foreign flowers blooming from within her decaying body, her entire torso a festering wound, ¡®I¡¯ve chosen you,¡¯ she said in the witchgod¡¯s voice.


    ¡®Bia?¡¯ Objo asked groggily, looking around for the roadrunner harpy. She couldn¡¯t see her in their camp, and with a quick glance at the witches¡¯ bedrolls, Temero seemed to be missing as well. ¡®Did she go and look for more medicine with the witch?¡¯ she asked, managing to get Atzi¡¯s attention. The golden pheasant looked quickly at the witches, ¡®you!¡¯ she said, to the taller witch, Jin, ¡®where is your kin?!¡¯ The witch shook her head, but the younger one was already looking at the missing witch¡¯s empty bedroll. ¡®Look,¡¯ she said, holding up a strip of fabric, red markings on it. ¡®She left a message!¡¯ The harpies crowded around, ¡®what is that?¡¯ Atzi asked. It looked like bloody fingerprints, ¡®it¡¯s one of our written languages,¡¯ Nevin explained, ¡®each phoneme has its own fingerprint combination, it¡¯s very personal,¡¯ she frowned, reading the short passage. ¡®She and your Bia have left together,¡¯ there was a gasp among the harpies and immediate protests. ¡®Quiet!¡¯ hissed Hrae, ¡®is that it?¡¯ Nevin hesitated, ¡®she says, she and Bia have renounced their gods, and we should all do the same.¡¯ Hrae did nothing to quell the uproar that followed, though her eyes narrowed at the flustered flock.


    ¡®Should we follow them,¡¯ Objo could hear Atzi mutter to Hrae, despite the clamor of her sisters. Hrae looked out to the desert, the pair hadn¡¯t made any effort to hide their steps. She nodded, imperceptibly, ¡®we can¡¯t allow this defection to be tolerated, it will damage Lady Nemia¡¯s authority. And the witch must still be held accountable for her actions. Bia too, if she has truly been disloyal.¡¯


    Daich and Objo were selected to pursue Bia and Temero with Hrae, leaving their other two prisoners and the still injured Iloin behind with the rest of the flock in order to make good speed. They would take to the skies once more, as Bia was a great roadrunner, and there was no assurance they would be able to catch up on foot if she was to run at full speed. Objo was begrudgingly glad for the opportunity to fly again, she had missed spreading her wings, even if the situation was unfortunate. She hoped Bia made good time, she had no desire to hunt a sister.


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    They flew in a v formation, Hrae at point. They flew high, taking advantage of thermals to accelerate their search. Objo could just make out something several miles ahead, a body, perhaps? Had the pair made the dubious decision to take a break? Did they think no one would come after them? Hrae seemed to have seen it as well, as she had begun to descend, beelining towards the form. It was Bia, and she wasn¡¯t resting. The witch had gone ahead, her footprints in the sand continuing further in the same direction, leaving Bia¡¯s corpse where she had fallen in an outcropping of flowers. Hrae alighted next to her, looking down with those impassive eyes. Objo recognized that look, had been on the receiving end of it after her fight with Zsa Zsa.


    There was no blood, no clear reason for Bia to have fallen. And yet, here she was, her limbs fallen to pieces, her feathers strewn across the dusty ground, intersperse among dusky desert flowers. It was as if her golem body had deconstructed itself, as if she had been unmade. Objo crouched down, ¡®Don¡¯t!¡¯ Hrae warned, as Objo reached for her sister. Objo was undeterred, gently touching Bia¡¯s cheek. She wanted to close her sister¡¯s eyes, but maybe Bia would prefer her eyes open, looking towards the sky. Where she had always wanted to be, instead of trapped on the ground.


    ¡®What do you think happened?¡¯ Daich asked. Objo opened her mouth, then closed it again, uncertain. ¡®The witch must have tricked her,¡¯ Hrae responded, eyeing Objo sharply. Objo breathed out harshly, shocked at Hrae¡¯s obvious lie. It seemed obvious to her that Nemia had revoked her blessings on Bia¡¯s golem body with her defection. Bia had been renounced, just as she had renounced Nemia. But she wasn¡¯t about to argue that with Hrae. ¡®The witch must have tricked her into leaving and then betrayed her,¡¯ Hrae said, emphatically locking eyes with Objo. Objo gave a ragged nod. Daich didn¡¯t look completely convinced, but didn¡¯t ask further. ¡®Will we bring her body back, for a funeral?¡¯ Objo asked, carefully. She wasn''t sure how far Hrae would carry the deception. Hrae shook her head, we¡¯ll send her off here. ¡®And the witch?¡¯ Daich asked. Hrae paused, and Objo wondered how she would still the witch¡¯s tongue. ¡®No, I¡¯ll hunt her down and kill her where she stands, she is not worthy to bear Lady Nemia¡¯s judgement.¡¯ Ah, so that¡¯s how she would do it. No witnesses, only Hrae¡¯s word. She was glad she had never brought up the visions with the vulture harpy. Her questions would undoubtedly have been heresy to the older bird. Would she have told Nemia of her misgivings? Would she too have been unmade? Or would Hrae merely kill her where she stood?


    Bia¡¯s funeral pyre was much smaller than Vaara¡¯s had been. Objo and Daich had laid the flowers she had fallen on upon her, but Hrae didn¡¯t allow them to light a feather for her, hurrying them back to the flock so she could hunt down the missing witch. The flowers seemed to already be a concession, and Objo was unwilling to draw ire from her already precarious position with the older harpy, though she slipped one of her feathers into Bia¡¯s unmade hand. She saw a black feather peeking out from within her other hand, Daich had subtlety followed suit. Choosing a black wingtip feather instead of her many more flamboyant red. Was there a meaning in that? Black for mourning, one of her critical primary feathers for steering rather than one that wouldn¡¯t be as missed.


    It still didn''t feel like enough.

 Chapter 12: Warning

    ¡®Thirteen was a large flock, the largest we¡¯ve been for centuries.¡¯ Atzi had joined Objo for watch that night. Hrae had gotten in sometime shortly after nightfall, having a hushed conversation with their leader before heading to her bedroll, the smell of blood strong even from a distance. Objo didn¡¯t want to think of the sort of death the woman would deem fitting for a witch escaping Nemia¡¯s judgement.


    The moon was high in the sky now, and the harpies and witch captives were all deep asleep, the remains of their small campfires smoldering embers. Night in the desert was different than in the forest. The sky was wider, more impassive than from the forest, where the shadows of trees softened its edges. The sounds were unfamiliar as well, different wildlife making itself heard. It was a vibrant soundscape that was in stark contrast with the day, trills and chirps from a multitude of small creatures against the backdrop of a soft wind over the endless sands.


    ¡®And now we have lost five. Only eight of us left now,¡¯ Atzi mussed, her voice low and soothing, almost lost within the winds. Objo remained alert, she could tell there was something on the woman¡¯s mind, something she wished to impart. She had seen Hrae glance at her when she had reported back. When had that started, when she had bowed before Zsa Zsa? Or before?


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    ¡®I¡¯ve seen harpies come and go. With this group, well, I had hoped we would have many more years together, you were all so dedicated to the cause. But,¡¯ she paused, eyes on the horizon, towards their forests, ¡®when that dedication flags, sometimes it is time for new blood. I would hate for your blood to be among that spilled to bring in the new,¡¯ she finished ominously. She glanced over at Objo, ¡®you are such a talented hunter, Objo, and our goddess recognizes talent, but it won¡¯t be enough to keep you if your resolve falters.¡¯ She laid a heavy hand on Objo¡¯s shoulder, ¡®I¡¯m telling you for your sake, not to threaten you, but to warn you. We dedicated our lives to the goddess, to vengeance. And vengeance is the right of our goddess, don¡¯t get caught up in the particulars. We are tools, and when a tool no longer fits the task, it is discarded.¡¯ She turned then, to wake Altul and Asil for their turn on watch, leaving Objo to mull over her words.


    A tool? Was that how Nemia thought of them? Was she so callous? She crafted each harpy with her own hands, brought them into this world once more, a rebirth. She was their mother and they were her children. Could a mother be so callous towards her children? But if what Atzi said was true, then she had destroyed an unnumbered harpies before them. Had unmade them. Did those unmade harpies have half rite burials like Bia? Or none at all?


    She had to tell Ooi. The younger woman was brash, and had already voiced her dissatisfaction. She was in danger, perhaps Altul as well, though from the whispered conversation she had overheard the other woman knew to keep her misgivings to herself. But Ooi was too brazen, and time had already shown that Nemia wouldn¡¯t stand for it.

 Chapter 13: Pathlight

    They made better time without having to pull Vaara¡¯s litter, and the thought filled Objo with self-loathing. She was still sleeping poorly, her dreams too loud, too violent. Her dreams were no longer limited to the dead, now that she had seen how precarious their lives truly were, and she woke up several times to count bedrolls and reassure herself her remaining sisters were still living. Zsa Zsa walked through their campsite in her dreams, unmade harpies falling before her, before she reached a once more kneeling Objo, trapped in bloody mud, it pulling her down, down into the earth she was once made of. ¡®Don¡¯t you want my gift?¡¯ And then she was Nemia, and the god¡¯s hands were burning magma, eyes heated, burning, hot hot heat against her throat, ¡®you promised me,¡¯ her words demanding and accusing all at once.


    She took over from Ooi watching the witches, she still hadn¡¯t spoken with her, it would have to be soon, before they reached home. They were almost back to the forest, where the others would be more at ease, and would be less likely to notice if she pulled Ooi aside.


    ¡®Do you ever sing?¡¯ The question caught her off guard. Nevin, the younger witch girl, the one Altul had said was an innocent, seemed less daunted by her eventual fate facing the goddess than the older witch Jin. But then, she presumably had less to answer for. Sheltered, Altul had called her. ¡®It may seem ironic given your kinds¡¯ hunt for us, but we watch birds, listen to their songs. It¡¯s said that they bring tidings of what is to come. I think it¡¯s a remnant of an older faith, before Zsa Zsa, blessed god of signs. But we don¡¯t really talk about that.¡¯ She was a chatty girl, and Objo had seen her conversing with Ooi, and even Daich would occasionally cave and speak with her.


    ¡®An owl¡¯s voice is usually a warning, but they can also be indicative of transformation, rebirth. I think I like that better.¡¯ Objo mulled that over, what did it mean then, to be an owl? Was she constantly transforming? Or did she bring ill tidings wherever she went? ¡®I¡¯m not much of a singer,¡¯ she demurred. Nevin grinned at her, ¡®What about before you were a harpy? Back when you were just an owl?¡¯ Objo was taken aback, ¡®How do you know about that?¡¯ That was a sacred rite, private and personal, it seemed almost invasive that someone from outside the harpies should know about it. ¡®Oh! I didn¡¯t mean to offend, I was sharing some of our customs and so Ooi shared some of yours, it wasn¡¯t meant disrespectfully!¡¯ Objo was pacified a little, if the young witch was sharing her sacred rites too, it did feel a little less unbalanced that she knew some of the harpies'' inner workings.


    ¡®What rites did you tell her about?¡¯ she asked, curious. ¡®Well, we were mostly talking about the Innocentia. We¡¯re what you call the sacrifices.¡¯ Objo blinked, stunned. She hadn¡¯t expected for there to be an entire subsect of sacrifices within the witches population. Though in retrospect, she supposed Altul had alluded to as much. ¡®There are two main paths,¡¯ Nevin continued, ¡®the Innocentia, for which I was chosen, and the Culpa, which is the path for those that are chosen to pursue the blessings of the goddess.¡¯ ¡®So the ones that perform the sacrifice?¡¯ Objo asked carefully, clarifying. Pursuing the blessings of the goddess seemed an awfully euphemistic way for saying murderer. Nevin nodded, ¡®that is one of their duties. The Culpa are chosen by Zsa Zsa herself, the goddess of the silent voice weighs their souls on her golden scales against her own heart, and if they are the same weight, they are given to the path of blessings. Innocentia is different, we are chosen before birth, a witch will make a pledge before the tribe to dedicate an Innocentia, and then will cleanse herself of sin for a whole year before she tries to birth a new child for the path.¡¯


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    ¡®So, you¡¯re born to die?¡¯ Objo asked, trying to gauge the girl¡¯s dedication to her fate. Nevin was unbothered by her needling, ¡®we are all born to die. Even the Culpa must accept their eventual death, despite their practice of delaying it. The body of an Innocentia may be destined to die, but it is our souls that are dedicated for a greater purpose. The death of our body is just a precursor to the enlightenment of our soul. Blessed Zsa Zsa consumes our soul during the ritual, we are fated to join her. To become one. We are her most beloved.¡¯


    Her previous understanding of the witches was that those she now knew as the Culpa would sacrifice a family member to Zsa Zsa to seek power and wealth. But Nevin¡¯s explanation breezed right over any benefits the Culpa received from Zsa Zsa, and focused on the Innocentia¡¯s relationship with the goddess. Was her own practice with Nemia so different? She made dedications to the goddess with others¡¯ souls. Wicked souls, that was what her goddess asked of her. It was a much more modest price for her devotion than her own soul. Was she akin to the Culpa then? Pledging another¡¯s soul to a god for accolades? The similarity made her distinctly uncomfortable. And unlike the witches, her sacrifices were unwilling.


    Trying to brush off the unsettling thought, Objo turned to the older witch, ¡®are you a Culpa then?¡¯ she asked. Jin shook her head, the beads in her braided hair gently clinking,


    ¡®I walk neither path. Mine is a more unique one. The witches don¡¯t accept men in the tribe past their age of majority, they either leave or become women. I chose the latter. I always knew I was a woman, so it was an easy choice for me, though it is not always. It¡¯s not that those born men don¡¯t follow the Culpa or are born Innocentia, but because of my identity another path was open to me. Those that are not able to carry their own children are able to become All Mothers, caretakers of all children in the tribe. It¡¯s an important position, as all children are raised together, without ties to their biological lineages clouding piety to the goddess. She is the first of All Mothers, and it is through this path I worship.¡¯


    Yet another witch that didn¡¯t follow Objo¡¯s preconceived notions of witch society. Yet another witch that might face Nemia¡¯s wrath undeserved. Would she be able to bear it? If Nemia found them guilty of their peoples¡¯ practices, would Objo be able to stand by? ¡®But the other one, Temero, she was Culpa, right?¡¯ The witches exchanged a glance Objo couldn¡¯t decipher, ¡®Yes,¡¯ Jin conceded, ¡®she bore Zsa Zsa¡¯s gifts. She had a silver tongue, stitched on by the goddess herself. Though it was apparently not enough to talk her way out of her fate. I wonder if we will see her lurking ghost, given she fell at the hands of your harpy sister, rather than to the dread goddess of vengeance herself.¡¯ Objo cocked her head, ¡®I¡¯ve heard that is the price of the witches practice of kin killing, a lingering unhappy afterlife, rather than the bliss of reincarnation. Is that right?¡¯ Jin nodded, ¡®those that follow the Culpa accept that their extended longevity and riches are limited to this world only, and as such they must stay here even after death. Some find a way around their death, reanimating their own corpses, but it is frowned up. An eschewing of their faith.¡¯


    ¡®I hadn¡¯t heard of that before, zombies, really?¡¯ Jin played with her golden bangles as Nevin answered, ¡®it''s a little taboo to speak of. But the pursuit of knowledge is a worthy pursuit. They are different from the zombies of the goddess Datura, who grants wisdom with the consumption of her heavenly blossoms, only to trap the devotee in their husks after the revelation has run its course. We learned about them in theology class at school.¡¯


    ¡®You learn about other gods? Does your goddess not begrudge you knowledge of other religions? Is she not worried you will convert?¡¯ Nevin shrugged, ¡®some might, I suppose, but I¡¯ve never heard of it. There are many ways for a witch to worship, there can always be found a path that suits. And she rewards her devotees and acolytes with blessings plenty, as long as they bow before her.¡¯ Objo recalled her own bow before the goddess. Had that been why she was spared, did the goddess see her slumped defeat as reverence? And she still wasn¡¯t sure what gift the witch god had given her. What would Nemia say, when she heard of Objo¡¯s accidental prostration? She shivered, wings rustling behind her as she shifted. Hers was a god of vengeance, would that mean vengeance against her own as well?

 Chapter 14: Atone

    They made it to the forest. It was comforting to be among the trees again, to be out of the harsh charms of the desert. The witches too seemed to enjoy the change of scenery, Nevin and Jin wondering at the foreign flora and fauna. Deer bounded around them, quiet spectors, small mammals scurried in the underbrush, bird calls trilled from the foliage above. Objo breathed in deeply, the familiar taste of fresh forest comforting on her tongue.


    Despite the solace of returning to the forest, there was a nervous energy among the harpies, the prospect of returning to Nemia from a failed mission weighed on them collectively, an unspoken anxiety. And for Objo personally, the imminent demise of their witch captives. How would Nemia judge them? Would she see into their hearts, as she had done with all previous captives, and deem them guilty of their culture¡¯s practices, or see their individual innocence?


    ¡®Hey, can I check your leg,¡¯ Asil asked, coming up to a seated Iloin. Iloin gestured her acceptance, making room for Asil to crouch before her. Asil carefully unwrapped the bandages, revealing the brace beneath them, nestling around Iloin¡¯s injured leg. ¡®It¡¯s healing well,¡¯ Asil said, prodding the bone gently, ¡®does this hurt?¡¯ Iloin hissed, ¡®still sore, but not as much, I think. Do you, do you think I¡¯ll ever dance again?¡¯ she asked, hesitantly. ¡®If I can¡¯t dance, how will I continue my duties? Please, please, tell me I¡¯ll recover!¡¯


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    Asil hushed her rising anxiety, ¡®of course you will, you just need to stay off it until it¡¯s fully healed. Even if it takes a while, even if you have to learn how to dance again, or even how to walk again, I promise, I¡¯ll be there for every step of the way. I promise you, so don¡¯t cry.¡¯ She shifted, joining Iloin on the downed log the other harpy was sitting on, stroking her hair soothingly. ¡®It will be ok, alright?¡¯ Iloin curled into her side, hiccuping as her tears subsided. ¡®Thank you,¡¯ she whispered, slightly hoarse from her cry.


    Asil shook her head, ¡®you shouldn¡¯t thank me. It¡¯s my fault this all happened. If only I hadn¡¯t heard about the witch celebration, you wouldn¡¯t have been hurt. Vaara and Imita and the others wouldn¡¯t be gone. It¡¯s all my fault this happened. So, please don¡¯t thank me. Tending to your injuries, it¡¯s what I should do, to atone.¡¯


    Objo wondered at that. She didn¡¯t see Asil as one to blame, was surprised Asil took on so much of the fault onto herself. Each of them had made choices leading to this, they had all wanted to come. To bring glory to Nemia and fulfill their righteous task. Which no longer felt as righteous. But she bore guilt too, for Vaara¡¯s injury and death. And perhaps hers was as misplaced as Asil¡¯s.


    ¡®Please,¡¯ Iloin said, ¡®you shouldn¡¯t fault yourself. Perhaps this was inevitable, in a way. We couldn¡¯t keep hunting forever and never bear casualties. You shouldn¡¯t take all that on yourself. And you weren¡¯t the one to injure me. The witches were. They are the ones to blame for all of this.¡¯ She cast a harsh glance at the witches among them, ¡®they are all guilty.¡¯