“Is this the right place?” said Kemp. He fiddled with the pathfinder’s knobs. “This says we ought to keep going.”

“Yes! Everything looks like its supposed to. And it’s worth stopping here to check on Tarasov.” Nikha went to pull open the doors.

“Wait!”

Nikha shot him a look. “What now?”

“You should knock first. Call out or something. Don’t want him to think we’re monsters.”

“Oh. Yes, that makes sense. Good thinking!”

He shrugged. “Getting killed by the first sane person we’ve met would be too ironic even for me-and I’m the son of a smith!” Nikha was confused until he shot her a wink.

“That’s awful, Kemp, truly awful!” she groaned. “Never say that again. Anyway.” She cleared her throat and stood up straight, then rapped on the door. “Mr. Tarasov, it’s Nikha! We aren’t monsters, so could you let us in?”

No response. She beat on the door harder, now. “Mr. Tarasov! Are you there? It’s Nikha!” She waited several seconds with a sinking feeling in her stomach. Still nothing.

“Guess he’s not home,“ said Kemp. “Is the door locked?”

“No, it never is.” She hefted her gun up to her shoulder. “Could you open it for me?” Kemp took hold of the latch and looked at her expectantly. When she nodded he twisted it and shoved the door open. Nikha flew through and scanned all around, the noise of the pumps loud in her ears.

Nothing seemed amiss. The engine room was wide, high of ceiling, all of brick. The engine and boiler hulked against the right-hand wall, the pump’s rocking beam tipping back and forth. Against the opposite wall were some big machine tools, and in the middle some heavy wooden work tables and Tarasov’s toolboxes. Their surfaces were cleared and clean, the tools all put away. Set in the far wall was the door to the little room where Tarasov often ate and slept. It was slightly ajar.

“Tarasov?” Nikha called once more, but there was still no answer. Maybe he was sleeping. The man spent a lot of time underground, and kept strange hours.

“Well, it doesn’t look bad-“

“Myeep!” Nikha jumped and whirled about as Kemp’s voice came from right over her shoulder. She hadn’t realized he’d followed her in.

“Don’t do that!” she scolded, feeling herself flush.

“You did it again!” Kemp had a big smile on his face. “The scared kitten noise, you did it again!”

“Did not!” Nikha fairly shouted as she got even redder.

“No, I definitely heard you-“

“I’m going to go check on Tarasov, now,” she interrupted. “You’re welcome to join me.” With that, she turned and stalked off towards Tarasovs room, wishing her face didn’t feel so hot. Kemp followed. The rough wooden door was cracked just slightly. She gave it a few gentle taps. “Um, Tarasov? I’m sorry if I’m waking you, but I’m going to come in.” She toed the door open. “Are you-oh!” She nearly dropped the rifle as she clapped a hand over her mouth.

Tarasov was in there, but he wasn’t alright. He sat on the bed, slumped into the corner of the wall. Dried blood covered his front from the chin down, and there was a ragged hole in the crown of his head. One hand was in his lap, its limp fingers still cradling a pistol.

“Oh…oh, Nikha…” This time she didn’t jump when Kemp came up behind her. “I’m sorry.”

“He’s- he’s sorrier,” she said sadly, breath hitching in her chest. She began to pull him into a more dignified position. She did her best to be gentle, but ended up yanking on his leg like he was a sack of potatoes.

“He left a note,” Kemp said, and she turned away from her grim work. He was over by the plain, rickety desk opposite the bed, looking at a sheet of paper. He passed it over.

Coud nott take any more, it read in Tarasov’s rough capitals. Nuse didnt work. Sorry for the mess. That was it. He’d been taciturn to the end.

“I-I wonder what he saw,” murmured Nikha through her tears. It was obvious whatever had happened to Eldergrave had affected the basement. If she’d held together through everything she’d been through, what could a grown man have seen to make him give up?

“I hope we don’t find out.” Kemp shook his head. “What did he mean, noose didn’t work?”

Nikha looked up at the pipes crisscrossing the ceiling. Sure enough, a looped rope was tied to one of them, but it was hanging upward against the ceiling. She pointed it out to Kemp, whose mouth dropped open. “What the…”

Nikha pulled a spent case from her belt and tossed it gently upward. It slowed, reached the peak of its arc…and sped up again, clinking onto the ceiling. She scowled up at it as Kemp looked from the ceiling to her and back again.

“How-“

“I don’t know, Kemp. Everything’s wrong.” She imagined poor Tarasov trying to hang himself only to have the rope pulled out of his hands. She couldn’t imagine ever doing the same thing, but what a cruel joke it must have felt. She went back to arranging the body, trying to pull him flat with all her might. “Come-ngh-on!” Hot, angry tears ran down her face.

Then Kemp took hold of his other leg and they got him laid down. Nikha took his gun and cleared it, then they pulled the sheet over him like a shroud.

“I’m going to pray for him,” Nikha sniffed as she dropped to her knees. She glanced gratefully at Kemp as he sank down wordlessly beside her.

Dear Annoumenos, she began silently, I know that people aren’t supposed to kill themselves, because it’s a waste of Your gift of life, but I think You should make an exception for Tarasov. She remembered how animated he’d become, how his eyes had lit up when she’d asked to learn about steam engines. He had been one of those people who truly loved his work. He was always nice to others, or at least left them alone. And You shouldn’t expect somebody to be okay when something like this happens. I don’t think it has anything to do with You, so you ought to let him slide. It’s only fair. So in Your name, and those of the martyrs and saints-“

Her train of thought was interrupted as Kemp murmured the end to his own prayer. “In Your name may he be illuminated. In the Martyrs’ names may he be guided. And in Merowyn’s name may he be redeemed.”

“What?!?” Nikha nearly fell backwards she was so shocked. “How dare you, Kemp, how- in Merowyn’s name? What are you talking about?”

He looked entirely mystified. “Why are you mad? That’s just part of the prayer we use when someone dies, Nikha. Don’t you-“

“Of course I don’t!” she nearly shouted. Merowyn was the very first human the Annoumenos had made, the first woman. She was also the first sinner, the first murderer, the first to prove humanity imperfect. She’d killed her husband and forced the Annoumenos to start over. One would have to be mad to pray in her name. Mad, or a-

“You’re a heretic,” she whispered with wide eyes. “You’re a Meroyar!” This was the blasphemous sect that held Merowyn to be a saint almost as holy as the Twin Hieromartyrs themselves. She couldn’t believe it.

“Am not!” he retorted. “Well, Meroyar, yes. But not a heretic! Since when does that make you a heretic?”

“I-I can’t believe this!” Everybody knew it was heresy, everybody! “You’re telling me your ridiculous little village doesn’t know Meroyary is heretical?”

“Don’t talk that way about my home.” His face was stormy, now. “And no. We don’t know that. And don’t ask me about the convent, either,” he added, seeing the question on her face. “The nuns pray the same as we do.”

“I-I just-wow.” She sat back, stunned. Papa was always reminding her how large the Tsev Empire was-the largest contiguous state in the world, in fact. But to think there was a whole pocket of heretics out somewhere on the Nametsian steppes, isolated from the outside world…it boggled the mind.

Nikha screwed up her face in thought, unsure how to even react. Kemp was a heretic, even if he didn’t know it. But he was nice, too, and had saved her life multiple times. Maybe it was some nefarious plan-No, that’s ridiculous. She’d known him less than a day, but she just couldn’t imagine him as anything less than honest. And besides, it’s not like I’ve ever met a heretic myself. I’ve only heard about them from the priests- A thought cracked through her head like a lightning bolt. The same priests that told her to fear Meroyars told other people to fear so-called witchborn like her. She inhaled deeply and sighed.

“I am sorry for yelling at you like that,” she said slowly, “and for what I said about Afansk. I’ve known you long enough to know better, I think.” She glanced up at him and narrowed her eyes at what she saw. “Why do you look so shocked?”

“I guess I’m just surprised you’re being so, um, level-headed about it. Sorry, sorry!” he added, hands up as if to shield himself from her glare.

“No, I understand…” If Nikha was honest with herself, she knew she could be hot-headed. Maybe even unreasonable. But only when the world is unreasonable first. “Do you mind if I ask you something, Kemp?”

“Depends what it is,” he said quickly. “But go ahead.”

“Why do you worship a murderer? Or do you deny Merowyn was one?” She couldn’t manage to keep all the challenge out of her voice.

“We don’t worship her, first of all. She’s not even really a saint, or not to us at least. There’s some other sects that are really weird about it- but anyway.” He shook long hair out of his face. “And we don’t deny she’s a murderer. We believe that the same as you.”

“Then why-“

“Because,” he said pointedly, “she proves anyone’s sins can be absolved. If a murderer, the…inventor of murder, even, can be redeemed, then anyone can!”

Nikha raised a skeptical eyebrow. “But Merowyn didn’t get redeemed. She got cursed and cast out and then the Annoumenos had to start over making new people.”

“That’s right,” he replied with a nod. “But what happened to her afterward?” Nikha frowned. The Originatia didn’t really say, and the Mekalomartyria hardly mentioned her. The conventional wisdom was that she’d just died, alone and forgotten. Some people said she’d been cursed to walk the world forever, never dying, always suffering. Others claimed she’d become the Witching Star that rose on the heliostases, or that she’d lain with fallen angels and given birth to demons, or been condemned to dig out a great cave city to shelter the faithful from the Eschaton, or more far-fetched things. What it all amounted to was her not having a good answer to Kemp’s question.

“Exactly.” Kemp crossed his arms. “If she was irredeemable, surely the Annoumenos would have just smote her there on the spot, or sent her to the Blazes. But It didn’t, so It must have had a purpose for her. She must not have been a lost cause. At least that’s what we think.”

“But she’s not a saint.”

“No, that’s Sefian nonsense,” he said quickly. “Killing someone doesn’t…what’s the word? Saintify you?”

Nikha couldn’t help a smirk. “Canonize, perhaps?”

“Thank you, my lady.” She rolled her eyes. “It doesn’t get you canonized. She’s like…an example, I guess? What did Father Vasiliy call it…an eidolon. The eidolon of the repenting sinner. Sort of like… ‘If she can do it, I can too.’ That’s all we mean by it.” He eyed her sidelong. “I’m surprised you got so mad in the first place. The next town over believes the same as you, and they mostly get on fine with us.”

“You surprised me, that’s all.” She shook her head. “The way I’ve been taught, I expected all of you went around wearing black cloaks, meeting in graveyards under the new moon.”

“That’s only on holidays.” He let her sit there bug-eyed for a second or two before bursting out laughing.

“Very funny. Thank you for the semichka lesson, Kemp. But it’s my turn, now.”

“What’s that mean?” He looked a little worried.

Despite the grim circumstances, Nikha couldn’t keep a toothy grin off her face as she raised Tarasov’s pistol. “I’m going to teach you how to shoot.”