3. A Trip in Triplicate
For a lifelong devotee of the God Triplicate, Blessing had never been particularly adept at resisting temptation.
She tasted the blackberries by the path to town when they were still pale and bitter. She put the bread in the oven too soon, not letting the dough rise as it should. She rushed the stitches on her mending, wanting to simply wear the damn shift again as soon as possible. Patience, dear Blessing. Good things come only to those who wait.
She and Percy had been alike that way, blissfully drinking each other in any secluded corner of the abbey, parched for an intimacy forbidden to a nun, especially to a nun of the blade’s promise.
(Did the Endless Sights promised to all devotees after death taste like ripe blackberries and soft lips on hers? It would be disappointing if it didn’t.)
All this to say that Blessing found her spellbound poleaxe to be an itch in the back of her mind, far more pressing than the weight of it against her shoulder. It had worried at her on the road back to her inn last night. It had worried worse as she ate the watery grouse-and-leek stew special without tasting it. And it had practically seared as she retreated to her room, too overwhelmed by what she’d done to unshuck her daywear before letting her weary body fold into bed.
The morning was hardly better. She caught one groggy glimpse of it, leaning against the wall, and was reminded into awakeness. A seam of pale sunlight escaped the shutters, brightening the wrappings as she turned it over in her hands. The balance was more heavy-headed than it ought to be.
“So, what makes you special?”
A damselfly alighted on an open windowsill like a held breath. Oblivious, Blessing thumbed the cloth swathing the blade, trying to recall Last’s words.
Only when you feel ready.
She was torn betwixt impulses. The guilt of resorting to an unholy barter, the selfish desire to unwrap the gift she’d paid an uncertain price for, the grief-addled anticipation of that cost — that it may tear her asunder. As if she wasn’t already in pieces.
Blessing had been ready to meet her fate before she’d even met the fay. There was nothing left but to get it over with soon as possible.
“Let’s find out.”
She peeled the wrappings, ignoring the smell of pond scum that hung in the air as the fabric sloughed off. And beneath it . . .
A triple-headed poleaxe. The broken pike was repaired, but that was hardly the first thing she noticed. One gleaming head sprouted from the left and another from the right, and then a third pointed directly at her, melted gracefully into the center pole and the other two in perfect fractal. It was a bizarre and frankly impractical weapon, not quite poleaxe and not quite mace.
Blessing traced one blade, perplexed. Steel reflected her own polished brown eyes back at her like bronzed mirrors.
The mirrors cracked.
Her weapon clanged as it slipped from her grasp. Its spell had taken her so swiftly that she hardly understood what was happening until it was too late. Agony seized her — as if someone had plunged a hand through her skin and ripped out a fistful of muscle and organs — but spiritually rather than bodily. Up until now, Blessing had never considered that a soul might be as vulnerable as flesh. She had never considered that it might be touched. The room seemed to double up on itself as she blacked out, slumping to the floor.
When the convulsion passed, she took an unsteady breath and felt herself up for injury. Fuck. Everything stung but nothing seemed missing. No limbs absent, no chunks actually gouged out of—
“Oh, fuck,” someone else groaned.
Blessing’s head shot up. To her left was an identical copy of her, curled up and swearing softly into her own palms. To her right was a second copy, already on her knees, staring in fascination and horror. Three single-bladed poleaxes laid on the floor between them, each reflecting only one Blessing in their sheen.
Left Blessing rolled over, then gawked, coming to realize what had just happened as well. “Fuck,” she said again, with newfound vehemence. “Tear me asunder indeed!”
Blessing felt a brief embarrassment for not predicting this outcome.
With the awkwardness of meeting a stranger who claims to know you, they helped each other to their feet, wincing from whatever spiritual rawness the spell had inflicted on them all.
“Quick question,” Right Blessing finally croaked. “Which of us is the real Blessing?”
“I am,” replied both Blessing and Left Blessing at once. They squinted at each other in annoyance afterward.
Right Blessing’s lips narrowed in distaste. It was strange to see that expression happen from the outside. “Hmmm. We may have a conundrum there, as I don’t see any reason to doubt that I am the original either. Let’s set that question aside until the end of our quest.”
“Because we have a hydra to slay,” Blessing agreed.
“Exactly.”
She bit back a grin. “In light of that, I think we need new Sacred Names for the time being.”
Left Blessing raised an eyebrow. “Do we really?”
“Coordinating our combat is going to be pretty obnoxious if we can’t distinguish who’s who,” Blessing pointed out. She took a deep breath. “I think my name will be Ascension. Cen for short.” A second and more interesting thought came to . . . him. He grinned, removing his habit and letting his braid fall loose from its bun. “Secondarily, to make it even easier to differentiate us, I’m going to ask you to refer to me in the masculine. Understood?”
Right Blessing’s eyes lit up. “In that case, refer to me in the neuter, if you would please. I’ll be . . . Grace.”
A short while passed while Left Blessing narrowed her eyes, as if she needed a moment to acceptably re-define herself. Then she shrugged, removing her habit, her bun, and the plait all in all. Her hair fell in loose rumples around her shoulders. “This means that I should keep the gender expected of us. Let me be Sincerity.”
Ascension knew with the deep certainty of self-understanding that this was a jab. His suspicion was confirmed as soon as they began to check their bag and dress in something less conspicuous for travel; Sincerity elbowed him with a tense playfulness.
“Bit of an ambitious name you’ve picked, isn’t it, Cen?”
He rubbed his ribs ruefully. “What does it matter? It’s only until the end of our quest.”
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