The Absolution of Scales I

The air felt stifling and lifeless as we passed through the Veil; its mist was so thick the others were but ghosts ahead of me. Beads of water formed strings of pearls along my hair and raced down my skin in swirling paths. It tasted sour, akin to biting a lemon in the heat of midsummer.

I wondered if the Veil went on for miles, but slowly, the world bled back into focus.

The grey mist succumbed to the verdant hues of Yr Wythnos. Sour lemon gave way to petrichor and earth. The ground squelched under my bare feet, caking my legs in thick, heavy mud. The silence was replaced by an orchestra of croaks and raven calls, punctuated by the rhythmic clank of our shackles.

The priest led the seven of us to the bank. The frigid water bit testingly at my toes; its opacity was a veil in its own right, refusing to betray what lurked beneath.

“As you know,” the priest began, his voice thin and dry, “the seven of you have been found guilty of a Great Sin by Our Lady of the Lake and condemned to the trial of Yr Wythnos.”

I looked to the man to my left: tall, brutish, his features chiseled into a permanent sneer. His ochre eyes glared with a savage fire, and his hands were balled into fists as they white-knuckled the chains.

“The trial is simple: catch the fish of your respective sin, partake of its flesh, and you will be pardoned. Fail, and your sentence is death.”

The priest clutched his robes as he stepped toward the first in line, drawing an iron key from his pocket.

“Bruis Barlow, guilty of gluttony. To receive absolution, you must partake of the Bloat-Scale.” The shackles fell with a heavy clank, but Bruis stood frozen.

“Come then, Bruis,” the priest chortled, tapping the man’s hanging belly with the key. “Enjoy your swim.”

“Gold! There! Out in the water!” the lanky man beside Bruis shouted. “If lard-arse won’t go, I will!”

Before the priest could turn the lock, the man lunged into the lake.

“Look!” He plunged his bound hands into the murk. “Wait. This is not—”

Before he could finish, he was jerked beneath the surface. A bloom of crimson erupted where he had stood.

“Antoni Turner, guilty of greed,” the priest sighed. “A clever fish, the Gold-Scale. It mimics the glint of coin to lure their prey, then consumes them in seconds.” He turned back to Bruis. “Now, lad, let us hope you are more clever than the fish. Oh! Lest I forget your potion!”

He pulled a vial of inky liquid from his robes and forced it past Bruis’s teeth. Then, clamping a hand on the back of the man’s neck, he shoved him into the reddened water. “Let’s get on with it then!”

Next came Ardon Finch—lust. Cain Picket—envy. Ida Walsh—sloth. Eris Parker—wrath.

One by one, they waded into the depths. Finally, it was my turn.

“Nyssa Morris, guilty of pride. To receive absolution, you must partake of the Omega-Scale.” The priest’s lips curved into a knowing smile.

The shackles fell. The priest reached to seize my face, but I caught his wrist mid-air. “I’ll do it.”

“Of course,” he murmured.

I snatched the vial from his rough palm and drained it. I didn’t wait for his command. I stepped away from the bank, the mud-stained linen trailing in the water like a discarded skin. Behind me, the priest was but a fading shadow.