The Dread Goddess
Book of Icons - Volume Two
Jillian Kuhlmann
Copyright
Diversion Books
A Division of Diversion Publishing Corp.
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New York, NY 10016
www.DiversionBooks.com
Copyright © 2017 by Jillian Kuhlmann
All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
For more information, email [email protected]
First Diversion Books edition May 2017.
ISBN: 978-1-68230-346-7
To Mike, without whom there would be no books, and no babies.
Chapter One
I want him in the moment I see him on the arm of his wife. In that moment I have divided them; with thought alone I can do this.
In the days and weeks to come, I will take her shape. I will take him, because this is the only way he will have me: unwitting. His tender gestures and fevered words are mine; he will love me best before her, before his three young sons, before his kingdom. With his heart, I shall claim them. His wife is too simple, too human, to lay her suspicions at his feet. She could not when he is every day begging at mine.
My cries of pleasure turn to howls of madness when I find that I am with child. How it has happened is the least of my rages; I focus only on what shall be done. His seed is too stubborn for the herbs that would flush a lesser man’s from a mortal body. True First Men are few, and Shran is numbered among them…so too our son will be.
His wife, Jemae, offers to bear the child. She comes to me when it is Shran I am expecting, and I would have killed her were it not for the boon she offers. She has not suffered enough. She will suffer more.
She comes to me and my hand passes as easily through skin as fingers do in loose sand, and I feel no pain.
Until I do. I am Theba no longer, I am Jemae. I know now that I am dreaming, but it is as though a fire has been lit in me, a great burning beast turning my gut to ash. There are no reasons, no beauty. It is not a gift but a curse, and I learn the hour of my death in the first beat of his heart in my belly.
Thrashing, sweating, and sodden, I knew as I woke, half-starved and more than half-mad with cold and dreaming, that I was not alone. I was never alone; I had never been alone. I was Eiren, daughter, sister, friend. Eiren, icon of Theba.
Eight days I had wandered from the Ambarian capitol of Jhosch, wailing and retching like a mad ghost in the wood. I stank of sickness and fire and fear, my waking hours and my dreams haunted by the wreckage of the opera, the chaos and death that I had wrought. There had been no birds to echo my cries, no beasts to follow my scent or rend my flesh as readily as my screams cut the night air. Gannet had said that I would smell my own death if I passed beneath Zhaeha’s crooked peak, dared to go beyond the malevolent crone that loomed over his kingdom. But I did not, though it was my own death I chased into the mountains. I smelled nothing, saw no stirring creature. The trees here were not bristled with needles as the ones were below, but they were bare as spindles. I thought they must be dead, and I wanted to die, too. I curled between the roots of a great tree just as it was said Alyona’s daughter had done. Mortal as her father had been, and though she lived far longer than he, even a drop of mortal blood promised death eventually. It was the same for icons.
But I was not permitted to die, not yet.
He had come for me when I was too weak to defy him. I wasn’t even sure that he was a man, only that arms and iron-strong hands had taken me from where I had resolved to die among the withered trees. He had brought me here, though I didn’t know where here was. Though there was water and fruit, I didn’t want any of it, and I did not eat or drink unless forced. I woke sometimes to the dribble of water on my lips, and for all my thrashing, I would swallow some, and be sustained.
The pressure of his mind upon mine was the only way I knew that he was near. It was a kindred feeling, akin to what I had experienced with Paivi, and less so with Gannet, whom I had welcomed without even realizing it. I didn’t move for fear of touching him if he was inside my cell, a small, square room with no door that my hands could discern. I could not see in this darkness, but I hadn’t tried. When I had first touched the rough stone, I had felt memory instead, the brush of cloth and Gannet’s warm flesh beneath, the first time that he had shown me, I could see without a light to guide me. I didn’t want to remember, and I didn’t much want to see, either.
And Gannet had no place here. He would not have intruded upon the deep silences in my heart in the way this man did. Even if I had strength for defenses, they would not have mattered. My captor squatted in all my ugly places, saw me and made me see me, too: icon, monster. I supposed he was both, to manipulate me as he did. He didn’t ask questions or wait for answers. He turned over my thoughts like stones, a wanderer searching for water. And when he found what he wanted, he dug, deep. There was no hiding the horrors from him, the tender gestures, my earliest memories of tears and embraces to those sweet moments most recent.
“You should have let me die.” My mutterings were as mean and as small as the pallet upon which I lay, the scrap of woolen blanket I had discarded, the earthen cup emptied on the floor beside me. “The others died. Let me die, too.”
Even as I spoke, I knew what I suggested was not an end to the madness. Another Theba would be born, perhaps this time within the kingdom and so within their clutches. She would be shaped and changed to suit their needs, if she wasn’t killed first, and my people would bow to the Ambarians at her command. It would happen anyway. Did that mean that I wanted to live, or that I had to?
I brought my knees as near to my chin as I could, making myself small, easy now given how emaciated I had become. I didn’t want to die, but I didn’t know how to live with what I had done, with what I had wanted to do and might willfully do again. Even the thought of Imke, who had deserved her fate, made my stomach twist. I could still feel the hot press of her skin bubbling beneath my fingers, could see the wild, anonymous shapes of those who had sought to outrun the fire, to flee. She had burned and they had burned, too. I had been for a moment the merciless weapon Colaugh wanted, but I had been the wielder, too.
Empty stomach or not, I thought I might be sick and turned away.
“Would you like to know how many are numbered among the dead?” The voice was low, musical, heartless, like an instrument played expertly but without feeling.
“Numbers do not interest me as much as names,” I said, eyes scanning the dark and his mind, too, though I perceived nothing. It was as though the words had come from stones, and all was still and lifeless again.
“But names have faces and with them, stories. You like stories. Don’t you want to hear theirs?”
“I wasn’t aware that what I wanted played any part in the course of my life.” My words were games, my tone betraying every grim facet of my curiosity about what the speaker had to share. Whatever life I had been cursed to lead, I was still eager to live it, and with the silence broken, so was my resolve. I would want and feel and regret. I knew no other way.
There was no response for a time, and I thought perhaps my captor had gone. But then a door I had not known was there was opening, a broad, featureless figure silhouetted in the light that poured in. Their shadow stretched out to meet me, and I touched the darkness cast on the floor as though
touching the figure itself.
“Eiren, I do not mean you any harm.”
The voice was different, and more than that, it was unmistakable. Antares drew near enough that I was no longer blinded, and in a moment I could make out his bearded face, the dark pits where I knew his steady eyes to be.
“What are you doing here?”
Had I been so mad with hunger and cold that I had not known Antares when he had taken me in the wood? Had he restrained me for fear of what I might do to him?
“I am here to help you. Please sit up, if you can.”
And I could, with his assistance, the world righting itself. His answer did not satisfy me, though, and even as Antares lifted a cup of water to my lips, I raised a hand to prevent him.
“But why? How?”
Only when he began to speak would I allow the cup to reach its journey’s end, and I drank greedily, but slowly, as I listened.
“You may take the truth from me when you want to, Eiren. It will be easier than words,” Antares began, his features dim but defined, now that my eyes had adjusted. It was only torchlight beyond, but I had been in the dark for so long, it had seemed like several suns to me. “I brought you here to keep you safe. He is the only one that will shelter you now.”
“Who is he? There was no one here but ghosts before you.”
“I do not believe in ghosts, Eiren, but if I did, they would be waiting for you in Jhosch, not here.”
He laid his hand upon mine to help me to my feet, and with his touch, I could sense his thoughts, the necessary distance he kept from his recent memories, leaving them that much closer to me.
I saw the opera hall with its belching smoke and the servants bearing large, ungainly bundles, their faces long and soot-painted; I saw far fewer footsteps in ash retreating than those that had entered at the opera’s beginning. Antares was there, tall in his memory as he was in life, as real as the child Gannet had been in the memory we had shared. Inside Antares went and I did, too, pulled along by his memories.
The shapes of dark animals were sketched in ash, the stone black and oily as though splashed with wax. But it was not wax, and these remnants were not animals. I had raised a torch to Theba, and my fuel had been the fat and bones and blood of those who had been foolish enough to worship her. I could not be sick in memory but would be soon enough.
My eyes followed Antares’s to the stage where a cloaked figure crouched and the scorched stone shone like melted glass. This had been where I had stood, the heart of the fire, and it was where Gannet stood mourning now. Even as I looked upon him, I saw him as Antares did: a man too slight for the sword, cold and unknowable. My knowledge of him was so far removed and paired so much with the hurt of what he hadn’t told me that I found I preferred the distance Antares’s memories gave me.
“Morainn?” Antares’s voice was like something heard through a wall, nothing so crisp and immediate as the memory I had shared with Gannet of his childhood. Had it been his mind, or simply the mind of an icon, that was so sharp?
“Upstairs.” Gannet, too, was difficult to hear, though his expression spoke plain enough. He was not hurt, but he was most certainly in pain. Even limited to Antares’s recollection, this I could see.
“Is she awake yet?”
“No.”
“And the king and queen?”
The way that Antares said this, even as muffled and remote as it was to me, I knew that he did not know that he spoke of Gannet’s parents, too.
“Dead.”
Without looking again at the guard captain, Gannet turned and departed down a discreet stair, his boots stirring up the ash that piled where the wealthy and the influential of Ambar had first reveled, and then Theba had.
There was very little left of Antares’s memory of the hall and what I had wrought there, for he, too, turned to go, and I knew the start of his journey toward me lay ahead of him. The thick, gray air he breathed, the taste of fire—these things were replaced by the sterile stone, the thin pallet, and Antares’s hand on mine. Left with my own thoughts, plenty and terrible enough, I recoiled from him. I could not make out his expression, but Antares did not seem surprised by my ability to read him. The only feeling I registered from him was relief of not having to tell me.
“Who else? How many?” I asked.
Antares’s discomfort was immediate and plain, but I had no desire to give him respite, not when I was sure I would never know such comfort again.
“Many you do not know, I think. Some that you do. Imke, Paivi. A number of other icons. The twins, I remember. The others I do not. I’m sorry.”
His apology seemed so sincere, but I could hardly accept it.
“Jaken and Shasa? What were they even doing there?” The icons were not meant to witness the opera.
Uncomfortable with the question, Antares shrugged.
“I don’t know. They were found near Paivi. I can only guess that they came for you.”
My eyes burned. To know that Imke and Paivi, who were my enemies, were joined by Shasa and Jaken, the queen, was no comfort to me. In the Rogue’s Ear, I had reasoned through Kurdan’s death, had accepted that his murder was necessary for my survival. I could do the same for Imke and Paivi, for the king. But when had Jaken and Shasa ever threatened me, or anyone?
Antares did not continue speaking but crouched on his heels beside me, arms resting across his knees. He carried no weapons, though I was not sure if he was making some sort of statement or if he was simply not allowed weapons here, wherever here was.
“How do you intend to help me, Antares?”
“I brought you here, Eiren, and though you fought me, you would not have if you’d been in your right mind.”
I could have cried at that, his faith that such a thing as my right mind existed.
“I served another master long before the king,” he explained. When he paused, it was as though the walls themselves had been breathing and now held that breath. “And when Colaugh died, I left before I could be charged with apprehending you for any other but that master. You do not know him, but you know his namesake. He is the icon of Adah.”
Of all the gods Antares could have named, this one told me more about the nature of his service and his master than many others might have. Adah was the god of justice, though his definition of justice, at least in tales, was not how mortals would have named it. How would an icon carry out such an immortal, alien will? The same way I managed it, I supposed.
“And he was here, before you?” I asked, thinking of the figure I’d seen before, whose voice had offered me what Antares had given, and how much more I had feared hearing it from him than from a friend. I thought of all that entity had pried from me, and I was not surprised.
Antares nodded.
“He lives apart from the other icons but is not unknown to them. They do not come here. Almost no one does. But I knew he would want you here, so I brought you.”
He wanted me here. Why? Was I to be separate from the other icons now? The thought of Gannet was like a cold hand squeezing my heart, and I saw his face again in Antares’s memory, the grim choice in his eyes when the two spoke of Morainn.
“What did you mean when you asked Gannet if Morainn was awake?”
“What you saw, that was a full day after you had left.” Antares was gazing at the floor. “Morainn was in a kind of sleep from which she could not wake.”
What he did not say I heard all the same, as clear as if it were the crying of some predator in the night. She could be sleeping still, for all I know. There was no blame in his heart, but I wished there were. I wanted, needed, someone to be angry with me.
But it was Theba’s anger that filled me, as bright and hot as the sun, eclipsing my shame. Antares might have been shocked by my next pronouncement, but not as much as I was, hiding behind the hate of it. I stood, for a moment towering over the much larger man.
“Imke and the rest had to die. Morainn would have wanted her dead if she had known of her betrayal.” I was t
he very last person who could presume what Morainn would have wanted, but I did not feel like a person then. I was a monster.
Antares made no response, but a moment after I rose he did, too, lifting an empty hand, one I had grown so used to seeing wielding a spear, to the lit corridor outside my cell.
“If you are willing, he would like to see you,” he said softly, and I could sense the threads of his anxiety, his surprise. I was not the woman he had known, but he would serve me faithfully still. That had always been his charge, to protect me, to bring me to this place when the time was right. He was a warrior. He had known there would be bloodshed and death, perhaps even his own.
Perhaps still.
“I will go and speak with him if you will tell me why you serve him, Antares,” I said, and though I had the impression already that Adah could summon me whenever he wished, I wanted to see if Antares would grant me a request that delayed the wishes of his master. I wanted to know the depths of his faith and in whom it was placed.
Unlike Gannet, Antares’s expressions were rarely guarded. He was stoic by nature, not by force, and his devotion to his duty was something he had chosen. I had wondered once what sort of man Gannet would have been if he had not been an icon, and now I would never know. Antares, however, had decided his own fate, and his choices had brought him to me.
“I serve Adah because he serves Ambar, Eiren. When you speak with him, you will understand that means he serves you, too.”
What he meant, of course, was that he and Adah both served Theba. And now, so did I.
Chapter Two
Though well lit by torches, the windowless corridors we took to Adah boasted nothing distinct enough for me to be sure I could find my way back to my cell. I was at Antares’s mercy, the way narrow enough for him to walk ahead, while I trailed close behind. I could have run but only through the way we had come. Eager for answers and curious to meet the icon who had orchestrated my rescue, however undeserved, I followed Antares without complaint.
The Dread Goddess--Book of Icons--Volume Two Page 1