Whom The Gods Love

by M. M. Perry

  “A merchant told me it was a ruby.”

  Everyone took turns scrutinizing the beautiful flask as they passed it around while Cass continued her story.

  “He took that out of his pocket, and two thimble sized cups. I kid you not. He put one in front of me and poured some of his liquor into it. I was thinking there was no way I could lose this contest. None. He wouldn’t even have enough in that tiny thing for a good long swallow, let alone the twenty or thirty rounds of full sized cups it would take to put me on the floor. But, for the life of me, I cannot tell you what happened next except that I drank that one thimble. Next thing I knew, I was waking up on one of the slim stretches of beach that hang on to the edges of Xenor in a few places, this little flask tucked in my hand.

  “I made my way back to the tavern and asked the owner exactly what had happened. He just smiled at me and told me I had a really good night. Then he held up a mirror and I saw I’d come away from that night with more than just that flask as a souvenir.”

  Cass touched her ear and smiled.

  “I asked the tavern owner who the men were, and he told me they were djinn. I’d heard a handful of stories over the years about those beings, but I’d never met one, nor anyone who had. Until then, I figured they were just a myth. But there I’d been, surrounded by a tavern-full of them. I asked him where they came from and he just shrugged. I pressed him a bit and he said he really didn’t know, that they just showed up from time to time. Then he told me the one who had spoken to me was, as best he could tell, their leader, and that he had left a message for me.”

  Cass, the consummate story-teller that she was, paused here, waiting. Soon enough, Nat obliged her by asking, “Well what was the message?”

  “He said that I should visit him again anytime for a rematch,” Cass said finally.

  “Did you ever find the man you went to Xenor to look for?” Nat asked.

  “Oh yes! I almost forgot that part. I found him there on the dock when I went back outside. He was very confused, to the point I wondered if he was drunk or injured. He didn’t know where he was or how he’d got there. But for some reason, as soon as he saw my tattoo he sobered up enough to tell me that he remembered he had to get back home, as soon as possible. I suspect the djinn had something to do with his sudden appearance. That they had found him and brought him there for me after I told them I’d failed in my quest and was going to have to return home empty handed. I still can’t figure out why they did that for me. Perhaps my explanation that warriors are people who help others in need inspired them.

  “I asked the man I came to rescue many times about those little blue men. The whole boat ride back to Centria I pestered him about them, but every time it looked like he might be remembering something, his eyes would cloud over and he’d go catatonic for a little while. Eventually I stopped asking. One day, when whatever spell or charm that has a hold of that man’s memories fades, if it ever does, then boy, will he have a kicker of a story to tell. I’m sure of it.”

  By the time Cass was done with her tale, the dining area of the inn was empty except for their table. Ulma stood and took one last swig to drain her cup.

  “Well, I wish I could stay up forever with you folk. But I best be getting to bed now. I’ll see you off in the morning, though. There’ll be plenty more to eat before you set out. Sleep well, everyone,” she said before moving off.

  Everyone else began to get up, and Cass watched them all do so with a melancholy look in her eye as she snatched her little flask back up from the table and tucked it into a pocket in her pants. Driscol caught her forlorn look, and leaned in close to his adoptive daughter so only she could hear him.

  “It doesn’t have to be like this,” he said softly, patting her hand.

  Cass waited for the rest of the group to get out of earshot as they headed up to bed before she replied. Only a very drunk and heavy lidded Gunnarr remained, humming some Braldashadian shanty to himself.

  “He’ll die unless I help him, Driscol,” Cass said, careful to keep her voice quiet enough so as not to attract Gunnarr’s attention. “He’s even ready to. I’m pretty sure he knows exactly what Oshia will demand in return for the boon he’s seeking, yet he still wants to go through with this. How can I not help him?” Cass asked.

  Driscol sighed and glanced over at Gunnarr, who was looking appreciatively at Cass now.

  “Well then, you should take care to make sure those who care about you know what you are planning,” Driscol said, a hint of sadness in his voice.

  Cass nodded in reply. Apparently satisfied with her reply, Driscol stood and patted his belly. He left the table, leaving only Cass and Gunnarr. Cass turned to Gunnarr, who was smiling in that bemused way particular to someone happily deep in their cups.

  “I believe we had an arrangement,” he said, his voice thicker with his Braldashadian accent than usual, a sure sign he’d enjoyed his ale that evening.

  “I believe we did,” Cass said as she stood up, smiling at Gunnarr.

  She took Gunnarr’s arm, helped him up, and then led him upstairs. She opened the door to her room and went in. Just as Gunnarr was about to follow her across the threshold, she placed her palm on his chest and stopped him.

  “Have you changed your mind? Or perhaps you’d prefer my room? We could do both,” Gunnarr said grinning.

  Cass resisted the urge to smile back at him.

  “I just need you to know, before we do anything, that this isn’t just another night with a warrior. If I could spend the rest of my life adventuring with you by my side, that would make me very happy,” Cass said.

  Gunnarr lifted Cass’ chin and bent to kiss her in answer. His warm kiss grew hotter as he pulled Cass to him. Cass wrapped her arms around Gunnarr’s shoulders as he lifted her up off the ground. Her legs wrapped around him and he carried her into the room, kicking the door closed behind them.

  The room was strewn with sheets and blankets. The privacy screen between the tub and the bed had been knocked over at some point. The lantern previously firmly bolted to the wall was now missing a bolt and hanging askew. Cass and Gunnarr lay in a sweaty heap on the bed, the mattress half on the bed, and half on the floor. Cass was draped across his chest, her cheek pressed against his pectoral muscle as she listened to the sounds of his breath. Gunnarr was stroking Cass’ back, his hand travelling down to the swell of her buttocks and resting there for a moment before making the journey back to her shoulders to start all over again.

  “We should do that more often,” Gunnarr said, the sound of his voice coming to Cass through her cheek as a deep rumbling vibration.

  Cass squeezed Gunnarr tighter, as if she were afraid he might try to get up and leave at any moment.

  “Do you know what usually happens to those who request a boon from Oshia?” she asked hesitantly.

  Gunnarr’s hand stopped moving.

  “Of course,” he said stiffly.

  “What if I told you I knew a way to save Callan from that fate, a way he could still save his wife and be with her as well?”

  Gunnarr clenched his teeth as he wrapped his arms around Cass, imagining that he could hold her forever in his arms, keeping her from whatever fate it was that Driscol and Selina were worried about. Then he sighed and loosened his grip. He was a warrior. So was she. They lived their lives balanced on the sword’s edge. He closed his eyes and tried to keep his voice steady as he spoke.

  “Tell me everything.”

  Callan awoke in the morning feeling completely refreshed for the first time since he’d set out on this journey. His mind was at ease, even though he knew they were about to be asking the king of Chulpe, a man Callan was not exactly on friendly terms with, for a favor. Even the prospect of dealing with a man Callan found to be a smug, pretentious, insufferable bastard couldn’t darken his mood. Soon enough this would all be over, and his wife would be safe again. He hardly even dwelt on the fact that Oshia would likely take his own life in return for restoring Melody to health. It was common k
nowledge that no one ever left Oshia’s temple once they entered it. Yet almost everyone that sought Oshia out thought they would be the exception, that Oshia would look into their hearts and realize their quest was pure, and their hearts true. Callan had no such fancies. He didn’t think of himself as a bad man, and even fancied himself a pretty good king, but he knew enough about human nature, and was honest enough about himself to know that though he tried to be good, he didn’t always succeed. He set out on this trip expecting it to be one way. When his seers had told him this was his only chance to save Melody, despite Callan’s own doubts that it would work, he was willing to risk it.

  He’d had to slip out of his kingdom unannounced. If his mother had known he’d planned to go to Oshia, she would have forbade it. He was the monarch. Melody was not even pregnant, and he certainly didn’t intend to risk her failing health by getting her pregnant before he left. But to Callan, that didn’t matter. Even if Oshia himself offered him all of Tanavia to rule over if he’d just abandon his wife to her fate, he’d refuse. It would mean nothing if he couldn’t have Melody by his side.

  Callan got up and got dressed. He chose his finest regalia to wear, wanting to make a positive impression on the king of Chulpe. As he dressed, the smell of bacon wafted under his door. His mouth began to water as he hurriedly put on his shoes. He forced himself to keep a dignified look as he made his way down the stairs to the dining area. Gunnarr was already there, as were Driscol and Nat. He joined them, smiling cheerily as he helped himself to eggs and bacon.

  “So we’re the early risers today,” he said crunching into a piece of the salty fried meat.

  He looked over and was surprised to find Gunnarr in a particularly dour mood. He couldn’t imagine why. Callan knew he couldn’t have been the only one who had found it necessary to put a pillow over his head the night before in order to get to sleep.

  “I get you audience with the king. Not so easy. For some reason, he was reluctant to meet with you, even after I tell him you are king too,” Driscol said.

  “Yes, well, he and I… we’re like oil and water I suppose. But thank you. The sooner we get on our way the better,” Callan said.

  “I do not think it be so soon. The king, he talked a little about his task for you. He had evil smile when he talks about this,” Driscol said.

  Callan’s spirits sunk as he bit into another piece of bacon. The meat had suddenly lost some of its savor.

  “Well, I guess we’ll just find out when we get there, eh?” he said miserably.

  Chapter 14

  An impressively varied array of people mingled in the massive antechamber to the Chulpean throne room where the king had kept Callan and his party waiting for the last three hours. Some were nobles, their rich garments finely embroidered and edged with gold. Some were peasants, so poor that their heavy clothing was faded, soiled and tattered; the fur lining so thin in some places it had all but gone bald. Most occupied a social class somewhere in between and included merchants who wanted the king to adjudicate some dispute or other and traders from far-off lands hoping to entice the king into establishing a trade compact with them. Finally, there were the palace servants weaving their way through the crowd going about their duties.

  Callan’s patience wore as thin as some of the more bedraggled peasant’s clothing as he sat waiting on the admittedly very comfortable cushioned chair that had been provided for him. The rest of his party, and the other petitioners, had to stand while they waited their turn to see the Chulpean king. Despite this accommodation, a sign the king of Chulpe acknowledged Callan’s rank, he knew the king was purposefully making them wait until last. Even peasants that had arrived after him had already been ushered in to see the king. As yet another late-arriving petitioner was beckoned forward to the throne room by the king’s chancellor, Callan crossed his arms in anger. He was doing his best to keep his temper in check. He’d been so busy fuming, while trying to simultaneously appear serene and unaffected by the dismissive treatment he was being forced to endure, that he only just then noticed Gunnarr casting longing glances at Cass. There was something sad about the way he looked at her now, which Callan couldn’t understand. His best guess would have been that the lumbering oaf had finally worked up the courage to ask Cass to travel with her from here on out, and that she had turned down the offer—except for the fact that when Cass had joined them at breakfast, Gunnarr had risen to greet her warmly with a sickeningly deep and lingering kiss. While Callan was busy trying to purge the image from his mind, the chancellor returned to the antechamber and approached the party.

  “King Callan of Faylendar,” the chancellor said in an authoritative, if slightly annoying, voice, “and his travelling companions. The King will see you now.” He had somehow managed to make the word king sound mocking when referring to Callan, yet reverent when referring to his own master.

  Callan ignored this further slight, seeing no point in giving this glorified secretary the satisfaction of knowing that he had annoyed him. He followed the chancellor through the long hallway from the antechamber to the throne room where the King of Chulpe received his guests with his party trailing behind him. The antechamber, despite its imposing size, had been simply and sparsely decorated; a few portraits on the walls, a vase or two discreetly tucked away in a corner, nothing that could be considered at all fancy. While the antechamber had been an exercise in understatement, the throne room was a paean of overindulgence. Rich tapestries depicting breathtakingly beautiful, vibrant scenes covered the walls so thoroughly that some actually overlapped each other. Pedestals displaying art from all over the world dotted the room so thickly it made it difficult to navigate, even following the chancellor closely, as they were. Everything that could be gilded was; lanterns, candelabras, chandeliers, the pedestals that held the art—even the iron stands that held the Chulpean standards. Callan imagined that if he were to rip one of the tapestries down from the wall he’d discover that even the hooks that anchored them to the wall would be brushed with gold. All this ostentatiousness paled, however, in comparison to the throne at the end of the hall. It was a monstrosity of gold, silver, and precious jewels so large that its tall back and wide seat made the king sitting within it look a dwarf. It looked more like it had been designed to accommodate two or three grown men, with room left over for a wench or two, than a single man’s seat.

  Callan had seen all this several times before, on his previous visits to Chulpe, so he followed the chancellor unfazed by the lavish splendor on display all around him. Cass and Gunnarr had each visited the Chulpean court at least once before, so they, likewise, were little affected. Nat, Inez and Viola, however, had never been to Chulpe’s court, and they goggled at the excessive display of wealth.

  When they finally made their way past the last of the obstacles in the throne room and stood before the king, they each bowed deeply, even Callan, who was doing his best to be as gracious as possible. Callan, knowing well the protocol for these types of visits, remained bent at the waist, waiting for the king to acknowledge him and his party, which would be his signal to rise from his bowed position. As the seconds ticked by, Callan’s face began to redden. The amount of time a monarch left you waiting in this position was generally accepted to be a sign of your relative importance in the court. A common subject of the king might be left unacknowledged for ten or fifteen seconds. A visiting monarch usually was acknowledged almost before they’d finished bowing. After nearly a minute, the king finally nodded to his chancellor.

  “His most gracious King Oaten Sistout VII. His majesty,” the chancellor intoned, “welcomes you to his humble court.”

  “You may rise,” Oaten said, smiling toothily.

  The rest of the party rose immediately, but Callan waited a few seconds longer, a minor rebellion, him not acknowledging this king’s permission, but he needed that extra moment to choke back the sharp retort that threatened to roll of his traitorous tongue at any moment. When he finally did rise, Callan looked right into Oaten’s eyes,
a smile on his own lips but one that, unlike Oaten’s, did not reach his eyes.

  Oaten was a small man, both short and reedy, and his diminutive stature was exaggerated by the massive throne, a fact that on past visits had provided Callan with no end of amusement. Today, however, he was in no mood to laugh. Oaten was a small man in many ways, as Callan was now experiencing first-hand through the petty treatment he was receiving. The only thing about Oaten that wasn’t small was his hair. It rung his head like a giant bird’s nest that had been slammed down onto his scalp, every strand reaching out in a different direction. His pale face was made up of shallow cheekbones, a tiny nose, and a chin so weak it was nearly non-existent. His beady brown eyes were filled with mirth as he looked on Callan, so humbled before him.

  “King Callan. I wish I could say it’s a surprise to see you, but your presence had been preceded by letters sent via teeton. Many letters. A pile high enough to rival even the mountain they were carried across. Letters, I might add, that grew increasingly more frantic with each passing day,” Oaten said.

  “It seems you’ve run off without getting mummy’s permission first,” Oaten waggled his finger disapprovingly at Callan. “That was very naughty. Has no one told you how big boys are supposed to behave? They need to have their queen’s permission before they’re allowed leave the castle.”

  Callan could feel the heat creeping up the back of his neck, but he forced his face into a mask of placidity as he replied, “the Queen Mother mistakenly believes she still rules, but that responsibility fell to me more than a decade ago. As such she has no say over what I choose to do with myself or my kingdom. I am here, as you probably already know, on urgent business that is most definitely in my purview. My wife, the reigning Queen of Faylendar, is deathly ill. I am only here doing as my seers counseled me.”