DEATH’S MERCHANT
COMMON AMONG GODS – BOOK ONE
JUSTAN HENNER
Death’s Merchant is a work of fiction. All names, places, events, and characters are fictitious. Any resemblance in this work to actual people, events, or places is wholly coincidental.
Copyright © 2016 by Justan Henner
All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form. For information contact Justan Henner.
JustanHenner.com
Twitter.com/JustanHenner
Facebook.com/JustanHenner
Cover art and design by Neil Robinson
InsaneRide.com
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
This book is dedicated to my father, the self-proclaimed god of Inspiration, who has put more work into this book and its success than anyone else, myself included.
That doesn’t mean you get any more butchering money though.
Special thanks to all those whose feedback and support made this book possible:
Adam, Alex, Ben, Blair, Carol, Cherish, Eric, Janae, Jaricka, Lori, Maureen, Molly, Neal, Wendy
TABLE OF CONTENTS
DEATH’S MERCHANT
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
TABLE OF CONTENTS
MAP
PROLOGUE
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
CHAPTER THIRTY
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
CHAPTER FORTY
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR
CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE
CHAPTER FORTY-SIX
CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER FORTY-NINE
CHAPTER FIFTY
CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE
CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO
CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE
CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR
CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE
CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX
CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER FIFTY-NINE
CHAPTER SIXTY
CHAPTER SIXTY-ONE
CHAPTER SIXTY-TWO
CHAPTER SIXTY-THREE
CHAPTER SIXTY-FOUR
CHAPTER SIXTY-FIVE
CHAPTER SIXTY-SIX
CHAPTER SIXTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER SIXTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER SIXTY-NINE
CHAPTER SEVENTY
EPILOGUE
FROM THE AUTHOR
CAST OF CHARACTERS
MAP
Please visit JustanHenner.com/map/ to view a full-size map.
PROLOGUE
Sybil had arrived early so that she could place her feet on the flagstone at the foot of the dais. The large gray stone was all that remained of her childhood home. As a young girl, she had thought the plain stones drab and colorless. Now, marble surrounded the last stone on every side. She had to admit the contrast between dark shale and white marble was beautiful – as was the gold inlay that edged the dais – but the newer stones held little meaning for her. The swirling marble was lifeless; only the dark gray stone of her childhood had true character.
Sitting on the dais, she undid the straps then removed her sandals, holding her feet above the floor. To place her bare feet upon the marble would be sacrilege, a betrayal of her childhood, a symbol affirming her mother’s decision to tear down their home. The house had stood for centuries, and as children, all of the First Generation had been raised in that home. But their mother didn’t care. She had given away their childhood in exchange for a temple.
Compared to the old wooden shack, the hall that encompassed her was vacuous and hollow. She had tried, on occasion and without success, to imagine herself in that house, her knees pressed against the gray stones, but now, she failed again. Without the heat reverberating from the stove – which had once stood in place of the dais – the air held a stale chill. The gaudy pillars, grand aisles, and vaulted ceilings that had replaced their little shack were poor substitutes.
Easing herself forward, Sybil positioned her feet above the dark flagstone. As she pressed them onto the cool shale, she stood and turned to face the altar. White marble and gold gilding had taken the place of flaky stone floors and timber walls. The damp smell of earth and wood had long vanished, the air now smelling of wax and tallow from the hundreds of candles that had been cleared from the altar. The leaky, hay-thatched roof was gone. In its place, high-buttressed ceilings and marble arches held up by grand columns etched with elaborate script. Though striking and beautiful in their own way, these things were not her home. Her home was gone, but upon this last, lone tile – from the depths of her memories – she could recall it once more.
Sybil pictured her mother’s face, that emotionless painted mask that had greeted her each morning and put her down at night. She saw the two-room abode with its low ceiling and thick pine walls. Sybil and her twin, Galina, had shared the larger room that served also as kitchen and entranceway. Nets – which they’d used as beds – hung from the ceiling beside a lone wooden chair wedged in a corner. The only other furniture was the coal stove and the warm bearskin rug before the fireplace. She could not picture the other room. It had always been wholly Mother’s, the place where she had slept and worked, and therefore barred to Sybil and the other children.
In this perfect memory, her younger brother Nikom had not yet been born, so the clods of dirt and roots and flowers from his musings did not clutter the floor. It had been only her, Galina, and sometimes Just, who had already moved away years before. Walter and Tyrena, the last and youngest of the Mother’s children, had not even been an idea, yet. Sybil did not know if those years had been better… but they had been simpler.
The drag of the heavy doors across the stone floor pulled Sybil from her memories. Glancing over her shoulder, she saw a man easing it closed. When he turned to her, she recognized him as Walter’s firstborn. She nodded him a greeting, offering him a sad smile before sitting on the altar to replace her slippers. After regaining her feet, she stepped to one side and invited him to stand beside her. Though rumored to be proud and pious, his shoulders slouched as if he carried a heavy burden. His face, encased by long brown hair, was taut and strained. He looked to be in his middle years, but if memory served, he was well over four hundred.
Like his father, the man wore simple clothing; a habit she admired. Far too many of the younglings had become ostentatious. They had no memories of the modest hovel in which the First Gene
ration had been raised and seemed to think their birth set them above the common folk – a disastrous presumption. Sybil owed much of her success to the mortals who worked by her side, and she could not imagine shouldering the burden of her studies without their aid.
When her nephew reached her side, she did not face him, choosing instead to study the gilding of the dais.
“I had hoped to be first to arrive,” he said. The voice, though somber, was deep and strong; lulling, like the calm winds over Trel’s harbor.
“You would have had to arrive much sooner, I’m afraid,” Sybil said. “I often arrive early so that I can place my feet upon the heart stone. It reminds me of my childhood.” She tapped her foot against the shale. “Tell me, why did you wish to be here first?”
“I wanted to show that despite my father’s actions, our family still holds strong and proud.” His mouth hovered ajar as doubt flickered across his face. “Or at least… I thought my presence might stymie the whispers.”
Sybil folded her lips against her teeth, pushing the muscles apart in a sad grin. “No matter his recent choices, your father was a good man,” she said. “You have my condolences.”
“Thank you, Alchemist.” Though his eyes glistened with damp, he did not cry.
“Please, call me Sybil.” She paused, unable to recall his name. “I’m sorry. I do not know your title.”
“I do not have one,” he answered. “I still go by Kalec Rin.”
Sybil nodded. That was unusual for a man his age, but not unheard of. Sometimes a god’s aspect came slowly, and other times it was impossible to put into words and titles. “Then I will call you Smith,” she said.
“Please,” Kalec said, aghast. “I have not earned it.”
“Would you be ashamed to wear your father’s title?”
Kalec frowned. He spoke slowly, sounding as uneasy as he did sour. “Smith was no longer his title.”
Though unnecessary, Sybil drew a heavy breath. It was hard to see a person lose their identity. She may not have known Kalec’s name, but she knew his history. The man had served as his father’s apprentice for nearly four hundred years, apprentice to the Smith, a god who had once been well respected and powerful. And now, through no fault of his own, this man had lost his calling. All because his father had disgraced himself. Sybil could not forgive what Walter had done, but she would do her best to offer his son any comfort she could provide. Kalec did not deserve to pay for his father’s crimes, no matter how heinous they had been.
“Your father and I were not very close,” Sybil began. “He was more than a century younger, so I had left home by the time he’d been born, but I often visited when he was a child. He had always been a clever boy, and when he came of age, I offered him an apprenticeship. He turned me down, of course. I remember his father well. A smith himself, I recall. One of Mother’s true loves, I believe. Galina and I never met our father, but your grandfather on the other hand, he lived alongside Mother his entire life. Even now he is buried beneath this temple. Your father had that same sense of loyalty and love, and when he turned me down, he did so bluntly, but respectfully. Instead, he apprenticed himself to a mortal. To your grandfather, Atepos Rin. So many believe that godhood is about controlling the world, but your father decided instead, to shape it. He understood that godhood is about a balance between creation and manipulation.
“It is a shame. The younger generations would find his choice shocking. So few of them would resign themselves to such a humble life, but what they do not understand is that humble choices are often the most powerful. Your father cared for none of that. He simply wanted to follow his father’s craft. An honest and heartfelt decision. It does not matter that they call him Butcher now. Not for me at least. To me, he will always be that little boy Walter, who loved his father more than the thought of godhood. To me, he will always be the Smith.”
Walter’s son turned his head to look into her eyes, but Sybil kept her face pointed away. The man needed to hear these things from an authority, not a family member.
“You say that you have not earned the title,” Sybil continued. “But you are wrong. I have seen your work, and more importantly, I have seen your character. Like him, you chose to stay by your father’s side. You chose loyalty and love over power. In five hundred years, I have not had an apprentice that would stay by my side for longer than twenty. You stood by your father’s for several hundred. If it were my decision, the title would be yours to inherit. So, I ask you again. Are you ashamed to wear his title?”
“N- No,” the man stuttered.
“Good. Then I will call you Smith. Whether you accept the title or not, I suspect it will find you. No god can refuse their aspect. Eventually, it always takes its shape.”
Out of the corner of her eye, she watched the Smith dance on the balls of his feet.
“Thank you for your words,” he murmured.
Behind them, the door opened a second time. They both turned to see the young woman that entered. Though her hair was darker and her face sharper, the resemblance was clear. Smith waved to his sister then returned his eyes to Sybil.
“I must speak with Atep,” Kalec said. “I will think on what you’ve said.”
As Sybil watched him leave, his face was lighter and his back straighter. Kalec met his sister near the door, where he took her arm and whispered in her ear. At his words, the sister glanced over her shoulder to Sybil, a look of surprise framed between her shoulder length hair. Smith led her into an alcove between two pillars, and although she could hear their voices echoing through the hall, Sybil chose to ignore their words. This was a private moment, and not for her ears.
Sighing, Sybil let her gaze wander the room. Normally this hall would be filled with benches for the many parishioners, but today they had been replaced with large, round tables covered by white tablecloths. It seemed an odd choice, for it felt very much like the décor for a wedding, but she knew very well that Mother would not have summoned the entire family for such an occasion.
Weary of standing, Sybil brushed her foot across the flagstone one last time before seating herself at the table closest to the dais. She chose a chair along the westward side so that she could watch the door.
After a time, other family members began to trickle in. She did not recognize the new arrivals, all of them distant nephews and nieces. Though many appeared to be similar ages, they sat scattered amongst the tables. And when she waved greetings, far too many avoided her gaze. Aside from shuffling feet and the odd cough, the hall was silent. The mood was eerie for a gathering of family members, but things had been rather tense since Silt had killed Walter.
Surely that awkwardness would vanish in time. Indeed, the first steps to healing the family were already being taken. Mother had called everyone to her temple, and tonight, the Mother’s Hall would be filled with gods and godlings. Never in Sybil’s life had Mother called a gathering of this scale.
Though Sybil had overcome the need more than a generation ago, she drew another deep breath and exhaled slowly. It would be a long evening and she was restless to return to her work at the university.
As more of the family entered, Sybil gave up on greeting them. There were simply far too many of whom she didn’t know. She noted their garb. Many wore scarves, hoods, or masks that covered their faces. She knew the trend was an effort to emulate Mother’s own style, but she did not understand it. Mother was certainly a figure to emulate, but her dress was neither the most fashionable nor particularly wholesome.
When Sybil’s apprentice shuffled into the room, Sybil smiled and waved. He was a smart lad, dedicated to his work, and Sybil was rather fond of him. But, when she motioned for him to join her, he shied into his coat and disappeared into an alcove.
“You’ll have to beat that out of him.”
Despite its soothing cantor, the voice startled her. Sybil turned to meet her guest. Realizing that it was her older brother, she pulled a chair from the table then twisted to face Just. As he examined her fa
ce, Just took the offered chair and sat with what could only be described as a flourish. Her brother was not eccentric, but he had an aura about him that made everything he did seem grander than it truly was.
“An effective method I’m sure,” she drawled. “It seems to have worked wonders for your own apprentices.”
“You wound me, Sybil.”
Though she always called Just by his title, her brother never used hers. She didn’t mind, it was not a matter of formality. It was simply that Just had earned his title before her birth and so it was the name she had grown up with.
“I am sure your insinuation is in reference to dear Silt,” Just continued, “which is why I give my warning. Silt was the only one of my apprentices I did not beat.”
Sybil smiled at her brother, to which he smiled in return. “I have missed your jokes, brother.”
“Ah!” Just gasped sarcastically. “And you wound me again. Why must you assume I am joking?”
“Two of your apprentices are Galina’s children. If you had harmed one of them, you’d be throat-less as well as spineless.”
Just beamed. “And I have missed your clever tongue,” he said. “Tell me, where is our sister?”
“I’m not sure. I haven’t seen her in several months. I’ve been meaning to speak with her.”
Just’s smile faded to a grimace. “That does not bode well. I was hoping that she had confided in you.”
Both studied the worship hall. Strangely, the early arrivals were still scattered about the room, seemingly avoiding one another.
“Confided what?” Sybil asked.
Just stared at her a long moment. “Tell me, Sybil. Why have you come here tonight?” He asked the question, and then his breathing halted. She turned to see what was wrong, but when she met his gaze, he turned away. She knew then, that Just feared her answer, for despite all the love they held for one another, his aspect was Judgment, and his domain encompassed the realm of gods as well as mortals. Her answer to this question would decide her fate, for Just’s tone, though unwilling, was that of an interrogator.
Death's Merchant: Common Among Gods - Book One Page 1