“Wasn’t right? And was it right to let Taehrn tell me? Knowing how much I hate him?”
“I’d… I’d intended to come here alone, but he caught me on the way. He convinced me that he should be the one to tell you, that it was a family matter.”
Trin pulled her hand out of his grip.
“Family? Bell, that man is not family. You are family, Bell. You!”
Bell dropped his elbow onto the table and leaned into his palm, staring down at the wood. “I know…” he started. “I know, but he was very convincing.” A short and almost sadistic laugh escaped him.
Trin scoffed. “Why is it that I’m the only one who can see that man for what he is?” She pulled the bottle of wine across the table and drank from it straight. Wine trickled down the side of her jaw and dripped onto her dust-stained coat. Gasping, she set the bottle onto the table. “It’s like every man I know is trying to fuck me tonight,” she said a little too loudly.
A patron at another table turned and winked at her, clearly too drunk to recognize the tone, but Trin’s face could not be mistaken and the man’s wink doubled to a blink and fearful grin as his gaze shot away in feigned innocence. Trin didn’t notice. Despite the glare, Bell met her eyes, knowing her to be more talk and gestures than action. She softened her features then put out her hand to cover Bell’s.
“What did Taehrn say?” Bell asked.
“Apparently, Father left everything to me. Taehrn wanted me to sign it over to him and Lila. They’re going to have a baby, it’s only a few months away, and they want to make sure the child receives,” her voice deepened in a polished and accurate mockery of the First Legionnaire’s. “‘That to which it is entitled.’ But we both know it isn’t about the baby. It’s about Taehrn’s ambition. I told him no. Father left everything to me because he knew what Taehrn’d do with it. But I don’t want to deal with this. I don’t know anything about running the ships or the estate. It’s too much responsibility.”
“Then maybe signing it over to Lila is the right thing to do,” Bell said.
“No. She’d destroy it all and Mother’d be out on the streets. I’ve got to go back and handle it myself.” She drank again from the bottle. Normally, Bell would stop her, but right now, she was in grief. For once, she needed it.
“If you need my help, as always, you only need ask.”
Trin smiled at the offer, her eyes slightly glazed, and squeezed his hand. The fire gone, she looked tired.
Deciding to change the subject, he waved at the empty booth behind Trin. “Your friend seemed upset tonight.”
Bell knew that Trin was one to hold a grudge and the boy had said she was angry. He wanted to make sure she didn’t abandon the boy while, he too, was in mourning.
“I yelled at him,” Trin said. “He’s a sour bastard and I don’t want to put up with it, so I told him so.”
“You should give him some slack. The boy’s in pain.”
Trin sighed, which turned into a yawn, before saying, “I realize that, but it all seems self-inflicted. I don’t want to spend my time with someone who tries to ruin all that’s good around him.”
“He’s had a hard life, Trin.”
“That’s no excuse for his attitude. He’s had a choice.”
Bell rubbed his eye with the hand he leaned against. “I know it’s no excuse.” Pausing, he knew what to say. “But he too, recently lost his father.”
“He told you that?”
“Aye, and there’s more to it. The boy grew up at the mines at Liv.”
“So?”
“So, he worked for the deacon.”
“And what’s that mean?”
“Oh Trin, you’ve been to the mines, and before they closed, too. The Writ may have ended fifty years ago, but the mines at Liv had been open longer than that. Up until the day they closed they were owned by the priesthood, and the man who ran them wasn’t a pleasant overseer. You must’ve seen the conditions.”
“No,” she yawned. “The merchants always bought from the fort or from the ironworks at Riften. We weren’t allowed near the mines themselves because the prisoners were said to be dangerous.”
Bell grimaced. “Trin, as the iron ran out the foreman, Indaht Trask, grew desperate. He was both a deacon and a legionnaire, and a legionnaire serves the priesthood first. When the iron started to go, it was his reputation and lifestyle on the line. He started working miners to death trying to find new veins of ore, and those that claimed they couldn’t, or refused to dig, he beat. Jem says he was ten when the mines closed, so he must’ve been even younger when the deacon started killing the miners. He says he saw it all. Worse, did you see the charcoal stains on his hands? Or the lash marks on his arms and legs? A year or two of that shit, Trin, I’d say he’s got an excuse to be sour.”
“I won’t make myself unhappy for his sake,” Trin said.
“I know, and I’m not saying you should, but if anyone can bring him around, it’s you.”
Trin, leaning on her palms, her eyes heavy, watched him silently. “I wasn’t going to give up on him,” she said. “At least not yet. I only wanted to make a point and teach him a lesson about minding his words. Besides,” another yawn. “I trust him.”
“I’m glad,” Bell said. He considered mentioning the Cleric’s staff, but held his tongue. It would only heighten her paranoid belief in Fate if she thought Jem was working for the Cleric.
Trin leaned back into her chair. He felt her foot kick his leg as she stretched out, smiling, eyes closed.
Bell cleared his throat. Her eyes fluttered open.
“How was Lock?” Bell asked.
Trin closed her eyes. “Routine.”
“And?”
“And what?” Trin asked.
“Did you learn anything new?”
“Nothing to help me.” Trin opened her eyes slowly. She glared at him. “Did the Cleric say anything new?”
“Nothing. But…”
“But what?”
“Something’s different, Trin. Ever since you took the page from that book, I’ve just had a weird feeling.”
“Starting to believe me, then?”
He didn’t want to say yes. He’d agreed to help her with this, as farfetched as her theories went, but his goal was to make her see the truth, not enable her. For answer, he shrugged.
Trin squinted at him, then leaned back and drank. “What’s this feeling about, then?” she asked.
“It’s just…” Bell paused. “The Cleric’s behavior. The Grand’s too. It’s like you’ve kicked their nest, and now they’ve all stirred. So much so that the Cleric left.”
“Left? Left the chapel?”
“Left Trel,” Bell said. “You ever heard of that before?”
“Well there was…” Trin stopped. “He… Well he must have at some point, right?”
“He went by himself. Just him. Even left Ivan behind.”
“See?” Trin said. “I told you. It’s that book. The book has some kind of answer. I’m getting too close and now Fate-”
Bell’s shoulders tensed. “Now the Cleric’s working for Fate?” he said. His words came closer to mockery than he’d intended. He only wanted to point out how foolish she sounded.
“I didn’t say that,” Trin frowned. “You have to let me finish. I ruined the book, and then he sent me to get another copy. It meant something to him, and for some reason it meant something to her too. Fate’s gotten nervous, Bell. I did something there, when I broke into that library, and it’s like… it’s like she’s pushing harder now. Like the event she’s cursed me to bring about is more urgent, more immediate.”
“That’s absurd, Trin. You know she isn’t real.”
“Don’t say that. You promised me you wouldn’t say that. You read the page. You know she exists, and you know she is the god of Fate.”
He didn’t want to argue, so he held his tongue.
“You don’t believe me?” she asked.
“You know how I feel about it. There’s no po
int treading old ground.”
“You’re probably right, but you agreed to help me, and even if you don’t believe me, I’m going to hold you to your promise. So, what are we going to do?”
“I don’t know, Trin.”
Trin sighed. “Me neither,” she said. “What’s it been now? Eighteen years? And the only solution I’ve found is the one on that page.”
“You’re not suggesting…”
“What? That I kill myself?”
Bell’s hand tensed as his eyes drifted to the next table. The drunk who’d winked at Trin was now smiling absently, his eyes closed as his companions dealt another hand of cards. Bell felt the sudden need to stare at him… at anything but her. They’d discussed the page and its ‘solution’ a few times, but that never made it easier. She believed it… gods, she really did.
Trin nudged him under the table, drawing his eyes to meet hers.
“No,” she said. “Not yet, but I feel like we’ve reached the end here, Bell. ‘Only Death can end one’s Fate.’”
“Don’t say that.”
“I don’t want to, but gods, Bell, it’s true. I’ve done everything that I can… and we’re nearing the end of my options. We thought we could fight her, but what if there’s nothing left to do but give in? I cannot give in to Fate. I will not become this god of Death.”
“There must be another way, Trin, and we will find it.”
Trin yawned, her head lilting toward her chest. She righted herself to drink more wine, and when she sank back into her posture, she leaned farther forward. “I won’t let her win, Bell,” Trin said. “I won’t.”
He held back what he wanted to tell her. He knew the way she should end this, knew that she should simply face facts, set all this aside, and finally admit that all of it had been made up in her head, but he didn’t say so. He loved her too much to accuse her of delusion. “We’ll find something, Trin. Don’t worry.”
Trin grunted a laugh. He watched her scalp as she leaned toward the table, her breathing slowing to a gentle rhythm.
“Bell,” she whispered. “How was the burial?”
He smiled sadly. “It was beautiful, Trin. The priests came out in full colors, and all the merchant families too. Your mother spoke, and so did Lila.” Bell decided not to tell her that Taehrn gave the eulogy. “It was nice enough for the High Cleric himself. Your father would’ve been honored.”
Trin emitted a light snore. Bell picked her up from the chair, carried her quietly to the bar, and asked the innkeeper for the whereabouts of her room before he carried her up the stairs. He opened the door, left it open for light, and set her on the empty bed. Jem slept quietly and motionless in the other bed, his body rolled into a ball facing the far wall. Bell took off Trin’s boots, then for a moment, he watched her sleep. Even with the bruises, she was a beautiful woman. He’d have to ask her about those. Walking away, he closed and locked the door gently, then slipped the key under the door. Downstairs, he purchased a bottle of spirits, paid his bill, and waved goodnight to the innkeeper.
Suffering was not a note of debt, but maybe sometimes it should be. And empathy was an easy thing to give.
CHAPTER NINE
There was a creature in the bog that was stagnant. Sybil’s daughters had found it years before, perched upon a boulder beside the murky pond only a short distance from their home. Her daughters, Tin and Iri, claimed the beast never moved from its perch, soundless but for the steady rhythm of its breathing. Though the creature had the head of a toad, it did not croak or flick its tongue. Instead, the beast sat stoically upon its rock, staring into the foggy waters of the pond.
Hearing of this creature for the first time, she had made her way down the hill and into the forest with her daughters at her side. Tin and Iri had taken to playing in the bog – despite her warnings – and claimed to have watched the creature for three days, the entirety of which the animal did not turn away its gaze. Reaching the small pool that she had dug and filled herself, she saw the animal of which they spoke.
At first glance, Sybil had thought the beast a statue, so silent and motionless it was. Only when she got within an arm’s length did the animal’s eyes snap open to regard her. Startled, she had leapt back in fear. The animal, which the twins called a bulltoad, had not reacted to her scream, but had simply stared into her eyes. Indeed, for the length of their visit, the toad had watched Sybil’s every step. Even when she stepped behind the creature, though it did not turn to face her, she could feel its gaze upon her.
Curious, for she did not recognize the beast as one of her own, Sybil and her daughters had observed the toad for an entire day and night. To her surprise, the creature – though it had the strong legs of a bulldog – never ran, hopped, or swam. Her daughters had been correct.
She had created frogs and toads and other creatures for this pond, but none such as this. That did not overly concern her, for she knew that creatures were wont to change on their own, but she found the fact that the beast did not eat rather disturbing.
Unnerved by the creature, Sybil had stopped visiting the pond. Even so, Tin and Iri kept her up to date on the animal. According to her daughters, the beast still hadn’t moved, but week after week it grew larger. Now, they said, the bulltoad was the size of the dog that its body resembled. They also said the beast had given up gazing into the pond and that now the eyes paced back and forth as if following some imaginary prey. Sybil believed that the beast was still watching her – that it had never broken its stare – and she feared she knew why.
Over the years, she had become apprehensive. Of this world, Sybil had created a paradise, and somehow it was not enough. She had created the trees, the shrubs, the grasses and even the fungi. She had designed the birds and the squirrels and the fish in the ponds. She had designed the ponds. She had designed the water. She had changed her eyes and her skin and her ears to withstand this harsh place. This world should have been everything she had once pursued, but something was missing, a thing that she could not name, and of which, she could only describe the symptoms.
By day, she spent her time with her daughters, learning and creating and experimenting. All of these things made her happy, but by night, as she lay in bed to try and sleep, she felt an emptiness in her chest. It was not suffocation, for she could not suffocate, but the feeling was the same as that moment between two breaths, when air has been expelled from the lungs and they wait hollow in anticipation of the next. Each night, this feeling would make her restless, forestalling sleep.
When it finally came, she dreamed of a burning city with geysers of flame erupting from towers of stone and wood. Horrifically, she always awoke refreshed and relaxed. Somehow these dreams of death and awful destruction would calm her, a fact that – in hopeful denial – she would ignore until she lie awake the next evening.
Sybil blamed this callousness on the Blood Call, though she sensed a deeper cause nestled inside her. Certainly, she had felt the blood’s influence for many years after arriving upon this world, and it called for such acts of madness and depravity, but it had been many years since she had felt that urge whispering through her nerves. She believed herself finally free, which meant the frenzy was only a scapegoat for the true cause of her troubles.
Sybil had been abandoned. Her mother had not kept her promise, and for so long, she had been alone. She had no closure on the events in Mother’s temple. She didn’t know what had come of Just and Galina’s conversation, or of Silt’s revolution. Beneath an impenetrable and starless sky, she had lived for years unknown. In this secluded place, the solitude had been crippling, and her musings insufficient.
Life could be made from simple processes. A single thought, if powerful and brilliant enough, could elicit lasting adaptations. Grasses could be made to grow without light, and then shrubs and even trees. Eyes could be made to see through fog. A fish could be made to walk on land. All it took was knowledge and a will to make it so. She had the knowledge, but the will was dying.
She had b
een in love with her art… until her audience and colleagues had been taken away. Though Sybil had found ways to alter the very chemistry of life, that progress felt meaningless without a civilization to benefit from it. With none to delight in her discoveries, she had lost the joy, and so too, the will.
In a desperate effort to halt the decay of her spirit, she had taken a piece of herself, and with it, created two others. Their namesakes, Galina’s lost children, had not been identical so she had decided that they would not be either. She had given them less porous skin to resist the harsh air of this place and also experimented with more vibrant colors, both for aesthetic and practical reasons. She had wanted them to reflect the metals of their names, in homage to the jest her sister had made upon the naming her own daughters. The effect was beautiful cerulean skin; Iri’s a shock-white silver and Tin’s similar but with faint shades of blue. To acclimatize them to this unfortunate home, she had shaped their eyes and ears according to the changes she’d made to her own. She had created their bodies so that, like her, they need not breathe, but she had left them with the need to eat and sleep, and even returned to these pleasures herself, for she was not so cruel as to deny them to her children.
Her daughters were her crowning achievement, and yet, she felt guilty for bringing them to life. She loved them with all her heart, but this world was a desolate place, and in her effort to combat loneliness, she had cursed them to share her fate.
And now her spirit was dead.
She needed to know where Mother was, and what it was that Just and Galina had been accusing her of. Between Nikom’s unhealthy view of mortals, Galina’s distorted view of the birthright, and the jaded beliefs of the younglings, the pantheon had already been fragile. If Mother truly had been meddling as Galina and Just implied, it may have proved disastrous, especially with the Call added into the mix. She needed to know why her mother had sent her here. What if her mother had been attempting to force godlings into specific aspects? What if that was the reason she had stranded Sybil here? If so, what might Sybil become?
Death's Merchant: Common Among Gods - Book One Page 16