Galina had said that Mother wanted to create a god of Death, and Mother had said that Sybil’s aspect could not be tainted. It was possible Mother had said that because Sybil was meant to be this creature, but if so, Sybil had not seen the concept in herself, nor any signs of Mother’s meddling. In the depths of the Call’s sway, Sybil had been close to understanding what such a god might be, a god whose aspect centered on killing or sickness and disease. And she supposed such gods were necessary in a pantheon which also required Justice and Alchemy, but why would Mother desire to create such a god, and if such a thing did exist, why not other gods representing other elemental forces? If Death, then why not Life? Why not Love and Despair? Tragedy and Joy? Earth, and Wind, and Fire?
There were so many aspects missing from the pantheon. What made Death so important? Why should that singular aspect be so important to Mother? Sybil wished she had someone to speak to, wished she had some way to test her theories and confirm her hypotheses.
And that desire frightened her, for if she thought to test the limits of the pantheon, if she had thought to test what aspects might arise from a little trial and error, then it must have occurred to Mother, also. It must have occurred to the god of gods…
What if Mother were the true Alchemist in the family? What if that had ever been her true aim: to play scientist with her children’s lives? To test the bounds of her world, and see what she might create?
And if Mother had such power… such foresight… such control, then what was all this? Why had there been a war? Why had Mother allowed Silt to kill the Butcher, to murder Galina’s children, and destroy her work? Why abandon me here?
Unless this was simply another trial in her list of experiments. Unless this world she had given Sybil, was but a test tube, and Sybil an unfettered microbe.
Sybil needed to move her daughters away from this place before they traveled the same path of obsession, but she could not. She had been told to wait, and for now, she would. But how much longer? For the first time in her life, she was waiting for a sign instead of acting, and it was excruciating. Sybil trusted her mother, but perhaps she should not. Sybil’s desires for her daughters, herself, and her science had been forestalled.
And that is how she knew that the bulltoad continued to hold its gaze: it had met a soul of common torture, for within her own flesh, there lived a stagnant creature. And its name was Sybil.
CHAPTER TEN
Trin worried Bell. Always in the past, when the idea of giving up her search had reared its ugly head, Trin’s response had been, “I will not let Fate win. I will find her, I will stop her, and I will butchering murder you if you mention it again.”
But her words tonight… Trin had brought up the solution on the page as though it were no large thing… killing herself, gods. She’d never treated the idea so casually before… she’d never been so blunt. And she’d said that she was at the end. Gods…
Bell hoped her depression was nothing more than grief over her father’s death, but he could not be certain. Trin had changed in the last few months. Ever since she had broken into the library and stolen the page, she had been flightier. She had run off to Lock almost without speaking to him, with little explanation for why she went, other than because the Cleric had willed it, and with no explanation at all as to what she intended.
Bell had hoped that her return would bring with it renewed vigor, that she would return having found some new proof of Fate and the curse, and that she would have forgotten the proof they had already found… but she hadn’t, and now with her father’s death added into the equation, Bell was afraid she might do something stupid.
He wished that she had never found that passage, wished that he had never mentioned the fact Teachings of a Whore referenced both Fate and Death. The damnable thing was gibberish, but gods, she didn’t seem to see it that way. She believed the butchering thing. She believed the words on that blooding page.
And he was terrified that he might lose her. Whether to obsession or to the ideas that page had instilled, gods he could not bear it.
Trin would not become some ill-fated, grotesque… she would not become this god of Death. She was too kind a soul, too wonderful a woman. Why couldn’t she see that it was all in her head?
Leaving the inn, Bell shifted the bottle of spirits to his offhand then made certain his sword was loose in its scabbard. Three days ago, one of Bell’s comrades had been found dead in an alley. The man was rumored to be a drunk and a gambler, who was known within the Legion for not paying his debts, but even so, the common fear was that he’d been killed because he was a soldier. Jem was not alone in his hatred of the Legion, and only in the Holy City of Trel, was the Legion truly respected. Even in Lane, only a week away from the capital, soldiers were despised.
Sadly, this hatred was not unwarranted, for in the five-hundred-year history of the Writ, Deacon Trask was no anomaly. In his attempt to replace the Mother’s rule with his priesthood, the first High Cleric, Dydal, had made a crucial error in judgment. Theft, even by divine right, was still theft, and the Writ was no morale booster. Only the priests and those legionnaires with high enough standing in the priesthood had ever benefitted from the Writ, but the Legion had always acted as enforcers, and so it was they who’d received the hatred.
But maybe Dydal had foreseen this backlash against the Legion and maybe that had been half the reason. Dydal had claimed to enact the Writ in order to protect Trel from the instability following the Ascension, when the gods had left the mortal world in favor of the heavens, but to Bell that seemed a convenient lie. The Legion was far older – even at that time – than Dydal’s cult, and many texts said that he and Just had often been at odds. Perhaps by the Writ, Dydal had hoped to discredit Just’s armies. After all, the Legion would have been the strongest contender in what must have been a vicious power struggle.
Bell looked up into the sky. Both moons were out this evening, the small moon high and full, the large moon bright but for the crescent-shaped shadows engulfing both top and bottom; the phase of Harvest’s Cradle. In this sign, the small moon was said to be the Mother’s face looking down into the cradle of her first grandchild. Are they truly gone? Bell thought. Or are the gods up there somewhere, watching over us as the writings say?
Bell preferred to think they were, but the more he dealt with Trin’s belief in Fate, the more he wished they were just a legend. Maybe it was skepticism that had kept him from choosing a patron, but Trin’s experience was beginning to make him sour on the whole religion thing.
Most legionnaires had no trouble picking a god to worship and study, but Bell couldn’t decide. Through the Legion, he was already sworn to Just, but he wasn’t sure he’d pick Just again for his priestly endeavors. With so many gods in the pantheon, many legionnaires did exactly that, if only to keep things simple. Bell liked Just and his aspect well enough, but something about the station felt hollow. No… not hollow. Dishonest. Bell had worked in Trel’s stockade. He knew justice well enough and he already served Just, so why not study a different god, one more suited to his personality?
In this effort, Bell forced himself to read a bit of Dydal’s The Pantheon every evening, requiring himself to learn something new about at least one god each day. So far, none of them had stood out. Some were easy to dismiss, like Butcher and Slayer, who were too immoral, or Smith and Mason who were too… mundane. Mystic was too mysterious. Alchemist he liked, but he didn’t have the patience for the art, nor the skill. Farmer? Bell laughed. The day he picked up a hoe would be the day his family disowned him. He was not particularly maternal, nor was he… slutty – Hah, Trin would call it adventurous – enough to explore his faith through carnal desires, which discounted the Whore.
That pretty much summed up the main gods, but there was a host of lessers. Slayer was too ominous, Assassin too merciless, Planner too boring. For a time, he had considered Sailor, but – Bell realized he was blushing – well, Trin had given up her dream of being a river merchant. Right now, h
e liked the premise of Wanderer, but what kind of legionnaire swore himself to her? Well, probably some of the other scouts. Maybe if he had the opportunity to walk out into the world and just see what was there, he could swear himself to that, but for now, he had too many responsibilities.
In less than a month they’d be in Lock. He’d always been able to handle himself in a fight, but now he had people to care for, and most of them didn’t have his training. Bell had been taught from an early age how to use a sword and knew how to turn a blade or block a thrust. Few in the Legion could say as much. His newest recruit had been a tallow merchant until a few days ago – conscripted for being drunk at the wrong time. Was it any wonder the people of Lane were killing soldiers?
Bell found that he was gripping his sword hilt. Forcing himself to relax, he stretched his fingers. Even if the townspeople hated the Legion, none would dare strike a legionnaire. It had happened before in the Legion’s history, and entire towns had been burnt to the ground in retribution. Maybe after this war, things would get better. The current High Cleric was different than those of history. He seemed to care little for maintaining the priesthood’s power and had already ended the Writ. But look how little good it’s done so far. Fifty years later and kids like Jem are still feeling the backlash. But no, Bell was willing to bet that Trask would be the Writ’s last horror story. Or, at least, he could hope. And Jem? Well, a little bird had told Bell something about that boy was important. Hopefully, Trin could turn him around.
Perimeter torches coming into view, Bell slowed and exaggerated his steps; there was nothing worse than someone sneaking up on you while on night watch. Bell’s footsteps echoed loudly across the cobbles. As he entered the first ring of light, stopping to show he was no threat, a guard stepped into the torchlight. Recognizing Bell, the man waved him forward.
“Fun night?” the guard called. The second guard, who, by protocol, Bell knew would be present, stepped out of the shadows.
“Not the greatest,” Bell said. “but,” – holding up the bottle of spirits – “the right ingredients.”
“Lucky bastard,” the second guard said. “Rich an’ I haven’ had a drink in three weeks.”
“Aye,” said Rich. “Been rough since we marched outta Trel. Least there a man could get a good drink. Instead, me and Halls, we gotta guard this damn stretch ta’ make sure no one else can drink some.”
“Good day watch?” Halls asked.
“Can’t complain,” Bell said. “Was quiet enough today, and the trees on the far end make for plenty of shade.”
“Pah!” Halls exclaimed. “You nobles an’ your shade. Would it kill ya ta spend a few hours in the sun like the resta us?”
Bell smiled at the man. Halls was an old veteran whose family had moved from Lock to Trel when he was a child. He’d been born in a lower class and still held onto the Lockish concept of peasantry and noblemen. Though Bell was no nobleman, he was a member of the Priest’s Caste, and even though Halls had spent most of his life beneath a barracks roof – where the conditions weren’t exactly modest – the veteran still saw some distinction between his own status and Bell’s. By now, Bell was accustomed to the jokes.
“Yes,” Bell answered plainly. When the laughter died, he added, “And for you? Has it been an easy night?”
The two guards looked at each other. “Not bad,” Rich said. “Just one fella tried to sneak into town. One of the conscripts. Kept saying that if he don’t tell his wife where he’s going she’ll run off with his brother.”
“And?” Bell asked.
“Well, a course we couldn’t let the poor guy through,” Halls said. “Wasn’t no way to be sure he’d come back. We told ‘im we’d find ‘im a way ta send her a letter tomorrow if he comes an’ finds us. Figure tha’s the best we can do.”
Bell frowned. “If he shows up, send him to me. I’ll write the letter myself.” Again, he held up the bottle. “When you get off watch, stop by our camp. We’ve got plenty to share.”
Both men thanked him, saluted, and then wandered back into the night. Bell continued on to his tent.
At this hour, the camp was largely silent. A few fires still burned here and there, but most would already be asleep in preparation for tomorrow’s march. The Legion would finally be leaving Lane, or at least, crossing the river.
Scheduled to make a late crossing, most of his squad was still awake when he reached their camp. Skibs and Acklin sat before the fire with instruments in hand. Skibs leaned over his large, worn leather drum, with Acklin to his right, polishing a fine wooden lute with a torn cloth. Bern stretched back against an overturned log, his feet toward the fire and his hands across his chest. If not for the glint of yellow reflecting from his eyes Bell might’ve thought he was asleep. Rise stood at the fire on Skibs’ left, her back to the flames and her hands behind her back. It was she who greeted him.
“Welcome home, Bell,” she said. The others turned to him.
“Thanks,” Bell said. “I brought us a gift.” He held up the bottle of spirits then handed it to the first hand that reached for it. Acklin. His newest recruit. The former tallow merchant set the lute aside carefully then fished around in the pocket of his heavy dress coat. The man seemed rather unorganized, for he pulled out a star shaped signet ring, a spare lute string, and a black wax stick before retrieving a simple corkscrew.
“That’s not regulation,” Bell joked, crossing to the fire and sitting on the overturned log against which Bern leaned.
“Sure it is, sir,” Acklin asserted. “It’s an eye gouger. Perfect for pullin’ out eyes.”
“What do you need to pull out eyes for?” Bern asked.
“I’ma keep ‘em,” Acklin said. “Figure I need another hobby to keep me busy. Doesn’t hurt that this one’s creepy enough to intimidate them barbarians we gotta face.” Pulling out the cork, he thrust the bottle toward Bell, offering him the first drink. Politely, Bell waved it away. Acklin took a drink then handed it across Skibs to Rise. She accepted, drank, and passed it back to Skibs.
“The others asleep?” Bell asked.
“Kenneth and Perval are,” answered Rise, her throaty tenor even warmer after the drink.
“And Tel?”
“Cashed in her draw.”
“Tel did? That’s unusual for her.”
“She gived up on hoping yer’d swear ter the Whore,” Skibs said in his thick Gableman’s accent. Rise shot him a look. The others laughed, but Bell thought nothing of it. The bottle reached him, and for their sake, he took a small sip then passed it on. The bottle was for them, but it would be rude not to drink, especially on Acklin’s first night.
“Something I need to know?” Bell asked.
“Nawh, but I hope yer merchant friend handles a knife as well as she does them tits.”
Acklin and Bern laughed. Rise kicked Skibs and then his drum.
“Aii,” Skibs moaned. “What-yer do that fer woman? Yer know the only tits I got eyes fer are yers.”
Acklin and Bern laughed even harder.
“You need to learn to keep your damned mouth shut,” Rise scolded. “Pass me that bottle,” she demanded of Bern. He obeyed without qualm.
“Tel was jealous of Trin?” Bell asked.
Eyes shifted away. The crackling fire was the only response. Acklin, who now held the bottle, nursed it quietly as his eyes wandered from face to face. It seemed he was not yet familiar with the apparent gossip that went on out of Bell’s notice.
Realizing that he wouldn’t get an answer, Bell decided to speak of other things. “How was the first day of drill?” he asked Acklin.
“Not terrible, I’ve always been good at takin’ beatings. Best boxer in Lane I am. At least I was until that bastard Kilm told the guard I jumped him. He never could take losin’ but he’s a good fight and I never could resist rilin’ him up.”
From what Bell knew, Acklin had been conscripted for starting a drunken brawl at a local tavern where he played as a weekend musician. Apparently, the man had a l
ot of hobbies.
“Today,” the man continued, “a friend of mine brought me some things, includin’ my lute, so I’ll be happy enough.”
It was good to hear, but Bell was skeptical. The conscripts rarely adjusted to life as well as the enlisted. Bell wanted to ask if he were okay, but that would probably embarrass him, so Bell kept his mouth shut.
Acklin continued, “I got my lute, I got some fightin’ to look forward to, and maybe some time with them courtesans I keep hearin’ about.” Brandishing the bottle, he added, “Shit, if I’d known the drink was free, I’d of enlisted years ago.”
“I wouldn’t get used to it,” Bern said. “Might get pretty dry on the march.”
From there, the conversation drifted to Lock, and then Dekahn, and back to the courtesans. Somehow every conversation always seemed to drift back to those legionnaires sworn to the Whore.
It was a shame what hatred could do. Aside from Skibs and his wife, Bell had only known these men and women for less than a month, but already he felt comfortable around them. In the months to come, he would need to rely heavily on them. They’d be fighting a war for Trel, and because of the uniform they wore, they were hated by the people they served. It was true, the Legion had often failed in that duty, but most of the soldiers themselves were innocent. In a simple change of clothing, a man like Acklin could go from respected tallow merchant and member of the community to ‘Legion scum.’ Here in Lane, Acklin would get sympathy from those he knew, and friends would bring him gifts and tokens to see him off, but only a few miles down the road he’d be just another Legion soldier. For those who’d experienced the Legion’s sour history – for those like Jem, and even some who hadn’t – the uniform erased a man’s face and made him a monster. It wasn’t fair.
Growing tired, Bell got up and said goodnight to his squad. They all returned the courtesy before Acklin continued on with a story about a Rorish girl he’d known in his youth. Most wouldn’t adjust the way he seemed to be. The conscripts, if any survived, would probably hold this transgression against their country for the remainder of their lives. There was no national pride for those who felt betrayed by their nation.
Death's Merchant: Common Among Gods - Book One Page 17