Wilt’s gaze wandered to his new world of dull colors and passive sensations. And would the world not seem bleaker for a god of Death… He glanced to the fire pit and the bones of the dead elk he’d dragged to its foot. And would that bleakness not give Death strength?
It was near impossible for Wilt to hold his tongue. Part of him wanted to scream that he would never be the ally of a god that had tortured him so, and yet the other half wanted to beg that Just see the reason in the creature’s words. But he said nothing, for the ghost had explicitly asked him to remain silent, and he was not about to anger the thing while it advocated on his behalf.
For a moment, Just seemed to consider the ghost’s words, his jaw chewing empty air as he watched the empty field. “No,” Just said. “I think not. This rapist will not be my friend. His type cannot be trusted.”
Wilt fought down a snarl. If the god did not want to show him mercy, then Wilt was fine with that. The god could rot, for all Wilt cared. If it truly was his destiny to become the god of Death, then he might even help the rotter to his grave.
The god’s attention was damning as the curse bit into Wilt’s scars.
“More evil thoughts, eh Wilt?”
Wilt shrugged, and for a mercy, the god said nothing. Justice simply watched him with a speculative eye, before turning away. Just looked to the southeast, and from nowhere, a pack appeared in his hands. Legion issue.
“Tomorrow,” said Just, “you will head into the rot and rejoin your people.”
“What?” Wilt demanded. “Rejoin the Vandu? I… I cannot, they will know me for a traitor. They will know my name. They will kill me for the fear I might unseat their consul.”
“And that is a problem?” Just asked. “Is that not what you want? Would you not like to become their consul? Come, Wilt, be a good little boy, and I will give you the crown you’ve ever coveted.”
“But how? How will I go there? They will kill me on sight.”
The god tossed the pack to Wilt.
Opening it, he bristled. “No,” he said, realizing what the god intended. “I will not wear these. You wish me to be a courtesan among my people? Is there anyone they might hate more?”
The god seemed unamused. “It will only be for a short time, only long enough for them to know you as an ally. You will rejoin your people. You will wear these robes, you will spread to them a message from their gods-”
“The Vandu have no gods!”
“Well, they shall have one now. And you shall be their priest. Do well, and I shall make you their consul, too.”
It was tempting, but… “But… but I cannot wear these!” Wilt said, pulling the hooded courtesan’s robe from the bag.
“Why not?” the god said, feigning shock. “You said you were a servant of the Whore. Should you not serve her in the way of all her servants?”
“But the draw!”
“Ah Wilt, I thought you would be happy. After all, it is your lust that has brought you to this point. This way, you will have all the women you desire.”
“It’s not the women I’m worried about.”
The disembodied voice, so like Just’s, snorted. “Ha! Now that would be justice!”
Despite the clear anger on Just’s face, he ignored the speaker.
Gods, Wilt realized, Just does not know that I can hear the voice that mocks him. That was why the ghost had asked Wilt for silence.
“I am not so cruel a master,” Just said. “The courtesans choose their own companions, so you will not have to fear on that account, nor would I throw you to your people to be torn apart.”
“But… but my people will know my name,” Wilt whined.
“You will take a new name. You will take the name Twil.”
“But, they will not let me near them…”
“They will. Because you are Vandu.”
“A Vanduman named Twil? They will never believe that.”
“Do you doubt your character?”
“Does he have character?” the ghost asked. “Do either of you really have character?”
The god’s mouth twinged in annoyance, but he did not reply. It took all of Wilt’s focus to avoid looking at the spot he’d last seen the creature.
“What are you implying?” Wilt asked.
“I imply nothing, Wilt. You say that you are Vandu, then be Vandu. Why should they not believe that you are what you actually are? Unless you are saying that you are more Trellish than Vandu…”
Wilt’s lip curled. He was not Trellish. But… but he was not Vandu either. He hadn’t been for a long time.
“What are you after? What purpose could this serve?”
Just frowned, studying Wilt with that green gaze Wilt was quickly coming to associate with evil. “It will serve many purposes.”
“To humiliate me?” Wilt asked.
“Far from it, Wilt. I want your people to accept you. I believe that they shall accept you. If I did not believe it, I would not send you.”
“But why?”
“Yes, Just. Why?” The shadow’s voice was high and whiney. Was Wilt being mocked by an invisible man?
“Do you think that you are the master here?” Just said. Again, Wilt couldn’t tell who Just was responding to, Wilt, or this other man.
Wilt paused, fearing the pain that came with disobedience. He sighed through gritted teeth, still not looking at the creature which he knew stood behind him. “I cannot accomplish anything,” Wilt grated, “if I do not know what I am meant to do.”
Just nodded. He seemed calm, despite his clear annoyance. “Fine. Fine, Wilt. I send you to rejoin your people, because I shall need them.”
“Need them?”
“Yes. Need them. They are the only people in the right position to assist me, and frankly you are lucky, for it makes you valuable. I had planned to kill you, and now, I find that it is fortuitous that I have been forced to spare your life.”
“Why would you need them?”
“Because they are outsiders, whose loyalty is unquestioned. Because they provide adequate cover to allow you an excuse to enter Dekahn, to even, perhaps, sit with those far above your station.”
“Ah…” the ghost said. “Ah, I am starting to see your game, my friend.”
Just flashed a quick glare above Wilt’s head, then stared back upon Wilt.
Despite urging himself not to, Wilt followed Just’s glare. If the thing didn’t want Wilt to reveal that Wilt knew of him, then why didn’t it shut up?
“You think that anyone in Lock would accept a priest?” Wilt asked, incredulous. “Anyone with power?”
Just shrugged. “Maybe not. Maybe so. But either way it should get you close enough to obtain that which I seek.”
“So… what?” the ghost asked. “You’re sending him to rejoin his people so that he can weasel his way in with the Dekahnian nobility? You realize it would be easier to just send him to Dekahn, yes?”
Just bit his lip. “It is possible to have more than one goal,” Just snapped. His gaze turned on Wilt. “I just need you close enough to steal something that I need.”
It was not difficult to offer Just a confused look. “You want me to be a common thief?”
“You are already worse than a thief, rapist. And yes. I do. You will go to your people, and then with them to Dekahn, and then you will steal for me a book, and then you will leave.”
“A book?” Wilt asked.
“Yes, a book. Teachings of a Whore. A text written by Dydal.”
“Why can’t you steal it yourself?”
“Because I am telling you to.”
The ghost laughed.
“But why place me with my people at all?”
Just sighed. “Why ask the same question you have already asked?”
“Because you’ve not given me a butchering answer!” A shock of pain curdled Wilt’s gut. Tears flooded his eyes as the eight barbs of the Betrayer’s Mark dug into his flesh.
“Are you finished?” Just asked.
The pain was
biting, but Wilt refused to let this go. “I want a rotting answer!”
“Because, Wilt,” the ghost drawled, “he wants your people for himself. He wants them in his service.”
“I want,” Just said slowly. “I want… to show your people the error of their ways, reform them, and then use their strength.”
Wilt swallowed the last of his tears as the words settled. Just’s words had been tamer than that of the ghost, but Wilt sensed that the creature’s words were equally as accurate. “You… need their strength?”
“I do.”
“But… but my people…”
“Are a bunch of closed-minded savages who ride little horsies and tend fluffy sheep?” The ghost’s voice, mocking and shrill, had moved closer.
“Are men of Trel,” Just said. “And I mean to regain the whole of it. To reunite it as it once was, and if your people, who hate the gods more than any other, can be shown to follow me, then who else will stand apart? None, Wilt. Not even the blooders of Atherahn.”
“You… You think that you can unite all of Trel? You’re insane.”
“No, Wilt. I am a god. And I have conquered these lands once before, and will do it again.”
“But my people hate you.”
“They hate my brother Nikom. They hate Farmer.”
Wilt shook his head. “I won’t do it. That is… that is… the Vandu are a free people.”
“So?” Just said. “I am offering you a chance to be my servant. To lead your people on my behalf, in my service, and at my behest. As I have told you many times before, Wilt – or shall I say, Priest Twil – if you serve me without defiance, you will live a happy life. It is time the Vandu regained their gods. And you shall profit from it.”
Looking down at the porcelain mask that awaited him, Wilt whispered under his breath. “And is that worth selling my soul?”
“That is not a question I can answer,” answered Just.
But even as the god spoke, Wilt questioned something else the man had said… Perhaps it was time the Vandu had a god… but not Just… no, Wilt had another god in mind. A god of Death.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
A cascade of words falls on deaf ears. Though Trin speaks, Jem does not listen. He is trapped in his thoughts once more, a plague of red and black following in his wake. It is no matter. Trin’s words are not for him. She speaks to Rise, one of Bell’s squad mates, who sits beside her on the bench. Jem is alone, not by exclusion but by choice. He sits behind them in the wagon bed, his back leaning against the same board as they. He could take part in this conversation if he wanted, but has chosen otherwise. It is not guilt that stalks his mind today, but ashes – or rather the dust that trails through the air in like fashion. It is all that the Legion can leave behind and now he is among them.
The imagery is not lost on him. In the cart, he moves forward without effort of his own, while forever looking backward. His memories follow in rank behind him, an army of justified injustice pursuing as it always has. And yet, these soldiers remain unaware. They call him scribe, or boy, or friend. They are ignorant that he is their bane and has always been. They do not know what they chase and he will not tell them. It was they who made the first misstep, but it will be he who answers. And now he is among them.
He thinks of Taehrn and his patience chafes. He cannot stand the eyes that stare past him to another goal, unaware or perhaps uncaring that he stands between. Together they move toward the same place – to what end, he is not sure. The death of one or both it seems, for he can see no alternative. Taehrn’s misstep was dire, Jem’s answer will be harsh. There will not be peace between them. He wants to be free. Free of his father’s crimes. Free of his own. This time he will not wait idle. He cannot continue the ruse, and yet he must. If Taehrn knew what Jem wants, Jem would die and Trin would go unprotected. Bell cannot be trusted, for Bell is one of them. So too, is Jem now, but Bell is them by choice. Jem is here by force. By threat of death. But it will not be his.
There are blood and ashes in his wake. His uncle. His father. Lu. There are no innocents left. Even Elyse is tainted, for it was she who forced his hand on two counts.
The itch he’d thought caused by drink had remained. It had changed to nails grinding on his nerves. He didn’t know the cause, but it was pain and agitation both. At first, he had thought it might be guilt made manifest – his subconscious continuing to war after he no longer could. He didn’t blame himself anymore. On rare occasions did he see the faces of his victims. Only in the mornings, when he dipped his hands in ashes, would he think of them in sorrow. Happiness required effort, but reflection was demanding, too. He had taken them from the physical world; he couldn’t abandon their memories as well.
Jem isn’t happy. Taehrn and the Legion stand in his way, as he would in theirs. But his thoughts are mocking. His fears had been taking him to the priesthood. He had wanted to join the priests to become immune to his tormentors and now he is a soldier. Should this not be just as good?
It would be, if not for the hatred. If not for his past. If not for what Taehrn had done… But none of that is most important. His goal, now, is to protect Trin. She was conscripted too. She is a victim in this as well, the same woman who is his path to redemption. He would attain it, despite the army at his heels.
But maybe there is another way; a second road to redemption. He could right their wrongs. He could right his father’s wrongs. He could destroy the Legion. He could kill Taehrn.
A tap on his shoulder pulled him from the Well’s dark thoughts. “All right back there?” Trin asked.
“I’m fine,” Jem lied.
Seemingly satisfied with the answer, Trin shrugged and returned to her story.
“So, I was down there in the low city, near Sailor’s Wharf-” Trin said.
“Oh, which part?” Rise interrupted. “I grew up near there, in the big tenement next to the Wharf Master’s guild.”
It seemed that Rise had been born to a family of mail couriers who had achieved middling success in the city of Trel, and the similarity in upbringing between her and Trin seemed enough to create an instant friendship between the two. They hadn’t parted since Trin’s conscription.
“That’s the street,” Trin said. “We were in the tavern there, the Horse Named Glue.”
“That’s my uncle’s tavern,” Rise exclaimed.
“No shit? I spent a lot of days in that tavern, listening to old Carla Wikahm play that flute of hers while my father negotiated deals with the ship captains. Those were happy times. Haven’t heard anyone play as well since.”
“I know Carla Wikahm. In fact, I have that flute,” Rise said. “She gave it to me before she passed.”
“The maple one, with the Drennish inscriptions?”
“The same one. I was her apprentice up until her death.”
“Then how come you’re here?” Trin asked.
Rise’s gaze wandered down to rest on the bench beneath her. “After her death, it just didn’t seem right I suppose. I still play now and then, but… Well, I found the Legion instead.”
The Legion. The lodestone of every conversation. No matter the subject it always came back to soldiers and death. Jem couldn’t take it.
“You still have it?” Trin asked. “I’d love to hear it again-”
He let their words fall away.
It had only been two days, but he wasn’t sure how much longer he could last among the army. He felt ill in the presence of soldiers. Every uniform reminded him of Liv and his lost childhood. Though she hid it well, Jem sensed that Trin was also uncomfortable here. He couldn’t place what made him feel that way, and maybe it was his own feelings spilling over into his perception of others, but she seemed different.
Trin had not met with the Grand Legionnaire the day they had left Lane, and so far, neither of them had received any orders. From what Bell said, they had been given a few days to adjust to their new life. For Jem, there was little ‘adjusting.’ He wanted to leave, but knew he couldn’t withou
t Trin, and her family name was too well known for her to desert.
It was the anticipation that bothered him the worst. There weren’t any bad feelings between himself and Trin, but he feared that would change once he was Taehrn’s personal scribe. Jem had spent a large amount of time dissecting his most recent meeting with the man, trying to determine what Taehrn wanted from him. Taehrn was an old family ‘friend.’ During the Gableman’s Riots, both Taehrn and Jem’s father had served under the command of one Marcus Godahn, now First Magistrate of Trel.
Along with the Deacon Lissahn – his father’s neighbor in the east – those two men had been Indaht’s foremost allies in the political world. Before Jem’s father had lost his deaconship, those three had been the foundation of Indaht’s power. And now Taehrn had conscripted Jem. It meant Taehrn wanted something.
Jem sighed. There was no use in obsessing over it. He could not predict what would happen, he could only wait.
Aside from the dust that had been kicked up from all the marching soldiers, it was a pristine day, still a bit chilly, but normal for mid-spring. The road they traveled was the same as the road he’d traveled from Vale.
A horseman rode up on their left. The rider looked familiar; one of the soldiers Jem had seen upon first meeting Bell. They’d spent the last two evenings with Bell’s troop, but this one hadn’t been among them. Jem decided that it must be Perval or Skibs – one of the two men who had been on scouting duty since they’d arrived. When the man leaned half off his horse to peck Rise on the cheek, Jem knew it was Skibs.
“You’re back,” Rise said. She looked affectionately at this newcomer, which seemed wrong to Jem. The man wasn’t garbed in a Legion uniform, instead wearing the padded brown leather and skullcap Jem had seen him in originally, but he was still a soldier. It unnerved him when they behaved like normal people. The idea didn’t sit well with his past experiences. The soldiers at Liv had seemed normal too, but it never lasted.
Death's Merchant: Common Among Gods - Book One Page 27