She didn’t want Loy to know her full strength. At first, the habit had begun out of amusement – with Loy being as ignorant as he was, she had thought she could toy with him for a while – but now she held the guise because he could not be trusted. Loy seemed to hate her without foundation and she had a suspicion the fool might act against her out of sullied pride. If he did, she would be ready to subdue him.
Kindrel sighed. The world had been so much simpler when she’d believed she could kill. That had never been a reality of course, the killing of any godkind would bring about the Call, but at the time, they hadn’t known that.
It was no matter anyway. She couldn’t very well kill Nikom’s son and expect him to be happy about it. Nor – when being truly honest – did she want to kill Loy. Though she wished Nikom had stopped at his fifty-second son, Loy was family, and Kindrel would do her best to teach him. It was clear that he’d had no contact with Harvest. Had she trained him as an apprentice, he would not be the fool he was.
Through Loy’s perquisition she felt a sudden humming, then a beacon of power in the distance. Though he seemed not to notice it yet, he’d finally found something.
Loy began shouting on deck. On her way out, Kindrel snatched a piece of bread from the table. If Loy was too stubborn to finish dinner, she wouldn’t suffer for it.
Loy had been awestruck when he felt the presence on the horizon, the flavors of twine and… scissors? Nikom’s Blessing, he swore regretfully, I’ve found a god of tailoring.
No matter, his orders were clear. He’d meet with this being and send them to Lendal before continuing on his way. Kindrel must have heard his shouts for he could feel her aura as she entered onto the deck. Niece Kindrel stepped up beside him.
“You’ve found something?” she asked.
As her mortal crew scrambled to maneuver a tight bend in the river, a cliff fell out of view and a massive bridge filled his sight.
“Yes,” he answered. He would not give her the satisfaction of thinking he had failed by telling her he’d found a tailor. Loy eyed the great bridge that arched between two cliffs. A city had been built at one end.
“What is this place?” he asked. Though the bridge looked nearly a third of a league, he could see only three supports rising from the river. It was high enough to let a ship twice their height beneath, though he did not see why that would be necessary – any vessel that tall would be too wide and too long to navigate the river’s breadth.
“Lane.”
“Mason has been here,” Loy observed.
“Yes, a long time ago. This was Tyrena’s first construction after we returned home.”
Loy looked at her without saying anything. And now she’s traveled with Mason as well. Her lies were becoming too much to bear.
“Prepare to dock!” Kindrel shouted.
None of her crew answered her. He chilled at that. These mortals were very strange.
They passed beneath the bridge on the western side, closest to the city. As they passed under, the city’s riverfront came into view – a series of wooden berths built at the foot of the cliffs. Kindrel’s crew seemed autonomous, for she gave no orders as they docked in the first available jetty.
The presence Loy felt was in this city somewhere.
“Can you feel them?” he asked.
Niece Kindrel said nothing, her eyes taking in the city’s makeshift harbor.
“Niece,” he growled.
She looked at him, a look of surprise on her face.
“What has distracted you so?”
“A memory,” she said, her eyes falling back to the harbor.
Annoyed, he decided not to wait any longer. Leaping onto the pier, he landed in perfect form.
Quill spoke to Kindrel in his native tongue. “Can we leave him here?” he asked.
She turned and offered him a short laugh. “I wish we could, my love, but he is family.”
Quill shook his head in disappointment, but held his words. “I grow tired of this silence. I miss our time together.”
She frowned. “I know, but you’ve seen the way he behaves. Should he do something stupid, I’d prefer he thinks all of you hired help rather than friends and family.”
“I wish we did not have to hide, but I trust your judgment.” Quill paused, then, “His sensing is intrusive. It begins to grate.”
“Yes, but you’ve hidden your gift well, husband. Keep your eye on him.”
“Of course, wife.” He placed a hand on her arm then, with a tilt of his head, beckoned to the ship docked in the adjacent berth. “You look longingly at that vessel. Shall I acquire it for you?”
“It belongs to Rift.”
“He is here?”
“No, at least, I do not sense him. I don’t know, he might be hiding his aura. But… he hasn’t been seen in several hundred years. That his ship is here might not mean anything.”
“Do you want it?” he asked again.
Kindrel thought for a moment then smiled. “Yes, let us take it together.”
“A fitting proposition.”
It had not taken long to find a way up into the city. When he entered onto the street where he had felt the aura, he found a woman waiting for him in the doorway of a small cottage. The woman looked old and frail, her back against the open door, as she leaned, with one hand placed upon the other, on a simple wooden cane. The hands were covered by wrinkles and sunspots, the wrists covered by the long blue sleeves of her hooded robes. Her hood was down, her face surrounded by tidy white hair. Her eyes were a light blue. She did not look to be wearing any makeup or powders. Clearly, she had sensed his arrival.
This woman was unexpected. As he came closer, the scent of thread grew more defined, melding into the feel of fabric – not cloth, but more profound. It felt of substance, of matter itself. But she was not a creator, what he had thought felt like scissors were actually spectacles, like the pair she wore on her eyes. This woman’s aspect was ethereal, much like his father’s. She was a reader of substance. A seer of destinies. Stunned by her power, Loy halted.
The woman gave a knowing grin then did the remarkable: she bowed to him. The head dipped a fraction, her shoulders and back straight to denote they were of equal standing. This was the problem with Niece Kindrel. She was a defiler, one who broke custom and defied Order. This woman here was different, she must be a Second. Respectable. He bowed in kind, lowering his head an extra half inch. She was his elder and one worthy of respect.
“I greet you, Loy, Son of Order,” the woman said. “I would call you Tracker, but would not besmirch you with false title.”
Loy both bristled and felt vindicated by this proclamation. He was not Tracker, but one did not refuse Father Order’s assignment. “You question Order?” he said of necessity.
The woman regarded him calmly, unaffected by the accusation. “Your father is the setter of the roles, but I am the seer of them. I do not challenge Order, I simply foresee his will.”
Loy wanted to believe her, wanted to be more than his father’s errand boy, so he found her words acceptable. Assignment was not questioned, just as Order was not questioned, but perhaps his father had only given him half the truth. Perhaps once he proved himself, he would gain a title worthy of his talents.
The woman nodded to her home. “Come, Son of Order,” she said. “We have much to discuss and little time.” Astonishingly, she stood and waited, holding the door open for him. As he entered, he nodded thanks.
The room was stocked with basic necessities. A bed rested against one corner, a fireplace on the wall adjacent. A kettle hung from a skewer above the lit fire and as the woman entered – closing the door behind her – the kettle began to hum. She crossed to the fire and removed the kettle then motioned him toward a chair at the table in the middle of the room. Half a dozen candles rested on the table’s center, as well as a serving tray with two empty cups and freshly baked flatbread.
The woman poured tea into both cups and handed him one. He waited until she was read
y then sat as she did. She offered him the tray of bread and he gladly accepted one of the small, dry loaves. It had been months since he had experienced the beautiful simplicity of Lendish courtesy.
He took a bite from the loaf, chewed, and swallowed before asking, “What shall I call you?”
“You will address me as Scryer Fate.” She adjusted her cup, but did not touch the tea. Neither did she eat any of the bread. He drank from his cup, and afterward, was satisfied to see her lift her own cup and partake of the warm brew.
“Scryer? That is not an honorific I am familiar with.”
“It is the rank I hold within the Trellish priesthood. It denotes my status as a seer and my loyalty to Fate.”
“You are Fate’s servant?”
“No. Fate is not a god, but a concept older than even the Mother. Many within the family improperly call me Fate itself, but that is a role beyond the flesh. I am simply a reader of Fate. A scryer.”
Loy was not confident he understood, but he would not insult her by asking for clarification. Such a request would suggest that she had given an unsatisfactory explanation; a sign of ungratefulness.
“You know Lendish customs,” Loy noted.
“Yes. I have seen much.”
Of the world or of Fate, Loy wondered. He left the question unvoiced, as it might be seen as impudent.
“Are you the spy my father sent before me?” Loy asked.
“I am afraid not, though we have met in the past.”
Her answers were vague. Again, he found himself questioning her. Had she met Loy’s father, or had she met his father’s spy? He could not tell. He would need to hone his questions.
“Can you tell me where Father’s agent is?”
“I cannot. The High Cleric’s aura is chaotic and difficult to locate. It is difficult to see the world’s patterns in his presence, and thus, it is because of him that I was forced to leave the City of Trel. All I can tell you is that he is somewhere to the north.”
High Cleric? That was another title he was unfamiliar with. Kindrel had mentioned another one… The First Priest.
“These priests and the Cleric, my niece has spoken of them in passing. Can you tell me what they are?”
“They are godkind of a sort. Where godlings, such as yourself, are anointed through the blood of the birthright, a priest is anointed in it. They are often the chosen of a god, given power in exchange for loyalty. Priesthood grants longer life and better health. It is not uncommon for gods to anoint the mortals they have come to love.”
“And the High Cleric, and the First Priest my niece mentions, this is what they are?”
“The one they call the First Priest, this man named Rift, yes, he has been anointed, but the High Cleric is something else entirely.”
“And this Trellish priesthood, they are all godkind?”
“No. They are simply mortals. Historically, the title priest was given to all who dedicated their lives to serve a god. The Trellish priesthood uses the term in that regard. In Lock and Atherahn, True Priests, those who can use the birthright, have taken to calling themselves mages and mystics. These ones have taken anointment unto themselves, and forget their heritage.”
Loy sipped his tea, contemplating her words. He felt it was time to ask the question he had been avoiding, but this made him nervous. Some subjects should not be broached in civil company, and the content of another’s role was one of those things. But he had to ask. She had said that she could see the roles and also that he was not Tracker. What if she knew his true aspect?
“Forgive me,” he started, “I do not wish to step outside my role, but-”
“Ask your question,” she interrupted.
“You said you were the Seer of the Roles… What did you mean?”
“Ah. I suspected you would ask this of me. It means that I foresee inevitabilities. I know an aspect even before it takes shape. Even for one with an aura as cloudy as yours, I can detect and understand the role that will take you. In earlier days, godkind would approach me to discern their fates and discover their paths. Even the most powerful visited on occasion, for all desire knowledge of their future. Is this why you have come? Would you like to know what awaits you?”
That was exactly what he wanted. If he only knew his aspect, he could spur his path to godhood. He could be the youngest god in Lendal’s history – a god second only to his father. He would make the term Second into a literal reality.
“Would you?” he asked. He could not contain his excitement.
“Yes, but first you must accomplish for me a task.”
“I have already been given a task,” Loy said. “I am to find the Mother.”
“Yes, I am aware of this, but you will not find her here.”
“But… my father felt her presence here in Trel.”
“What he felt was my servant’s desecration of a holy book. Several gods have been similarly affected, stirred to action as was your father. But you will not find her here.”
Loy was distraught. If the Mother was not in Trel then he had come all this way for nothing.
“Do not fret, Son of Order,” said Scryer Fate. “Your efforts need not be wasted. I can tell you everything you need to know to achieve godhood. More, I can give you the Mother’s location. You could return to Lendal a hero and a god. All I ask is one simple task.” As she spoke, he could feel her power building. She was feeding energy into his aura – and he felt it grow and take shape. The scents were just out of reach, and the main flavor that taunted him, he could almost place it. It was so very close.
“What is it you ask?”
Scryer Fate smiled. “There is a war brewing and the pantheon begins to stir. Gods are gathering in the East.”
“Is this my task, to save Trel from this foul fate?”
“Ha!” the scryer laughed. “No. That fate belongs to another, though you will play your part. Your job is much simpler. There are many godkind left in Trel, all of them scraping the remains of our fallen society, and I watch over their squabbles. But there is one player I cannot see clearly, one that could prove a threat to the fate of Trel. At every turn this being eludes my perquisition – avoids my sensing.”
“The High Cleric?”
The candles flickered as Scryer Fate cackled. “No. Dydal wants much the same as me. He will not interfere. I speak of another; the shadow of Just. I thought it madness when Just first returned – a vein of corruption and insanity streaked through his scent – but I have seen a vision through a mortal’s eyes, and now Dydal has confirmed it. The flavor of madness taunting Just is the aura of another god, one that hides in his shadow. Whether ally or foe, this creature makes Just unpredictable and I cannot have that. I must know who whispers in his mind. This is your task. Complete it and you shall have your fate.”
Her power vanished and the scents of his aura followed. He felt naked; exposed.
He needed that power back. He wanted to know his future. “How…” Loy began. “How would I accomplish this?”
“That is for you to determine, but know that you will not find the Mother without my help. You know what that would mean.”
He did. Those who abandoned their role faced oblivion, and were branded a defiler. He could never return to his home in Lendal. Out of shame, Loy would be stranded forever with the savages of this land – or worse, with Niece Kindrel.
Loy drew a deep breath. He had been outmaneuvered by this Trellish god, but she offered the world. This was an easy choice. He would be a god, no matter what. “I will do it.”
The scryer nodded. “Of course you will.” She stood from the table, all illusion of ceremony and civility forgotten. “It is time for you to leave,” she said and the door opened of its own accord; he felt no stirrings of power. Scryer Fate waited, her foot tapping. He rose from the table and made for the door.
As he stepped outside, she spoke. “Tell Sailor that she will find the one she seeks in the City of Trel, but first she must take you to Dekahn.”
“Sailo
r?” he asked, but the door was already slamming in his face, and the scryer’s aura gone.
Slayer could no longer contain herself. She wanted it. She wanted that power. It was there. In that cottage. That breakable, little hovel. She could tear through the wall. Tear through the roof. Tear out their throats. But no. She had to wait. She couldn’t kill Silt, her only love, her son’s father. Silt was hers. Hers for later. Her final conquest. She would show him. She was Slayer now. Not him. She snarled at his insolence. Why had he refused her? Why did he choose Tin instead of her? Why had he left their son to face the Alchemist alone? Silt had let that bitch kill their son. And for what?
The door opened and Slayer slunk into the shadows. She could feel the power. Even greater than the One of Salt. She could have it. She would have it. As soon as Silt was gone.
Mercifully, he stepped outside. The door closed behind him. He looked at it. He walked away. Slayer waited. Silt couldn’t see her. She was the Unseen. The aura was still burning behind the door. She crept up to it then looked. He was gone. It was time to kill the god in the cottage. She hammered into the door, shattering the wood and hinges. A mistake. She knew the aura as soon as she entered. Fate. She was here! And her hand was waiting. It caught Slayer in its vile grip.
“No!” Slayer screamed. “You are in Trel!”
The Fatereader cackled. “I wondered what had pulled you from your lair, Tabetha. Seeing him explained much. He looks very much like your cousin Silt, does he not?”
Slayer hissed. More laughter as Evil’s grip tightened. She twisted, desperate to break free. With fists and birthright, she pounded the scryer’s arms.
“Die, die, die!” Slayer screamed. It was no use.
“It is your lucky day, Tabetha. I have decided that it is time you served Fate.”
She tried to protest, but the laughter didn’t stop. It only gained fervor as the vise grew ever tighter.
Death's Merchant: Common Among Gods - Book One Page 31