“A stone hearth I hope.”
Mr. Clerahl laughed. “Yes, I’ve heard the troughs are not common outside the city, but as Dekahn’s premier coal merchant, I can’t say I’m not happy for them.” Mr. Clerahl offered Loy a hand. “You can call me Cyril. I am sorry for all that nonsense before. It is difficult living in a city where our kind are hated. You tend to grow suspicious of strangers, even those claiming to be the son of a god.”
Loy accepted the man’s hand and shook. No bow, but that was acceptable. In a way, he was relieved. He was not in a formal mood this evening. “A pleasure to meet you, Cyril. I hope you do not think it rude of me to ask your lineage? My excursion into this land has proved limited, and you are the first respectable godkind I have met. One of the fools I met earlier this evening did not even know what he was, and his house a cesspit. I had feared the people of this city as backward as Trel. You do know what you are, do you not?”
“Sure, I have heard the old titles, but in Dekahn, we call ourselves mages.”
“Mages?”
Cyril frowned. “What, you haven’t heard the term? It’s common enough around here.”
Loy had heard the term, but he didn’t like hearing anything that confirmed Niece Kindrel’s stories.
They entered into a room dominated by bookshelves and two armchairs before a lit fireplace. To Loy’s relief, the hearth was indeed stone, but filled with coal instead of wood. Cyril motioned for Loy to sit in the chair near the door, then stood behind the other.
Loy sat then cleared his throat. “You did not answer my question, Mr. Clerahl.”
Still standing behind the second chair, Cyril rested his hands on the back, leaning slightly forward with his face turned to the fire. “I’m sorry, and which question was that?”
“Your lineage?”
Mr. Clerahl looked at him askance. “You did say you were from outside the city, yes?
Loy nodded. “I did.”
“You’re certain? You wouldn’t by chance be one of those that live in the palace?” He studied Loy then seemed to answer his own question with a shake of his head. “No… no… You’re too young to be the Atherahnian and I’ve never heard of magic that disguises age or gender. Still… Why are you here?”
Loy noted the man’s rude demeanor, ignoring the fact that he remained standing, and forced out an answer. Father could sort these ‘mages’ out and teach them proper manners himself. That was not Loy’s concern, and damned if he was going to waste more of his time preparing these fools when he was already going out of his way to help them.
“I have come to offer you sanctuary, Mr. Clerahl, and to ask a few questions about Dekahn.”
The man squinted again. “Ah. You’re from Trel then. With the Legion out front, we’d been wondering if they might send someone. I’m willing to listen to your offer, Loy, but I doubt many of us will be interested. We have made a life here, and frankly, your nation’s intrusion into our affairs has been taken as a bit of a nuisance. Not to mention that we have come to consider Trellahn a wasteland. Can you tell me why our members that have left for Trel, those who journey to Trel seeking a new life, do not return?”
“I am not from Trel. I am-”
Cyril’s voice spoke through him. “Then where are you from, Mr. Order? You claim not to be from the palace, you’re not from Trel. Please don’t tell me you’re from Atherahn. Far too many of our members have fled that land for us to hold any sympathy for the Rightful. If you’ve come with an offer of sanctuary from the Butcher’s Cult, at the least you will get a few laughs before we string you up, and trust me, Mr. Order, when it comes to cultists, we are no kinder than the Atheists.”
Loy was at a loss for words. Again, he was trumped by his lack of knowledge. He held up a hand to stall the man and pointed to the empty chair. “Sit and calm yourself, man. Though I passed through Trel, I do not come from any of those places. Please, sit and listen.”
Cyril sagged as a breath of air escaped him. He nodded and circled the chair before plopping into it. He crossed his arms and met Loy’s gaze, in his eyes a look that expected an explanation. Indignant at such mistreatment, Loy refused to give it to him. “Tell me please, of these Atheists.”
With his mouth set in a stubborn frown, Cyril tapped a finger to his bicep. “And what will I gain from that? You must forgive me, but I am not a fool. It is my duty to protect the most vulnerable of this city and I do not take that duty lightly.”
“Most vulnerable? And who are they, exactly?”
“Our fellow mages, of course.”
“The mages?” Loy scoffed. “You are godkind. You should rule this city like the gods of old. As we do in Lendal. Instead, you spend your time spitting into the eye of family.”
Cyril’s mouth opened slightly. “Lendal?” he mouthed silently.
“You insult me by refusing me your lineage, Mr. Clerahl, so let me educate you on mine,” Loy continued. “I am the son of Order; son of Nikom, who once ruled this city and who still rules across the sea. I am not a man to be trifled with, and since I must believe that you are no higher than a Fourth or Fifth, I must demand that you mind your tongue before loosing it again. I do not know how you mages behave, but in Lendal, we treat our brothers with manners, and our betters with respect.”
Cyril laughed. “Lock’s left tit, you actually believe it. I thought you were joking before, but you actually think you are the Farmer’s son.”
“I am the Son of Order.”
“And I’m the king of Lock.”
Loy rose to leave as a sudden snapping sound echoed from the front room. The snapping grew louder and then wood shattered. Loy turned his head to see a figure dart from the alcove beneath the stairs, across the hall, and into the front door. And he meant, into. The door burst and the figure – that of a woman in orange, mangled silks – dashed outside. Loy sprinted to the door and stared out into the night, Cyril at his side. Splinters littered the walkway and what remained of the door hung from the hinges, still rocking from the force of the figure’s escape. The woman was gone.
“What was that?” Loy demanded. Loy’s question was met by silence, and when he turned to ask again, he paused. Cyril stared at a gaping hole in his wall, another doorway that had been demolished by whatever had escaped from within. The hole opened onto a large staircase descending into the earth, hidden behind the alcove that had held the shattered vase.
Cyril crouched over a lantern, lighting it with a flame from his finger. Holding the lamp before him, he ran into the tunnel, a look of terror on his face. Loy followed. The light of Cyril’s lamp flickered along walls of stone. They reached the bottom, and the stairs opened onto a tunnel held up by rectangular wooden supports. It looked something like a mineshaft, and seemed to run beneath the entire manor, perhaps even the whole estate.
“Is it safe?” Loy asked.
Cyril groaned and quickened his pace. Five red lines, lines of blood, had been dragged in patches across the stone, and Loy began to understand the man’s distress. They entered onto a brick lined chamber, large enough to hold three dozen men in either direction. Beds of straw and linen blankets lined the walls, coated in more blood than Loy could fathom. Three dead men sat on a table in the center of the room, their faces and chests bloodless, despite the knot of entrails that tied them together.
Loy bent over and vomited into a pile of straw. A woman lay dead in the next bed, her body looking pale and cold. She seemed to stare into his eyes, and he could feel her aura bleeding out like the blood trickling from her waist. She had been godkind too, but now her power was gone, draining away like rainwater through a sieve. He had never felt anything like it. Not even the assault he’d felt earlier this night had been so sickening.
Loy turned his eyes to Cyril. The man kneeled before the table, his hands in fists and his head sagged to his chest. “Why?” he asked, his voice stricken with sorrow. “Why would you do this? What kind of person does this?” He turned his head to Loy. “Why would you do this?”
/> “Me?” Loy’s voice felt strangled. “Nikom’s Blessing, murder is forbidden!”
Cyril lunged to his feet. “Do not lie to me,” he shouted. “Who else would do this? It is no coincidence that you are here. You were sent to distract me as they murdered my kin. Was it the spymaster? Did he finally find us out? Gods, they cannot be gone.” A sob wracked the man, followed by a snarl. “I will kill him. He thinks this is a game? These are our lives!”
A buffeting wind swept out from Cyril, and the table behind the man flipped, the three bodies atop it falling to the floor. The table slammed into the far wall and wood clattered.
“I…” Loy’s voice broke. “I did not do this.”
Cyril seemed not to hear. His eyes had found the woman at Loy’s feet. He stared at her in silence, immobile. For more than thirty seconds, Cyril did not move, not even a tear ran from his eye. The ground shook and Loy almost fell. Lanterns swung on the ceiling and hay kicked into the air. Cyril stared unending. Another tremor ravished the earth, the vibrations stronger and more violent. Cracks began to form in the brick walls. Burning oil dripped from the lanterns and the beds of hay ignited into a blaze to match the sorrow in Cyril’s eyes. Thick, black smoke curled from the flames.
“I promised to keep her safe,” Cyril finally mumbled. “I promised my brother I would keep her safe.” Fire licked at the woman’s cloak, but Cyril continued staring.
“We must leave, Mr. Clerahl. The smoke will drown us.”
Cyril’s eyes shot to Loy. “Yes,” he said. “Yes. A fitting death for you.”
The smoke swirled and coalesced before Cyril, collecting at his waist. A torrent wriggled from the cloud, driving for Loy, and down into his throat. Loy tried to cry out, but the smoke muffled his screams. The earth shook even harder and Loy lost his footing to land on his hip. Desperate, Loy tried to use the birthright to pull the smoke from his throat, but Cyril was too strong. Instead, he thrust the flames at Cyril. Cyril’s cloak caught, but the man stared on unaffected, contentment creeping across his face. Loy collapsed and pressed his lips against the stone, hoping to break the stream of smoke. He kissed the stone and then the smoke caught him, throwing him back onto his knees to face the madman.
Spots began to fill Loy’s vision. He was going to die.
Loy put everything he had into one final effort. The lamp above Cyril’s head yanked from its chain, crashing down into his skull. Cyril toppled as the ball of smoke collapsed outward under its own weight. The jet of smoke suffocating Loy dissipated. Loy coughed, forcing clean air into his lungs.
Hacking into his palm, he pounded his chest with the other. His lungs were on fire and his vision remained bleary. He forced himself to his feet and checked on Cyril. The oil lamp had landed just above his temple and blood trickled from a small impression. In a rage, Loy kicked Cyril in the ribs. The man still breathed, but he did not groan. Loy lifted him and found another slight indent on the back of his skull, where his head had struck the ground.
Loy was not a defiler. No matter his doubts, he would not break a law of Lendal. Loy lifted the man from the floor, using what strength he had, to carry the man out into the tunnel. In an effort to block the smoke, he closed the open door and dragged him to the staircase. He did not have the energy, or the focus to use the birthright to lift the man, so he had to drag him up the steps as well.
Loy dropped him on the front lawn and kicked him once more for good measure. Loy was not a murderer. No matter his anger, he would not stoop so low as to let the man die. Disoriented and without a plan, Loy scrambled over the iron gate and wandered into the night.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
Bell waited at the head of the column. They were not gathered in rank nor sprawled across the field to await an enemy, nor were they positioned to lever ladders onto the walls or storm the battlements. They were positioned the same way they had been for weeks; eight abreast, shoulder to shoulder across the road’s width, arms at the ready. They looked prepared for more marching, not for the storming of a city.
Whether looking or not, the moon was the center of focus for every man and woman in the column. There was a flavor in the air, that of uneasiness, of fear and doubt. Glances shifted, the whites of eyes tracing erratic patterns in the night, looking for some answer to an event beyond comprehension. Soldiers coughed, they checked their cuffs, their breast straps, their sheaths and blades. They were looking for comfort. Any comfort at all, whether delusion or distraction. Only two among them seemed unaffected, the Grand Legionnaire, who sat quietly mounted two paces ahead at the front of the column, and Skibs, who smiled as if his wife had just promised he could cash in his draw for a night with the courtesans.
He expected the Grand’s cool, casualness, but Skibs’ smile made him wary, more wary than the moon’s death ever could. Bell’s own eyes were tracing a pattern, an uncreative one; to Skibs, to the Grand, and back again. Bell licked his lips, uncertain. “How can you be happy?” he asked.
Skibs turned his head with a confused look. “What?” he asked.
Rise poked her head around Skibs’ tower shield, a grin on her face. “Finally,” she sighed.
Acklin tittered on Bell’s left.
Skibs’ neck swiveled to his wife and then back to Bell. “What? What did I do?”
The Grand shifted on her steed, her attention, as always, focused on what might be said.
“Your damned smile,” Bell said. “How can you smile like that?” Bell shifted his helm to his shield arm then pointed to the sky. “Just looking at it makes me nervous.”
Skibs glanced at the moon and his smile widened. “I dunno,” Skibs said. “It just makes me happy I suppose.”
“Happy?” Bell looked at the moon; a dark red patch smeared on a gray sheet. He’d been trying his best not to look, and now wished he hadn’t. “It does not frighten you?”
“Nawh.” Skibs shrugged then looked down to study the great helm crooked beneath his arm. The white frost of Skibs’ breath rimmed on the beak-shaped visor of their office. They had not worn the helms in many months, wearing instead the scout’s skullcap, but tonight they would need the kind of protection only a full-headed helm could offer. “It relaxes me,” Skibs continued. “Makes me feel good.”
“Gods,” Bell swore. “How? It looks like the moon’s burst into flames.”
“Right.” Skibs nodded and drew up his gaze to meet Bell’s eyes. “Fire ain’t always bad. Sometimes it’s a good thing. Refreshing, yer know? A renewal, er a cleansing, er a… a… a purge.”
“And that relaxes you? The thought of…” Bell’s eyes wandered to Dekahn’s walls. Skibs’ eyes followed. “A purge?”
Skibs’ smile lapsed and his eyes took on a sheen of disgust. “That’s not what I meant. Don’tcher be making me out ter be some kind of blooder. I didn’t mean it that way. I meant like… yer know, like when a forest catches and there’s good soil where ther old trees burned. Sometimes a fire’s what’s needed ter clean out the bad shit ter make way fer the good.”
Bell shook his head in disbelief. “I get your point, but I don’t see any forests on the moon. It’s just a big, dead, murky rock. There’s nothing to be gained by it catching fire, so what about it makes you relaxed?”
Skibs sucked in his cheeks and air whistled through his teeth. “Well. I suppose it’s what it is that does it fer me.”
“A moon?” Rise mocked.
Skibs frowned, staring into the night sky. “Nawh,” he said. “What it represents. Yer know, something static, suddenly changing in an instant. It’s inspiring, like our world could be made different. Ter me, that seems like a good thing. If yer want ter make the world a better place, yer got ter be open ter change. The moon like that proves that anything can.”
“An interesting thought, Mr. Skibs.” The Grand did not turn as she spoke. Calm and quiet, her voice held a clarity that Bell could not muster. “One that terrifies me readily.”
“Ma’am?” Skibs asked.
“Have you thought out the
implications of that idea, Mr. Skibs? Truly considered them?”
Skibs’ mouth stretched to a flat, contemplative line.
Cyleste continued without waiting for an answer. “Think on this, Legionnaire. You posit a world where things; society, morality, even our very existence, could change on a whim. Nay, could change on worse than a whim. They could change on an opinion. A terrifying premise.”
“I don’t see it,” Skibs said.
“No? What do you wish from the world, Mr. Skibs? What are these changes you’d like to see?”
“I dunno. A better world. A safer world.”
“Indeed, and you could have it, but with the premise of your world, it could just as easily vanish.”
“I can see that,” Skibs agreed. “But isn’t it a good thing fer the world ter have ther opportunity ter change? Otherwise, the world could stagnate.”
“It is not the opportunity that terrifies me. It is the source and the reason. Consider this, Mr. Skibs. You say that it is good for men like you to be able to change the world. But that means one like myself could change the world as well, that anyone could, any mortal man or woman. I myself believe the world should not be changed so simply. That such opportunity is dangerous.”
“Dangerous how?” Acklin asked. The Grand turned to look at him and Acklin ducked, pretending to tie a strap on his breastplate.
Death's Merchant: Common Among Gods - Book One Page 57