The Grand entered the box of light that sprawled across the setts. No one shouted. No guards cried out to close the gate. Bell could hear sounds within the city, quiet and peaceful: the hiss of an alley cat, the laughing, talking, and singing of taverns, and the odd shuffling that could come from a million sources. They were the sounds of a city retired for the evening. It made him sad. He had hoped to hear a valid reason for the Legion’s presence, but that was simple foolishness, for he knew that atrocity came in silence, eight abreast and shoulder to shoulder.
He felt bad for lying to Jem. There was no necessity in what they were tasked to do, at least none that he could see. The Vandu had just left through the same gate by which the Legion would enter the city. The Legion wasn’t here to stop their raiding; they were here for some other reason. With an eye on the Grand, he supposed the reason must be justice, but against whom and for what crime, Bell did not know. There was nothing to do but ready himself against the coming bloodshed, and hope the reason was sufficient justification when it finally came.
He simply had to trust that Cyleste and the High Cleric knew what they were doing. But is trust a valid excuse? Bell wondered. The soldiers at Liv must have trusted Trask, and look what it’s done to Jem. He might be right to wonder. When it comes to killing, is there any excuse? If I had a reason to kill, would my belief in that reason be enough of an excuse? What if that reason were wrong? Bell looked to the Grand and his heart sank. What is the difference between her belief in Just and my belief in Lu? Bell’s stomach shuddered. She has hundreds of books filled with evidence. All I have is a feeling.
Held up by metal bands and hinges, the thick wooden gate lumbered over their heads. It opened in a narrow slit between two halves, the left half sealed. The right hung open slightly, allowing only a single rider to pass through at a time. The gate must have shifted after the Vandu departure, so slow as to be unnoticed, because the Vandu had not ridden out single file. Without hesitation, the Grand led her horse forward.
“Grand,” Bell said.
She slowed and turned to look at him.
“Perhaps you should let us enter first.”
“That will not be necessary.” She resumed her pace and passed into the strip of light. Bell hurried to follow.
They entered onto a bloodbath. Hundreds of bodies littered the square, lying limp in pools of blood, some civilians, a few Vandu, but most of them guardsmen. A man, strung up at the neck by a leather cord, hung from the arm of the statue in the courtyard’s center. With teeth filed to points, the man swayed from the line, back and forth. Back and forth. His harness had been cut away and the word Atheist carved into his chest. The man’s feet brushed a pile of carved books, and above his head, the statue’s stone torch pointed into the sky. Strangely, light red stains smeared the statue’s leg as if someone had tried to wipe the statue clean. Heads were piled at the statue’s feet, each with a burning candle in its mouth. The Grand eyed the scene with an empty look.
“Grand Legionnaire Cyleste?”
Bell turned his head. A crowd of Vandu huddled in the shadows at the base of the wall. Only one faced them, the woman who had spoken, the others were busy wrapping corpses in hides. Skull patterns adorned the burial shrouds; the same motif he had seen on the Vandu tents. They were wrapping their dead in their own homes.
“That is I,” the Grand said. “You are Twil?”
The Vandu woman shook her head. Her mouth hung ajar. “No,” she said. “My name is Wither. Priest Twil has left us. He went into the city.” She shook her head again, more vehemently, and twisted a hand in the fabric of her long dress. “I am disappointed to see this. He told us to hold the gate, but I did not expect the Legion.”
“What did you expect?”
The woman’s eyes panned over the Grand and then to Bell. He met her eyes and they looked sad. “I do not know. Not this. He was to free us. To be our consul. But it was a lie, wasn’t it? He was a spy all along.”
Cyleste opened her arms to encompass the courtyard. “Did he not keep his promise? You are free, are you not?”
The woman nodded.
“So why can he not be both? Savior and spy.”
The woman dropped her eyes. “Because he is Trellish.” She motioned to Bell and the other soldiers funneling through the gate. “Will you kill us now?”
“No. So long as you mean no harm, then neither do we.”
Wither nodded. “Then we shall leave. After we have set the pyres.”
Cyleste frowned. She studied the men and women preparing corpses. “Where are the rest of the Vandu?”
“Some left. The others have continued on, to bloody the homes of the Atheists. This is what he wanted, isn’t it? There was no salvation. The gods have not forgiven us. They do not want us back. They only tricked us into killing their enemies.”
“The gods will forgive anyone,” the Grand said.
“Perhaps,” Wither said. “But we cannot forgive them. Not if they use us as they did before. Unlike you, we Vandu remember Nikom’s retribution. We remember their torture, and their torment, and their childish scheming. The gods have not matured… We are ready for the gods, but they are not ready for us.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
Wilt darted into an alley upon hearing the trot of hooves, just in time to avoid a collision with a column of New Guardsmen. They were fully outfitted, the flanks in heavy chain and their center in polished leather, all wearing the Guard’s odd pointed helmets and their brown and white cloaks. Each to a man looked confused, as Wilt was certain they had heard only rumors of what occurred in the western plaza. There were no fires and no smoke to herald the Vandu’s betrayal, only distant shouting and the blast of a single horn, cut off before it sounded longer than a few seconds.
The column passed and Wilt reentered the street. Replacing his mask as he approached the gate, he spoke aloud three times to test his voice. Once finding the appropriate tone of worry, he let his voice wail.
“Commander Stills,” he shouted as he ran to the palace gates. “Commander Stills!”
The two guards awaiting him raised their heads and then their pikes. Wilt pretended to almost trip and then decided – why not? – and gave himself fully to the ruse, plummeting head first into the street. The left guardsman dashed from her post and offered Wilt an arm, then seeing Wilt’s mask, dropped him and pulled back, readying her pike. Butchering Dekahnians, Wilt snarled.
Stunned by the second fall, Wilt pushed himself onto his knees to keep the guardsmen from attacking. The second guardsman stepped to her side, his pike leveled and pointed at Wilt’s face.
“Please, soldier,” Wilt cried, hoping he sounded pathetic. “My name is Twil, you must find Beda Stills. I must speak with her. Quickly.”
The man tsked. “Commander Stills is busy.”
“The spymaster then,” Wilt said. “This is not a joke, man. The Vandu are rioting. I must speak with someone.”
The man turned his head to the woman and a look passed between them. The man shrugged, his face tense with worry.
“Go find the commander,” he ordered, but did not straighten his pike.
The woman nodded before she ran into the gatehouse. Wilt hated this. He should be with the Vandu right now, leading his people in preparation for his rise to godhood. Instead, he was running errands for a damned fool.
The curse’s shock of pain went unnoticed. With each insolent act, the pain became weaker and weaker, but it was not the fear of the curse that kept him obedient. The curse might waver, but the pain he’d felt beneath the tree would sear for eternity. The Mother’s promise of godhood would sear for even longer.
Let the god have my body, and then when I fail, he can suffer as I did. When the Mother makes me Death, surely, I will not need this mortal tether.
Keeping his hands splayed before him, Wilt rose to his feet.
“You will be a hero,” Wilt said to the guard. “The man who saved us from the Vandu savages. Dekahn will praise your name for this service.
”
The guardsman grunted, but the ploy granted Wilt a two-inch reprieve from the man’s pike as the guard shuffled his shoulders and pulled back the point. The mask was a nuisance, the way it obscured his vision and irritated his scars, but the good far outweighed the bad. There had been far too many moments where a straight face was impossible to keep, and this was one of them. Whichever god had said that the eyes were a vessel for the soul was a fool or a liar, for every person who gazed into the orbs behind Wilt’s mask, saw not the scorn and contempt, but their own petty desires.
The commander’s voice carried around the corner. “Where is he?” Stills asked.
“Outside the gates, Commander.”
“Bring him in.”
“Yes, ma’am. Iral!”
The man glanced over his shoulder, his face disbelieving as he righted his pike. “I heard her. No need to yell.” The guardsman hesitated, adjusting his tunic before facing his commander. Wilt stepped past him, impatient to be on his way. Realizing Wilt’s intent, the guardsman raced to precede him. The book was the key to the Mother and it would not retrieve itself. And… neither did Wilt fancy being fingered as the man who’d started the Vandu revolt while navigating the heart of Dekahn’s power.
Commander Stills was adorned in her usual chain, overlain with a brown and white cloak. Her eyes were near as black as her feathered hair. Tonight, she had a small, round buckler strapped to her left arm, and in her right, she carried a six-foot spear pointed by another foot of steel. “What do you know?” she demanded.
The moment he entered the plaza, Wilt found the building he needed, the large stone silo at the far end of the courtyard.
He turned his gaze to the commander. “The Vandu are revolting in the courtyard,” Wilt said. “It is as King Erin feared, they have fallen to the Faith and are trying to take the gates. You must stop them.”
The commander’s eyelids flared. “Meyna, run to Captain Davahlia. Warn him of what he will face. Now.”
With a nod, the soldier sprinted out of the gate toward the column of guardsmen.
“Iral,” Stills continued. “Rouse the barracks. Send messengers to the other walls and tell the south garrison to converge on the western courtyard. Send half the north to reinforce the south.”
The guardsman vanished as quickly as the first.
“You,” she pointed at Wilt with her shield arm. “Are they communicating with the Trellish?”
“I do not know,” Wilt lied. “They were angry about the horse warrior who was killed today, and then suddenly someone began shouting of vengeance.”
“Tyvan,” she said. “And his damned obsessions.”
“This was the Atheists?” Wilt asked, truly surprised.
“Yes, he was concerned the Vandu might ‘mix’ with our ‘good citizens.’ His coordinators are behind this.”
“Gods,” Wilt swore. “It is as the king feared. What if this was the spymaster’s intent? I was supposed to prevent this.” Wilt lowered his gaze, stressing his shame. On purpose, he made his words sound false, and then added in an overly eager tone, “I know! You must take me to him. If I speak with the king, we will set this right. My cover no longer matters.”
The commander glared at him, her brows peaked by a look of skepticism. “I will speak to the king alone. Remain here and speak to no one. Do not move.”
“Yes, yes of course. You are right. We cannot let the spymaster see me with the king. We will lose our advantage.”
Beda shot him another curious glance then turned and set off for the palace. He waited until he was alone in the courtyard before heading for the library. “A pleasure,” he laughed aloud. The god had stolen Wilt’s prized moment, but at least he still had this. Even so, the insult seethed. Once Wilt was Death, the god would pay.
They were mine to turn, not his! I could have had it. An entire people turned on their heads, their morality changed in a matter of weeks. I was so close… It was all mine! And then he took it. He took it from me, and with cheap words and cheap tricks. A burning moon? The damned cretin. It was mine!
However, he did have one prize from the incident. His followers. When he returned to Wither and his people, he would proclaim himself consul and use them to rule the Vandu. After tonight’s performance, they would not dare question him, and the moment he revealed himself as Wilt, rightful heir to the title, they would love him, too. He might even crown himself the god of Death right then and there, whether it be true or not, just to see how they reacted.
And yet… somehow the thought of ruling his people felt hollow. No matter his power, he was still a slave so long as he served under Just.
But must my slavery be painful? Wilt reflected. I am happy, yes? Happier than I’ve ever been. Perhaps that is enough. Think about it. I will still have them. For once, I will have my people at my side. My people… Remembering his past, Wilt clenched a fist and hissed. The cowards who turned away as Grandfather was murdered, who turned to his killer in subservience, who did nothing as my parents flung me away like filth into the litter. No. There is no forgiveness for them. No happiness to garner from their acceptance. I might wear the mark, but they are the true betrayers. And I should destroy them… but first, I will be the master. And they will rue their chains.
Oh Great Lord, Wilt mocked, is that justice? It certainly feels like it.
As he opened the library door, a flash of light blinded him – a quick, dull pain that stabbed at his eyes – and then his vision cleared, and there was nothing but an empty room filled with bookshelves and lined with braziers.
There was a man. He was turned away, but I swear I saw him. Wilt raised the mask and rubbed his eyes. It is just like… the god. There is someone here.
Wilt knew where he was headed; he turned to the stairs and slunk to the second level. He peered over the banister, peeking into the next room before continuing up to the top floor. Reaching the landing, Wilt pressed himself to the wall and poked his head around the corner. The book sat on a pedestal in the center, just as he had been told. Except for the bookshelves, the braziers, the fireplace, and the long red curtains that hung from the walls, the room was empty. But he was certain he had seen someone on the first floor. And they had disappeared, in a flash of light, just like the god did. He was willing to bet that person’s concern had not been on the first floor. Not if Just wanted the book on the fourth.
“Just,” Wilt called. “Just, are you here?”
No one answered. Not a single word, whisper, or breath drifted from the array of shelves, not in his head, not in the room. What if it is him? What if Just is here awaiting me?
“Just,” he called again. “Damnit, I know you are here. Come out, cretin.”
A stone shifted near the fireplace. A mild scrape, but Wilt was certain. He was not alone. But he could see nothing there. Just the curtains and a mural of King Lock. Oh gods, it was too much to hope for. He is here. The blooder is here, it was all a godsdamned trick. A trap. The bastard set me up. The tree was nothing. This is it. This is my real punishment, I will enter this room and the god will strike. What was I thinking? There is no mercy for slaves. There is no mercy in justice.
Wilt could see the book. Was he being a fool? If there were a god in the room, he could crush Wilt. A god would have nothing to fear from him, and no reason to hide. I must be alone… A glint off metal, that was all I saw. The glint from a brazier catching my eye at an odd angle. There was no man. If Wilt made a run for it, he could grab the book and be gone. But what if that is what he waits for?
Wilt swallowed and ran for the pedestal. There was another shuffle as the curtains by the fireplace fluttered, and the man he had seen on the first floor darted for him.
Wilt grabbed the book and tore it from the pedestal, but as he did so, he swung his arms too wide and it stole his balance. His feet slid forward, knocking into the marble pillar, and in his hand, the book whined a high-pitched moan. The man, with light skin and brown hair, flew backward, an invisible wall buffeting him, drivi
ng him away from the pedestal. The cry heightened, growing louder and louder, and then a flash of light poured from the book, in a rainbow of every color. The book grew hot and Wilt dropped it. As the colors spread, his vision blurred, a mass of blue and red and black.
And then another man stood in the room – nay, floated – over the book, his hands of dark skin, his body draped in midnight blue robes, and wearing an odd pointed hat over graying hair. On his face he wore a mask, not porcelain like Wilt’s, but iron forged into the face of an owl. In his hand he carried a staff, a simple thing with the top carved into a jaybird. A four-foot beard hung from his chin, the same grayish-white color as his hair. The whole visage was hazy, vibrating and sparkling as if made of the light which poured forth from the book. The man’s figure became more opaque the closer it was to the book, as if the man were a part of it, as if he were a ghost projected from the open pages.
The light skinned man struck the floor and rolled backward, crashing into a row of stools lined before the fireplace.
“Who touches the Book of Dydal?” the masked man asked. His head dipped, the gaze training to Wilt’s own.
The man by the fire leapt to his feet and shouted, “He does!” Then darted behind the curtains.
The masked figure turned, and strangely, his mask took on a look of confusion, the brow sinking and its beak flattening.
“Who else is here?” the ghost asked.
“No one,” the man behind the curtain claimed. “Just a maid. Erm. A servant. Cleaning curtains.”
The masked man huffed, sweeping his cloak in what Wilt could only imagine to be a gesture of dissatisfied annoyance, and then turned his eyes back to Wilt. “I see,” he said. “Why have you removed the book from its pedestal?”
Wilt was awestruck. What should he say to such a… thing? “Are you… are you the Whore?” Wilt asked.
Death's Merchant: Common Among Gods - Book One Page 59