“Order?” the woman said. “Why does that sound so familiar…”
“Oh gods,” the dying man spat. “I can handle dying, I can handle my guts feeling like they’re burning worse than this city, but I can’t handle that.”
“Handle what?”
“That, that blooder Eddings might’ve been right for once.” The man’s head swiveled on his makeshift pillow. “Yer him aren’t yer? Yer the son of Order he was talking about.”
“You know me?” Loy asked.
The woman broke into laughter. The boy jumped as though surprised, and the sobbing girl nestled her head deeper into the woman’s chest.
“Only by reputation,” she said. “Though I wouldn’t call it reliable.”
The woman closed her eyes as her head tilted back to rest against the stone wall. Loy realized that she was as injured as the man and losing strength fast, and yet, she gave no visual sign. Her face looked peaceful.
The mortals of this land continued to surprise him… but this time in a good way. They face their deaths with laughter and smiles. Gods, how can they be stronger willed than the fool gods I have met in this land?
Loy put his hand on her brow and another on her shoulder. The shattered collarbone was the least of her injuries. Burns covered every inch of her beneath the plate, skin and metal fused in a sticky mess of sores. She would not live much longer. Her mouth worked silently for a moment as her eyelids shuddered.
“What are you doing?” she asked.
“Helping.” Loy closed his eyes and disconnected his sight, letting the birthright flow from his hands into her wounds. He felt the blood seep back into the veins and heard the broken bones click into place, their tiny fibers merging together to rebuild the bone. The smoke and tar that clotted her lungs broke apart, each molecule splitting infinitely until they were nothing. The trickiest part was the flesh. Fragments of bone could be placed together and glued into their former shape as if nothing had happened, the internal fluid refilled and the nerves reset, but a burn was different. It did not displace the flesh, it destroyed it, changing it chemically.
Every Lendish godling was taught to heal, and knew it was not a thing of mysticism, but of Alchemy; it required skill, not emotion. One must know how the body worked to make it so, for healing required the body’s natural abilities. Unfortunately, a burn often destroyed those vessels responsible for knitting flesh. The birthright could repair the blood and rebuild the nerves, but it required a working copy to do so, and must be done piece by piece.
It took much focus, but Loy had done this before; years ago, when Sister Spade’s sleeping game had caused one of the servants to fall into a nearby fireplace. He’d been beaten for that. Not for healing the servant, but because he had been so careless with the servant’s life. Luckily for this woman, he knew what he was doing.
The woman’s eyes fluttered then opened as he removed his hands from her. She bent over hacking and spitting. When her breathing calmed, she stared at her hands as if confused. Her face turned to him slowly, with a look of wonder. She rolled her shoulder, testing her newly forged bone to the rattle of metal plates.
“Gods,” she said. Lifting her breastplate, she shook it, rolling it in smooth circles across her chest. “They’re gone… The burns are gone.” She turned her eyes to Loy. “Thank you, I was beginning to feel like an egg in a pan.”
“What did yer do?” the man asked, trying futilely to tilt his head to see past Loy.
“I am godkind,” Loy dismissed, but despite his words, he smiled. His smile vanished the moment he looked at the dying man’s face. The art of healing came with a dire warning; to never touch another’s blood. Any who did so was punished, locked away and isolated in Father’s estate and not to be seen for many months, sometimes even years. To touch the blood of violence was a cardinal sin and this man was covered in it.
Loy spat, chewing his tongue thoughtfully. “Get me some water,” he ordered the boy.
With wide eyes, the boy leapt to obey. He crossed to the well and yanked the rope. The pulley gear whirred, and within moments, the bucket appeared. Loy retrieved it, and emptied it on the man’s face.
“Awwhh, what are yer doing?”
“I do not know the barriers to protect the flesh, so instead, you must be washed.” Loy removed his shirt and handed it to the boy. “Wipe his face.”
The woman grabbed it instead, “I’ll do it,” she said. She kneeled over her husband, scrubbing his face as if he were a babe with a runny nose. She pulled it away, and Loy nodded, dropping beside her to place his hands on the man.
“When I say so, you must remove the sword, slowly. Do not get the blood near me. It mustn’t touch me.”
“Why not?” she asked.
“It is the way it must be done,” he said impatiently. “Do you understand?”
“Yes.”
Loy released the birthright, and cleansed the man’s flesh of the minor burns and scrapes; easier than the woman’s because the fire had not reached the deeper layers. He flushed the blood from the man’s liver and the surrounding cavities then sent it back into his body, up into the importing veins from the stomach. It was both ironic and tragic that the poisoned organ should be his liver; to clean the blood of the poisons left by the battered blade he must seal the wound, but if he left the poisoned blood to settle too long, it might kill the man regardless.
“It is time,” Loy said.
The blade slid gradually. Expecting the nicks and cuts made as the rough blade exited, Loy knit the flesh in the blade’s wake. As the sword left, the wound sealed, leaving a puckered scar. The blood on the man’s chest seeped into his flesh. Last, Loy loosed the poisoned blood, and with the birthright’s strength, and some from the man’s liver, cleansed it. What poisons the liver could not cleanse, the blood itself could, so Loy used those protections also.
The man blinked, his face looking eased and free of strain.
“How do you feel?” Loy asked.
“Thank yer,” the man breathed. A savage grin curled his lips. “Gods, thank yer.”
The young boy stood awestruck, pointing at Loy with a tiny finger. “You’re a witch,” the boy accused.
Too exhausted to argue, Loy simply shook his head and rose to his feet.
“Come,” Loy said. “If you are not too tired, let us see who else we can help.” Despite his accusation, the boy was first in line to follow.
The courtyard was empty as the Legion entered. They had checked the garrison, but whatever soldiers had blocked the gate with rubble, had left. Seeing the chaotic state of the courtyard, it didn’t surprise Bell that the guardsmen had fled. Aside from the shattered gate, patches of the southern wall were missing, the bricks tossed outward and the remaining layers scorched and melted. Something powerful had burst through the door of the massive stone tower near the courtyard’s eastern wall. After the scouts reported that it was a library, the Grand had gone in to examine it. Bell guessed that she was looking for Dydal’s text, but when she returned, she did so empty-handed.
Their scouts had found a few servants in the multistoried building next to the library and each had surrendered without causing trouble. Several of them seemed to be in shock, warning of a demoness who stalked the halls of the palace. With the Grand at his heels, Bell was the first to enter the king’s foreboding seat. She did not challenge him as he made to enter, for which Bell was glad. The palace’s sights were too horrific for him to muster speech, let alone the awareness needed for an argument.
Bell followed the main hall as the servant had advised. With his adrenaline burned away, and immune from grief after a night of hard losses, Bell saw, but the horrors failed to register. There was blood everywhere. The floors, the walls, even the ceilings. It was difficult to believe that a single person could have killed all of these people. There were far too many dead for it to have been the work of a single individual, but he could see why the servants believed it.
Someone had enjoyed killing these people; they had d
ragged their bloody fingers along the length of the walls, leaving red lines interspersed between corpses. It looked almost as if the killer had stopped at each victim to feel the corpse’s blood, then drawn strings in red between each of them. It was almost enough to make Bell believe in demons… and it seemed clear that this demon had come for the book.
There were few coincidences in life. For some reason, this book had been important enough to kill for, and not only for the Trellish Legion. Right then, he almost forgave Cyleste. Compared to this massacre, the Legion’s invasion of Dekahn was the merciful option. But he couldn’t forgive her; one bad deed did not excuse another.
His instincts blamed the Butcher’s Cult. He had read the histories. He had seen the woman at the Chapter House. All this blood… this violation of life… it was their doing. Bell could fathom no other explanation.
But even still, it was hard to understand. All the bodies were Lockish. The guardsmen were positioned – each and every one – to defend the chamber at the palace’s center. Whoever had done this, had either taken their dead with them, or not lost a single soul. It was too difficult to believe.
They entered onto a wide antechamber, lined with couches and armchairs before several fireplaces. The wall sconces had fallen and coal littered the floor. The air smelled of singed hair; coal smoldered on the elk skin rugs before the fireplaces. A large pool of blood had stained the central tile red, but whatever had created it was nowhere to be found. Bell stepped around, but the Grand stepped through the pool with only a grunt.
As she passed, Bell whispered to her. “Has our service absolved us, Grand?”
The Grand laughed. “Not in the slightest, Bell Cobbren.”
They found the dead king in the next room. In the room’s central aisle, two women leaned over a body wrapped in what looked to be a tablecloth. In a waistcoat and brown livery, a dead man hung from a grand chandelier, impaled through the heart by a golden arm. Another body, adorned in black and white – the colors of the Lockish Old Guard – lay sprawled on the tabletop, his eyes hollow sockets in a colorless face.
“Do you think we should check on Beda?” the brown-haired woman asked. The young woman’s voice sounded tired, as if she had seen too much, and could no longer care. Bell could sympathize.
The other woman, her head framed by shoulder length black hair, frowned. “Beda? Is she near?”
“Yes, I-” the younger woman cut off as she tapped on the other woman’s shoulder then pointed to Bell’s procession. The two women stood, the black-haired woman scowling.
The Grand stepped past Bell, her look demanding. “Which of you is Atep Rin?”
The brown-haired woman frowned, glancing to the older woman. “There is-” she began as the other woman stepped forward.
“I am she.”
“Justice sends his condolences.”
The black-haired woman, Atep Rin, turned her head and spat. “This was his doing?”
“On the contrary,” the Grand said. “He does not know how this occurred.”
“And that makes it right?”
The Grand paused for a moment, her lips pursed. “No. But he vows to do so.”
“I do not want his help.”
The Grand shrugged. “Then he asks that you leave his city.”
Atep Rin’s face flared red. “His city? I have spent five hundred years building Dekahn. I am its queen.”
“And now it is gone,” the Grand said. Although she didn’t raise her voice, the words rang over Atep Rin.
“What do you mean gone?”
Cyleste kneeled and lifted a chunk of coal from the floor. She tossed it to Atep Rin, who caught it and studied it with a frown.
“Did you not wonder about that?” Cyleste asked. “Nikom’s Blessing is gone. It was bound to Dydal’s book, and now the book has been taken. When we realized, we did our best to put out the fires, but could do nothing. It has spread too quickly, and from too many places.”
Atep Rin sagged, dropping to clutch her knees with her head buried to her chest. “Your master knew this and did nothing?”
Astonishingly, Cyleste’s eyes watered. “He… he did not realize until he saw the result. He is sorry, Atep Rin.”
When the queen’s head leveled, her eyes were dry and her face resolute. “I will not leave,” the woman hissed. “I will do everything I can to ensure my city recovers.”
Cyleste shrugged. “Then you will do so in our custody. The Old Guard is coming and we cannot allow you to aid them.”
With her eyes closed, the queen shook her head. “Fine,” she said. “Fine. I do not care, so long as I can help my people, but know this. This day Just has committed a crime against family and the Rin’s will never forgive him. He is dead to us.”
The Grand offered a grim smile. “He accepts.”
The younger woman whispered something to the queen and Atep Rin shushed her.
“Bell,” Cyleste continued. “You were a gaoler, yes?”
Wary, Bell hesitated. “Uhhh, yes Grand.”
“Good. You shall be so again. Gather what’s left of your squad and escort the queen to her chambers. Set up a watch and do not allow her to leave unless I say otherwise.”
“Gaoler?” the queen scoffed. “This one? I will stay as long as I desire and this mortal can’t stop me.”
“I’m aware,” Cyleste said.
“Then why bother?”
Turning to Bell, the Grand shrugged. “Practicality, I suppose.” Her smile widened. “But do not fret, Atep Rin, should your inevitable escape prove violent, he will not be overly missed.”
Slayer appeared on cool cobbles, outside a small stone cottage with a thatched roof, surrounded by a burning city. Everything about her hurt; her head, her eyes, her heart. She wanted to kill. She wanted to die. She wanted Atep Rin to suffer, for herself to suffer, for everyone to suffer.
“Why, Silt?” Slayer asked. “Why?”
Silt had betrayed her. He had betrayed her twice. Why did you choose Tin? Did I mean nothing to you?
“Why would you choose that bucktoothed slattern? Our child, Silt. Why did you leave us?” She dug her fingernails deep into the flesh of her palms. Her eyes stung.
“Girl, you will not find your answers in those hollows,” a voice spoke. Cruel and uncaring, it was the voice of evil.
Lifting her eyes, Slayer recognized the little cottage. She hadn’t traveled far, she was in Dekahn’s Winter District, but there it was; the little hovel that existed both in Trel and in Lane, and now here.
“Go away,” Slayer hissed.
“You did not listen to me, Tabetha,” the Fatereader chided. “I told you to stay by the boy’s side.” The evil witch stood in her doorway, leaning on her cane, an amused and condescending smile quirking her lips.
“You lied to me!” Slayer accused. “You said he would choose me; that he would love me, but he didn’t! He abandoned me. He abandoned me again.”
“No,” Fate cooed. She sounded kind, but the woman was a wily bitch, and her sympathies were always false. “No, girl. You are wrong.”
“He abandoned me,” Slayer said. Fate was a schemer, but she could not trick her. Slayer was too smart. Fate would not have her.
“Oh girl, no. That was not Silt. It was only an illusion. The young one and Planner made it to scare you away.”
“But I saw him. I saw him.”
“No, it was not him. I know this. I was by his side when you were not. I was keeping him safe, while you were failing me. You must believe me, child. Silt still loves you. He waits for you and he needs your protection.”
Tabetha wiped her eyes. “Truly?”
“Truly, dear.” Fate clicked her cane against her open doorframe. “Come inside and we will discuss it.”
“No! I will not go in there. I will not accept your deal.”
“Of course, dear, but if you do not accept it, then you will not be reunited with Silt. He has taken my deal, and already he makes great strides. The task I have for you is equally a
s simple.”
“But Dydal is my grandfather,” Tabetha complained. “I cannot take that deal.”
“You must. Dydal has interfered where he should not. He has baited me into coming here. No doubt, he has been working with Just all along, as he ever has. It is clear to me now that he must be removed before he makes things worse.”
“He is family!”
The Fatereader scoffed. “And family means something to you?”
Slayer spit on Fate’s sandaled toes.
Fate tsked, but made no other sign of disapproval. “I pity you dear,” she said. “I do not ask this for myself, I ask this for you. It is a shame that you cannot see that. I cannot grant your fate if you do not accept it.”
“No,” Slayer said, simple but firm.
“No? Let me ask you, girl. Were these kills satisfying? Do these petty lives honor your boy? What of your promise to kill his killer? To kill the Alchemist? I have given you a chance at your dream. At both of them. Your boy would be embarrassed by your incompetence.”
“Do not mention my son!” Slayer tugged her hair. She felt the pain as the strands pulled away. She didn’t care. “You are evil. I refuse you.”
“My dear,” Fate chuckled, “you have no right to speak of evil.” Shaking her head despondently, she clicked her cane on the paving stones. “All right, that is fine. If you do not wish to be reunited with Silt, then I will leave you be. Silt and I will find another to help us fix this world.”
Fate placed her hand on the doorknob and stepped inside. The door swung, and Slayer’s heart leapt.
“Wait,” she begged. “Please. Please. I must be with him. I must be with him.”
Scryer Fate smiled. “Does this mean that you will accept my deal?”
“Yes,” Slayer whined. “Yes, I will do it. I will kill my grandfather. I will kill the High Cleric.”
CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR
Death's Merchant: Common Among Gods - Book One Page 70