Ivan smiled in spite of himself. “You have read Just’s Fables?” That tome was an ancient one, and very rare. He knew of only one copy in the known world, and that copy belonged to the Earl of Settin, and housed in the Settish Conclave. As a young lad in Iraskle’s service, he had been lucky enough to attend a ceremonial reading by the Earl himself. It was an odd thing to reflect on after so many years, and odder still that he would look back on the event with such fondness.
The woman’s voice rose to an excited hum. “Read them? He has written them down?” As she stopped outside of an old storage room, her grin seemed to have widened; it was difficult to tell without proper light. “I always told him he should. They were some of my favorite bedtime stories, not to mention they would be a good way to inspire a sense of adventure in some of the more… jaded younglings.”
The sound of shuffling feet drew Ivan’s attention. The door behind the woman clicked, and he felt a rush of warm, dusty air brush past him. A tiny voice spoke from the doorway. “Mama, is that you?” Through a small slit, he saw the rough outline of a child’s face, the eyes demonic like the mother’s.
“Yes, child,” the woman said. “We will be right there.”
The child made a faint sound as she pulled the door closed. The scarce light shimmered on the girl’s metallic fingers. Her heart-shaped face and strong, but fine chin vanished behind oaken planks.
When Ivan shifted his glance to the woman, it felt as if he were dragging his eyes away. “I suppose a torch would be too much to ask for?”
Her voice carried a tone of curious delight. “Have I made you nervous?” she asked.
“The High Cleric’s requests always make me nervous.”
The woman pulled her head back farther into the shadows and the soft glint of light became even softer as the smile curled up into a snarl. “‘A torch would hurt my lovelies’ eyes,’” she said, in perfect imitation of the old crone, the words that of the demon in the story. “And we would not want that.”
As she reached out her hand to grip Ivan’s bicep, he released a sigh more exaggerated than her feigned witch’s cackle.
“Gods, you and the Cleric must be related.”
“Oh, must we?” The hand on his arm shimmered. The colors faded to a dull black as the hand twisted into a scaled claw. Her face charged into view, her petite chin and round cheeks replaced by the head of a beetle, with snapping pincers at its mouth and the horn of a Northlands rhinoceros on its forehead.
“Mother’s embrace,” he screamed. His arms went limp, hanging in the air before him as his feet carried the rest of him in the opposite direction. The pile of buttons which caught his fall were not as soft as he would have thought, their tiny metal adornments catching between the fibers of his clothing, and pricking his flesh. His gaze darted from shadow to shadow, searching for the vile woman, unable to find the black flesh of the horrid creature, as his chest grew tight and his breathing rasped.
The creature did not attack. It didn’t pounce on him and thrust that massive spike through his eye or chest. Instead, the sound of jovial laughter filled the room, accompanied by the soft clatter of the many buttons beneath him as they poured from their respective perches.
“My apologies.” The woman’s words rolled with the pacing of her sonorous chuckle. “It has been a long time since I have had the company of another adult, and I fear I’ve lost any tact I once had.” The hand she offered had returned to normal, the beautiful rubellite-like skin shaking with the convulsions of her laughter. “At least, that is what I will tell myself for acting like such a child, but the truth is that I simply couldn’t resist.”
Ivan scrambled away from her outstretched palm, hacking on the spit that had tried to strangle him. More buttons scuttled across the floor as the pile shifted beneath him, the cold metal and painted wood feeling rough to skin made sensitive by fear. “Godsdamned woman, what are you trying to do to me?” The way his words tore their way free of his throat, the heightened pitch was unsurprising. “I’m an old man, damnit! What if that had killed me?”
The warm, comely face eased close enough to be seen. The shoulder length golden hair and plump cheeks had returned. Her thin brows flattened atop eyes too round for the sympathy they attempted to convey. “Oh come now, you are not as old as that.” Her hand fluttered impatiently, beckoning him to accept. “Please, I was cruel, but I really do require your help. If not for me, then for my daughters.”
“Help those little demons? I saw those eyes, they’re the same as yours.”
“Which is why I need your help,” the woman shrugged. “They were born on another world and their eyes cannot see properly. What little light there is in this hall causes them great pain.”
“So, you plan to take mine?” he accused.
“Certainly not.” She dismissed the suggestion with a wave like a lilting shrug, the forearm held rigid, the fingers hung limp, and all the motion carried in her wrist. “I only need to examine them, so I can perfect the sensory nodes… It will be much like tuning a violin by plucking a few chords.”
Ivan clenched his jaw as he set his worst glare upon her. “Sounds more like baking a cake from a picture.”
The woman chuckled. “Better than trying to recreate it from a memory of the picture.” As the muscles of Ivan’s face tightened, her amused smile faltered. “Oh come,” she said. “It was just a poor joke. I am no bumbling godling. I am well versed in such endeavors, and with your eyes as a reference, it shouldn’t take longer than an hour, at most, and I promise there will be no more of my ill-timed humor.”
Her words seemed sincere, but the coat of clammy unease and sweat had not yet left his flesh; the thrumming rhythm of heat, like the tides in a summer storm, still assaulted the back of his neck.
“Don’t you know how a proper woman behaves?” Ivan asked.
Her head pulled back, her face flattening so that it was level with the front of her collar. The coy twist to the left corner of her mouth was troubling for he could not place the emotion; his best guess was a kind of befuddled amusement.
“No, I do not,” she said. “Is it rather like Mother’s behavior? For I may have run this university once, but I was never much of a whore.”
Ivan’s mind scurried for a response, but much like his legs in the pile of buttons, it failed to find sturdy footing. His tongue froze in his mouth, feeling numb, his jaw stuck in jittery vibration as if it had fallen asleep. Her comment was just so… very odd, that he didn’t know what to say. Finally, as his mind often did when he felt small, it settled on a question meant to belittle; who is she to treat me like this? He liked it so much, he decided to speak it aloud. That would put her in her place.
“Who are you…” Ivan began, but the confusion and mild rage that he’d been hoping to hide in favor of calm superiority, caught together in his throat leaving the second half of the sentence unspoken.
She must have noticed the unusual intonation of what should have been a valiant demand, for although she answered the unfinished question, she did it with a frown. “We have already been introduced, Mister Medahn, my name is Sybil. The Alchemist who founded this university.”
“I knew it!” The words were out faster than any other part of his mind or body could participate. Fifty years of that bastard, and it was about time for some blooding vindication. “He thought he could fool me, but I knew it the whole time. No one but a god could piss away that much time doing nothing but test my damned patience.” His legs finally found a foothold, and ignoring her hand, he thrust himself onto his feet before marching toward her, his right pointer finger underscoring his words with its wild flailing. “Which is he then?” Ivan continued. “Butcher, right? Or maybe Slayer? It must be something cruel for the way that blooding creature behaves. Only a demon like one of them could have set foot onto this earth the day dear Iraskle perished.”
“I’m…” Alchemist paused, her tongue brushing across her top lip. “I’m afraid you’ve lost me, Mister Medahn. Who is it we are c
ondemning?” Her brow crinkled as she grabbed both his arms and held him in place. “And what do you mean Slayer? Surely, you don’t mean Silt?”
“The very same,” Ivan agreed. She hadn’t quite admitted the Cleric was that fiendish little god, but her knowledge of his existence was confirmation enough. Only if he were the most foul god in the history of the pantheon would the Cleric’s systematic degeneration of his holy office make any sense at all. Ivan had often thought that Iraskle must have been such the pinnacle of godliness that the pantheon he spoke for had cast out its lowest cur so that it might include him in its ranks, and Alchemist’s revelations proved it.
“Has Iraskle finally sent someone to release me from that demon’s service?” Ivan begged. “I have put in my time, and weathered it stoically, but this vacation has only shown me that enough is enough. It may sound like my faith has faltered, but I assure you, it is only out of pure loyalty to the gods that I despise that creature so.”
Alchemist’s left hand lifted into the air and then hovered, the pointer finger twitching slightly, directed somewhere between Ivan’s head and the floor. Her mouth hung open, her bottom lip working in rhythm with the finger. “I am…” she began. “I think perhaps that we should sit down, and begin again from the first.” She licked her top lip. “Our knowledge seems to contradict, and I have never heard of this Iraskle.”
The statement knocked the wind from his fervor like a kick in the groin. “But… but you have come from the heavens… You must know of Iraskle.”
The left hand eased to her chest, flat against her bosom, her fingers pinching the skin of her lower neck. “The heavens?” she asked. “I suppose that is likely… but I have never heard of your friend.”
“But I am sworn to you. You must have heard my prayers.” He could feel his legs loosening. They didn’t plummet away, like the legs of a chair, they simply softened. They were still enough to hold him upright, but he could feel them weaken, as if crumbling away or pulling apart, fiber by fiber.
“I am… I am sorry. I have heard no prayers.”
That was enough to do it. The right knee gave out beneath him, sending all his weight onto that side. Her left hand let go of her neck, and between fuzzy brown spots, he saw it dart toward him. She caught him at the armpit, the one hand seemingly enough to hold his weight; she did not even falter. Stepping close, she wrapped the other arm about him, her eyes staring into his. The brown mottling dizzied him as it danced across her face of polished rubies.
“Please. Please,” she said. “Do not faint. We need to sit you down.”
The sound of shuffling feet seemed muted as she dragged him into the back room. If she planned to feed him to her children, he wouldn’t mind. At least he would finally serve a purpose to someone.
“Are you all right?”
His backside landed on what felt to be a wooden crate. Fingers waved before his eyes, little more than black shadows crossing a field of pitch.
“What is wrong with him, Mother?” a soft voice asked.
“Not now, Tin.”
“You… you…” The last voice was incoherent. It simply repeated the same phrase again and again.
“What? What is it?” Her face lingered.
Is she speaking to me?
“You…”
“Yes?” The question was a worried demand. It shocked him. What did she want from him?
“You…” This time, he felt the air rasp across his vocal chords and he realized it was him who’d been repeating the mantra. With a swallow, he clenched shut his eyes to gather his thoughts. “You heard nothing?” he finally managed.
“Calm down, Mister Medahn. You need to relax.”
He felt hands on his shoulders and realized he’d been swinging them back and forth. The pressure both calmed and infuriated him. Did he not deserve to be upset? He threw his shoulders against her restraint one last time – to emphasize his point; a point he didn’t even bother to utter – before allowing himself to sag into her grip.
“Ohhhh,” Ivan moaned. “Has my service meant nothing? Fifty-five years in the priesthood and this is my reward.”
“Surely it has meant something to someone?”
“To who? It was supposed to mean something to you.”
Her gaze shied away.
“Who else would care?” he demanded to know.
“Perhaps we should take a moment to breathe and then start from the beginning, Mister Medahn.”
“Who else would care?” he repeated angrily.
Her voice rose to match his. “Did it mean nothing to you?”
Ivan paused, his jaw hanging.
Her glance shied away a second time. “I am sorry,” she said. “You are frantic… I should not have yelled.”
He barely heard her. She was right… Had it meant nothing to him? All those years… had he let them pass by without taking any joy? Ivan swallowed.
“You were supposed to care,” he repeated, but the strength of his will had faltered. He didn’t know if the words were meant for her, or a revelation meant for himself.
Her lips pursed. She let another moment pass before she spoke. “Are you all right now, Mister Medahn?”
“Ivan,” he breathed.
“What?”
“Please. Call me Ivan. If we must start again, we will do so without the formalities.” A funny thought tickled his throat. “It appears they mean nothing anyway.” He laughed pityingly.
“Mother?” the child interrupted. This time, Ivan saw the source, or at least, he saw the light reflected off the creature’s eyes. The room was too dark to see much beyond Sybil’s face.
Sybil’s head swiveled to face the girl. “Yes, child?”
“Um,” it began cautiously. “What is it?”
For a brief moment, the Alchemist’s face looked to be in pain. “This is Mister Med-… This is Ivan. He is like us. Human.” Her gaze returned to his face. “Ivan, these are my daughters, Tin and Iri.” Her hand motioned into the darkness. Another set of eyes lit up next to the first, followed by a soft squeak as they narrowed to slits, then disappeared.
“I cannot see,” another voice whined. The complaint was so despondent, that he almost pitied the damnable creature. Oh, come now, he chided. It may look like a demon, but it is still a child.
Ivan sighed as he let his gaze drift back to Sybil. “What must we do to help them?” he asked.
“You need only look at me and keep your head level,” she smiled. “The birthright and I shall do the rest.”
Ivan nodded. He did not know what she intended, or what she meant by ‘birthright,’ but he couldn’t let the poor demons suffer.
Sybil lifted her hand to his face and pinched open his right eye. “You might feel a slight tingling, but it shouldn’t hurt.”
He didn’t answer, only set his jaw to meet whatever might come. He did not see nor hear a thing when the sensations began. ‘A slight tingling’ was an understatement, but neither did it overwhelm him. His right eye felt as it did whenever he stayed awake late into the night, or when he spent too much time in the presence of the coastal white lilies he was allergic to. It was not a tingle, but a maddening itch, and with her fingers pinching the lids, he could not hope to close it. He blinked the left eye, which eased the pain some, and resigned himself to weather the storm.
Sybil must have noticed his irritation, for her lips stretched taut at the corners. “So, you mentioned that you are a scholar here. What is it you study?” Her face was close enough he could feel her breath. Strangely, she did not seem to exhale outside of speaking.
“In my youth, I studied history.”
“History?” She said the word with more enthusiasm than he had expected. “So that is how you know Dydal? You are his pupil?”
Ivan frowned. “Know Dydal? If ever I’d had the pleasure, it is unlikely that I could have abandoned my studies.”
“But your High Cleric…”
“What of him?”
“Well… he is…” Sybil paused.
“Yes?”
She bit her lip. “No, nothing,” she said. “Never mind.”
The way her eyes twitched in their sockets unnerved him.
“No,” he stated firmly. The sense of dread washed into his chest. “No, please. He isn’t…” Ivan had to clear his throat before he could continue. “The hat and robes, they are nothing but an affectation, they are not really…”
Her sad grin said it all.
“Ohhh, must you take every hero from me?”
Her lips folded in against her teeth, but the smile looked more amused than guilty. “This is a rather sordid meeting we have had, isn’t it?”
“Yet the pain is rather one-sided if you ask me.”
“Mother? Who is Dydal?”
“Your grandmother’s most recent suitor, child.”
The description struck him as an odd one, as did the somewhat contemptuous way she sneered.
“You and Dydal are not close?” Ivan asked.
Sybil’s eyelids fluttered. “No,” she said. “He was… he is my youngest sister’s father.”
“Your stepfather then?”
“Ha,” she scoffed. “No. That would be rather odd would it not? I am older than the man by at least six centuries, so even if he and my mother had married, it would not have been as if he raised me.” Sybil’s jaw unclenched on one side, her tongue digging into the opposite cheek. The finger and thumb on his lids wavered slightly. “Dydal and I…” she began, “are little more than acquaintances. I met him a few times as he climbed the ranks of Mother’s Courtesans, and was unsurprised when I learned that little Tyrena was his. But other than that, I only really saw him when my sister became an adult. He was often there when I called upon Tyrena, but even then, our conversations were usually brief and filled with polite chatter. I did read a few of his works, though. His Pantheon was a little too… informed for my liking. It was a rather scandalous thing to have outlined our private lives like that, and then to have released it to the public.” Her eyelids flared as her pupils flit up and to one side. “He could have asked at the least.”
“Now, that sounds like the Cleric I know,” Ivan agreed. “Always doing whatever he butchering feels like.”
Death's Merchant: Common Among Gods - Book One Page 75