“Why the sudden change?” Trin asked. “Why the guilt then, when it didn’t bother him before?”
Jem swallowed. This was the part he’d been avoiding. How could he tell it properly? She wouldn’t believe him. “Because of what he did, Trin. To me.”
Trin stared at him, waiting. Again, Jem cleared his throat. “I don’t remember much of it,” Jem continued. “He must have been angry, maybe at me, or maybe at himself, but he let it overwhelm him. He went too far. I just remember the lash. I think I lost too much blood. They must have thought me dead, because I woke up in the dark, atop a pile of the dead and rotting. I was at the bottom of the Well, Trin, with the rest of my father’s victims, my clothes torn from the lash, my back and arms and legs bloody. I could see the blood shining on the stones overhead. And I could feel the dead underneath me.”
Trin’s face was blank. “What… how…”
Trin speechless, Jem noted. If he weren’t pouring out his soul, he might’ve laughed.
“I found a way out,” Jem shrugged. “Eventually, I found a way out. I didn’t know how I got there, or why, and at first, I was weak… but I woke up… different.”
“What in Butcher’s name… Jem, I…”
Jem gripped the hand on his knee. “I know, Trin. It’s not something that can be explained. It’s something that has to be seen.”
Holding up his palm, Jem let the Well slide open. Trin jumped. A tiny flame burgeoned on his index finger. As Trin watched, he made the fire dance from finger to finger, a swirling, singular trail that arced from point to point.
“I don’t know if the gods took pity on me, or if it was something else… Perhaps it was the Well itself, or the pile of dead, but the longer I lay there, the stronger I became. I could feel it seeping up from below – whatever it was that gave me strength, it came from the rocks… or maybe it came from the dead. But I could feel it around me, and it gave me strength, like the priests of doctrine. It was like the Well was Mystic, and I was Rift. And this-” Jem nodded to the dancing fire. “-was the result.
“I don’t know what it is,” he said in answer to her expression. “I couldn’t do it before the Well. Not before I died in that pit.”
“Died?” Trin asked.
Jem nodded. “How else do you explain it? Is that not what doctrine says? That there is power in death? That it was the power the gods feared, the power that drove them from the earth? ‘Because they heard the Call of the Blood, and it left them wanting,’” Jem quoted. “‘And their want drove them to the mountaintops, and then it drove them from the earth.’”
“That’s not what it means,” Trin said.
“How do you know?” Jem asked. “Maybe it’s exactly what it meant? There are more like me, Trin.” He nodded to the letter in her lap. “Like the one who wrote that letter. He’s a Gelliner assassin. He can do what I can. I don’t know what it is, but I’m not the only one.”
Trin pursed her lips. “Jem.” Her voice was weak. “I know you don’t want me to ask this… but I have to.” She shook her head, as if denying her doubts. “If your father did that to you… If he left you to die… how could you sign that testimony?”
“Because Taehrn made me.” Jem glanced away. “And because it wasn’t my father’s fault, Trin.”
Trin balked. “Your father held the whip, didn’t he?”
“You don’t understand, Trin.”
“What don’t I understand?”
“You weren’t there when he saw me return… You weren’t there when I stumbled back to the garrison. You didn’t see his face.”
“But, Jem-”
“He broke into tears, Trin. When he saw me, he broke into tears. It was the happiest and the most relieved I had ever seen him. Now, and then. He hugged me… which he didn’t do often. And over and over he repeated how thankful, and sorry he was, how he had changed. He praised the gods, believing they had answered his prayers… And so did I.”
“But he still did all those things, Jem.”
Jem clenched his jaw. He could feel the heat rising on the hind of his neck. He wasn’t mad at her, just angry that she didn’t understand. It was foolish, he would probably never be able to convince her that he’d done the right thing, but it seemed important that he try.
“He was still my father,” Jem said, but he couldn’t look her in the eye as he said it. It was a weak argument, but it was one of the few excuses his ten-year-old self had had. “What else could I do? Where else would I have gone?”
“You had your uncle,” Trin suggested.
“Please don’t, Trin. We’ve been through this before.”
Trin pursed her lips and nodded.
“Besides,” Jem continued, his anger building. “It was not my father’s fault. It was the priesthood that pressured him. It was Magistrate Godahn, and Taehrn, and the Deacon Lissahn. It was them that made him fear failure, and it was that fear which spurred him on. They made him, a simple scribe, into a killer, because they had lauded him as a hero, and then cursed him to fail at a mine that no longer produced. He couldn’t handle that, Trin, to fail not only his country, but his gods too. It made him cruel when he had been kind, made him paranoid when he had been calm and rational. They did it to him, Trin. The priesthood did it.”
Trin said nothing. She looked skeptical, but she didn’t challenge him. “Well…” she said after a long pause. “I suppose it doesn’t matter now.” Her eyes lifted and stared past him. Her gaze seemed distant as she barked a single, nervous laugh. “Besides, who am I to judge the stupid choices of a ten-year-old?”
“It wasn’t stupid,” Jem bristled. Realizing that he had shouted, he smiled apologetically. “It was the wrong thing,” he clarified, “but it wasn’t stupid.”
Her gaze drifted back to him. This time, her laugh was one of amusement. “No. Maybe not.” She took a deep breath. “Are you all right then, Jem? About the whole Taehrn thing, that is.”
Jem bit his lower lip. “I… I think so,” he sighed. “I loved Elyse… And it’s good to know that she did nothing to hurt me.” He kept to himself the added guilt he felt over his father’s death; if he told her, she’d just think him more of a fool. “But I don’t think I can let him get away with it. Nor Lissahn, nor the Magistrate.”
“And you shouldn’t. We’ll figure something out, Jem. I promise, we will.”
Jem looked at her. “Do you… trust me, then?” Jem asked. “Are we okay?”
Trin didn’t answer. Instead, she glanced over her shoulder, again staring through the canvas of their tent. “If that bastard’s schemes get Bell into trouble, I swear I’ll kill him. I know Taehrn would never try to hurt him, but the blooder is a butchering moron sometimes. How could he think to do something like this, and how could he wrap Bell up in it? We’re not going to stand for it, Jem. But, gods it’s so like him, like once when we were kids and he convinced Bell to jump off the roof of the-”
“Thank you, Trin.” She was trying to change the subject, and frankly, Jem was fine with that, but it worried him that she hadn’t answered his question.
She smiled and continued her story.
Trin lay on her cot watching Jem sleep. She was no longer worried for what would happen to the people of New Luddahn. Her curse could not be helped. Those people would die and it would be her fault, but despite the curse, she could still do good in the world, and that knowledge was one of the few things that kept her going.
The curse worked through her, but it was not her. She was the woman who valued her friends, who did all she could to help them and all those around her. Jem had kept things from her, but that didn’t matter. In the end, he’d told her the truth, and his story made sense. The boy had said that Trin was the only one who could save him, and she damn well would. She could still help people.
Jem slept more soundly tonight than he had in the past. Already she was easing his pain. It didn’t matter that he had lied, because he hadn’t lied to hurt her or to control her; he’d lied because he was scared. He wasn’
t the monster his father had been, he was just a dumb kid who didn’t understand the world yet. In some ways, at least. In others, he probably understood the world better than most.
It made her feel better to know that she could help him, but still, she was afraid; afraid for Bell, afraid for Jem, for Lila and the baby, for the Luddahners – gods, she was even afraid for Taehrn, though the sick bastard didn’t deserve it. Eventually, her curse would touch each of them, and she couldn’t handle that.
In some sick way, Jem’s story had eased her conscience. Here, for once, was a horrific event which didn’t have her prints on it. She had never met Deacon Indaht Trask and hadn’t been in direct contact with Liv or anyone involved. There was no way that the curse – or Fate – could have acted through her to create all that death.
Out of guilt, she hadn’t answered Jem’s question. She did trust him and they were okay, but how could she confirm that when he didn’t know the whole truth about her? To confirm it would have been like accepting a deal where she knew the object was damaged and the buyer didn’t. But how could she tell him that she was cursed? How could she tell him that she believed every detail of his story, believed that the gods had taken pity on him and saved his life, because the gods had taken a personal interest in her, as well? Maybe it was time to tell Jem the truth, but that seemed cruel; it seemed like adding more burdens to his already burdened life. She couldn’t do that.
Unfolding the page from Teachings of a Whore, Trin studied it again. She was relieved, but that didn’t mean she could stop trying to break the curse. She knew there had to be another way to do it, if not for her own sake, then for everyone else’s.
Of course, that was a lie. If it were for their sake, she had a way to stop the curse. The page was clear on it, that ‘only Death could end one’s fate.’ But she wasn’t willing to consider that. At least, not yet. It said Death could be tempered. That it could be compassionate. She had to find a way to make that true, had to find a way to make the curse listen, to make it stable, because the alternative… She would not consider that.
And yet she might have to, because unlike Taehrn, she understood sacrifice. And she understood that on one point, the man had been right; she wasn’t that important.
CHAPTER SIXTY-FIVE
Masks were itchy, which was precisely the reason Lu hated the Whore. No. They were the only reason Lu hated the Whore. No, wait, Lu thought. Do I hate the Whore? He didn’t know, but he did hate masks. They were too bulky, too scratchy, too joyful and happy and colorful, and that’s why he did not wear them, especially Not Lu’s iron owl.
Except for now. Now he wore a porcelain mask in the shape of a pig, and the damned thing was itchy.
From his small alcove outside the chapel, he watched the man’s approach. Rift was not what one would expect of an Assassin. He was too handsome and confident. The man did not walk, he strode like he thought every eye was upon him, and they probably were. Lu had fond memories of the two of them together, the man pinned beneath him in a warm embra-
Me? Lu panicked.
Yes me, he whined. For some reason, the answer sickened him in a way few thoughts did. It was a memory which begged for the button’s sweet removal, and those were rare.
Although the man did his best to blend into the shadows, those traits made Rift too noticeable to be a good assassin, let alone the Assassin. A fact which proved that even the highest form of unimaginable depravation could be achieved with a little perseverance.
No, Rift was a poor excuse for subtle. Not like Lu who could hide himself masterfully, even here, in plain sight. Lu was so good, that despite the man being only a few dozen feet away, the man could not see him. He was so good, that they should have called him the Assassin. Ah, except for all the killing.
Lu saw the image of a gloomy basement, filled with scraps of bloody cloth and old rotting bones, enough bones to build a modest sized army. And at the center of it all, a casket surrounded by flowers and the body of a young man. Obviously, he had killed too many to be called an Assassin.
Me? he asked. Yes me, he answered and knew it for truth.
Rift’s eyes widened as they found Lu’s shrouded-self nestled between the two buildings. The man stopped.
“You are him, then?” Rift asked. “The one who set me free?”
Lu stepped out of the alcove to block the man’s path. “I am Lu,” he agreed. “Have you done as I asked, Assassin?”
Rift frowned, his finger tentatively tapping the bag roped over his shoulder, as if undecided on whether he would fulfill his end of their bargain. At last, with his mouth set in a determined but joyless smile, he untied the strap, looped the bag around his shoulder and into his arms.
“I am the Assassin no longer,” he said.
Lu raised an eyebrow. It was about time; the man had not been cut out for the role. “And the book?”
Rift opened the bag and removed the leather-bound tome. He held it close to his chest, allowing Lu to see but not touch.
Lu grinned, his smile wide and toothy. Of course, he couldn’t see his mouth, but he imagined it must be toothy. Last he’d checked, there were still teeth in there.
“And what of your promise?” Rift asked.
Lu removed the crimson colored candle from his robe pocket. Pristine and unlit, he held it out for Rift. “You are free,” Lu said.
“And her?”
“Her?” Lu frowned. “Her, who?”
“Galina. Is she still trapped as you promised?”
Closing one eye, Lu thought back to recent days. Harassed the boy, counted the bricks, released the Assassin. Counted the bricks. Visited Galina’s tomb… Framed the boy. Burned the moon. The little one, never the big.
“Oops,” he said. He had visited Galina’s tomb, remembered her seething rage as he’d stood in the temple above, but then he had forgotten his promise and let her go.
“Ughh,” Rift groaned. “I knew it!” He thrust the book into Lu’s chest and snatched the candle from Lu’s hand. “First, I’m stuck with that damned girl from Vale, and now this. Just take the butchering book then.”
Lu glanced down at the heavy tome. He ran a finger along the title sewn into the cover with gold thread. “And Not Lu?” Lu asked.
“Not who?” Rift asked.
“Not Lu.”
“Not you?”
“No, not me–” Lu paused. “Well, yes. Not me, but more specifically Not Lu. I am told the masked fiend chased you from Dekahn.”
Fiend? Lu wondered. Is that right? Perhaps I meant friend. He couldn’t say.
Slow realization dawned in Rift’s eyes. “You mean Dydal,” he said.
“Yes. Not Lu.”
“I…” Rift’s head turned, his gaze staring back over his shoulder. “Lost him. He should give you no trouble.”
“Good.” Lu stepped aside to allow the man to pass. “Sailor awaits you in the harbor. She will take you to Kin’Ken.”
Rift glared at him suspiciously. “We are done, then?”
“Yes. You had better hurry,” Lu grinned. “I imagine that Galina will come looking for you before she looks for me.”
Rift’s face paled. With one last look, the man stepped past him, a newfound urgency added to Rift’s cocky gait. Lu watched him until the hill’s decline took him out of sight.
“That was masterfully done, Dydal,” a woman’s voice said. Though soft and vibrant, it made his skin crawl. He turned slowly, uncertain what she had heard.
“I am not Not Lu,” Lu said. There were many gods he was, but he was not Not Lu. Except when he was Not Lu, which was right now.
The Fatereader leaned with two hands on her wooden cane, wearing a questioning smirk beneath knowing eyes. “Must we play this game?” she protested.
“Yes,” Lu said.
Her smirk wavered. “I do not understand you. The Whore’s reign is over. My sister, Death, has passed. Life is dead. It is only you and I left who matter. What reason do you have to fight me?”
Lu held his bod
y rigid, refusing to show any emotion to this one. Though predictable and deterministic, Fate was not a god who could see the future. No god could. Fate was a creature that lived in the past, one who looked backward, tying together scraps of knowledge to create a pattern that could be labeled as ‘inevitable.’ She was not all-knowing, but she was still dangerous, not because of her aspect, but because of who she was as a person. After all, the bitch was trying to kill him.
“Pardon?” Lu asked. He had many reasons to fight her, but none that he would reveal. The button was in his pocket, as it ever was, but still, it was not yet the right time. Still, he needed to keep an unclear head.
Fate chuckled. “No, I did not expect you to give a reason. You’re too petty for that. Too petty to simply wear your opposition with pride. Instead you must play games, hiding behind excuses and nuance, too afraid to stand and wear your colors for the world to see. I know that Just did not interfere.”
“Interfere? Interfere with what?” Lu asked.
“You know what. With Jem Trask. In my deal with the Whore. I know that you were the one who meddled with my bargain, what I cannot discern is why. I thought at first, it was her… that you wanted to see the Mother. That you thought that by breaking our deal, you could reclaim your grip on her, but I’ve been watching her, and I’ve been watching you… and it’s like you do not care for her at all. Almost as though… you want her as distracted as you want me. Yet I cannot figure why. What do you know, Dydal?”
Lu thought back. “I don’t know much,” he said. “Except that I am not Not Lu,” though he wasn’t exactly certain of that either.
“No,” Fate said. She stepped close and put a hand on Lu’s mask. If his face had not itched before, it did now. “No, I do not believe that. Why did you do it? Why move Jem Trask out of Vale? He’s done nothing untoward since he left… his life has been completely uneventful. All their lives, the lives of every person around him, completely normal. Was it just a game for you? A distraction?”
Death's Merchant: Common Among Gods - Book One Page 110