Deacon Indaht Trask, this is your son. His name is Jem.
Trin had nothing to say. She stared at the soldier’s face, at the scar which curled up behind his ears and marred his chin.
He watched her study him. “You know it is the wound,” he said. “The very flesh which festered around the hole made by your vile blade. For this man, I have given him damnation. He is a villain, undeserving of the mercy which is a victim’s right. But for you, Trin Cavahl, I offer you a chance, a chance to redeem yourself.” The man reached for his belt and drew his knife. It was a simple woodsman’s blade, unmarked and unadorned, the type carried by a woodcutter.
She didn’t resist as he placed it in her hand.
“Here it is, Trin. Your redemption. You know what you must do.”
As the courtesan turned and left, Trin watched him go without speaking. She stared not at the blade but at the letter in her hand. Even in an act as valiant as saving the life of a baby, Fate’s touch had despoiled. All the pain Jem had lived, was pain that Trin had cursed him with.
And now she was alone. Alone with a knife.
If he’d had a body at that moment, Wilt would have been gawking. You ruined her, Wilt said to the god. That was the bitch who stabbed me, and you have absolutely ruined her.
Yes, the god agreed. I did.
But… why? Wilt asked. You said she was your prized servant. Why would you do that to her?
The god chuckled. Have you not learned by now that I am a liar, Wilt? She was never mine.
But… but what did she do?
Does it matter? Is it not enough that I have punished one you hate? That I have ruined her worse than you could have ever hoped? Does that not satisfy you? Does it not burn in your chest with the righteous zeal of justice done?
Wilt paused. It… it didn’t. He wasn’t satisfied at all, because the god had done to her as he had done to Wilt. He had meddled in her life, judged it from on high, without mercy or compassion, and without good reason. Wilt hated the woman, he wished her a gruesome death, and an even worse life, but not like this. Not at the god’s hands. It was Wilt’s vengeance to dole out, not this demon’s.
Why? Wilt asked.
The god sighed through Wilt’s lips. As I said, rapist. Eventually, she will create Death, and that I cannot allow. Besides, he could have saved Cyleste. It is the heckler’s fault that she is dead. This merchant is of no import to me, but she means something to him. I will ruin her like he has ruined me.
Heckler? What heckler?
The one who spoke to you! The thing you have called my shadow. I know that you hear him. You have seen him mock me, he speaks in your head as I do. Do you deny it?
But… but why this woman? And why not kill her yourself?
Because she must do it herself. The heckler is right. What will happen if I touch her? What will happen if I kill her? She is fated to bring Death into this world, and I cannot take the risk that it shall be me. I have not yet fallen to the Call… but aspects can change. She must kill herself.
Wilt hovered in that disembodied place at the back of his own mind. The god’s words seemed as though they should be more important than they were. Did the god think that if he killed Trin Cavahl, that he would become Death?
After a long pause, the god shivered. Come, Just said. Let us check on the boy’s progress.
Yes, Wilt, that’s exactly what he thinks.
For a moment, Wilt was startled. The voice was not Just, it was the other… it was the very heckler that Just had been condemning. Had it ever spoken to Wilt while Just was present in Wilt’s mind?
No, he didn’t think so.
Stay calm, Wilt. Do not let him realize that I am here. But listen to my words, and evaluate what Just has said.
Panicked, Wilt tried to focus his thoughts on their surroundings, on anything but revealing the heckler’s presence.
For an army camp on the brink of war, it was surprisingly calm. There were few who passed by as Just took them to the First’s tent. Most of the onlookers, stewards and tradesmen, had nothing to do on this summer evening but to watch the ranks gathering on the eastern edge of camp. Even from a distance, those who had answered the call to arms looked uneasy in their tidy rows overlooking New Luddahn. They seemed uncertain, many of them shuffling in their armor, stretching their arms and rolling their shoulders as they watched the east, cavalry mounted, pikes at the fore, and kites on the flanks, each of them waiting for the leader that would never come – not if Just had his way.
It is all right, the heckler said. So long as you address me, Just will not know that I am here. You can speak freely.
How? Wilt tested.
Because, if Just knew everything you thought, he would have known the extent of my influence already. Trust me, Wilt. Trust me, and I shall see to it that you are free from him tonight.
Why should I?
Because, Wilt. I want the same thing as you. I want a god of Death.
What?
Listen to the words he spoke. Examine them carefully.
Wilt thought back to the god’s words.
‘What will happen if I kill her? She is fated to bring Death into the world.’
She must… Wilt pondered. She must kill herself? The words struck him with violent force. They had been too specific. Just was afraid. The only reason that Trin Cavahl had to kill herself was because the god believed that whoever killed Trin Cavahl… would be… would become…
Yes, the heckler said.
But that means…
Yes, Wilt. Whoever kills Trin Cavahl, will become the god of Death. It could be you, Wilt. You’re so close to her. You have the opportunity.
Wilt knew it to be true. It made perfect sense. It was the merchant that had killed Wilt the first time. It was she that had set him on this path, she that had caused the vision of the Mother, the vision that had promised he would become a god after he had been made pure by suffering and pain… It was Trin Cavahl that had made him immortal and it would be her again that finally made Wilt into a god. All he needed to do… was kill her. This woman was his solution, this was how he would truly be free. But… but what did Just’s heckler get from this?
Why me? Wilt asked, not trusting this creature any more than he trusted Just. Why are you helping me? Why would you tell me this?
I have said already. I want a god of Death. Now listen closely. Listen to what I say, for we will not get another chance. You know the candle in your pocket?
Wilt hesitated. Yes, of course. But how can that help me? He is already in control of my body.
Yes, and what happened when you entered the chamber in which Cyleste had died? When you entered the chamber in which that candle burned?
I-
Do not argue, Wilt, just answer the question.
Wilt answered slowly. The god was forced from my thoughts, he was forced from my body, but what does that matter? I cannot light it now!
It matters, Wilt, because your opportunity approaches. Do not miss it.
I don’t trust you, Wilt said.
Wilt could swear that he felt the heckler shrug. It does not matter to me. Be a ruler, Wilt, rather than a slave. Act. Make your own decision. And then the presence was gone. Wilt was left alone, with only Just as company.
Gods… what could the creature want? Wilt’s only desire was to argue, but the thing was already gone. And… and it had made a compelling argument. Was he not a slave so long as he was afraid to act? Did it matter that the thing might be using him? Did it matter that the thing was clearly not revealing all? Surely, only in becoming a god himself, would Wilt ever be free of Just. He had to take this chance. The merchant was back the other way. He needed to be the one to kill Trin Cavahl, but the merchant was back the other way!
How? How would he do it?
He needed somehow, to trick the god into using Wilt’s hands to do the deed! But how?
Wilt searched frantically for an answer, his attention fixated on the road beside them.
Should w
e not watch to make sure she does the deed? Wilt asked.
The god scoffed. So eager to watch her die? I know you want your vengeance, but this moment is not for you, Wilt. She will do this alone. For now, we deal with Taehrn. And the boy.
Just was taking them along a roundabout path, away from the direct concourse that led from the merchant’s tent to the First’s. Aside from the sergeants and drillmasters ordering their troops, it was quiet – the kind of quiet Wilt expected of a deadly night; of a night where a god roamed past the temporary homes of men and women he thought of as his belongings.
It wouldn’t do. Wilt needed to be the one to kill Trin, she couldn’t do it herself. He had to think of something. He had the candle in his pocket, and Just’s shadow had mentioned it specifically! Was there some way that Wilt could light it without the use of his body? It would provide him all the time he needed. It would free him from Just’s grip… But he couldn’t light it. There had to be some way.
Ahead of them, Wilt saw the tent. Except for its size, it looked like all the others. Though the god had spoken of a violent cleansing, its canvas was not torn or blood spattered, or collapsed in shreds as if mauled by some raving beast. It stood in isolation, with a large gap on either side, its entryway tied shut, a light shining within; among the cramped forest of tents, it looked inviting.
The god crept up to the tent’s side and pressed his ear to the canvas. For several seconds, there was no sound but the god’s breath in Wilt’s lungs.
Do you hear anything? the god asked.
I have no ears to hear, my lord, Wilt answered.
Oh, do not get cute, rapist. I’d prefer to remember our final moments together as if you were not present.
Wilt kept his mockery to himself. That is what the whorespawn said now, but if it were true, why did the fool continue to acknowledge him?
The god remained motionless for a few more seconds before he crossed to the entrance. Placing a finger between the entryway’s groove, the god peeked into the tent. It was silent, the warm lamp undisturbed by the movement of person or shadow. The god untied the straps with a smile, his finger-work more nimble than Wilt expected – they were not, after all, the god’s own hands. Even knowing they were mortal fingers, it was odd to watch the god perform a task so mundane. Just threw open the canvas…
And then Wilt was thrust back into his own body. Just’s presence was gone. It was gone. Wilt was himself again, his hands were his own hands, his eyes were his own eyes. He was in control! How?
Wilt gawked at the scene before him. There were two men in the tent, both motionless, both bloody. His gaze was drawn to the man whose body sagged in the chair. Acklin, the man he’d met in Dekahn. The other… he didn’t know the other.
And then Wilt saw it. Upon the desk, amongst piles of overturned junk, notebooks, pens, and scattered papers, was another candle, lit and liberating. Just’s heckler had told the truth. Wilt could be free.
“Put it out…” the voice came out in a croak. It was weak, so weak that Wilt could barely hear it over the beating of his own heart.
Wilt’s eyes were drawn to the man in the chair. To the assassin that had killed the Grand Legionnaire. “What?” Wilt asked.
“Put it out…” Acklin begged, “Put out the candle. Please, let me have that solace.”
Wilt nearly laughed. “Are you blooding mad?” Wilt scooped the lantern from the desk, turned, and fled. He only had so much time. Trin Cavahl had to die, but he didn’t have much time before Just found him.
“What do you think they’re doing?” Tel asked.
“Looks like they’re getting ready to assault the town,” Bell said. “Or maybe the Guard is closer than we thought.”
They rode into the Legion camp from the south. When Marl had announced they were heading toward the river and sending a messenger to warn Taehrn, Bell had volunteered. Knowing now what he knew about Fate, he’d had to get back to Trin. He’d had to warn her about Just, and all the other dangers.
Tel rode behind him, her arms wrapped about his waist, her breath misting on his neck. They hadn’t slept the night before as Bell had decided to press their advantage and continue through the night. It was a gamble he had lost. Rather than save them time, it had broken the leg of Tel’s horse and tired Bell’s, stripping away any head start they’d had. Too afraid to double back without an extra mount, Bell had not bothered to check the distance between themselves and the Lockish Guard. By the plumes of dust that had followed over the horizon, he guessed the Guard couldn’t be more than half a day behind, maybe less.
Riding into camp disturbed him. Though the Legion seemed prepared for war – the bulk of Taehrn’s forces were gathered in rank along the eastern edge of camp – there had been no sentries along the southern approach. Bell had expected to be stopped by Legion scouts early in the morning. He had even hoped they might rely on them for fresh mounts, but despite his and Tel’s tabards, they had seen no one. It was as if Taehrn had shirked his duties completely, yet it did not sound like him. Something was very wrong here.
“Should we head for the column?” Tel asked.
Bell shook his head, an awkward gesture with her pressed against him. “I don’t see Taehrn’s standard, do you?”
“No,” she said. “Don’t you think he’d be out there, though?”
He should have been. Perhaps that was the reason they looked so disorganized. Taehrn and the others had taken much longer to cross the rot than they should have, and maybe it was because Taehrn had fallen ill, or worse, but if so, surely someone would have sent that news ahead to Cyleste.
As they passed the second row of tents, Bell finally found what he’d been looking for; a steward approaching from the eastern ranks.
“Steward,” Bell called, slowing his horse. “Have you seen the First Legionnaire?”
The woman stared up at him. “No one has,” she said. “He sounded the call to arms about thirty minutes ago, but still no one’s seen him.”
Bell frowned.
“That’s not good,” Tel said.
No. It wasn’t.
Adjusting his reins, Bell thanked the woman with a nod then continued on toward the center of camp. The camp was expectedly silent, but unusually dark. During a call to arms, it was not uncommon for the stewards to continue on with their day to day affairs, but this late in the evening, it was as if the camp were an empty shell. With the combatants at the ready, there were too many empty campsites.
Out of the corner of his eye, Bell saw Tel’s hand lift and point. “Is that Courtesan Wilt?” Tel asked.
Bell followed her gesture to a courtesan in green and white robes. The man carried a lantern, inside, a candle of black wax… the same sort Bell had seen Acklin light before Cyleste’s death. Bell frowned. The robes looked very similar to that of the god’s servant, but it made little sense that Wilt would be here.
“I don’t see how it could be,” Bell said, but as he watched the man stroll between the line of tents, he became less certain. As far as Bell knew, the convict remained at Marl’s side, but the mask this courtesan wore was the same as that he’d seen on Wilt. And that candle worried him.
Taehrn’s tent was well lit in the dark camp. Its entryway hung limp, the bottom corner of the right flap gusting gently in the wind. There was no one around, and by the silence, seemed to be no one inside.
“Taehrn?” Bell called.
No one answered.
“Taehrn? Are you in there?”
Again, there was no response.
“Perhaps he’s distracted?” Tel suggested.
It was possible, but what could distract the man from shouts right outside his door? His tent wasn’t made of stone.
Tel dismounted and offered him a hand down. With all that had happened in recent days, Bell was too cautious to approach the tent unarmed. Motioning for Tel to do the same, he drew his sword and held it before him. He wished he’d had his shield, or at least his armor. The one-handed blade didn’t seem enough.
Taehrn lay with his head in a red pool that drained from his eye. The knife had been driven deep, through the base of the socket so the eyeball itself was half cut and half squished between blade and bone. The wound was a crimson mess, the whites of the eye barely visible as a small island above the blood pooling in the socket. It wasn’t easy to look at, not for the grisly nature, and not for their friendship.
And yet Taehrn was not what drew Bell’s eye. It was Acklin which held his focus, bundled in Taehrn’s favorite chair, in a damp blanket knitted by Legion tailors, his wounds patched with courtesan-issue bandages. It was all the proof Bell needed to know his friend had been a traitor. Even still, that didn’t make it right. He knew now why Wilt was here.
Tel inched toward the man, her blade creeping toward Acklin’s throat. As the metal point touched his neck, Bell spoke.
“Is he alive?”
“Barely,” Tel whispered. “What should we do? Should we wake him up?”
It was tempting, but Bell didn’t want to face what the man might say. Better if Bell died not knowing Taehrn’s motives.
“No. Leave him be.”
“But what about the Grand?” Tel asked.
He knew what she meant – what she was implying. Acklin was an assassin, and as far as Bell was concerned, they didn’t need a trial to convict him.
“Do what you will,” Bell told her. “I’m going after Wilt.”
As he turned and left the tent, Bell heard the squish of pierced flesh, followed by gurgling lungs. He glanced back once, but only to make certain that Tel was all right; it was hard to know what tricks Acklin might be capable of.
Heading south, Bell cut a zigzag pattern through the tent rows; Wilt had been heading southwest, toward the horse pickets. Thinking of Tel, Bell left his own horse behind. There wasn’t a need to get there quick, because he didn’t know what he was going to do when he found the man, but he was going to find him.
“Bell, wait!” Tel reined Bell’s horse alongside him. “What are you doing? We don’t have time for this.”
Death's Merchant: Common Among Gods - Book One Page 119