Her eyes flashed. She turned to the window.
The silence stretched.
“Father’s gone,” she said at last.
The words were a hot iron to his skin.
He bolted upright. Water sloshed in the tub. “Just now?”
“Yes.”
Hagan clenched his fists. Godsdamnit. He needed more time. He needed Jeric.
“Were you there when it happened?” he asked.
Astrid didn’t answer immediately. “Yes. His heart stopped. I… think he finally gave up fighting.” Her shoulders lifted with breath before she turned to face him. He couldn’t read the expression that greeted him, but Astrid was a master at masking emotion.
He was largely to blame for that.
“Who else knows?” he asked.
“Tolov and Bern.” She paused. “And Jarl Rodin.”
Hagan struck the tub with his fist and cursed. “How does Rodin know?”
“Apparently, he’d gone for a walk and found himself near the king’s chambers.”
“That pandering, opportunistic…” Hagan raked a hand through his wet hair. “Half of Corinth will know by nightfall.”
Astrid smiled, all lips. “Then I suppose we’re lucky you’re here to quell all fears.”
Hagan studied Astrid. As usual, there seemed to be another meaning hidden in the package of her words. One he couldn’t extract.
Astrid picked up a fresh towel and draped it over the tub. “The jarls will expect a statement. Especially Stovich. He’s still waiting for your answer concerning the event at Reichen.”
Hagan took the towel, stood, and to his amusement, Astrid looked away to give him privacy. He stepped out of the tub and wrapped the towel around his waist. Perhaps he should start training with Jeric. The towels were fitting tighter and tighter. “The jarls don’t want a statement. They want my blood.”
Astrid didn’t disagree. “It’s a pity Jeric isn’t here.”
Hagan ignored the slight and made his way to the vanity, dabbing a few drops of cologne upon his neck.
“You never said where you sent him.”
He caught Astrid’s gaze in the mirror. “No, I never did.”
“Where is he?” she asked, her tone neutral, though the emotion in her eyes betrayed her.
Hagan turned around and approached her, step after slow step. The pulse in her temple quickened, making him smile.
“Astrid, Astrid, Astrid…” Once he was close enough, he reached out and rested a palm against her cheek.
Her breath hitched.
“Let me worry about Jeric and this kingdom,” he said quietly, slipping his hand into her hair, grabbing a fistful. Tugging on it.
Astrid stood still as granite, though her throat moved as she swallowed.
“You, out of anyone, should know that I always protect what is mine,” he said.
“Let go of me, Hagan,” she said lowly, though the edges of her voice trembled with old fear.
“You’re still my favorite,” he whispered.
Her eyes seared through him, hating and powerless, but she didn’t move, didn’t speak. He rubbed his thumb over her cheek once more before releasing her hair.
Astrid stormed past him and left, slamming the door after her.
Hagan watched her exit, then sighed and glanced to the window. “Godsdamnit, Jeric,” he growled at the silence. “Where are you?”
The water of the Kjürda was so cold it burned. Sable opened her mouth to breathe, but only water rushed in. She opened her eyes to see, but there was no sky. Her hand broke the river’s surface. Encouraged, she kicked her legs, but the cold made them leaden, and the current pulled her under again. A rock smashed her elbow; another slammed her hip. Pain registered, though dimly. She needed air.
Just when she thought her lungs might burst, her head surfaced. She inhaled sharply, drawing water with air, and coughed on them both. She kicked her legs as hard as she could, holding herself above water while trees and sky blurred, and the river carried her onward, roaring louder than before.
The waterfall.
Frantic, she clawed for the bank, fighting the current with stiff and frozen fingers, but then she caught sight of a cloak. It bunched amidst the froth and boulders, bubbling with the current.
Jos.
She hesitated. He was trapped in the current, and if she didn’t help him, he’d die. He might be dead already. Sable glanced at the bank, cursed, then took a deep breath and started swimming for him.
Water rushed over her head, pulling her under again, but she persisted until finally, she caught the edge of his cloak and gripped it tight. The current dunked her again, but she held firm, his cloak her anchor. She tugged on it, straining against the water, the cold, and the rocks. With a final jerk, it tore free. His motionless body came with it.
She wedged her arms through the pits of his, then lay on her back and kicked hard. Water spilled over her face, into her mouth, and the hungry river dragged them under again. This time, she couldn’t pull them up.
Sable fumbled at his cloak with cold and clumsy fingers, grabbed hold of his neck ties, and ripped them open. The current stole the cloak away, and Sable kicked again, breaking the surface with a loud gasp, right before his weight dragged her under again.
The Kjürda swallowed Sable’s curse, and she kicked with everything she had left. His scabbard dug into her thigh, her legs cramped, her fingers ached, and just when she couldn’t kick anymore, her back scraped against rock.
They’d reached the shore.
She staggered out of the frigid water, sopping wet and shivering as she dragged Jos onto the bank and rolled him onto his back. The knot in his hair had come undone, and his hair stuck to his face like a mask. She pushed it aside. The river had washed away most of the blood, but a gash marred his brow. His skin was whiter than snow lilies, and blue tinged his lips. He wasn’t breathing.
Sable knelt beside him, pressed her palms to his heart, and pushed, again and again.
He didn’t stir.
“Come on,” she growled, shoving him harder, trying to force rhythm into his sleeping heart. Suddenly, Jos lurched with consciousness, and Sable backed away. Water gurgled from his lips, and then he rolled on his side and vomited.
He spat the last of it on the ground and dragged a hand over his lips. “Godsdamnit.”
Sable breathed hot air on her trembling hands. Her white fingertips were swiftly turning purple, and snow began falling around them.
“Did they… follow?” Jos’s words shivered as he gazed past her to the opposing bank.
“No,” Sable said. “They c-c-can’t swim, but we need to get moving.” They needed to get dry. They needed to get warm. Sable knew from experience that this sort of cold was the cleverest of thieves. It confused and it paralyzed, then slipped in and stole your existence.
Jos staggered to his feet and checked his sword, which had, miraculously, survived. His hands shook uncontrollably, and he shoved them into the pits of his arms. “My men are still out there.”
“We can’t go back.”
“I won’t leave them out here to die.” Not even the cold could steal the bite from his words.
“We need to worry about us right now, Jos. We need to get warm.”
Jos pressed his fists to his temples and shut his eyes. His body shuddered with cold. “Where’s the n-n-nearest town?”
“Um…” Sable squeezed her eyes shut, forcing herself to focus. It was increasingly difficult to think.
They couldn’t go back to Skanden, and she didn’t dare cross back over the river right now. They needed to head deeper into the woods, away from the main roads. She opened her eyes. “Craven. A half day’s walk from the f-f-falls. Southeast.”
Jos growled in frustration. Shivers racked his body, ice crusted his brow and lashes, and clumps of his hair had frozen. Sable noticed clumps of her hair had frozen too.
“Godsdamnit,” he hissed, rubbing his arms, dusting off the newly fallen snow. “We need a fire.
”
“We c-c-can’t.”
“We can’t wait for Craven.”
“If you start a fire, they’ll f-f-find us,” she snapped.
His eyes blazed. “How do you want to die, healer?”
Sable glared back. “Not facing a dozen shades.”
Jos gritted his teeth and looked to the landscape. Then, with sudden decision, he grabbed her arm and pulled her after him, toward the roaring waterfall.
“What are you doing?” she demanded.
“Saving our godsdamn lives.”
He didn’t elaborate, and Sable’s teeth chattered too much to make him.
They stumbled along the river’s edge, using each other for added support. Walking did nothing to warm Sable’s frozen limbs. She was far beyond that. They reached the top of the waterfall, and Jos stopped. Water careened over a granite shelf, plunging into the swirling mist below, and Sable realized his plan.
The mist, combined with snowfall, might just hide the smoke of a small fire. And they needed a fire. Now.
“There.” Jos pointed to a crop of boulders nestled near the falls, a little farther down. “Get branches… needles… anything—”
“I know,” she cut back.
They broke apart, collecting fallen branches and pine needles. Sable carried her meager findings to the designated location, stumbling like a drunkard all the way. Her toes felt like rocks inside her soggy boots, and she couldn’t curl her fingers. She spotted Jos approaching with a small pile, each step a similar battle. He dumped his findings in the small niche between rocks, removed his scabbard and tossed it below, then slid down after them. Sable followed. The space was tight—just a crack between boulders—but it shielded them from sight and spray and snowfall. She hoped it would be enough.
Jos reached into his boot and pulled a small dagger from the shaft. His clumsy fingers fumbled with the hilt, but he eventually twisted the pommel free, revealing a small wad of wool inside. He dumped the wad into his palm, but his hands shook so violently, the wad slipped to the ground, and a slab of flint tumbled out of it. With a curse, he picked it up, then stacked a handful of smaller branches. He tried striking flint to steel, but his hands trembled and the flint slipped from his grasp again.
He growled in frustration, too cold even to curse.
Sable scooted closer and held out a quivering hand. His expression warred, but he relented, handing her his dagger, hilt first.
She took the dagger, picked up the flint, and managed a spark on the third try. She blew on the spark, careful not to overwhelm it, and, thankfully, the needles caught. They blackened and curled as the flames ate them up, then licked at the wood. She handed him back his dagger, which he took in silence, and then he grabbed some of the larger branches and propped them over their entry like a canopy. She stood to help him, both of them shaking violently, and when they finished, their gazes met. Held.
Mutual understanding passed between them.
He glanced down and started unfastening the ties of his tunic.
Sable had never been naked in front of anyone before, not since she was a little girl, and she’d certainly never imagined her first time being like this—for survival in its most rudimentary form. But any insecurities she’d expected to feel had dissolved in the frigid waters of the Kjürda. She turned away from him and started peeling off her shirt. It stuck to her like a second layer of skin, but slowly, in the cramped and hidden spaces of the rocks, they shed layer after wet layer, stripping themselves of their pride, their dignity, leaving only two humans—one man and one woman—united in a desperation to live.
Jos lay before the fire, on his side, leaving a slip of space for her. Sable didn’t look at him as she lay down beside him. Their bodies were stiff at first, awkward and uncomfortable, and then the urgent need for warmth triumphed all else. He wrapped a trembling arm around her and pulled her shivering body against his, skin to skin.
The closeness shocked her at first. The pure vulnerability of it, the brush of his breath against her neck, his damp skin flush with hers. The solidness of him. But as his body heat slowly seeped into her skin, quieting the cold, her shock turned into gratitude. That if she were to die this day, at least she wouldn’t die alone.
14
Around a bed where only dead lay, the priests of Aryn worked tirelessly. They tried giving color where there was none, attempting to fill voids rent by disease and starvation, but they could not make this body what it once was. The gods had taken his life, his glory, and his power and left only a withered shell. It was in times like this, when Hagan observed the dead, that he considered the afterlife. That he thought of what made man man. It was not the body. For one only had to look at this corpse to see that what was there was there no more—the thing that’d made his father human.
The priests of Aryn spied their new king standing at the edge of the great chamber in the shadows of the stone archway. In an elegant display of synchronization, they bowed their heads and moved around the platform, joining in single file as they exited a passage at the back of the chamber, leaving Hagan alone with his father.
What had been his father.
Hagan approached.
The Room of Sanctification had always made him uncomfortable. It was too dark, chilled with a cold that seeped from the very stones, and the air smelled stale and metallic despite the steadily burning incense. Rows of arched niches decorated the walls like windows made of stone, and dozens of candles burned upon their mantels, but the flames did little to light the domed chamber. Shadows crowded the room, as if every soul that’d ever passed through these walls had stayed, seeking solace in multitudes.
Hagan stopped before his father’s body.
King Tommad Coristus Marcel Angevin the third: a man worshiped by the people, revered for his valor and strength. Hagan took in the deep lines of his face, the ashen skin sagging over bones made too prominent from malnutrition. He regarded the late King Tommad’s thin lips, settled together, never to open again. In his mind, a voice boomed—a voice that’d once commanded lines of men. A voice that’d given Hagan an immense source of pride.
But that was a long, long time ago.
“You gave up,” Hagan said, quiet, so that his voice wouldn’t echo. His hand curled into a fist upon the platform, beside his father’s body. “You gave up, and you left me a disaster.” He did not hide the bite from his words. He could not. It was an anger that’d festered for years, and now that his thoughts were free to be voiced, he couldn’t stop them. “You could’ve at least tried to be the man you were, but you grew lazy. Weak. And now my throne is rotted from your godsdamned negligence.” His nostrils flared. “It would’ve been better had you died with mother.”
A sound stopped him short.
He pulled his fist from the platform and glanced back at his robed intruder. “Rasmin,” he said sharply.
Rasmin stepped into the room. Candlelight danced upon his ancient face. “Am I… interrupting?”
“Interrupting what? There is nothing to be said here.” Hagan frowned at the body beside him.
“Every man needs time for grieving.”
“My grieving happened a long time ago,” Hagan said, more to himself, then turned completely to face Rasmin, who respectfully bowed his head.
“I’ve drafted the invitations,” Rasmin said. “The messengers will ride first thing tomorrow morning, assuming the weather holds.”
They were invitations for the Day of Reckoning—a provincial holiday, celebrated by Corinthians as the day Corinth defeated Azir Mubarék, his Liagé, and all of the Sol Velor nearly one hundred and fifty years ago. It was, however, a bittersweet day, for it was also the day that Brevera had taken Sanvik, Corinth’s original capital. His father hadn’t given much attention to the holiday, and Hagan planned to remedy that. It would symbolize his reign.
“But…?” Hagan prodded.
Rasmin cleared his throat. “I have… concerns, your grace.”
Hagan waited.
“T
he jarls haven’t been together in many years,” Rasmin continued quietly. “We already suspect Stovich works against you. I don’t think it wise to host everyone here, at Skyhold, until we know whose allegiance lies where.”
“And what better way to discover their true allegiance than by asking them in person,” Hagan said, taking a step forward. “I will have them here, Head Inquisitor. We will feast as we have never feasted. I will remind them what it means to be Corinthian. And I will remind them who is king.”
Rasmin’s black eyes glittered. “Whatever your grand display, your grace, the fact remains that we have traitors in our midst. Hosting them here—inside the walls of your home—puts you at risk, and I can’t be everywhere at once.”
“Then perhaps you shouldn’t have sent my brother on some godsdamned fool’s errand.”
Rasmin’s eyes narrowed. “I could not know that King Tommad would pass so soon.”
“Nor could you know that he would live,” Hagan said lowly. “As Head Inquisitor, these are potentialities I’ve entrusted to your care, though I’m beginning to wonder if I’ve misplaced that trust.”
Rasmin’s lips tempted downward. It was the closest example of a frown he ever made. “The reasons I believe in the girl stretch beyond the state of your late father’s health. You know this.”
“Yes, because her power will help persuade my jarls,” Hagan answered with a sneer. Then his expression tightened, and he made a fist. “Persuasion won’t matter if I lose my throne. You know what Jeric is for this family.” Hagan hated admitting Jeric’s indispensability, but fury unbridled his tongue and pulled out the truth. “I wonder at your sensibilities in sending him away, knowing the tenuity of our circumstances.”
“I did not intend to put you in danger, Your Grace. I only—”
“Then you will bring him back,” Hagan demanded. “Immediately.”
Rasmin didn’t answer right away. “But his mission—”
“I don’t care”—Hagan cut him off—“about his mission. I don’t care about the power you claim this girl has. We don’t have time for your fantastical theories. My father is gone, and some underground legion of men is terrorizing my villages.”
The Gods of Men Page 12