The Gods of Men

by Barbara Kloss

  “We were created by man. Man gave us power,” Tallyn explained, “but it’s not as pure or as strong as those Liagé-born. You can’t turn a mouse into a hawk. You can splice and paint and enchant, dress it with all the feathers in the world, but to its core it remains a mouse, and now it’s confused. It needs meat, but it wants only crumbs. It must fly, but it doesn’t know how. And so it is with the Shah. When we were created, we could tap into its power, but we didn’t know how to properly use it or control it. Our bodies weren’t designed to process the energy required, and, over time, the Shah changed us to make our bodies better suited for it. But in doing so, it dissolved whatever it was that made us human.”

  Sable moved forward, eyes trained on the sight before her. Azir stepped around the table, thus exposing the dead man’s face, and Sable froze.

  The man lying on the table, the one the Liagé had been carving into, was Ventus.

  She looked at Tallyn for answers, but the pain in his eyes held her back. In them, she knew he’d seen more tragedy than one human life could bear.

  “I don’t know the Sol Velorian man Ventus was before,” Tallyn said at last. “I only know the creature they created. But in those days, we were not silent. We were prophets, tasked with spreading the Sol Velorian faith to the Provinces. Through speech. Through violence, if necessary. Azir didn’t care how. He only cared that it was done.”

  “Wait.” Sable looked from Ventus back to Tallyn. “This is… your memory?”

  “Yes.”

  Which meant… “You’re almost one hundred and fifty years old,” she said, astounded.

  “One hundred and forty three,” he confirmed, to her amazement. “I was the first creation. It was Azir’s intention that I lead his alta-Liagé, or so they called us.” He gazed at the sight ahead in quiet reflection. “Come. Let me show you something else.”

  Before Sable could ask, her lungs squeezed tight, and the dome blurred. The world spun to a sudden halt, and Sable toppled right into Tallyn. She gathered her balance, let go of him, and looked around.

  They stood in a forest she recognized immediately as The Wilds. Ahead of them, in a small clearing, stood another Tallyn, though his face was unblemished, and he spoke heatedly to another.

  “This isn’t the way,” the unscarred Tallyn was saying.

  The second figure turned his back to Tallyn and started walking away. It was Ventus, and he looked just as frightening then as Sable knew him now.

  “When Azir died,” the present Tallyn said beside her, “those of us who had evaded capture fled here, to The Wilds. After what Azir had done, the Provinces did not trust the Sol Velor, as you well know, and they trusted the Liagé—especially us alta-Liagé—less, even those who’d turned against Azir to help defeat him. Ventus was the strongest of us, and without Azir, the other prophets elected him as our leader.” A pause. “Follow me.” He started for the younger Tallyn and Ventus, who were walking away.

  Sable followed.

  “Ventus!” a younger Tallyn called after Ventus.

  Ventus whirled on him in a fury, and the younger Tallyn held back.

  “You’ve always been weak,” Ventus hissed. “That’s why you’re second here. Remember that.”

  “This isn’t weakness,” the younger Tallyn snapped. “This is wrong. Those creatures are an abomination—”

  “Those creatures are going to protect us,” Ventus hissed. “Azir is dead. It’s up to us now, and the Maker has given us a way to survive.”

  Sable’s eyes widened with horrible revelation. “He’s talking about shades, isn’t he?” she asked the real Tallyn.

  “Yes.”

  A thousand questions flooded her mind, but before she could ask a single one, Tallyn tipped his head toward the men and said, “Watch.”

  “This power you’re using… it is not of the Maker,” the younger Tallyn said, with conviction and warning. “You must tread carefully, Ventus. Azir warned us—”

  Ventus grabbed the younger Tallyn’s robe and jerked him close. “Azir got himself killed. His methods failed the Maker, and now your ideas are infecting and dividing what remains of us. Consider which side you’re on, Tallyn. Do you understand?”

  A younger Tallyn stilled, his expression tight.

  The real Tallyn watched, his eye ablaze with old fury.

  “I understand,” said a younger Tallyn.

  Ventus released him and stormed off without another word. A younger Tallyn stood like stone, watching Ventus retreat.

  “After Azir died,” the real Tallyn said before Sable could ask, “I began questioning his interpretation of the Maker’s will and our purpose here, and so when Ventus continued along that path, I began challenging his methods.”

  “I didn’t realize the Maker’s will was debatable,” Sable said with acid.

  He looked at her. “You’re angry with the Maker?”

  “I don’t believe in gods.”

  “Don’t condemn the Maker for the actions of his followers.”

  Sable grunted. “Now you sound like Tolya.”

  “There are always extremes, Sable. Since the beginning, mankind has put his own twist on the Maker’s will, as Ventus did and does still. It’s what men do. We are masters at manipulating truth to suit our desires. But don’t condemn the Maker for the sins of man.”

  Sable didn’t get the chance to argue. Her lungs pinched and the world blurred, but this time, when the world righted itself, Sable was ready on balanced feet.

  They were standing inside a beautiful mausoleum. A dozen men were gathered—including the younger Tallyn—all in fervent discussion.

  “It has to be tonight,” said one, pale and inked like everyone else. At first glance, Sable took him for a Silent, but his expression was warm and too human.

  “We have to get past the shades,” someone else said.

  “Let me handle them,” the young Tallyn said.

  “Can you handle so many at once?”

  “I will,” a young Tallyn said with resolve. “But you’ll have to move…”

  His words trailed as the walls caught flame. It was a strange sort of fire, white and unnatural, and it began melting the stones. Men yelled, and some held up inked palms and spoke a language Sable didn’t know, trying to put out the flames with power Sable didn’t understand. Others tried the door, only to find it barred.

  And the flames grew.

  And grew.

  One stretched right through Sable, and she gasped instinctively but felt no warmth.

  “My concern was shared by more than just myself,” Tallyn continued behind her. “We’d gathered to combat Ventus, but we were betrayed.” A pause. “I alone survived.”

  His face turned a little toward her, illuminating the horrible scars.

  Scars from fire.

  Men screamed, devoured by white flame, and Sable landed back in Tallyn’s sitting room. The screaming faded to a crackle, and the flames condensed to the stove, innocent and orange. But his memories were stamped upon her mind forever.

  “After my betrayal,” Tallyn continued quietly, “Ventus cut out the others’ tongues, lest anyone rise to question him again. We were all bound through our ink. It’s how Azir created us, but most of my binds melted, severing my… tie to them. So there was a blessing from it all.”

  Sable sat quiet, processing everything she’d seen and heard, and it was a lot to process. She supposed Ventus—and Tallyn’s—tie to the Liagé shouldn’t have surprised her, considering Ventus’s faith in the Sol Velorian god, and his supernatural power. As far as she understood, only those of Sol Velorian blood could be born with the Maker’s divine power, and though Ventus possessed it, he’d always persisted he wasn’t Liagé. Technically, he’d told the truth. His former self had been carved away by Liagé glyphs, and the power they’d infused into his body had turned him into a monster.

  It made sense now why the shades had answered to Ventus. He had created them. Which meant he was also the reason the rest of them had needed night
glass.

  To fear a thing only gives it power over you, Tallyn had said. And shades had given Ventus and his Silent total power over The Wilds.

  Her brow puckered with thought. “I thought I killed him. Ventus. I cut a major artery in his neck, and Jos stabbed him through the heart.” She nodded at Jos. “But then… I watched his skin knit together, and he summoned the shades with his blood. We ran away as fast as we could, so I don’t know if he survived or not.”

  “You’re right to be concerned,” Tallyn said. “Ventus was created shiva.” Seeing the question in Sable’s eyes, he said, “The Liagé word for Restorer. Restorers are difficult to kill, because they have the unique ability to heal themselves.”

  “Even after a knife wound to the heart?”

  “Even after a knife wound to the heart.” He nodded. His one eye glittered. “He’s still alive, Sable. Though fate and I have severed every tie possible to Ventus, I can still feel him through the Shah.”

  Sable cursed her luck, and then her breath caught as a thought struck her. “Then he can still feel you.”

  “Yes.”

  “Which means… he can find me.”

  Tallyn shook his head. “No, he can feel me. He can’t find me.”

  “Why not?”

  He grinned. The effect—though intended in earnest—was chilling. “I was Azir’s first for a reason.”

  Sable regarded him. “Why haven’t you tried fighting him back, then?”

  “I’m just one man,” he replied, “and though my connection to them was severed in the flames, so was much of my connection to the Shah. And you’ve never truly witnessed the breadth of Ventus’s power. With the others, I stood a chance. Alone, I’d certainly die. Especially now. I’m not… what I was.” A pause. “Skanden is no longer safe for you. Ventus won’t stop searching for you.”

  Sable wrapped her arms around her legs and threaded her fingers together. “I know.”

  “But what’s even more disconcerting,” he said, stopping her thoughts, “is the chakran that followed you here.”

  Sable’s gaze snapped to Tallyn. “Chakran…?”

  Tallyn didn’t answer immediately. “There are two types of spirits in this world that pass on to the afterlife. The spirits of those with the Shah—the Liagé—and those without. A chakran is the spirit of a Liagé.”

  Sable remembered the inky darkness that’d followed her in the forest, and a chill shuddered down her spine. “And you believe one is following me.”

  “I found you because that chakran set off the old wards of the mausoleum. Those wards… well, you saw them. They’re in ruins. They haven’t stirred since the day Ventus destroyed them, and so when I saw their light, I came at once.” His eye searched her, and in it, she saw a hint of fear. “I smelled the chakran the moment I stepped outside. The odor is… very distinct.”

  Sable frowned, remembering the stench and trying to understand. “But where did this… Liagé spirit come from?”

  Tallyn inhaled deeply. “It’s extremely difficult to summon a Liagé spirit. Their powers…” Tallyn considered his words. Not to hide the truth, but to explain it in a way that Sable would understand. “When Liagé die, their powers bleed back into the fabric of creation. Like rain, filling streams and rivers and lakes. Redistributed, if you will, to give power to the next Liagé, and the next, and so on. For someone to draw the spirit of one from death—a chakran—one must pull from those streams and rivers and lakes. Only a zindev has power to bring the dead to life, but even so, that depth of power is extremely rare.”

  “Necromancy,” Sable said for clarification. She knew the word from one of Tolya’s oldest books.

  “Of a sort, yes.”

  Sable hadn’t really believed necromancers were real—just exaggerated tales meant to frighten children. “And what does a… chakran do?” she asked with growing unease.

  Tallyn leaned forward, elbows resting upon his knees. “A normal spirit might possess a body for a short time, to do its master’s bidding, but it leaves a body mostly intact when it departs. A chakran consumes a person’s soul. There’s nothing left of the person inside.”

  Sable didn’t ask the question that dangled at the end of her tongue: Why me?

  What in the burning wards would a chakran want with her? But she couldn’t ask that question. Not without inviting a slew of other questions that she absolutely could not answer.

  Misreading her, Tallyn said, “Not to worry. The old power in the mausoleum should’ve destroyed it, if not severely weakened it, and once you make it over the Rotte Straight and into the Provinces, it shouldn’t bother you again.”

  Sable thought back on her first experience with the chakran, that night in Skanden, and she wondered how many ward abuses it could withstand.

  “Could this… zindev just send another one?” Sable asked.

  Tallyn scratched his nose. “It isn’t likely. In summoning a Liagé spirit, the zindev is in essence stealing from future Liagé. It is a perversion of power. It’s more likely that he, or she, would see this chakran through until the end rather than risk drawing another one forth.”

  And then, abruptly, Tallyn sat up. “Who is our friend here?”

  It took Sable a second to follow, and then she glanced back at Jos. Sleep dulled his hard edges, and he looked almost peaceful. “We’re not friends.”

  “No?” Tallyn asked surprised, studying her. “For not being friends, you’re quite determined to save him.”

  Sable shrugged. “I’m a healer.”

  It wasn’t difficult to see that Tallyn wasn’t satisfied with her answer.

  “His name is Jos,” she continued to fill the bloated silence. “He’s from Southbridge. He says his father is dying, and he’s offered me a large sum to heal him.”

  Tallyn sat quiet. “You haven’t accepted it yet.”

  “No.”

  “Why not?” When Sable didn’t answer, Tallyn said, “You don’t trust him.”

  She exhaled slowly and drummed her fingers. “I don’t know. I do believe his father’s dying, and I don’t think he means me harm.”

  “And this supposed large sum would help set you on your feet,” Tallyn suggested.

  Sable pressed her lips together and nodded.

  “You could stay here.”

  She met his gaze.

  “I understand your predicament, as an Istraan,” Tallyn continued. “I can’t offer you much of a life here, and you wouldn’t be able to leave this house, but I can offer you safety from Ventus and this zindev, should he attempt to send anything else after you. It is the very least I can do for Tolya.”

  His offer humbled her. “Tallyn… You’ve already done more—”

  “Don’t give me an answer now,” he said. “It’s something for you to consider before our handsome Provincial awakens. A decision made out of desperation is never a good decision. I merely want you to have an alternative when the time comes.”

  Sable’s gaze flickered to Jos.

  Tallyn stood and gestured to the mug. “Finish it. It’ll help replenish your strength. There’s an extra blanket in the hutch if you need one. You’re welcome to stay until your friend is able to travel. You’ll be safe here.” He started to go.

  “Tallyn.”

  He stopped and looked back.

  “I was with her when she passed,” Sable said. “I did everything I could for her, but…”

  It wasn’t enough. It was never enough.

  Understanding shone in Tallyn’s eye. “I know, child. I also know that she loved you as her own.”

  The words squeezed around Sable’s brittle heart, and her eyes burned.

  He bowed his head. “Goodnight.” And he left.

  Sable wiped her eyes, snagged the blanket from the hutch, and had barely curled upon the floor beside Jos when exhaustion took her.

  18

  Grag Beryn was a man of the Blackwood; he’d been born to it. Those who knew him often remarked how he’d been birthed from the very trees, ski
n rough as bark, eyes emerald as leaves, hair black as the woods themselves, despite the years he’d seen. His voice was like woodsmoke, strong and peppered, and it traveled without bounds. If there was game to be had in these woods, Grag knew where to look and how to find it, and he’d never been afraid.

  Until now.

  His woods had changed. There was a subtle shift in the air, an off and unfamiliar scent to the changing wind, and the trees were quiet as they had never been. They watched, but they did not give. These trees that had long been his friends—his provider—were suddenly keeping secrets.

  “Find something, Grag?” Fyrok called from a dozen paces away.

  Fyrok, like Grag, was a hunter, and he was the youngest of Grag’s crew. Grag used to hunt with Fyrok’s father, but when his father had come down with a nasty infection that devoured his organs, Fyrok had taken his place. Still, at only seventeen, Fyrok was a better hunter than some of Grag’s seasoned men. Fyrok hadn’t closed the gates of thought that men sealed shut over time. And, like Grag, he had a hunter’s intuition.

  Grag rubbed dark earth between his fingertips, then sighed and glanced around. “Nothin’,” he said with a huff, standing. They’d been out here for two days, and they hadn’t come across a single buck. Grag hadn’t even found tracks, though he’d discovered a set of turkey prints, but a rutting turkey wasn’t going to keep the people of Skyhold fed for winter.

  “Don’t worry, Grag,” Keffyn said. “They’re probably all scared of the new smell.” He cuffed Fyrok on the shoulder.

  Fyrok rolled his eyes.

  “Scared or not,” Dev said, glancing back at them, “Hagan’s gonna want a pretty treasure when we return.”

  “He’s your king now, so best start using his title before he makes you that pretty treasure,” Keffyn replied.

  “If only he could be so lucky.” Dev smirked.

  Keffyn snorted and kept walking.

  “From what I hear, our king gets lucky plenty,” Rosin chimed in, then uncorked his flask and took a long swig.

  “It’s unfortunate his powers of seduction don’t lure Stovich to stand down,” Klaus added from the back.