The Gods of Men

by Barbara Kloss

  Survak leaned off the railing and stood tall upon steady sea legs. “Just giving the rules of the ship.” He exhaled a long breath of smoke and cast a weighted glance at Jeric. “I trust you’ll pass them along.”

  Jeric didn’t respond. Survak glanced between the two men, touched his temple in an informal salute, and left them to themselves.

  “She’s sleeping,” Braddok said before Jeric could ask. “Comfortable, too, by the looks of it.” He leaned his forearms upon the railing and cast a quick glance after Survak. “What in the five hells was that about?”

  Jeric leaned against the rail, took a swig from the water skin, and wiped his lips on his sleeve. “He knows.”

  Braddok tensed. “How in the rutting—”

  “His men don’t know,” Jeric cut him off. “He said he’d get us safely to shore.”

  “You believe him?”

  “Oddly, yes,” Jeric said, pushing the cork back into the skin. “Anyway, I don’t see that we have a choice.”

  The sails whipped in the stiff breeze, and the ship rocked. Waves swelled and rolled, and the wind pushed white caps into the water’s surface. The men stood quiet, gazing out into the darkness. Jeric had always found Braddok’s presence companionable and easy, but right then, it only served as a reminder of the man who wasn’t there.

  He combed a hand through his short hair.

  “It’s not your fault, you know,” Braddok said quietly. “He would’ve come even if you’d said no.”

  Jeric squeezed the rail.

  “We’re honored to—”

  “To what, Brad?” Jeric snapped. “Serve my godsdamn brother? It’s no risk to him. He only risks my men.” Jeric caught himself, and quieted his voice. “I killed him.”

  “You didn’t—” Braddok started.

  “I killed him.” Jeric enunciated each word, careful to keep his voice low. “He turned into a godsdamn shade, Brad, and I had to kill him.” He didn’t say Sable had done it. He’d never lied to Braddok before, and he wasn’t sure why he felt the need to hide this small detail now, but it didn’t matter. Jeric had brought Gerald here. He might as well have driven the blade through his chest. He should have, but he hadn’t believed Sable when she’d warned him. He hadn’t believed her until he’d felt the power of the corruption for himself, and he would’ve suffered the same fate had it not been for her relentless care.

  Braddok frowned. “But I saw that Silent run him through.”

  “We…” Jeric caught himself. “Sable believes Ventus turned him.”

  “Turned him?”

  Jeric shared what Sable had explained about shades and her theory concerning Ventus’s powers. Once he finished, Braddok stood, silent.

  “I saw them,” Braddok finally said. “Came out of the shadows all of a sudden, but they weren’t interested in me. They ran right off.”

  “You’re welcome for that,” Jeric said darkly. “They chased us right into the Kjürda. Nearly died of hypothermia.”

  A wave crashed, spraying them both. “What happened?” Braddok asked.

  Jeric quickly—and quietly—explained his journey with Sable, his infection, and what had transpired, though he left out a few details. When he got to the part about Gavet’s betrayal, Braddok interrupted.

  “Sorry I wasn’t there sooner. I was in White Rock, like we talked about. Figured I wouldn’t be any use to you dead. But I’d leave during the day, searching for your royal ass.”

  “Careful,” Jeric warned, checking over their shoulder.

  “Then I got your message.”

  Jeric looked at Braddok. “Message?”

  “Yeah, saying you’d be in Riverwood.” A pause. “You didn’t have it sent?”

  “No… Tallyn must’ve.”

  “Well, I got his note, then,” Braddok continued with a shrug. “By then the sun was setting. Thought I’d wait till morning, but then I saw those godsdamn Silent take off. I knew something was going on, so I followed. Figured if they were gonna face the night, I rutting well could.”

  Jeric swayed with the boat. His stomach rolled again, but the fresh air held the nausea at bay.

  “I shut his eyes,” Braddok whispered, threading his fingers together. “Said a prayer. Best prayer I’ve ever said, and that bastard wasn’t even alive to hear it.”

  Jeric stared at a horizon he couldn’t see. Wind howled, snapping the sails. “I’m sorry, Brad,” he said. “I won’t let Hagan use you like this again.”

  Braddok snorted. “You’re such a cocky bastard.”

  Jeric glanced over at his friend.

  “No one uses me.” Braddok flashed a smile full of teeth. “I’m here because I decided to be here. At your side. Say that again, and I’ll lay you flat.”

  Jeric allowed a small smile.

  They stopped talking while a few members of Survak’s crew moved behind them, adjusted a sail, and returned to the main deck.

  “So what now?” Braddok whispered once the men had walked on. “You think she can do what your brother claims?”

  Jeric tapped his thumbs upon the water skin. “We’ll find out soon enough.”

  “Have you told her the truth?”

  “No.”

  Braddok turned around and leaned back against the rail, studying Jeric. “You don’t want to tell her.”

  It was a question and an accusation.

  Jeric stopped tapping his thumbs. “It hasn’t been the right time. We discussed this.”

  “That’s not what I said.”

  “What you said is nonsensical,” Jeric said tersely.

  Braddok’s eyes narrowed a little. “So when?”

  “When we get close.”

  “She’ll find out eventually.”

  “I know that,” Jeric snapped, feeling an unexpected surge of irritation. “But we need to wait till we’re out of The Wilds. We’ve been gone three weeks. We’ve no idea what’s happening in the Provinces. Until we do, it’s better to keep pretenses.”

  “Better for who?”

  Jeric stared hard at his friend. “If you have something to say, Brad, say it.”

  Braddok regarded him a long moment. His eyes narrowed, and he unfolded his arms and pushed off the railing. “I don’t think I need to. Wolf.” He whispered the last word, but it hit harder than all the rest, and then he walked away.

  Hagan stood before the statue of Aryn, gazing at its chiseled perfection. Aryn, the conqueror. It was after Aryn’s example that Hagan had decided how to rule, not his poor excuse of a father’s.

  He felt a familiar presence behind him, but he didn’t turn. “You found something,” Hagan said quietly.

  “I did, your grace,” Rasmin replied.

  Hagan’s gaze skirted the great chamber. Two lesser priests stood below, near the altar where a handful of citizens knelt in prayer. A half-dozen Corinthian soldiers guarded the temple’s entrance. He’d asked Commander Anaton to station some of his men there after the terrifying event in the courtyard, and he was satisfied the commander had complied, despite his shortage of resources. Below, one of the priests chanted. The deep sound reverberated through the temple’s vast spaces.

  “Shall we?” Hagan glanced back at Rasmin.

  Rasmin inclined his head.

  The two of them strolled beneath the arches of the temple’s perimeter, footfalls silent amidst the low chanting.

  “Any news concerning my brother?” Hagan asked.

  “He’s en route with the woman,” Rasmin said quietly. “His journey is not a simple one. I’m sure he has good reason for his delay.”

  “My jarls are quick to bite with him gone. Stovich, especially.”

  “And they’ll bite fatally if Prince Jeric doesn’t return with her.”

  Hagan stopped and faced Rasmin square. “I am risking my throne for this, Head Inquisitor.”

  Rasmin leveled a weighted look on his king. “If I may, sire, you are risking your throne if you don’t acquire her.”

  Hagan’s eyes narrowed. “You have n
ew information for me.”

  Rasmin tipped his head, and the two resumed walking.

  “I returned to the coordinates on the map,” Rasmin continued.

  “And?”

  “I found… a tree.”

  “I should hope you found many of them, Head Inquisitor,” Hagan sneered. “You were in a forest.”

  “This is a sacred place, your grace. A burial site.”

  Hagan’s attention piqued. “What sort of burial site?”

  Rasmin gazed furtively about them. “Mubarék’s resting place.”

  Hagan had not expected this. “Saád was killed in Baraga. We have at least a dozen witnesses…”

  “I’m not talking about his great-grandson.”

  Both quieted as a lesser priest strode past them, lighting candles.

  Hagan looked skeptically at the Head Inquisitor. “You’re certain?”

  Rasmin nodded. “Someone drew forth Azir’s spirit,” he said quietly. “Azir lives.”

  Hagan was taken aback. “That’s impossible.”

  “Improbable,” Rasmin corrected. “Need I remind you that all things are possible with the Shah? The Liagé work in probability.”

  “Spare me the semantics, Head Inquisitor.”

  “The Liagé called it zindev,” Rasmin continued. “Necromancy—the art of bringing life back from the dead.”

  Hagan regarded him a long moment. “A tree told you he was brought back to life?”

  “The traces of power I found at the site are irrefutably the work of a zindev. I’ve never seen their like, and I’ve studied the old Liagé texts ad nauseam. It requires immense power to draw forth the spirit of a Liagé, as this zindev has done. The act itself is frowned upon, even by their own kind.”

  Hagan gazed at the altar below. “What does this mean for us?”

  A pause. “I fear that this necromancer is working with the rebel legion, and has resurrected Azir to fight against you.”

  Hagan frowned. “Even if you’re right, what could Azir possibly do in spirit form?”

  “He won’t remain in spirit form, Your Grace. He’ll find a body to occupy, but he was a very powerful Liagé in his day. He would be a grave danger to you in any form.”

  Hagan’s lips pursed. “Do you have any idea who this necromancer could be?”

  Rasmin’s eyes shone like ink. “No. Even so, in all my years here, no prisoner has exhibited this depth of power.”

  “And you believe this necromancer is working with the legion?” Hagan asked.

  “I’m certain of it, considering how the bodies were found at Reichen and Dunsten, and seeing how close they’ve come to you here, I advise that until we capture this necromancer and find the legion, we hold off your coronation—”

  Hagan slammed his fist against a column.

  The Head Inquisitor’s lips pressed together.

  “No,” Hagan said firmly. “We proceed as planned.”

  “Sire, the zindev alone is far too powerful, and until we find him—”

  “Then. Find. Him.” Hagan leaned close, eyes aflame. “That is your job, is it not, Head Inquisitor?”

  Rasmin made no reply, but his eyes shaded.

  “Rumors about what happened in those villages are spreading through Corinth like wildfire,” Hagan hissed. “And now my hunters fear the rutting woods.”

  Rasmin looked curious.

  Hagan smiled tightly. “Perhaps you should speak with Grag Beryn. Let him tell you what he found. It’s only a matter of time before word of this necromancer’s actions on my life reach Stovich, if it hasn’t already. To cancel the coronation will be seen as weakness.”

  The Head Inquisitor did not answer immediately. “I understand, Your Grace, but my concern is and has always been for your safety—”

  “Then find this necromancer and the godsdamned legion, and deliver their heads on pikes,” Hagan snarled. “Post them outside my gates for all to see. Let the people know what happens to those who threaten my throne.”

  Rasmin’s gaze fell in deference. “Yes, Your Grace.”

  26

  Sable opened her eyes to a dimly lit and very tiny cabin. After a moment of gentle rocking, she recalled that she was on a boat, but she had no recollection of how she’d come to be lying in a cot, buried somewhat comfortably beneath a pile of woolen blankets. She tried to sit, but a sharp pain pierced her side.

  “Careful,” said a low voice.

  She lay back down and glanced in the direction of the voice.

  Jos sat on the floor a few paces away, leaning against the wall opposite, his long legs crossed before him and his sword laying across his knees. His head was tipped back against the wall, and his eyes were open a sliver, watching her.

  She wondered how long he’d been sitting there.

  “Did we… lose him?” she managed. It hurt to talk, to breathe.

  “Yes,” Jos said a second later. “For now.”

  The cot rocked her, and the planked walls creaked. A hanging lantern swayed, throwing light and shadows about the cabin.

  “How are you feeling?” Jos asked quietly. There was concern in his voice, but also restraint.

  “Lucky,” she replied, then slowly pushed back the blankets. Her tunic was stained red, but her wound had been neatly dressed. She glanced up and met Jos’s gaze.

  “I cleaned it the best I could,” he said. “I’m afraid my stitches aren’t as neat as yours, but they should hold. Still, you should go easy on them. I have no idea how deeply his knife penetrated.”

  Sable touched the wrapping gently, grateful and also humbled that Jos had done so much for her while she’d been unconscious. She pressed on the space over the wound, just a little, to get a feel for its depth. “He didn’t cut anything vital, at least.” Which was nothing short of a miracle. Still, it would take weeks for this to heal, and just as long to regain her strength. The wound was deep, and she’d lost a lot of blood. She glanced at Jos, who looked steadily back, his expression inscrutable.

  “Thank you,” she said.

  He held her gaze. He nodded a moment later.

  Something about him had changed. It was difficult to pinpoint what, exactly, or why, but she’d expected him to be… easier, once they caught up with his friend. From the moment Tallyn had given them news of Braddok’s survival, Jos had seemed lighter, almost conversational—for him, anyway—but a shadow of heaviness clung to him now.

  “Are you feeling all right?” she asked, noting he looked a little pale.

  He frowned. “You have a hole in your side. How I feel is inconsequential.”

  Sable squinted in the low light and realized, perhaps, that there could be a very practical reason for his solemnity. “You’re green, Jos.”

  “Boats don’t agree with me.”

  “There’s not much that does.” She’d meant it as a joke, but she was so tired, it came out honest.

  A grin quirked at his lips, but it didn’t lighten his mood.

  A new thought struck her. “Is your friend okay?”

  “He’s fine, Sable.” His lips parted as if to add more, but then his brow furrowed, and he closed his lips again.

  She studied him, but a wave of dizziness hit her, and she closed her eyes while it passed.

  “You need rest,” he said, making a sudden decision. Wood creaked.

  Sable opened her eyes as Jos stood and sheathed his sword. She couldn’t argue with him. Already, her consciousness fought her, pulling her under. “Where… are we headed?”

  “The Black Cliffs.”

  “Doesn’t… Stykken patrol them?” she asked, straining against another shock of pain. Maker’s Mercy, she could use some Maiden’s Breath right about now, but she doubted she’d find any on this boat.

  “Survak assured me he’ll get us through without issue,” Jos said. His eyes warmed a little. “But right now, you need rest. You lost a lot of blood, Sable.”

  Sable closed her eyes and didn’t argue. She couldn’t. Her consciousness had slipped away. />
  She didn’t see Jos approach her cot. She didn’t feel the blankets move as he adjusted them over her shoulders, covering her, nor did she hear him whisper in the softest voice, “Forgive me.”

  As instructed, and also because she couldn’t help it, Sable kept to the bed, lulled in and out of consciousness by the soporific lullabies of groaning wood and crashing waves and thunderous skies. It was as if nature itself colluded, forcing her to rest. A couple of times, Jos was there forcing her to drink water, but she mostly slept. She dreamed often, and it was always the same, of heat and sunlight and storms, a powerful voice calling her name—her true name. The melody inside of her sang louder than before, and it did not quiet. It was a constant and unwavering pitch amidst the natural world around her, and Sable wondered at what Ventus had done, what he had broken. He’d spoken of her supposed power again, and she’d felt something inside of her crack. What it meant, she had no idea, but as her sleepiness waned, her thoughts moved down the trail of her current circumstances.

  She was sailing away from The Wilds—a land that’d harbored and hidden her for ten years. The significance was not lost on her, and she hadn’t expected to feel a twinge of sadness. The home that’d sheltered her all those years no longer existed, and neither did the woman who’d built it. It was time for Sable to move on, as she’d so often dreamed. But, as Sable was beginning to realize, dreams were dangerous. Dreams were shiny and perfect things, tantalizingly seductive with their promises. They professed they were better than now, more beautiful than here, forever stealing one’s ability to simply be.

  And Sable had been content, in a way, though her dreams wouldn’t allow her to see it. Her time in The Wilds wasn’t the sort of life she would’ve chosen for herself, but she’d had life, which was more than some could say. Now that she was heading for Provincial shores, what would she do? She had no crowns or anything to her name, and Jos was her most promising sponsor. He’d also proven to be an invaluable bodyguard, despite the recent… complication. She still wasn’t sure what to make of what’d happened in Gavet’s cellar, just as she couldn’t explain Jos’s behavior now.

  Regardless, it was dangerous for a young woman—especially an Istraan—to travel alone, and on top of that, she was injured. So she decided to stay the course for now, follow Jos to Southbridge, and take him up on his offer—assuming it still stood. Once there, she could decide what to do.