The Gods of Men

by Barbara Kloss

  Inquisitors.

  “Let me go!” Sable yelled, kicking and punching at the inquisitors, but they held tight.

  The Wolf watched, unmoving.

  “I can’t, surina,” Hagan said, regarding her like a snake. “You are far too valuable.”

  The Head Inquisitor stood before them, watching with undue calm as Sable bucked like a wild animal. Something tore in her side, and a cool cloth covered her mouth. A faintly familiar sour scent filled her nose, coating her tongue, and her world went black.

  30

  It was only when Rasmin’s inquisitors began dragging Sable away that Jeric snapped out of his stupor. He rushed for the opened door and pressed his palms to the frame, blocking the inquisitors’ exit.

  Hagan gave him an annoyed look. “Move, Jeric.”

  Jeric did not move. “What do you want with her?” His eyes darted from the Head Inquisitor to Hagan, demanding an answer.

  “That is not your concern,” Hagan said.

  Jeric seethed, barely able to draw a full breath, his body was so tight. “You lied to me,” he said through his teeth.

  Hagan frowned. “Did I?”

  Jeric slammed his fist against the doorframe, and the door rattled upon its hinges. One of the inquisitors flinched.

  “Godsdamnit, Hagan!” Jeric snarled. “Did you send me to retrieve the sar’s bastard?”

  Hagan held his gaze and said simply, “Yes.”

  Jeric’s blood ran hot; his body trembled at the edge of self control. “How could you—”

  “We need unity, Jeric,” Hagan cut him off. “Now more than ever. That should come as no surprise to you. You’re the one bringing reports of how vastly I’m opposed.” Hagan’s expression turned severe. “Father was weak. He let Corinth grow weak, and he left a mess in my hands. An inquisitor tried to kill me while you were away.”

  Jeric’s eyes narrowed to slits.

  Hagan smiled derisively. “You didn’t know? There is, apparently, a necromancer who’s evaded Rasmin’s notice.”

  The word stopped Jeric’s thoughts short. Tallyn had spoken of a necromancer—one who’d sent the chakran after her. Were they the same?

  “Where is this necromancer now?” Jeric asked sharply.

  “I don’t have a rutting clue. Do you think I’d be telling you this if I knew the answer? And now, his power is infecting our godsdamned woods!”

  “What in Aryn’s name are you talking about?”

  Hagan’s steely eyes flashed. “There’s a new hunter in our woods, it would seem. One more dangerous than you. It has Grag and his men spooked. It slaughters our wolves and rips them to shreds, leaving nothing behind but a smear of blood and intestines.”

  Jeric stilled. It sounded too familiar.

  He caught the Head Inquisitor’s dark gaze.

  “And that’s not our only problem,” Hagan continued. “The legion you so rudely mentioned before my council has made off with Murcare’s entire supply of arms.”

  Jeric looked darkly at Hagan. “Honestly, Hagan. I don’t think you could’ve made a greater mess if you’d tried.”

  Hagan regarded Jeric, unamused. “I am not the only Angevin tasked with guarding the Corthian people.”

  “Don’t you dare put this on me—”

  “I’m not.” Hagan’s gaze flickered over Jeric with decades-old bitterness. “You just delivered our victory.”

  Jeric looked sharply at Hagan. “You’re going to force Sar Branón to intercede.”

  This time, the Head Inquisitor spoke up. “Not exactly. We’re going to use the bastard for her power.”

  “You’re… what?”

  “I will use whatever means necessary to protect Corinth,” Hagan said. “There is a legion attacking our villages—a legion we can’t find—and we believe it’s working with the necromancer. Right now, the only way I see to fight this necromancer is with a Liagé of my own.”

  Liagé.

  Gods. All this time. Sable.

  Sar Branón’s bastard, and a godsdamned Liagé. He wanted to refute it, but he’d seen her face. He’d seen her terror at Hagan’s words.

  He remembered her music.

  “You think a godsdamned flute is going to save you?” Jeric snarled. He was a red sky before a storm.

  “Look around you, Wolf,” Hagan hissed, arms spread toward the walls. “We are failing. Our enemies move right beneath our noses, stealing from us while leaving shameless displays on our doorstep. Riling the people and making us look weak. It’s time we fight fire with fire.”

  Jeric approached Hagan with slow steps and gripped Hagan’s collar, jerking him close. “How dare you. I’ve spent my entire life purging Corinth of sorcery, and you would turn around and use it for gain. After everything they’ve done.”

  The loss of their mother hovered over them like a feral beast.

  Hagan’s eyes hardened, steely and cold. “I rule Corinth now, Jeric, and if I dare to use a Liagé to protect my throne, by the gods, who are you to question me?”

  Jeric glared at his brother.

  His brother glared back.

  His godsdamned king.

  “Do it,” Hagan growled. “I know you want to. Hit me. Strike me down.”

  Gods, how he wanted to.

  Jeric’s knuckles blanched, his body trembled with a lifetime of fury, and the edges of his vision burned red.

  Red.

  Red.

  Red. Furious, destructive red.

  His eyes squeezed; his nostrils flared.

  It was exactly what Hagan wanted. What he always wanted: to unravel him, to control him, as he controlled everyone else.

  Jeric shoved Hagan off with a snarl.

  Hagan caught himself and adjusted his collar.

  Jeric took one step forward and loomed over him. “Never use me like that again.”

  Hagan’s eyes narrowed as he righted himself. “I am your king, brother. I will use you however I please.”

  The brothers stared at one another, two players at a furious impasse, held back only by witness and law. At last, Jeric spun around and started for the door, his cloak lapping powerfully at his knees. His gaze skirted Rasmin and the inquisitors. Their prisoner.

  He gritted his teeth and clenched his fists. Gods, it hurt to look at her.

  He met Rasmin’s keen gaze, and without another word, Jeric stormed through the door and down the hall.

  Rasmin watched the Wolf Prince kick over a candelabra. It toppled and clattered upon the stone floor, startling the guards, who then scrambled to pick it up. Once the Wolf disappeared around a corner, Rasmin turned back to find Hagan staring after him also. Hagan’s gaze snagged Rasmin’s before he looked thoughtfully down at the woman.

  Rasmin did not trust the look lingering there.

  “We must hurry,” Rasmin said. “Before she wakes.”

  “Yes, of course,” the king said distractedly, then his gaze sharpened. “You’re certain about her?”

  Rasmin looked down upon the head of rich dark hair before him. The woman who would save his people, as was promised. “As certain as I have ever been, your grace.”

  31

  Do not fear, I will be with you…

  Sable startled awake to darkness, and the echo faded.

  Do not fear…

  The air smelled musty and old, the shadows too dark. She felt around blindly, trying to get some idea of her surroundings, and soon discovered she lay on a narrow bed that’d been shoved against a cold wall of stone.

  She slid out of her bed and carefully felt her way forward. After three small and hesitant steps, she reached a door of solid wood. She searched for a handle but found none, so she pushed. The door didn’t budge.

  She made a fist and pounded. “Hello?” she called out in a raw voice.

  No answer.

  She coughed on a tickle and pounded harder. “Is anyone there?”

  Still nothing.

  She banged the door with both fists until her palms ached, then kicked it, reali
zing—too late—her boots had been removed. She hissed a stream of curses as her big toe throbbed.

  “Argh!” she yelled, punching the door one last time before sliding to the ground and leaning her head back. If someone so much as whispered on the other side of the door, she was going to hear it.

  A tremor moved through her body, followed by a sharp wave of dizziness, and Sable closed her eyes. Whatever substance the inquisitors had used still lingered in her system. She tasted lemon and—she licked her lips—an earthy essence, tinged with veroot.

  Nightdew. A strong soporific. Simple to make, but the ingredients were difficult to obtain.

  Sable didn’t remember falling asleep again, but a metallic jangling startled her awake. Voices murmured faintly beyond the door, and Sable cursed her negligence as she stumbled to her feet. Dizziness hit her again, and she braced herself against the wall just as the door cracked open. Light spilled in, and she blinked against the sudden brightness, shielding her eyes with her hand.

  A silhouette stood in the threshold, head bent beneath the low lintel. The figure spotted her standing there and said sharply, “Have a seat, Surina Imari.”

  King Hagan gestured to her bed, stepped into the room, and set the lantern on the floor.

  Sable blinked at him. The nightdew made her slow. “Where… am I?”

  “Safely tucked away where no one can find you.” King Hagan frowned over her, and it was then, in the lantern light, that she noticed her clothing had been replaced with a modest brown and shapeless dress. Still, she felt exposed beneath his scrutiny, stripped bare and vulnerable, without anywhere to hide.

  Sable gathered what little strength she had left and stood tall. She would not wilt before this snake. “If you’re hoping to ransom me, you’re out of luck. I told you: Sar Branón hasn’t sent for me in ten years. He won’t risk Istraa for me now.”

  King Hagan studied her with cold and unblinking eyes. “I’m not concerned with Sar Branón. At least, not yet. What I need, only you can provide.”

  He paused, letting his words sit and fester. And how they festered.

  “And what’s that?” Sable asked, showing none of the fear pumping through her veins.

  He took a step closer, and every muscle in her body tensed. She knew too well of his reputation, how he took what he wanted, when he wanted it. She drew solace in the fact that her door stood open, but even if her screams were heard, would anyone come?

  Would anyone care?

  His eyes caressed her face, and he reached out and touched her hair. Sable snapped her head away. He smiled, amused, but dropped his hand. “I see why my brother liked you.”

  “Really?” she bit back. “I guess you weren’t paying attention earlier.”

  “You don’t know Jeric as I do.”

  She didn’t want to discuss the Wolf. Especially not with him. “What do you want?” she snarled.

  He considered her, then said, “It’s simple, really. I need you to play for me.”

  Sable blinked. “Play.”

  Hagan withdrew the flute from his robes.

  “Where did you get that?” she demanded.

  “It doesn’t matter. What matters is that the two of you become reacquainted.”

  He held it out to her. This time, the glyphs sprang to life even without her contact.

  She didn’t take it.

  He roughly grabbed her hand, forced it open, and shoved the flute into her palm. At her contact, the glyphs flared bright. He curled her fingers firmly around it, and he did not let go.

  “You will learn,” he said, gaze fastened on hers. Madness writhed within. “You will learn to harness your power, and you will use it to help me.”

  Sable glared straight back. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  He squeezed her hand around the flute so hard it hurt. “Don’t play me for a fool, surina.”

  “I’m not playing at anything. I tried telling you before: I don’t have power. It’s the flute! Find someone else! Last time I played it, it killed someone I loved. Is that what you want? You want someone to kill your adversaries with music?”

  “Not someone. You,” he said. “And I don’t want you to kill them. I want you to make them mine.”

  Sable was taken aback. “What… are you talking about?”

  “It’s not the flute, Imari,” he said lowly. “It’s you. The flute illuminated for you because you have the power—power over the soul. With your music, you can bend anyone to your will.”

  She stared at him, nonplussed. “Who told you this nonsense?”

  “I did,” said a new voice.

  The Head Inquisitor stepped into the room, all robes and shadows, a specter in the lantern light. He exchanged a look with King Hagan, and then Hagan released her hand and took a small step away from her.

  Sable looked between the men, bewildered. “I don’t know where you got the notion that I have this ability, but the flute has the power. Not me.”

  “No, Imari,” the Head Inquisitor said. “This flute only has power in the hands of a Liagé—the right Liagé. It merely amplifies what’s already inside of you.”

  “I’m not Liagé! My papa is the sar of Istraa—”

  “And your mother?”

  Sable’s thoughts stuttered to a halt. She remembered Ventus, what he had broken, what he had said.

  “The Shah leaves traces. Someone has spent a great deal of energy erasing yours.”

  And then she thought of Tolya.

  “They know what you are.”

  Not who. What.

  Had she been wrong all these years? Was… she the monster?

  “I saw you at the palace that day,” the Head Inquisitor said, breaking through her spiraling thoughts.

  “That’s…” …impossible, Sable meant to say, but as she thought back on that day, she couldn’t remember much more than Sorai. Her papa had invited guests. Dozens of guests—many of whom her young mind had blurred. Had the Head Inquisitor’s face been one of them? She thought she’d remember a face like his—eyes like his—but then, she’d been so nervous about performing, and she’d spent most of the evening alone on the palace rooftops…

  “You were only nine, I believe,” he continued. “A sprightly little thing, always climbing on the rooftops. Always walking in a dance to a melody only you seemed able to hear. Your kunari —Vana, wasn’t it?—wandered the palace searching for you. I couldn’t decide if I wanted her to find you or not. You were quite entertaining to watch. And then there was your older brother, Ricón, who knew very well where you were but pretended to be as dumbfounded as the lot of them.”

  Sable trembled, unable to speak against him. His words were a battlefield, a torment to endure, yet impossible to look away from. And they brought pain. So much pain.

  And now, so many questions.

  “I watched you play,” he continued, taking a step closer. “I knew the moment you began that something was different. That you were different. When you played, I watched the Shah take you as I had seen it take so many others. I watched it touch everyone present, though they were unaware—so captivated, they were, by your music. It was then I knew what you were.”

  Sable saw her little sister lying dead on the travertine floor, and her throat squeezed with old pain.

  “You had no control over your power then,” he continued evenly. “But you can learn to control it, and I can help you do that.”

  Her thoughts spun in a frenzy. Partially because the memories overwhelmed her with emotion, and partially because his claims were too great to digest. And also because the nightdew still flowed in her veins, making it difficult to focus.

  “A legion of Scabs is attacking our villages and stealing our arms—a legion we can’t seem to find—and we believe they are being aided by a necromancer,” the Head Inquisitor said.

  Necromancer. The word burned through Sable’s mental haze like a brazier.

  Tallyn had mentioned a necromancer. Were they the same, the necromancer aiding
this legion and the one who’d sent a chakran after her? She’d wondered what a necromancer could want with a bastard Istraan, but if she truly was what the Head Inquisitor claimed…

  “The power this necromancer has exhibited is nothing like I’ve ever seen,” the Head Inquisitor continued. “We don’t have the power to fight him, but you do. Because you have power over souls—living and dead.”

  She squeezed the little flute in her hands. A flute, apparently, with power only she could wield. “You… want me to learn how to use this… power”—she looked straight at the king—“to bend your enemy to your will.”

  “Yes,” King Hagan answered.

  “You must, surina,” the Head Inquisitor interjected. “Your power stirs within you. You feel it.” His voice urged her to acknowledge his words.

  Sable was too aware of the fissures Ventus had created, the power humming behind the cracks, and the melodies now ringing incessantly in her head.

  Music… it pours out of you, the Wolf had said. It’s like you’re constantly moving to a song only you hear…

  They know what you are.

  …what you are.

  What.

  Sable stared at the little flute in her hands and swallowed hard. Suddenly, she saw her papa, the fear in his eyes as he sent her away with three of his very best Saredd.

  Fear. Not anger, not disappointment. But fear, because he’d realized what she was: Liagé.

  By the wards. It hadn’t been the flute at all. It’d been… her.

  Her breath came too quick, her pulse too rapid. A drum gone out of control.

  “You can’t suppress your gift forever,” the Head Inquisitor continued. “Trust me in this. I’ve watched it take many. It’s better that you learn to control it before it consumes you.”

  Sable glanced up and finally found her voice. “For as long as I’ve lived,” Sable said, her words low and uneven, “you’ve murdered people for the Shah. And now you want me to use mine. To help you.”

  Hagan’s expression darkened. “It’s not a choice, surina.”

  Sable chucked her flute across the room. It struck the wall and bounced on her bed, then clattered to the ground. “You rutting hypocrite.” She spat on the floor at his feet. “I’d rather—”