The Gods of Men

by Barbara Kloss

  What have you become, my darling Jos?

  Pressure built in his chest—too tight. Blood rushed in his ears, his breaths panted, and he vomited, over and over again, until he had nothing left to give, and then he fell to his knees and screamed.

  “Of all classes of the Shah, there is none equal to the Sulaziér. While all others act upon the physical world, the Sulaziér acts upon the spiritual. It is said to be the voice of Asorai himself, for it holds power over the living and the dead, and Asorai, in His infinite wisdom, will not give each generation more than one.”

  The Shah, A collection of teachings according to Moltoné, Liagé Second High Sceptor.

  35

  Sable did not know how long she lay on the bed, staring at the ceiling. She felt numb, body and soul. Even the melodies inside of her had fallen silent.

  She turned her head to the side and watched the lantern burn, its flame flickering dimly. She could set fire to her bed. End her life here and now, on her terms. But then she thought of Tolya.

  Tolya, who’d given so much so that Sable might live. Tolya, whose dying words urged her onward still. And then she thought of Tallyn and Survak, who’d also risked their lives—possibly even given them—for hers. What a way to repay them.

  She looked back to the ceiling. And then she sat up.

  The Head Inquisitor believed in her power so much so that he’d convinced Hagan to send the Wolf of Corinth to retrieve her. If she had this kind of power—command over the living and the dead— shouldn’t she be able to use that same power to escape?

  Sable set the flute in her lap and turned it over. The glyphs pulsed in her hand.

  They could be wrong about her. But…

  But.

  They could be right, and if they were, she might have a chance at freeing herself. She might even be able to free the Scab slaves and their tortured Liagé. Then, perhaps, Sorai could forgive her. Perhaps… she could learn to forgive herself.

  Sable closed her eyes and held the flute, reacquainting herself with its shape. Her flute was an old friend, and like any old friend, it would take time to catch up on the life they had missed.

  She lifted the flute to her lips. For a moment, she simply held it there, settling into position, letting her body uncoil. Her fingertips grazed cautiously over the holes, remembering them by name, by feel—silently calling out to them, one by one.

  She settled on three and covered them with a bit of pressure, but not so much pressure that she couldn’t pull back. The memory of what’d happened the last time she’d played loomed over her like a starved and feral beast.

  Sable took a deep, steadying breath and exhaled to calm her racing heart. Her next exhale, she released through the mouthpiece.

  An A whispered, soft and uncertain. It trembled with fear and apprehension, as if it’d forgotten what it was, or what it’d been created to do. It looked around, wondering where it should go next, and without clear direction, it faded into silence.

  Sable pulled the flute away from her lips and released the rest of her breath.

  The glyphs shone faintly, but the pressure within her slept.

  With a bit more confidence, she flexed her bruised jaw and tried again. The A sang out, stronger this time—purer than her voice had ever been. It breathed, standing upon shaking legs, filling the little chamber with sound, and when Sable reached the end of her breath, the A reached a decided finish.

  Sable let out a little puff of relief. “There, that wasn’t so bad,” she said to her flute.

  She adjusted her fingers, inhaled again, and released a B. It warbled at first, as the A had done, but then, as if drawing confidence from its predecessor, it filled steadily out, boastful and proud, and Sable slid into a C sharp. Up the scale she played, one note sliding into the next, each stronger than the one before, until she’d gone up and down the scale and landed powerfully on the tonic.

  Still, the pressure slept.

  Thus emboldened, Sable continued. She moved through the scales, major and minor. Her fingers were stiff, lacking the clarity they’d once possessed, and the endurance. She’d gone through all of the scales only twice before her mouth needed a break, and her spittle started flying everywhere, but then her gaze drifted to the blood stain upon the floor, and she kept playing.

  Scales soon turned into song.

  The attempts were awkward at first. They tested her as she tested them, slowly discovering the correct patterns for the songs now crowding her head. Her jaw ached, and her spittle kept flying, but she pushed on. She stumbled through basic pieces she’d played as a child, which seemed to come easiest, and when she’d gone through all she could remember, she gave her mouth a short break before starting over again. She played at a laboring pace, forcing each finger into obedience, forcing her lungs to fill and her mouth to hold form. She’d played halfway through the pieces a second time when the pressure inside of her stirred.

  It was a subtlety, a whisper against the invisible walls inside—the ones Ventus had cracked. She felt them then, the places where they were weak. The places the pressure slipped through.

  Her next note hitched, the glyphs flared bright, and she stopped. She had no idea how this… power was supposed to work, or how to channel it. The Head Inquisitor had offered guidance, but she didn’t want anything to do with him. Besides, if she were going to get out of here, she needed to learn to control it for herself. Without his twisted influence. Determined, Sable lifted the flute to her lips, closed her eyes, and tried again.

  The pressure increased.

  She held her note steady, the cracks and fissures inside of her strained like a skein too full of water. Her lungs constricted, her jaw cramped, and Sable ended her note. For a moment, she stood there, panting, her chest too tight, hands on fire. She inhaled deeply, but it didn’t fill her lungs as much as it should have, and then she tried again.

  The pressure surged like wildfire, and white light flared. Sable bent forward, contracting her belly, physically trying to hold herself together, but the pressure escaped through the cracks, spilled through her chest, warm and tingling, and shot her arms all the way to her fingertips.

  And then…

  She was in the desert, soaring over the dunes. Faster and faster, whirling and tumbling with the savage wind. It ripped across the golden sea, to where rocky sentinels stood like tables. It tore through them, over them, and dark clouds collided above. Lightning flashed, and a great drum of thunder rolled through her body like a command from the heavens. Something inside of her shattered.

  Heat followed—a shock so hot, so consuming, she was certain her bones would melt.

  Be strong, Imari. Do not fear, said the voice from before—the one that drew song from her soul. For as surely as the sun rises, I will stand with you. You are my chosen, and through you, I will make a great nation. If only you have the courage.

  Sable opened her eyes and found herself staring up into the Head Inquisitor’s face.

  She blinked, confused and also a little delirious as she glanced around, coming to the quick realization that she was lying on the floor. Her head throbbed, and she closed her eyes. She felt like she’d been run over by a wagon.

  “Is she going to be all right?” asked a voice Sable distractedly pinned as Hagan’s.

  A cool hand rested upon her forehead. “I believe so, but she needs rest, your grace.” The hand pulled away.

  Hagan made no reply. At least, none that she could hear.

  Sable forced her eyes open and started to sit.

  “Careful…” The Head Inquisitor placed a hand on her back to help.

  She was too exhausted and pained to argue.

  The Head Inquisitor crouched beside her, his face inscrutable, while Hagan stood behind him frowning. Just outside of her door were two guards holding an older slave between them. Today’s consequence of her failure.

  “What’s the last thing you remember?” the Head Inquisitor asked.

  Her stomach rolled, and she turned onto her
side and dry heaved.

  The Head Inquisitor looked on at her a long moment, but she couldn’t read the expression there.

  “Well?” Hagan demanded.

  The Head Inquisitor glanced back at his king. “I would like some time alone with her, Your Grace.”

  Hagan’s features hardened.

  “She’s trying as best she can,” the Head Inquisitor continued, undeterred. “Allow me to employ my expertise here. If she refuses to cooperate, I will let you know.”

  Hagan regarded the Head Inquisitor, and a silent exchange passed between men. “See that you do,” Hagan said at last, then snapped his fingers and left. His guards—and the slave—trailed after him.

  Sable was too pained and exhausted to feel any relief.

  “Here,” the Head Inquisitor said, holding out a cup. “It’s water. Drink. You need it. I’ll fetch you some food as well.”

  She grabbed the cup with a trembling hand and took a slow sip.

  “Describe what happened before you blacked out,” he said.

  Sable licked her lips and closed her eyes with a sigh.

  “I can’t help you if you don’t tell me what happened.”

  She opened her eyes a sliver. “You mean you can’t help you.”

  He crouched before her, his dark robes pooling upon the stone. He smelled strongly of incense. “Imari.”

  This close, Sable noted the dark splotches pillowing the skin beneath his eyes.

  “I’m trying to help you,” he said quietly. “In order to do that, I need your cooperation.”

  She glared at him. “You’re the Head Inquisitor. Getting Liagé to cooperate is your specialty, isn’t it?”

  He stared back, his face a blank.

  Sable set the cup down and stood. She wobbled a little and held on to the bed for support. The Head Inquisitor didn’t move to help her; he simply watched with that inscrutable way of his.

  Sable eased herself onto the bed with a sigh. A muscle in her neck pulled, and when she tried to stretch it, she found she couldn’t turn her head all the way to the left.

  The Head Inquisitor stood. “You’re done for the day. We’ll try again tomorrow.”

  Sable adjusted herself on the bed and winced from the pain in her side. “No, I’ll try again now. Unlike you, I care when Sol Velorians die.”

  “No one will die, Imari. That, I swear.”

  “Your word means nothing,” she snapped. “Nor do the gods upon whom you swear.”

  He regarded her in silence, then glanced away and bowed his head. “Goodnight, Surina Imari.”

  He snatched the flute from her nightstand, and its glyphs faded completely.

  “Wait—” Sable started, but he was already gone, locking the door behind him. Sable stared at the door, and she was still staring at it when sleep overwhelmed her.

  “Surina Imari…?”

  She opened her eyes to the voice.

  The Head Inquisitor stood over her with a plate of fruit and bread, which he set at the end of her bed. “How are you feeling this morning?”

  Morning.

  She had slept the day and night through.

  Maker’s mercy…

  Sable pushed herself up to a sitting position, and her head spun. She closed her eyes, giving herself a moment, and then opened her eyes again.

  The Head Inquisitor studied her with those omniscient black eyes.

  She glanced at the ripe fruit and fresh bread, then back at him. “Why?” she asked.

  His head cocked to the side in question.

  “Why are you feeding me?” She gestured at the plate. “Why do you care if I rest? Am I some pig you’re fattening up for the slaughter?”

  He didn’t answer immediately. “Your questions have complicated answers.”

  “Try me.”

  He didn’t respond. He was the inquisitor, after all. He’d built his life on inquisition, not disclosure.

  Her stomach growled. She suddenly felt too famished for pride, and she wolfed down some of the fruit and the bread, not caring that the Head Inquisitor watched her. Once she finished, he set the flute on her lap, and the glyphs pulsed to life.

  “Try again. This time, I’m going to watch.”

  Sable eyed him. “You do remember what happened the last time I played before an audience.”

  He arched a brow. “Yes, and I should think it proper motivation for you now.”

  Sable frowned. “You’re not concerned?”

  “That you’ll put me to sleep? That you’ll kill me where I stand? If you run out these doors, you’ll fall into the hands of a dozen guards who’ll take you straight to their king, after they have a bit of fun with you first. No, I’m not concerned.”

  Sable scowled.

  He gestured at her flute.

  “My playing could still kill you,” she said.

  The universe expanded in his eyes. “It seems more likely it’ll kill you first. Pick up your flute, surina.”

  They stared at one another. Sable, with fire; the Head Inquisitor, with the vastness and patience of the universe. But Sable’s little flame was no match for eternity.

  Sable set the empty plate on the bed and picked up the flute.

  “Play exactly what you were playing when it happened,” he said.

  Sable slid her legs out of the bed and stood. Her balance swayed once, and she lifted the flute to her lips. Still, she hesitated. Her head throbbed, and she wasn’t eager for a repeat of yesterday’s pain.

  The Head Inquisitor waited.

  With a resigned sigh, Sable shut her eyes and exhaled into the flute. The note came slow and wary, and the pressure inside of her pulsed faintly.

  The Head Inquisitor remained silent.

  So Sable played on, warming through scales before moving into pieces. She played a lullaby first, one Vana used to sing to her. Then she played her papa’s favorite anthem, but as she slid through those last few boisterous measures, the pressure warmed through her chest and the glyphs shone bright.

  “Stop,” the Head Inquisitor said sharply.

  Sable stopped and opened her eyes, straining to stand upright from the tension now pulling within. Like strings, all tied to a central point in her belly, contracting.

  He studied her, his expression granite. “Describe what you feel.”

  Her forehead wrinkled. “It’s… hard to describe.”

  “Try,” he said simply.

  “You’re the expert.” She tossed his own word back at him. “Why don’t you explain what I’m feeling.”

  If her disrespect bothered him, he didn’t show it. He didn’t show anything.

  He folded his arms. “Yes. It’s true I have decades of experience with the Shah and its Liagé, but I’ve never encountered one with your… particular ability. Forgive me for wanting to hear your interpretation.”

  “I forgive you for nothing.”

  He regarded her. “Fair. I can’t expect forgiveness from one who can’t even forgive herself.”

  Sable pressed her lips together and glanced away.

  Still, he waited.

  “It… starts out as a pressure,” Sable said at last. “Deep in my gut.”

  “Is the pressure always there?”

  Sable chewed on her bottom lip. “No. I never noticed it before. Not until…” Until Ventus had begun something in her that the voice in her dream had shattered completely.

  Not that she’d admit any of that.

  “Not until what?” the Head Inquisitor prodded.

  She looked into the depths of his eyes. She wondered at all they had seen. “Not until I escaped The Wilds.”

  He looked at her as though he didn’t believe she were telling him the whole truth, but he didn’t press her further. “But it’s there now.”

  “Yes.”

  “Always?”

  She exhaled a slow breath. “Yes.”

  The Head Inquisitor nodded once, as if jotting down a mental note. “Did Prince Jeric catch wind of this?”

  At th
e Wolf’s name, her gaze faltered, and her chest tightened unexpectedly. “No.”

  The Head Inquisitor was quiet for so long, Sable glanced back at him. And then he nodded at the flute, tucking his thoughts safely away. “Again.”

  She stood there, expecting him to ask more—say more—but he didn’t. Her lips parted, giving room for a dozen questions she couldn’t voice. Like, where was the Wolf now? And loudest of all…

  Did he really loathe her so much that he could abandon her to this?

  “Surina.”

  Sable glanced up.

  The Head Inquisitor’s black eyes shone. “We can’t choose how we are created. We can only choose what we do with it.”

  “What of your choice?” she snapped.

  His veneer did not crack. “Choice is past. Choose is present.” He tilted his head to the flute. “Now play.”

  Sable considered his cryptic words, then picked up her flute and played.

  It was a piece Ricón had adored, of battles and loss and love. He’d always been a bit of a romantic, and she suddenly wondered if adulthood had stolen that from him. Her fingers stumbled over the notes, but she soon found her rhythm, and the pressure inside of her surged.

  She peeked at the Head Inquisitor, whose face looked ghostly in the pale light of her flute, but he made no move to stop her, so she pushed through the melody, through victory and sorrow. The notes squeezed out of tight lungs as warmth spread through her chest and down her arms, and the glyphs burned bright, so bright.

  Still, the Head Inquisitor did not stop her.

  Sable pulled the flute away, panting and sweating, struggling to catch her breath.

  “Why did you stop?” he demanded.

  She looked sharply at him. “Because this is exactly what happened yesterday.”

  “Good. Play through it.”

  She gaped at him.

  “Hold down your power,” he said as if the solution were obvious, “And finish the piece.”

  “Just how am I supposed to do that?”

  “To embrace the Shah isn’t to deny it,” he said, “nor should you give it dominion over you. Let it breathe, give it life. Let it flow, but give it anchor. Otherwise, it’ll drift beyond your control.”