The Gods of Men

by Barbara Kloss

  “And how many had to die so that you could learn that vague bit of nonsense?”

  The universe darkened in his eyes, all stars gone. “Finish the piece.”

  She glared at him. “You’re not helping me at all.”

  “Neither will just standing there. Play.”

  “But how am I supposed to anchor it? To what, exactly?”

  “Preferably upon something immovable. Most anchor it to their identity—their name. Since you won’t even answer to yours”—he gave her a pointed look—“find something else that roots you. Something unshakeable. Something—or someone—foundational to who you are.”

  Sable’s gaze swiveled to her flute.

  Someone foundational to who you are.

  Tolya came to mind. Without Tolya, Sable wouldn’t have survived The Wilds all those years. Without Tolya, Sable would not have wanted to survive.

  “And then what?” Sable asked.

  “When you feel the Shah begin to stir, think only on that foundation. Focus on it. Let nothing else enter your mind. Force the Shah to that anchor, let it wrap tightly around it, and when you’re certain the bond is secure, then, and only then, can you carry it wherever you want it to go. Otherwise, it will pull you down and drown you in it.”

  Sable frowned at the Head Inquisitor.

  “It will make more sense when you try,” he said.

  She eyed him. “And you know from experience?”

  “Again.”

  Sable grunted but did as instructed, and the pressure surged.

  Think only on that foundation… let nothing else enter your mind.

  She thought of Tolya. She pictured her face, her wild hair, the sound of her voice, her eyes, demanding and impatient. She held the note longer, let it breathe, to give Tolya a moment to take hold of it. The warmth spread through her chest like strings and pulled tight, making it difficult to breathe.

  Force the Shah to that anchor; let it wrap tightly around it.

  Sable pushed against the restraints and forced out another note. It squeaked out of her, strangled with twine, but she held and held, spittle flying everywhere while she focused on Tolya’s wrinkled face and stubborn eyes.

  Take it, Sable thought with desperation. Why won’t you take it?

  The Head Inquisitor’s face was the next thing she saw, hovering over her and frowning.

  Sable groaned and closed her eyes. “How long have I been lying here?”

  “A while.” He set a plate of fresh bread and hard cheese beside her head, which, she suddenly realized, lay atop the pillow on her bed.

  Sable shut her eyes against a throbbing headache, but then her stomach rolled again and her last meal came up with it.

  The Head Inquisitor waited while she emptied her stomach onto the floor, and once she finished, he presented her with a rag and water. He helped her sit, and then she wiped her face and took a slow sip of water while he set the food where she couldn’t immediately smell it.

  “Is this normal?” she rasped, then swished her mouth with more water.

  “I don’t know. If you’ll recall, I’ve never dealt with your particular brand of power before.”

  She looked scathingly at him.

  “Go on,” he said. “Drink some more.”

  She did as instructed, then leaned back against the wall with a wince.

  “Where does it hurt?” he asked.

  “Where doesn’t it?” She laughed darkly, then grunted against a particularly sharp pain in her side. She closed her eyes while the sensation passed.

  “What did you focus on?” he asked.

  She opened her eyes.

  He waited.

  “A person,” she said sharply.

  “Who?”

  “Just… someone.”

  He considered her. “And is he or she immovably foundational to who you are?”

  Sable pressed her lips together. “Yes.”

  He sat quietly, then said, “Finish that cup, and let’s try again.”

  And so it was, day after day. Sable played through pieces, imagining Tolya’s face, but each and every time Tolya merely stared at her with those stubborn eyes, and Sable would wake hours later, on the floor, or, if the Head Inquisitor was feeling generous, on the bed. He advised her to find another anchor, and so she eventually tried that too. She remembered Ricón, his laughing eyes, his conspiratorial smile, but he wouldn’t take hold either, rejecting her as everyone else had done, abandoning her to The Wilds. She tried Sorai next, then her papa, and her other brother, Kai, and when those didn’t work, she tried the Smetts and Ivar. She even tried her stepmother, Sura Anja, but none of them took the cursed rope she’d offered.

  “I can’t…” Sable groaned one painful afternoon, clutching her stomach as she lay upon the stone floor. Everything ached. Her pain was a constant pulse now, as if the ropes inside had wrapped around her too many times and were slowly squeezing her to death. “I can’t… do this…”

  “You must,” the Head Inquisitor insisted, crouching beside her. “You’re not focusing hard enough.”

  Her mouth tasted like bile. “I’m focusing… as hard as I can…” She swallowed hard, struggling to sit. Her body trembled with weakness. Every day, the Shah stole a little more of her. It would take until she had nothing left. “I can’t play anymore.”

  The Head Inquisitor grabbed her shoulders and looked hard at her. “You have to, Imari.”

  “Thank you, Head Inquisitor,” said a new voice. “I’ll take it from here.”

  Hagan stepped into her chamber and closed the door behind him. There were no guards with him—no Sol Velorian slave, either—but this brought her little comfort.

  “She needs more time, Your Grace,” the Head Inquisitor said in an angry tone that surprised her.

  Hagan took one step closer, but his presence filled her small prison. “You’ve had three weeks with her, and we’re no closer than we were before.”

  Three… weeks? Sable thought, astonished.

  The Head Inquisitor stood tall. “Her power is unique—”

  “Leave,” Hagan cut him off, and when the Head Inquisitor did not move, he added, “I will not ask you again, Head Inquisitor.”

  The universe swelled and trembled in the Head Inquisitor’s eyes, but at last, he bowed his head.

  “Of course, Your Grace,” the Head Inquisitor said stiffly. His robes rippled as he strode from the chamber and closed the door behind him.

  Sable looked at Corinth’s new king. Hagan could do whatever he wanted to her, and she would be powerless to fight him. She had nothing left.

  His gaze moved over her, and his frown deepened, creasing the edges of his mouth. “You look terrible.”

  Cutting retorts clawed behind her lips, but she lacked the strength to voice them.

  He took two steps and crouched before her. He gripped her chin, forcing her to look at him. He looked as though he were waiting for something, and when she simply sat there, staring numbly up at him, he grunted. “Aren’t you disappointing.”

  She said nothing, showed nothing.

  “What must I do to get your cooperation? I need your power, Imari. I need it now.” His eyes narrowed. “What is the problem?”

  She didn’t answer.

  He squeezed her chin harder.

  “I don’t…” She winced, but not against his grip. The invisible ropes squeezed around her lungs, making it difficult to breathe. “I don’t know.”

  He squeezed her chin so hard her eyes watered. “I suggest you figure it out.”

  “I’m… trying…”

  “Try harder.”

  “I can’t—”

  He slapped her across the face.

  The clap echoed in the small chamber, and the force of it knocked her on her side. Her cheek burned, but before she could right herself, Hagan dropped on all fours over her, hemming her in. Sable froze, his face a handbreadth from hers.

  “You godsdamned Scab,” he spat, his spittle landing on her nose. His hot breat
h smelled of pipesmoke and pepper as it brushed over her face, and his eyes writhed with madness.

  He grabbed her hair and jerked her head back, exposing her neck. “You think the gods set you apart, but you’re weak. Just like the rest of your kind. You will never be more than this.” He gave her hair a hard pull, and she gasped in pain. “A tool, meant for someone better than you. Stronger than you. You are mine, Imari, and if you don’t do what I ask, I will make you suffer for the rest of your pathetic life. I will give you children, and I will take them away. They will scorn you, as you deserve to be scorned. They will hate what you are, and through them, I will destroy the last of your kind. Then, and only then, I will let you die.” He licked her neck, then kissed her jaw softly. “Do you understand?”

  Sable shut her eyes tight, forcing out the feel of his cold, wet lips against her skin. “Yes,” she whispered.

  He let go with a shove, and she slumped against the bed. Hagan stood over her a moment, then left, slamming the door in his wake.

  Yes, she thought. The Wolf does despise me that much.

  36

  “Your Grace…” one of the guards stuttered, stepping forward to intercept Jeric.

  Jeric ignored him.

  “Prince Jeric… His Majesty has asked—”

  Jeric stalked past the startled guards, pushing through the doors and into the council chamber.

  The chatter within died.

  The council gaped at the Wolf Prince, who strode forward in a storm of wool and steel, his boots thundering upon stone.

  Jeric’s gaze swept the table of familiar faces, his eyes cutting like a scythe. There were more jarls than usual, as Jeric had expected. Hagan’s coronation, and the Day of Reckoning feast that followed, would take place tomorrow evening. Most of Corinth’s jarls were already in town, posturing to sniff their new king’s stinking arse.

  Jeric’s gaze dropped on Hagan like a gavel, and Hagan’s steely blue eyes narrowed. He tipped his head and smiled his most vicious. “Brother.”

  Jeric stopped at the table’s edge and stood before his brother. He opened the sack he’d brought and dumped his gift upon the table.

  There was a collective gasp as the shade head landed on the Provincial map. It rolled over territories, smearing black blood over boundaries, and knocked over the carefully positioned figurines. Gazes darted across the table, uncertain. Beside Hagan, Astrid paled.

  “I found the problem with the wolves,” Jeric said darkly.

  Hagan stared at Jeric; their gazes warred.

  “What is that?” Hagan gestured at the gruesome sight.

  “A shade,” Jeric replied. Jarl Vysr frowned. Commander Anaton leaned over the head and examined it. “A creature found in The Wilds. It hunts humans—uses them to create more shades. It’s not easily killed with steel or skal; its skin’s like armor. We’ve never seen it here because it can’t pass over The Crossing, and, fortunately for us, shades don’t swim.”

  “Then what in the five hells is it doing here?” Jarl Stovich demanded.

  Jeric looked straight at the Head Inquisitor. “Perhaps you want to answer that, Head Inquisitor?”

  The Head Inquisitor gazed levelly at him, giving away nothing. “Your implication is misplaced, Your Grace. I’m as disturbed by its presence here as anyone.”

  Jeric tossed the vial at him. It landed with a plink and rolled into the inquisitor’s hands. He gazed down upon it, his features tightening.

  Astrid strained her neck to see around Hagan.

  “I found that at Kerr’s Summit,” Jeric said.

  “The Summit…?” Jarl Vysr said with surprise.

  “What is it?” Hersir asked.

  “A vial I obtained from a pack of Sol Velorians while hunting with my men. However. It was left with the Head Inquisitor for inspection.”

  The Head Inquisitor looked steadily at Jeric. “I never received this vial, Your Grace.”

  Jeric flashed his teeth. “Convenient.”

  “Why are we upset about a vial?” Stovich glanced from Jeric to the Head Inquisitor, impatient.

  “Because I believe its contents made that.” Jeric nodded at the head.

  The Head Inquisitor picked up the vial, brought it to his nose, and sniffed. His eyes found Jeric, and Jeric’s certainty wavered. Jeric had never been able to read the Head Inquisitor. For that reason alone, he’d never trusted the man, but this cracked even the Head Inquisitor’s granite veneer.

  “Are there more?” Astrid asked. Unlike everyone else, Astrid didn’t seem to fear this monster. Jeric envied her strong constitution, which, he’d always assumed, sprouted from her staunch faith in the gods.

  “I don’t know,” Jeric answered tightly. “But in my experience, if there’s one, there are more.”

  “Where’s Jorvysk?” Hersir asked.

  Jeric looked over, forcing himself to hold the Lead Stryker’s gaze. “He’s gone.”

  It was as if Hersir heard the words but did not understand them. Could not fathom them. Jeric could see that he wanted details, but those details would have to wait.

  Jeric pulled the Stryker ring from his finger and tossed it across the table. It swiveled as it rolled, then came to a stop before Hersir.

  “You can have that back,” Jeric said, then addressed the others. He couldn’t bear to stand in that room another moment. “If you’ll excuse me, I’m tired from cleaning up after your godsdamned messes.”

  Hagan’s face darkened.

  Jeric turned on his heels and left, slamming the door after himself.

  Later that evening, Jeric knelt before the statue of Lorath, head bowed and sword flat across his knees. He’d spent countless hours here, in this private garden, praying Lorath would bring the Sol Velor to justice—through him. That he’d be an instrument for their destruction, to bring his mother justice and Corinth honor. But now…

  He did not know what to pray.

  He did not know what to feel.

  He did not know what he believed.

  He picked up his sword and turned it over in his hands. His father had given him this when he’d come of age. It was made of the finest Corinthian skal, forged specifically for his style, his build. Hagan had been jealous. He could see Hagan’s face even now, twisted with envy for the subtle preference their father showed Jeric. Not that King Tommad had loved Jeric more. It wasn’t about Jeric at all but Meira, his deceased wife and the mother of his children. Every so often, King Tommad had surprised Jeric with something special, like this sword. In those rare moments, King Tommad had looked upon Jeric and remembered his wife, wanting to pay penance for his neglect.

  His father had never been the same after her death. When she’d died, Jeric had lost both parents.

  Jeric had named his sword after the god he understood most—Lorath. The god of justice, of vengeance and blood, of action and cunning. It’d seemed right that this instrument, given to him in light of his mother’s death, should also be used in avenging her.

  Now, he wondered if the name only insulted her memory.

  What have you become, my darling Jos?

  The air shifted. He sensed another presence at the edge of the small garden. The person waited a few seconds before approaching with heavy steps. Jeric didn’t need to look to know it was Braddok.

  Braddok stopped beside him, quiet, gazing at the statue of Lorath. “Heard you were back,” he said at last, breaking the silence. He sounded a little offended.

  Jeric didn’t reply.

  “Also heard you made a scene before the council.”

  “Hardly.” Jeric sheathed his sword. “As usual, your sources exaggerate.”

  “You dropped a godsdamned shade head in the middle of the rutting table.”

  Jeric glanced up. Braddok’s expression made him grin despite his mood, and he stood. The two clasped shoulders.

  “Might I ask who’s sharing such delicate information with a mere member of the king’s guard?”

  “Delicate, my arse.” Braddok grunted. �
�You pulled that little stunt on purpose.”

  “I’ve missed you, Brad.”

  “Missed you too, Wolf. Things are boring when you’re not around.” Braddok winked.

  Jeric smirked.

  “I also heard you handed back your Stryker ring,” Braddok said, eyeing him.

  Jeric snatched his cloak from where he’d draped it over a stool.

  “Is that even allowed?” Braddok asked.

  “I don’t care.”

  A pause. “Wanna tell me what happened?”

  “No.”

  Braddok watched Jeric shrug into his cloak.

  “So? Where’ve you been?” Jeric asked, changing the subject.

  “At the Barrel,” Braddok said at last, resigned to Jeric’s silence on the matter. He was a good friend in that way. “Like any good king’s guard.”

  Jeric chuckled. “Then you ought to be…” Jeric’s words trailed as he sensed another presence.

  He glanced back. Hagan stood at the garden’s edge.

  “Er, yeah. I’ll be at the Barrel with the pack.” Braddok gave Jeric a knowing glance. “You should join us… when you’re done,” he added with a cursory glance at Hagan.

  “I just may,” Jeric said.

  Braddok gave Hagan a proper salute, crossed the garden, and disappeared through the doors.

  Hagan took a step, as if entering a sparring ring.

  “You left quite an impression today,” Hagan said.

  Hagan’s ability to wrap threats in a package of silver and roses had always impressed Jeric.

  Jeric smiled tightly. “I usually do. I am the pretty one, remember?”

  Hagan stopped before Jeric, his steely grays colder than a winter sky. “Never humiliate me before my council again.”

  Jeric stared straight back. “Don’t pin your failures on me.”

  Hagan took a small step closer, body coiled and tight.

  Jeric rested a hand on the hilt of his sword, never breaking Hagan’s gaze. “Don’t start a game you can’t win, Hagan.”

  Hagan’s nostril’s flared. “Whose side are you on, brother?”

  Why was everyone asking him that question lately?