The Gods of Men

by Barbara Kloss

  But by the wards, it smelled awful.

  Soft earth gave way to wet earth, and before long, she was ankle deep in sludge and waste. She found that if she kept to the perimeter, the waste was shallower, though it still leaked into Braddok’s boots. She tried not to think about it, and she was glad she didn’t have any open wounds on her feet.

  The symbols were a constant guide, leading her down the tunnel, deeper in rock, and they kept her from turning down the dozens of tunnels that branched from the one she walked—a couple of which smelled inviting. Still, she heeded Braddok’s warning, and she did not veer.

  Water droplets plunk-plunk-plunked in the distance. Somewhere, a rat screeched, and something skittered past, but Sable walked steadily on. She wondered which part of the city lay above her, and then she thought of the Wolf. Not once—in three weeks—had he come to see her after leaving her with his monster of a brother, and now he was letting her go. Why? She wondered if she’d ever get the opportunity to ask him. She wanted to ask him.

  She wanted to ask him a lot of things.

  A noise from up ahead stopped her in her tracks. She held the lantern forward, eyes strained on the shadows ahead, but she couldn’t see anything. In both directions, the tunnel vanished in darkness.

  Water dripped in the distance.

  Then…

  Silence.

  Braddok hadn’t said a word about people dwelling in the sewers, but plenty of people had lived in Trier’s sewers, though her papa had stationed guards to keep them out.

  She pulled the Wolf’s dagger free of its sheath, thankful he’d given it, and took a slow step, then another.

  Hello, little sulaziér.

  Sable spun around.

  And Ventus smiled.

  “Man walks a road that seems right to him, but only death awaits him.”

  Excerpt from Il Tonté, As recorded in the Seventh Verse by Juvia, the Liagé First High Sceptor.

  38

  Rasmin stood before the altar, gazing upon the great statue of Aryn. Hagan had been publicly declared king. Rasmin himself had placed the crown upon his head.

  “Is there anything else, Head Inquisitor?”

  Vysryn was the only inquisitor who remained. The rest had returned to their private chambers beneath the temple.

  “That will be all this evening,” Rasmin said, gazing only at the statue.

  He felt Vysryn depart, followed by a distant click as the heavy door to the Temple’s underbelly closed.

  And then Rasmin sighed.

  Too late. He was too late. Perhaps, as he had so often worried, he’d distanced himself so far outside of the Maker’s good graces that his prayers would forever go unheard.

  Perhaps he’d doomed the woman to death instead.

  He pressed his palm to the ivory. It was so cold, so hard and unforgiving, like the gods they represented—gods of a kingdom he’d served for three generations, searching for her.

  And he had failed her.

  Rasmin closed his eyes, and then he felt it. A subtle shift, a shudder to the air. It touched him like water rippling out from a source, and he smelled a faint metallic tinge.

  The Shah.

  He opened his eyes, lowered his hand, and scanned the hall behind him. A few hours ago, this hall had been filled with people from all over Corinth, gathered to witness Hagan’s coronation. Now, shadows were the only guests, teasing and taunting as they danced upon the columns, the statues, obscuring the depths of the great dome above. Rasmin placed a hand on his waist, where he kept a nightglass dagger hidden within his robes.

  Some habits were impossible to break.

  “Rasyamin.”

  Rasmin froze.

  It was a voice he’d not heard in a very long time, and a name he had not been called in even longer. He looked to the sound as a figure melted from the shadows. The figure wore all black, his face whiter than death, and his black eyes shone with triumph.

  It was a face Rasmin knew well, for he had created it. A very long time ago.

  “Time has not been kind to you,” Ventus said, smiling cruelly.

  Rasmin’s eyes narrowed. “How long have you been here?”

  Ventus’s eyes glittered, and he took a step closer, admiring the statue of Sela—goddess of the harvest—beside him. “I had always wondered how you’d survived, Rasya. If you’d survived. I didn’t think it possible, but now…” He looked back at Rasmin with condemnation. “I understand.”

  These were not Ventus’s words. This was not Ventus’s way. It wasn’t Ventus’s nickname for him. That nickname had been designed by another…

  A dozen pieces clicked into place.

  The tree. The chakran.

  The necromancer.

  “Azir.” The word fell out of Rasmin’s lips as a whisper.

  It was Azir’s smile, cruel and arrogant and darkly amused, on another man’s face.

  “Fitting, isn’t it?” Azir said with Ventus’s voice. “That I should come back and possess the body of the Liagé you created. It’s almost as though you created it for me, in anticipation of this day. My Day of Reckoning. You always had a keen mind for understanding the prophecies, my brilliant Rasya.”

  Each word was barbed, like weeds, digging deeper, wrapping tight and strangling.

  “And you always had a way of understanding them in whichever way suited your interests,” Rasmin replied.

  Azir’s eyes flashed. He took a step and opened his hands. Rasmin noticed fresh ink markings upon his palms and around his fingers. “And what are you doing here, Rasya? Suiting Corinth’s interest? For you’re certainly not suiting the interests of our people.”

  Rasmin’s expression tightened. “The interests of our people? You led tens of thousands of us to our deaths, laid waste to our homeland, and you accuse me of not suiting the interests of our people?”

  “And I have paid for those mistakes,” Azir hissed darkly. “For one hundred and forty-two years I have paid, shackled between worlds. You should know, Rasya. You’re the one who orchestrated it.”

  “And I would do it again.”

  “You would fail.” Azir took a step. “Thanks to your alta-Liagé”—he gestured at his hideous form—“I now have a power I did not possess before.”

  Rasmin watched him.

  “It’s a funny thing, your blasphemous creations.” He said the words in mockery, as those in the past had called it when Rasmin had first displayed his creations to the people: the alta-Liagé. The ones Rasmin had made when the Maker had not provided enough.

  “So many loathed you for this,” Azir continued. “That you could take something so pure—given us by the Maker—and manufacture it to serve us. They would never be true Liagé, they said, and as it turns out, they were right. For I would never be able to break the Shah’s bounds in my old body, but this…” He stroked his robes, admiring himself. “This does not follow natural law. This body can bend and manipulate it in ways I never could’ve dreamed.” Azir looked back at Rasmin, eyes like an abyss. “I suppose I should thank you.”

  The air shuddered; the candles flickered. Shadows danced upon Azir’s face, and for the first time in a very long time, Rasmin felt a prickling of fear.

  “What do you plan to do?” Rasmin asked lowly. “Remind the Provinces why they should fear us? Slaughter those who stand against you until there is no one left but the Sol Velorians?”

  Azir did not look away. “The Provinces should fear us, and they will pay for what they’ve done to our people. You will pay for your hand in it as well, but I am not the Maker. Only He can decide your judgment.”

  It struck Rasmin, then, that none of his inquisitors had come to check on him.

  “How did you get inside the temple, Azra?” Rasmin asked, using the old name for Azir. The one he, and all of Azir’s inner circle, had called him. The one that meant Redeemer. Perhaps Rasmin should’ve asked him this question first.

  Perhaps he should have done a lot of things.

  Azir’s smile sent a tin
gling at the base of his neck.

  Rasmin’s fingers twitched with old memories. He no longer wore the ink on conspicuous places, and he didn’t know if what he wore beneath his robes would be enough. It’d been a very long time since he’d maximized their potential, and even then, Azir had been the most skilled Saredii—guardian—of their time. That was before he’d harnessed the power of the thing he now possessed.

  “And now, you will die with your Corinthian gods,” Azir said, then crouched low, placing both palms flat against the polished black tiles. And the great Temple of Aryn shook.

  Rasmin stumbled, catching himself upon the altar. Azir chanted, eyes rolled back showing only whites and teeth clenched with strain. The tile split beneath his hands, cracks branching outward, ripping through floor, climbing columns and statues like ravenous vines.

  “Azir!” Rasmin shouted, stumbling his way forward. Chunks of ceiling crashed to the floor and exploded beside him. “Stop! You’ll destroy us both!”

  But Azir did not stop; his chants filled the spaces, ripping the very fabric of the temple apart. Lorath’s stone sword fell, and Rasmin dodged as it exploded on the place he had been standing. It caught his ankle, and he yelled, trying to pull himself free. He couldn’t change forms thus bound. Beside him, Aryn’s marble head cracked and slid from its body, smashed through the altar, and with a final, violent rumble, the ceiling came crashing down.

  Jeric glanced across the great hall and met Braddok’s gaze.

  It was done.

  He felt a tightening in his chest where relief should have been.

  Braddok found his place at a table beside the rest of Jeric’s pack. Men with whom he’d fought and laughed. Men who shared his purpose—to rid the world of the accursed, of those who would try to destroy them.

  Of those like Sable—like Imari. But Imari had not been like them. She’d spent her life helping others. Not destroying. He had done that.

  “Your grace?” Jarl Stovich asked beside him, impatient for a response.

  Jeric thumbed his mug of akavit. Astrid had requested their best brew this evening, overseeing its preparation in honor of Hagan’s coronation. To show the jarls that Corinth would prosper as it never had beneath the heavy chains their father had wrapped around its heels.

  Jeric picked up the mug and downed a sip, feeling it burn on the way down. “You’ll have to discuss matters of betrothals with my brother,” Jeric said, setting the mug back on the table. “He wears the crown, if you hadn’t noticed.”

  “Yes, but you keep it shining. Everyone knows that. He is many things, but he’s no fool. He listens to you.”

  Jeric drummed his fingers upon his glass, absently eyeing the crowd against a backdrop of chatter and lute music.

  Music made him think of her.

  “It’s not a bargain you should refuse,” Jarl Stovich continued. “I have one thousand men. Good fighters, all of them. Loyal to me. And you need them if you expect to secure Corinth and find this legion.”

  “You’ve been given an entire hold, Stovich,” Jeric remarked dryly. “That should be payment enough for one thousand men, and you’ve failed to secure that.”

  He hated banquets. The posturing and subterfuge. Gods, it was all so rutting predictable. He downed another drink.

  “You know it’s not so simple,” Stovich said with bitter bite. “My men had no heart for your father, and they’ve even less for him.” He jerked a chin at the new king.

  “Careful, Stovich.” Jeric flashed his teeth. “He is king now.”

  Stovich stared straight back. “And you know as well as I that title doesn’t birth affection.”

  “Perhaps their leader should persuade them otherwise,” Jeric said darkly.

  “Perhaps their king should give them reason to.” Stovich eyed the Wolf Prince and leaned closer. “Show them that when our people are murdered, you won’t wait for it to happen again before you come to their aid. That you’ll work tirelessly to catch the one behind it and bring him to justice. Show them that you won’t let them freeze and starve when the winter is deep and the days are short.”

  All of these things, Jeric’s father had allowed over the years of his reign, with this legion being their most recent affliction. All of these things, Hagan would now face, for all rulers carried with them the failings of their predecessors. They either rose above it, or the weight of it buried them deep. Jeric honestly didn’t know which of these Hagan would be. Hagan wasn’t strong—this was where Jeric had always come into play—but he was cunning. Would that be enough?

  Would Jeric help Hagan be enough?

  “I am offering you Kyrinne,” Stovich continued. “There isn’t a man in all of Corinth who won’t envy you. She’ll give you strong sons.” Stovich nodded in the direction of his oldest daughter, the Lady Kyrinne Brion, beloved jewel of Stovichshold.

  Jarl Stovich had always wanted a closer position to the crown. He loved his daughter too much to fate her to a life with Hagan, but he loved power too much to avoid the crown completely. Hence his proposition to Jeric.

  Lady Kyrinne sat at a table with other eligible daughters of Corinth—all of whom had been proposed to King Tommad as options for the two princes. Sensing their attention, Lady Kyrinne glanced over. She smiled at Jeric, as she so often did. She’d always given Jeric special attention, which he’d encouraged on more than one occasion. A few of the ladies beside her glanced over, then whispered and smiled together behind hands. No one could deny that Lady Kyrinne was beautiful, with her long, honey-colored hair, bright blue eyes, and enticing figure. A figure so full and voluptuous because it had never wanted. Hair long and shining because it had never starved. Eyes bright because they had never known horror or hardship.

  She was, Jeric thought, like the jewels in Hagan’s crown. Glittering and beautiful, fawned over and coveted.

  Empty.

  He didn’t want a jewel. He wanted a sword. He wanted an equal.

  He took another swig just as someone clanged a glass. Jeric, and the rest of the room, looked toward the sound. To Jeric’s surprise, Astrid stood, glass in hand, smiling at the crowd and their brother.

  “A toast!” Her voice rang out clear and true.

  People grabbed their glasses, all eyes intent on the princess of Corinth. The musician sat back, resting his lute upon his knee. Braddok snagged Jeric’s gaze and shrugged as both men looked to the Angevin princess. She rarely spoke up like this, but it was a rare occasion.

  “To my brother, Hagan,” she continued, looking from Hagan to the crowd. “I won’t deny that the past few years have been somewhat… tumultuous with our neighbors, friendly though they are.”

  This earned her a few chuckles.

  “We move forward into uncertain times,” she continued to the room. “Corinth is fractured. Even now, many of you sit beside the very men and women you’ve conspired against, but celebrations bring out the best in us.” She smiled, all teeth. “Or perhaps that’s just the akavit.”

  A few less laughs this time. Some bristled.

  Jeric watched her. Astrid knew better than to poke a sleeping bear.

  “But,” Astrid continued, “I believe we can come together. I believe Corinth can be the power it once was. A power that actually held weight in this world. One that made the people tremble, and one that”—she looked at each and every face— “had dominion over all others.”

  The room listened, intrigued.

  Jeric sat forward with gnawing concern.

  Astrid looked to Hagan, whose expression boasted with pride and affection.

  “To His Majesty, King Hagan,” Astrid continued, gaze steady on Hagan. “May the gods guide you as you lead the good people of Corinth through the times ahead. That they would grant you wisdom so that you may be the leader they all deserve. And that by the gods, may you claim the victory you deserve.”

  Hagan’s smile stretched and adored. The people cheered, toasted and drank.

  Jeric did not.

  He studied his siste
r, running her words over and over in his mind, for they would not settle. Like sand, they slipped through his fingers, piling on the ground to bury truth beneath them.

  “For this special day,” Astrid continued, “I have a gift for you, brother, and if you’ll allow it, I’d like the guards to bring it here for all to see.”

  Hagan sat forward, his interest piqued. “What is it?”

  “It’s a surprise. One—I might add—I went to great personal risk in finding, but… worthy for this Corinthian king.”

  “Please,” Hagan said, swollen with ego. He was always one for grand displays. “By all means.”

  Jeric glanced at Braddok, who, like the others, only regarded the exchange with intrigue. And why shouldn’t they? Why shouldn’t a sister dote upon her brother at his coronation?

  Astrid bowed, all grace and humility, then clapped her hands once. The sound cut through the silence, the doors to the hall opened, and Corinthian guards marched in. Jeric counted ten, carrying a long platform between them, its weight shared upon their shoulders. Atop the platform was a large and shining black crate made of skal, designed in solid black sheets, so that whatever lay inside couldn’t see the world beyond.

  Or, so that the world beyond could not see the thing within.

  His skin tingled with warning, and Jeric chided himself. This was Astrid. The woman spent more time at the temple than the inquisitors.

  In perfect unison, the guards heaved the platform upon the floor, before Hagan’s table. The guards stood back at attention, clicked heels together, and saluted their new Corinthian King.

  “You have been busy,” Hagan said to Astrid, sitting forward as he admired the skal crate.

  She clasped her hands together again, and the front wall of the crate fell open.

  Jeric froze.

  Silvery markings decorated the inside of the door—markings like the ones on Skanden’s wards and on the bridge at Kerr’s Summit. The old Liagé language.

  A form melted from the shadows within, then another, stepping onto the warded skal ramp and into the light.