The Gods of Men

by Barbara Kloss

  Braddok and the rest of Jeric’s pack tried to sneak closer to Astrid, but her shades walled them off.

  Jeric’s eyes opened like shutters, but behind the glass, only darkness shone. He blinked once, and the darkness dissipated, leaving blues behind.

  But they did not see.

  Sable took a hesitant step closer. “Jeric…?”

  He climbed to his feet. His movements were systematic, testing each joint, flexing each muscle. He curled each finger one at a time. He turned his hand over and observed his bloodied palm as if he didn’t understand why it was red.

  “Jeric, answer me,” Sable demanded.

  His head swiveled toward her. His eyes locked and focused. There was nothing familiar in them.

  “You will die, sulaziér,” Jeric said, but it was not his voice. There was no cello, no warmth. It rasped on the edges, charred and malignant.

  And Sable hated it. “Shouldn’t you be dead?” she snarled at the thing inside of him. “How many rutting wards is it going to take to send you back to hell?”

  Jeric’s eyes narrowed. He picked up his sword and took a predatory step toward her.

  Sable took a step back. Glass shards stabbed into her bare feet, but she hardly felt them. “Jeric… It’s weakened! You can fight this!”

  There was no recognition on his face. Nothing at all that made him human.

  In the corner of her eye, she saw Braddok trying to get to them, but he was locked in battle between two Sol Velorian guards and a shade. Astrid’s attention was forced on the Head Inquisitor, who stubbornly held back the roiling tide, though he’d dropped to one knee, palms still raised to the sky. He couldn’t hold the shadows back much longer.

  Jeric prowled toward her with a vicious snarl.

  Sable stepped back but bumped into the wall. “Jos,” she tried another angle, searching his eyes. Searching for him. “Don’t let it win. You are stronger than this! Fight it!”

  His eyes burned with malice, and then he stormed forward and backhanded her.

  She slammed into the tiles with so much force, she skidded back a few paces. She rolled onto her stomach, wincing in pain, knowing at least two of her ribs had broken. She forced herself upon all fours just as Jeric grabbed her shirt and yanked her up, so that her feet dangled above the tiles.

  “Jeric…” Sable clawed at his hands, choking on her breath. “Stop!”

  He laughed. It was a cruel sound, strangled and corrupt, and then he shoved her back.

  Sable went flying through the air until she slammed into the throne and bounced down the steps. Her spine popped, her ribs screamed, and she yelled as she tried to shove herself up, but her arms gave out and she collapsed.

  She heard him approach, step by slow step. She gripped the steps, trying to breathe—trying to hoist herself to her knees, when something glowed at her feet. Her flute.

  You must come back, Imari. They need you.

  Sable blinked, and suddenly she saw the desert. Dunes gleamed gold, and a hot, angry wind kicked at the sand.

  It was the scene from her dreams.

  The sky bruised with terrifying clouds, blotting out the sun and casting the dunes in darkness. Rain fell in a torrent; lightning flashed.

  This was the point when Sable had always awoken, when the voice would speak her name. But the voice did not speak, and the scene did not end.

  This time, the sun burst through clouds like great burning arms, splitting the sky apart with its light, its fire. The clouds fled in fear, racing to the horizon until they were nowhere to be seen, leaving only light.

  And then Sable saw the palace in Trier. She saw herself, as a little girl, standing upon the rooftops, face tilted toward the brilliant sun, arms opened to the sky. Waiting to be embraced and accepted.

  Waiting to be forgiven.

  Finally, Sable understood. She realized why her power had overwhelmed her, time and time again. Because it had never been meant for Sable.

  It was meant for Imari.

  It was meant for the girl who’d been born to the desert, the girl who’d climbed the palace rooftops, the girl who was wild and daring but also kind. It was meant for the girl who’d held her head high, who didn’t live in fear—the girl Sable had rejected and scorned, because it’d been easier to hide from what she’d done than it was to stand and face it.

  I am with you.

  Sable did not know for certain whom the voice belonged to, but now she had an idea. She picked up the flute.

  “You really believe you can defeat me?” Jeric sneered. “You? A skinny, pathetic, weak little girl?” His eyes flashed. “A murderer?”

  Do not fear…

  Sable shut her eyes and raised the flute to her lips. Imari turned her face toward her, watching from the rooftops.

  Sable arranged her fingertips, trying to find the right holes. Imari remembered.

  “For you, Sorai, my little desert bloom,” Sable whispered. A tear leaked over her cheek.

  “For you, Sorai, mi á drala,” Imari echoed.

  Sable breathed deep. Imari filled her lungs.

  Sable exhaled, pouring every ounce of herself into the flute, letting her spirit fly away to the stars. Free.

  And Imari played.

  “Stop.” Jeric took a step. His voice had lost its jeering.

  The notes wrapped around her, through her, filling her with hope, with light. It chased away her pain, her regret and sorrow. She was all of the things she had done, but she was also none of those things.

  They were her past; she’d allowed them to rule her present; they would not control her future.

  “I said STOP!”

  The melody lifted her up, carried her above. Weightless.

  And Imari touched the sky.

  The notes stitched her together, past to present, and a great calm washed over her. Every breath reached deeper than her last, each note richer, full of color and life. The notes wove through the night, touching the moon and stars before soaring back to the hall, now strengthened by the power that existed beyond herself—beyond everything.

  The very same power that had spoken to her in her dreams.

  And then she heard a new melody, one that mixed with her own. Every beating heart, every inhale and exhale. A patter of drums, the whispers of breath, the shrill of spirits. The hall was a symphony, pulsing and crescendoing with the sounds of humanity, tainted by evil—she heard each and every one.

  The shadows shrieked, unable to bear her music. But then the symphony changed, and where her ears had heard only shrieking, her soul heard voice.

  They were crying out to her—every spirit Astrid had stolen with her power. They writhed in agony, trapped in this world, a place where they should not be, tethered to her with strange black fire.

  They wanted help. And Imari would help them.

  Her music soothed their agony like a salve, and her notes fell like rain upon their chains of fire. The chains sizzled and charred, but still they held firm.

  Astrid commanded the guards to shoot, but they did not. Could not. Imari held them all wrapped in the fabric of her music. The room was her tapestry, woven in threads of a song she composed.

  And the music grew louder.

  The walls shook with it, amplifying her notes like an echo chamber, and the floor quaked. Bits of plaster cracked from the walls and ceiling, falling to the floor. Finally, the spirits’ chains disintegrated. One by one, Imari’s notes touched them and set them free. Shadow become light; agony became peace. Each point of light morphed into a tranquil face just seconds before fading away.

  Rasmin crumpled. Still, Imari did not stop playing.

  Jeric collapsed before her. He writhed on the ground, and the chakran leaked from his mouth like ink, leaving Jeric motionless upon the tiles.

  This spirit was not like the others—this chakran, Azir. It did not agonize; it didn’t cry out for her. It yearned for this world, and she felt its anger like a forge. It reached for her, but the glyphs on her flute flared bright. Light s
liced shadow, and the darkness screamed. It writhed and it wailed—the cry of a thousand dissonant strings. It shriveled in the light, trying to hide with nowhere to go, unable to escape the melodic chains of light Imari’s flute wove tightly around it. With a final burst of power, it broke free and plunged into Hagan’s body.

  But Hagan’s body had succumbed to shade poison. He jumped upon all fours, snarling with madness, shaking his head as if he could shake out the thing now invading his poisoned body. He yipped and he screamed, clawing at himself, and in a galloping motion, he ran at the veranda doors and jumped over the railing. The other shades followed him.

  A second later, Hagan’s screaming fell silent.

  Astrid yelled in fury, fists pressed to her ears. More shapes melted from her body, and with each shape that fell, Astrid appeared more gaunt and frail. Imari caught each shape with her notes, punctured them with light, burned their chains, and set them free.

  With a defeated roar, a thick shadow ripped itself from Astrid’s body and rushed Imari in a twist of smoke. But in Imari’s light, the smoke caught fire. It was a dried herb scorched in flame, edges charred and curling, until it was no more than a wisp of ash, drifting to the tiles.

  Well done.

  Imari ended her note, the light faded to a dim glow, and she collapsed.

  42

  Jeric stood before the door to Astrid’s prison, gazing through the bars at his sister. Or what remained of her.

  The princess sat upon a pallet the guards had laid out for her, her back erect, legs folded, and fingertips draped over her knees. They’d covered her in a simple Corinthian blue robe, but Jeric couldn’t shake the memory of her naked body, flesh gaunt and pale and covered in glyphs, as shapes slithered beneath her skin. They did not slither now, but the image had seared into his mind forever.

  Astrid’s pale eyes stared at the wall, unseeing. She was a form without life, a face without expression, and where there had once been fire in her eyes, now there was nothing. By all accounts, the woman who had been his sister was no longer there.

  “Leave us,” Jeric instructed the guards.

  There were ten stationed before her door and five more at the end of the hall. The door itself was warded—an artifact of another time pulled from the now crumbled inquisition chambers, though it had miraculously survived. Jeric didn’t know if it would be enough, but it would have to suffice. At least until he decided what to do with her.

  The guards bowed and stepped away to give him privacy but waited at the end of the hall with the others, close enough to intercede should their new king meet any trouble.

  King.

  He could hardly believe the mantle he’d been given. It had always been a possibility—one he’d trained for all his life. He just hadn’t really expected it to happen, or so soon. Least of all, the way it’d transpired.

  For generations, the Five Provinces had feared Angevin blood. Now he was all that remained. He and Astrid’s empty shell.

  Jeric pressed his lips together. “Astrid.”

  Nothing. No blink, no breath. No flicker of recognition. She sat like one of the statues in Aryn’s temple—a temple that no longer stood.

  “Astrid, talk to me,” he pressed.

  She did not. Would not or could not, Jeric couldn’t tell. He didn’t know if she was buried deep inside, or if she still possessed power as a necromancer, and he couldn’t ask the one who might know—the Head Inquisitor. Rasmin had flown away that night, and no one had seen him since. Jeric still searched the sky, but he never spied an owl.

  Jeric flexed his hands around the bars and leaned in close. “Let me help you, Astrid. You don’t have to hide anymore.”

  Nothing.

  And then her head swiveled toward him. The emptiness in her eyes sent a shiver down Jeric’s spine, but she didn’t need his fear. She needed his strength if she were to come back.

  “Hagan is gone,” Jeric continued. “He can’t hurt you anymore. I’m sorry I didn’t know. That I wasn’t there for you. But I swear to the gods, Astrid… I won’t let anyone hurt you again. Please. Talk to me.”

  Her head cocked to the side. She blinked once. And then, she stood.

  Jeric watched, wary.

  She took slow steps toward him, those vacant eyes never leaving his, and she stopped an arm’s length away, as if unwilling—or unable—to draw any closer to the door. Up close, the emptiness in her eyes chilled him to the core, because it wasn’t human. Jeric didn’t know what it was. Where she was. He reminded himself that the door was warded, and that Imari had ripped the legion from Astrid’s body, leaving her severely weakened.

  Or so he hoped.

  Astrid lunged. Too fast, her fingers caught his, trapping him against the bars. Her nails dug into his flesh, and she hissed, her face contorted with madness and evil.

  Jeric bared his teeth, straining to pull his hands free, but she was too strong.

  Behind him, guards shouted and sprinted. And then she let go. She tipped back her head and laughed. It was a wicked sound, maniacal and crazed.

  The guards reached the door, placing a barrier of skal and steel between Jeric and his sister.

  Astrid looked absently at her fingernails, now pocked with flecks of Jeric’s skin and blood, then she licked them clean. Without another glance in Jeric’s direction, she returned to her pallet and sat down in the same position. Statuesque. Vacant.

  Jeric gazed down at his hands, marked by little red crescents, and breathed deeply.

  “Wolf!” called a gruff and very welcome voice behind him.

  Braddok jogged down the hall with purpose, but that purpose waned as he took in the guards crowded before Astrid’s door. “Everything okay down here?”

  Jeric lowered his hands, hiding Astrid’s claw marks. “For now.”

  “Good.” Braddok met Jeric’s gaze and nodded once. “She’s awake.”

  Jeric froze.

  Braddok grinned. “She’s still a little hazy, but she seems all right. Remembered my name. Asked a ton of questions. I was planning to let you explain everything, but she’s as godsdamned persistent as you—”

  Jeric brushed past him.

  Behind him, Braddok grumbled.

  Jeric strode down the corridor, bounded up the stairs two at a time, and ran out of the dungeons. Braddok hurried after him, ducking around guards and servants, trying to keep pace with Jeric.

  “Have you told him?” Jeric asked over his shoulder.

  “No, I went to find you first.”

  “Get him,” Jeric said.

  “Sure you don’t want me to wait a bit? Give you two some privacy?” Braddok asked with a prominent smirk.

  “She is the surina of Istraa,” Jeric said lowly, and with more than a little bit of irritation. “Not some godsdamned courtier.”

  “Yes.” Braddok snorted. “Trust me. I’m more surprised than anyone that she ended up in your bed.”

  Jeric stopped so suddenly that Braddok almost bumped into him.

  At the dark look on Jeric’s face, Braddok held up placating hands. “All right, all right! I’m going. Can’t promise I won’t take a detour.” He winked and retreated down the hall.

  Jeric watched him go. Maybe he shouldn’t have moved Imari to his private chambers. He’d wanted her there because it was the safest place in Skyhold, and he’d moved to his father’s chambers, but rumors were dangerous things. Jeric sighed, turned down the hall to his chambers, and stopped at the door.

  He took a deep breath, stepped inside, and closed the door behind him.

  Imari watched the large and crackling fire, burning in the enormous hearth. It brought warmth to Jeric’s chambers, where, according to Braddok, she’d been sleeping for the past two weeks.

  Two weeks!

  By the wards, she needed to stop making a habit out of unconsciousness.

  Braddok explained a little of what’d transpired after she’d collapsed. He hadn’t intended to, but Imari had assaulted him with questions, and as it turned out, Jer
ic’s boulder of a friend had a heart soft as pastry dough.

  And also, he was grateful that she’d saved his friend when he could not.

  She learned that Hagan had jumped to his death over the veranda. The other shades had made it a little farther, bounding to the drawbridge and leaping into the canyon, where they had drowned in the river below. After a good amount of fighting, Jeric’s pack and those loyal to Corinth had eventually subdued and captured Astrid’s Sol Velorian soldiers. Astrid had been placed in a dungeon, as well as her followers, and they were all awaiting judgment from Jeric—who was now Corinth’s king.

  Imari didn’t know how to feel about that.

  Braddok promptly left to fetch Jeric, and so Imari forced herself to get up. It wasn’t as easy as she’d anticipated. She slipped her feet from the bed onto the rug and wiggled her toes. Her power slept, though she felt it deep within, burning like the embers in the hearth, ready to rise, should she need it, but contained. A power she no longer feared.

  She didn’t know what to do with it, or how best to use it, but she didn’t need to hide from it anymore. And maybe now it would lend her body strength where her muscles failed. So, she stood.

  Her knees gave out; she cursed and grabbed the bedpost for support.

  Apparently, it wasn’t that sort of power.

  “Come on,” she growled at herself, using the post to steady herself. “Walk.”

  A robe had been left for her on the bed. It was a deep Corinthian blue, made of fine silk and lined with fur, and she slipped it on over her nightdress. Two of her ribs screamed when she raised her arms, but she charged on, using pain to fuel her body and wake it up. The fur slid over her skin, wrapping her in comfort, and so she pulled it closer, reveling in the sheer luxury of it. It’d been a long time since she’d worn anything half so extravagant.

  Eventually, her legs cooperated with her all the way to the window, where she stood, gazing at the world beyond. The sky was winter gray, and a sharp wind rattled her window, trying to get inside. From here, she could see Skyhold’s sprawling city, its impressive walls and high gables, all of them dusted with snow. Beyond that, the feet of the Gray’s Teeth Mountains were visible, jagged teeth obscured by clouds, like some sleeping monster.