by Liv Savell
Now they were gone or locked in mortal bodies, and he was restoring the human’s faith in the Old Ways. He would right all the wrongs. He would rebuild the world, mold it into the shape it should have always been.
A shadow overhead drew Mascen’s gaze, and the ants below scuttled for cover. Then Bledig and Eifion landed in his courtyard.
“Brothers,” he murmured in greeting, remaining on his perch high above all else.
⇝
Eifion shuddered, stiff and twitching as his temporary wings rejoined the greater mass of his body. Above him, Mascen and the world around him were grey, too high for his brother’s writhing tattoos to have any effect on his form, still altered by the nearness of Bledig. Even as he watched, his eyes shifted again, painting Mascen in his familiar red.
“It has been too long, Mascen,” the Changeling God said in his strange, collage voice.
Bledig, as always, was blunt. “How did you free yourself, brother?”
Mascen shook his head, smiling and yet unhappy. “You did not feel our parents return? You did not witness the echoes of their journey?” He didn’t seem surprised. After all, Mascen was the strongest of the God-offspring. “I knew they were back, and I remembered the wrongs they had done to me. It was simple enough, breaking the wards around my prison, but enough about me.”
He gestured elegantly around the courtyard. His fingers ended in long-tipped claws that clicked against the stone rail he strangled.
“What are you doing here, brothers?” His black eyes glinted in the winter sunlight. Cunning. Challenging. Dangerous.
Eifion’s eyes shifted again, slit pupils turning the heat of Mascen’s body into a light so intense as to be painful. He looked away, blinking.
He had known that his father, Va'al, walked Illygad again for some time. And lately, Maoz had been a distant thread as well, but then neither did he wish to correct the First Child. He swallowed uneasily, but when his vision again changed, he turned his eyes back towards Mascen.
“Once, we were close,” Eifion murmured. “I only wish to welcome you.”
“And, perhaps, to see what this destruction has been for.” Bledig had let a thin current of anger taint his gravelly voice, and Eifion tensed. Did he know who he was provoking?
A knowing smile curved Mascen’s lips, and in one swift movement, he vaulted over the railing and dropped to the courtyard floor. Despite his massive size and the considerable height of the fall, he landed silently, without causing the ground to split as his mother might have done. He could be stealthy when he wanted to be.
“Don’t worry, Bledig. The plants will regrow, and our mother certainly understands why I have—ahh—what’s the term humans use?—Razed this land.” When Bledig’s expression didn’t change, Mascen’s brow pinched, and he strode forward. “Destruction creates rebirth, does it not? A storm may knock over a tree or two but waters the earth as well. Of course, I’ve done a little more than a mere storm, but the idea is much the same. I am creating Rhosan as it should have been. Ask our mother, the birthing process is painful. The lands will recover.”
“The lands play no part in your feud,” the Lost God growled, standing firm despite Mascen’s approach. They were of nearly the same size, though Bledig was nowhere near the First Child’s power.
Eifion thought his protests ill-advised. After all, the land constantly changed. It would heal and face destruction a thousand thousand times.
As for the humans… Eifion had thought them too set in their ways for some time. Change would be welcome.
Something feral rippled across Mascen’s face as he stopped, mere feet away from his brothers. “So you have chosen, then: our mother—” His eyes flickered to Eifion as well. “And our father. They who turned away from their child and cursed him to a mere rock in the middle of Iluka’s turbulent seas?” He was turning skull-white, the black and red of his tattoos standing out in stark contrast against his skin. His hair looked like blood.
How quickly he could pass from gloating to rage. How quickly the storm could shift, turning to wipe out another hapless village in its path.
“No, Mascen,” Eifion said immediately, but Bledig cut him off.
“What do I care of your quarrel? Did I not still speak with you even after you were banished? But is this—” he gestured behind him, “really the way to go about fixing things, brother?”
The God of destruction bared his teeth, his hands clenched and his eyes black pits. But slowly, so very slowly, he unfurled his fingers and straightened up. “You are right, brother. This doesn’t fix things…” Mascen stepped forward to clap Bledig on the shoulder, his temper having disappeared.
Eifion watched as Bledig smiled, happy with Mascen’s decision, while he backed away, the current of change visible to him no matter the contour of his eyes. The smell of sulfur was becoming ever more potent, and his eyes watered from the fumes.
“But it’s a good start.” Snake-quick, Mascen grabbed Bledig’s wing at the base and yanked. The sound was like fabric tearing or rock grinding but wet with the splatter of black blood. Mascen laughed, dropping the wing as if it were nothing more than a stray tree branch he had trimmed. Licking his fingertips, he turned to Eifion, completely ignoring the twitching, screaming Bledig at their feet.
“I think it is time you go, brother.”
Eifion gripped Bledig even as he shoved wings from his back once more, lifting them both up and away from the madness hidden behind the stone and wood buildings of Caerthleon.
Chapter XIV
Tenth Moon, Waning Gibbous: Central Thloegr
Meirin’s feet ached, and her heart hammered an unsteady tattoo against her ribs, pleading for a let-up. Her breaths were coming in sharply, and her lungs burned but, still, they pushed on. Trying to put as much distance between themselves and whoever—whatever that thing had been. It frightened Enyo and Maoz, and so it frightened her.
Meirin couldn’t speak even if she had wanted to, her words eaten up by the need to gasp for air, but Etienne was flagging behind, and the clanswoman slowed her pace as well. They had been running for over an hour, and while it seemed that Delyth could go on forever, the mage could not. Nor could she.
Slowing to a hazardous walk, Meirin clapped Etienne on the shoulder. He was wheezing. “Don’t. Stop. Moving,” she panted. “You’ll. Cramp.” And then Meirin called croakily ahead. “Delyth!”
The warrior looked over her shoulder, and when she saw Etienne struggling, she slowed too.
“We’ve run enough.” Meirin swallowed, striding down the road determinedly. She must keep moving or pay the price. Even if her legs did want to collapse and her mind was reeling with all that had happened. “We should set camp soon—Then make way for Mynydd Gwyllt. We have to warn the others.”
✶
Delyth rounded on her, still dripping blood slowly from rents in her wings. It sprayed across the ground in a gruesome fan that fascinated Etienne’s tired mind for a long moment. “You want us to turn and run back to your clan?” the warrior demanded. “We were so close! Do the Mynydd Gwyllt all give up so easily?”
Etienne gripped his staff, too tired to do much more than continue moving his legs. “What we need now is to rest,” he said, angry that the two warriors would argue like this when it was evident that they were all too tired to think clearly.
“Give up?” Meirin retorted. “We need to warn them! If there are creatures like that, roaming our lands—You saw what it did to Enyo, your Goddess! It had her on her knees in a matter of seconds! The woman who nearly single handedly took down my entire clan, brought to her knees by some—some man?! Where is your loyalty?! Should you not go back and warn your people?!”
“My loyalty?” Delyth’s voice was incredulous, her face contorted with anger. “We have a goal. Do you think that Enyo and Maoz are any less dangerous because this Mascen attacked them? Besides, he was hardly interested in us! Not to mention, with the Gods weakened, we have our best chance yet of defeating them!”
“Maybe the Old Gods aren’t what we should be worried about anymore.” Etienne was beyond tired, but the image of the untouchable lava God was too fresh in his mind to ignore.
Delyth rounded on him too. “So you want to abandon Alphonse? A second time?”
That halted Etienne. He wasn’t giving up. He couldn’t. Alphonse would never have given up on him. Still, a nagging part of him worried about that injury. Even if they managed to free Alphonse from Enyo, what would that do to his friend?
“What do you think warning them will even do?” Delyth demanded, turning to Meirin again. “Your people couldn’t even stop Enyo. What do you think they could possibly do against Mascen?”
“I don’t know! But I do know that being blindsided is by far worse than trying to find a solution!—And I could say the same of you! Mascen is out for Enyo and whoever Tristan is to him. Why in all the realms would we chase after that mess?! It’s not as if we can interfere! It seems to me that Mascen wants Enyo and Tristan dead—Are you suggesting we will be able to stop him and free your lover?” Her tone was harsh, her cheeks reddening as fatigue whittled away her patience. “You heard Enyo. She’s dead. Alphonse is dead, and need to—to try and save our people from the same fate. I have family in Mynydd Gwyllt. I have friends too. I don’t want them to die at the hands of that—that monster.”
“Of course, Enyo said Alphonse is dead. She wanted to hurt me, to get vengeance for Thlonandras. You just don’t understand how any of this works. We stood in front of Enyo with you flinging insults at her with no repercussion until I mentioned the mountain. She insulted me by calling me beautiful. Alphonse is still in there, still fighting, and I refuse to let her fight alone. If you want to go, then go. Etienne and I will free Gethin without you.”
Etienne had been standing in silence, but at this last remark, he looked up again. “Look, we’re all tired. Let’s not make any rash decisions.”
༄
The rain had dissipated, leaving the ground soggy and the winds cold. There was a little clearing to the side of the road up ahead, a regular camping spot for travelers. Delyth stretched. She hurt more than she was willing to admit
“Fine. Let’s stop there and clean up.” Meirin finally relented, her voice sharp, strained. Delyth just shouldered past her to find firewood.
A short time later, Etienne managed to get a fire going despite the damp wood, a testament to his new blood magic. Meirin suggested she look at Delyth’s wounds.
Delyth was not sure she wanted to let the clanswoman, especially after their earlier argument, but eventually, practicality won the day. She opened her right wing for inspection. Long scratches marred the thick leather panels where she had struck and slid along the ground. Many of them were deep and oozing, and in a few small places, had been punctured entirely.
It felt strange, letting someone who was not Alphonse see to her wounds. Which was silly, Delyth supposed, seeing as how the menders at Glynfford had stitched her up plenty of times before she met the little healer. Perhaps it was just that she was sitting before a campfire, injured wing outstretched as she had for Alphonse the day of the wildfire.
Etienne watched them, nodding over the tea he clutched in both hands. He looked utterly spent.
Her arguments for pursuing Enyo had been swirling around her head as they made camp, but now she could only wonder when Etienne had become the voice of reason.
“You both were brave today,” she said after a long while. She did not agree with Meirin, not when there was a chance of banishing Enyo, but it felt right to say it nonetheless. Meirin and Etienne had both looked into impossible odds and faced them anyway.
Meirin didn’t speak as she wiped away the dirt and blood from Delyth’s wings, but her hands stilled at Delyth’s compliment. Finally, she resumed working, her touch impersonal and proficient. With salves smeared across the worst of Delyth’s injuries to keep rot at bay, the clan woman settled back with a weary sigh. It wasn’t even midday, and yet the entire group looked ready to fall asleep where they sat.
“I’ve never seen something like that man. You speared him, right in the head—” She sounded impressed. It had been a good throw. “And yet he just melted the sword and stepped out of that rock like nothing happened. I’m not proud to admit it, but I was afraid.”
✶
Etienne had been afraid too, but he did not think he would have admitted it had Meirin not done so first. Not after he froze when the bandits attacked in the mountains. Not after he had abandoned Alphonse.
Now, though…
“Me too,” Etienne said and was surprised to find Delyth nodding.
“I have never fought anything like that. Anything that cared nothing for the blows I could land.”
“What do you think he is? Or rather, who is he? I’ve never heard legends of a God who could hurt other Gods. And his hands… What was he doing to Enyo? Did you see? It seemed as if he was turning her flesh to stone…” Meirin shivered, likely repulsed at the memory.
“He called Enyo and Tristan his parents,” Etienne said slowly. “But Enyo claimed that Delyth has God’s blood, and she is no Mascen. Could he be some more direct descendant?”
Delyth tugged her wings tightly against her back. “If so, then Tristan isn’t who we thought he was.”
The fire cracked and popped, and no one spoke for a long time. Meirin finally straightened up with a heavy sigh. They would solve nothing now.
“If it doesn’t bother you two, I think I will lay down for a time. I need to rest, and I don’t think we’re fit to decide what needs to be done next. Maybe with food in our bellies and sleep, things will be clearer tonight.”
Etienne nodded and rose, nearly stumbling back to the earth before he caught his balance. His legs had stiffened while he sat until they reminded him of nothing so much as useless logs. “Good rest, Meirin.” He slipped into his tent with hardly a backward glance.
⥣ ⥣ ⥣
* * *
Unlike the others, Delyth did not sleep but slipped into her tent to take out Alphonse’s journal. It was far more comforting than the nightmares that filled her dreams.
Sixth Moon, Waning Crescent, Wildlands.
I do not even know how to begin to describe the odd and wonderful turns my life has taken. With Enyo, with my travels—With Delyth. I thought she hated me and would hate me forever for trying to flee with Enyo. But last night...
Last night we came to some understanding. Of course, Delyth does not understand precisely everything about Enyo and my desire to be rid of her, but she understands that I will not leave her behind again. She understands how dearly it cost me to do so in the first place.
I felt such relief in having her back as my friend, in knowing she would share my tent and smile carefully at me over the campfire. It felt as if my entire body lightened by ten pounds, having Delyth’s approval once more.
Of course, I cried, Delyth holding me as I promised not to run away again. And I felt safe and warm and lovely. Somewhere along the way, I stopped feeling grateful or relieved and only aware of Delyth’s body. Of her smell, her touch…
And then…
And then she kissed me. My cheek. Her lips were so close and so warm. It only seemed natural to turn my head the bare inches and kiss her back. And again. And again.
I feel giddy just thinking about it. I’ve kissed before, or rather I’ve been kissed. By boys. At Moxous. But I never found it all that interesting and rarely sought it out. What was the point? I am engaged to Henri and those boys at Moxous… Well, they are a rough, conceited lot that think too highly of themselves.
Delyth— Stars above. She’s not rough at all! I know she is much stronger than I am, and she has worked her entire life, but when her lips pressed to mine, my heart sang, and my mind quieted. Everywhere she touched felt like silk and campfire, and all I wanted was more.
Am I becoming a greedy woman? Should I be ashamed of my behavior?
Mother Agathi would say yes.
Enyo would laugh at
how naive and inexperienced I am.
What if Delyth found my puerility undesirable as well? She seemed enthusiastic enough last night. But what if, in the light of day, she realizes how limited my romantic ventures have been? Or, I mean
No. I will not worry over this now. I will only enjoy the memory of kissing Delyth.
No matter how dreadfully complicated it makes things.
She kissed me back. I know it.
Of course, she had kissed Alphonse back. Delyth smiled, tracing the words with her fingertips even as her eyes began to sink shut.
⥣ ⥣ ⥣
* * *
Delyth stood in a small clearing peppered with wildflowers, a mountain stream gurgling by to one side. It was not large enough to provide much of a break in the entwining limbs overhead so that when she looked up, the blue of the sky was only visible in broken fragments. Little pieces.
When her hip twinged, Delyth looked down to see an old wound, bleeding sluggishly, and at her feet lay a slow-beating heart.
She knew this place.
The warrior found a place to bury the heart, using sticks to dig it a bed between the roots of an old oak before kneeling by the stream to wash away the blood on her hands. It lifted with ease, ropy tendrils drifting away as she scrubbed. More and more of them as though she was not merely washing away the stain of the heart.
Beneath the shifting surface of the water, Delyth’s skin was clear, and yet the longer she washed them, the darker the stream became. There was more than one person’s blood here, more than a dozen’s. And still, the stream kept whisking it away, clean, cold water coming to replace the old. Perhaps it would sink back into the earth, return to Illygad like stolen goods at long last finding their rightful place.