Goddess
Page 27
Moaz, who had said nothing the entire day, coughed—his version of a laugh. Enyo’s gaze flickered to him. “Jealous that I might fly, beast?”
“You will not fly because you cannot inhabit her,” he murmured, voice flat.
“She’s my priestess. I’ll do what I please.” Enyo sneered, struggling forward to stand, clearly ready to make the transfer immediately.
“I am not anyone’s priestess. Not anymore,” Delyth shot back, her teeth bared. “Besides, I meant that I would be a Vassal for Aryus. Can they inhabit me?”
“No.”
Etienne looked between Maoz and Enyo, drawing his knees to his chest. If Delyth couldn’t do it, then did that mean he should? The silence stretched on long enough that Enyo growled in frustration. “Why not?!”
“She’s of my bloodline. Any descendant of a God cannot be inhabited.”
Enyo’s gaze snapped to Delyth’s face, sharp and accusatory. As if it were Delyth’s fault.
“Why can’t they?” Meirin asked, tone curious.
Esha sighed. “Think of it as you would a father bedding his daughter or a sister with a sister. It’s not meant to be. It’s not right. They are our children; we cannot inhabit them as such.”
“We protect our children,” Moaz murmured, eyes shadowed. He had been fixated on Delyth from the moment of their meeting, though he rarely spoke to her. It made sense now. They were kin, in a manner of speaking.
Delyth did not speak again, and it seemed to Etienne that her relation to Maoz came as no real surprise to her, though he could not fathom how she would have known—unless Enyo had told her? Either way, she did seem rather more downcast, if it were possible. As though she had thrown her last gamble.
Etienne shifted a little uncomfortably in his seat. He was not related to any God, was he? He could be a Vassal. And yet, he could not quite make himself offer. Perhaps it was cowardice, but he could not make himself give over his body.
“I want to know just how Mascen keeps finding us,” Va'al growled from his position wrapped up with Enyo. “Who’s giving us away?”
To Etienne’s left, Delyth looked down at her hand, rubbing at some spot on her wrist he couldn’t see.
⫸
Meirin’s gaze snapped to Va’al. “What do you mean, giving us away? He’s a God. Can’t he just find us whenever he wants?”
“No.” Enyo’s good hand was a vice around Va’al’s knee, her fingers going white at the knuckles. “They cannot. At least not without some deal or means of tracking. Va'al is the only one of us who could—can—will be able to slip through the shadows and appear somewhere, but even then, he has to know where it is he’s going. Mascen never had that ability.”
“So… That means he’s tracking us with magic?”
“More likely, he’s found a physical means to locate us. Has he drank any of your blood?”
Meirin’s nose wrinkled in distaste. “No.” Etienne was shaking his head as well. When would they have had time to let him drink their blood anyway? “You’re his mother. Wouldn’t he just be able to find you?”
“Not in this body. He doesn’t know this form.”
That stumped Meirin. How was he finding them? It wasn’t as if they were that obvious. Not like him, with a trail of smoke and fire following him every which way.
“It has been three hundred years; perhaps Mascen has learned a thing or two,” Esha suggested, yawning and covering her mouth with a broad hand. “There are dozens of settlements along the river; we will find a village or a caravan. It’s only a matter of days before Aryus is with us, and we can fix this.”
Unless, of course, Mascen kept sneaking up on them. Meirin frowned. They had been hopping from place to place, trying to avoid him and find a body. It had already been a week, and they had no progress to show for it. Thloegr was getting torn to pieces while they failed to find a single Vassal.
Mascen needed to be stopped.
Meirin turned to Etienne. “Are you going to bed now?” she asked, though it sounded much more like a suggestion.
“Yes?” Etienne said though it sounded more like a question. “Are you?”
She took his hand, nodding, and Delyth took it as an excuse to escape to her tent. Even the Gods were yawning so in short order, all were retiring, as though Meirin’s question had been a signal, sending them to sleep.
✶
Etienne pulled off his boots and trousers and lay awake for some time, scribbling thoughts in his journal. There was something important in the idea that all magic came from the Cursed Realms, some essential truth he was on the verge of grasping. He soon gave it up, though. His mind kept flashing back to the image of the caravan on the road, swallowed in seconds by a maw only Mascen could command open. He would never forget their screams. No amount of good or quiet things would ever be able to drown them out. Gods, he wanted to go home. He hadn’t thought that since leaving Moxous—he’d been too mired in guilt over his part in Enyo’s return. Now, he thought he would give anything to be once more amidst the dust and whisper smells of Moxous’s library.
Sleep would not come easily, for all that Etienne knew he needed it, but the mage was just beginning to close his eyes when someone stepped into his tent, startling him to full wakefulness once more.
“Meirin?” he gasped. It was dark, but her figure was illuminated by the wan moonlight shining behind her.
She held one finger up to her lips, indicating he shouldn’t speak. Shutting the tent flap behind herself, Meirin then started to undress, her back to Etienne. Her feet were already bare, and she pulled her tunic off over her head, revealing the narrowing of her waist and the swell of her hips. Black hair, half braided and half free, swayed beneath her shoulder blades and slithered against her skin as she slipped her breeches past her thighs.
Never in Etienne’s dreams had he imagined the warm beauty of copper skin in the twilight of his tent. Now, he thought that he would never forget it. Somewhere, in the back of his mind perhaps, that knowledge would plague him forever. Meirin glanced over one shoulder and arched a brow, eyes glittering. Only after she met his gaze did she unwrap her breast band and toss it aside. When she turned to face him in nothing but her loincloth, Meirin paused for a moment, as though she enjoyed the effect she had on him.
“You didn’t ward your tent like Delyth has been teaching you, Etienne,” she chided, smirking. She came to the edge of his pallet and dropped to her knees, hand coming to rest on his leg hidden by blankets.
Etienne’s mouth turned to parchment, and he pulled his knees up so as not to give himself away. She was devastatingly beautiful even in the dim light, hard muscle and soft skin. “I—” Etienne stuttered, looking down at her hand on his thigh. “Is this supposed to teach me to ward my tent? Because it isn’t working.”
He almost didn’t want to move, as though she would turn away, change her mind if he did. Tentatively, he reached out a hand, stroking up her arm.
There was a smile in her voice as she leaned forward, brushing her lips along his cheek. “I’ll tell on you to Delyth. Just wait.” Slithering forward, Meirin straddled Etienne’s hips and brought both hands up to cup his face.
“Things have been so terrible lately. I just wanted one nice thing.” She kissed his throat and down his shoulder before pulling back. In the darkness, her eyes were black, her warpaint a faint mask around them. She looked even stronger this way. Proud and corded and stunningly naked, with fierce lines of yellow war streaked down her chin. “Am I wrong in thinking you would enjoy it too?”
“N— not at all,” Etienne stuttered. He was bewildered, unsure if he had woken at all or if this was all a very vivid dream. He pressed his hands to her waist, stroking the warm skin there with his thumbs.
She felt real.
And yet, he still could hardly believe it.
“I want something nice too,” he said finally. Because it was the truth. He wanted some break from the heaviness of their situation every bit as much as she did. “I want you.”
“Now—Do you know any spells that will keep the others from hearing us?” she asked, her voice light. She straddled him, and the faint light slipping in past the tent flap haloed around her.
As it turned out, Meirin didn’t care if anyone overheard them.
⥣ ⥣ ⥣
* * *
Meirin hadn’t slept all night. At first, she had kept Etienne distracted and awake, but after enough play, he had drifted off, snoring faintly beside her. His was an endearing sight, his white hair sticking up at odd angles and her yellow war paint smeared over his hands, face, chest. For a long time, Meirin had been happy enough just to lay beside him and think about the day to come.
She knew they would wake, make breakfast, and then attempt to find a village. Mascen would appear, run them off. Enyo would curse and rage, Va'al would snarl. Moaz would say exactly nothing, and Esha would try to calm them all. Delyth would sink further into herself, disappearing slowly but for flashes of teeth. Mascen would destroy the village they tried to approach to keep them from gaining a Vassal. Another day wasted.
More people dead.
Delyth couldn’t become the Vassal, and Etienne hadn’t offered. She didn’t blame him. The idea was repulsive and frightening, and he wasn’t a warrior. He wasn’t made of stone. He was a soft man—sweet-natured and tame.
It wasn’t his fault.
Etienne stirred beside her, and Meirin closed her eyes, breathing deeply, feigning sleep. The mage woke slowly, stretching out long limbs and yawning. He didn’t seem to remember right away all that had happened the night before. When his arm brushed smooth skin, he jumped and turned towards her, a breath escaping his mouth. There was a moment of stillness, but he didn’t seem to realize Meirin was awake.
He lifted a loose braid away from her face, brushed a kiss across her cheek, and then rose, careful to leave the blanket tucked around her. There came the rustle of clothes sliding over skin, and then he stepped from the tent. In the camp beyond, the sounds of others stirring was clearly audible. Pots clanged, voices murmured indistinctly. The familiar noises of sleepy people starting their day.
Carefully, Meirin redressed and listened at the tent flap. When it didn’t sound as if anyone was nearby, she slipped through it, finding herself with no witnesses. She walked to the bucket they had filled and dashed handfuls over her face, washing away her ruined war paint.
She pressed damp fingers through her hair, feeling where bristles had started to grow back along the sides of her head. She could count the days of this journey in the length of them. Meirin started to braid the long hair at the top of her skull back. Today, she would allow for no distractions—no matter how small. There would be no locks in her face, no burrs in her clothes. She turned towards the sunrise, still new and bright, and stood for a long time admiring the pinks and oranges. She had spent too little time enjoying the colors of morning.
Smells of cooking filtered past, and voices started to rumble and bicker. Where would they go? Which route would they take? What would they do when Mascen inevitably appeared, ready to fight? Meirin took a deep breath in, noticing keenly how her lungs filled with air, how the tightness in her chest relaxed ever so slightly. She knew this was the right choice.
✶
Etienne took his bowl of porridge from Delyth’s hands and looked back towards his tent. Where was Meirin? Should he have stayed in the tent and waited for her to get up? It wasn’t like her to sleep in so late.
He shoved a spoonful of the hot breakfast into his mouth, wincing slightly as the tin camp spoon scraped his teeth. When Maoz started to look towards the pot as though he might like a second bowl, Etienne set his own down and rescued a serving for Meirin. She’d not want to start the trek on an empty stomach.
When she finally stepped into view, a grin spread across Etienne’s face, wide and happy, and he held up the bowl of breakfast that he had made for her.
Meirin took the bowl and settled beside Etienne with a smile of her own. She bumped her knee against the mage’s a few times in silent companionship, and when he met her gaze, she winked. “Sleep well?”
“Never better.” Etienne grinned at her, blushing faintly even after their coupling. It was easy to ignore the others, to sit close and think of nothing but the brush of her knee against his even when the world might be ending.
Was this how Allee had felt, sipping tea beneath Delyth’s wing even as they climbed to Thlonandras? If so, he was sorry for doubting her. Things were just more bearable with someone to hold.
“How about you? You were still sound asleep when I got up.”
“I could have sworn I heard someone snoring… But I slept well enough.” She nudged him with her shoulder and scooped the last few bites of porridge into her mouth.
Etienne flushed again. “Must have been Maoz.”
“Must have.”
Meirin turned to Delyth. “Will you help me take down my tent?” It was a strange request given that Meirin had never needed help before, but then they were all feeling the strain of the last few weeks. Etienne was a little jealous that she hadn’t asked him.
༄
Delyth raised her eyes from her breakfast for the first time since sitting down, for all that most of it remained in her bowl, untouched. Her brows furrowed for a moment, but she nodded and rose to her feet, leaving the still-full bowl on the ground. “Alright then.” The warrior stood, unable to shake a blood-deep weariness from her body, and moved to aid Meirin
The clanswoman yanked up the stakes in sharp movements before coiling and re-coiling the rope about her hands. It was almost as if she were nervous, though Delyth did not recall seeing that emotion in her before.
“I’m going to take the artifact and become Aryus’s Vassal. We’re wasting time being chased around by Mascen, and I can’t stand to watch another person die while I am unable to do anything to stop him.”
Her dark eyes were unwavering, but something about the way she spoke reminded Delyth of herself in the days before she had met Alphonse and Enyo. She had spoken that way to Swordbearer Rhys, half confident, half seeking for approval. After a moment, Meirin went on.
“Will you tell Tanwen and my clan what happened?” The unspoken statement hovered between them, but Delyth understood what the other woman was asking. She needed to know that someone would tell the Mynydd Gwyllt what happened to Meirin, should she die in her role as Vassal.
The warrior met Meirin’s gaze for a long, steady moment, her pale blue eyes unblinking. She felt suddenly that she had not been fair to the younger warrior, that she had been too harsh in their disagreements in the past. No coward, no ordinary fighter, could stand here and vow to do something so beyond dangerous.
Part of Delyth wanted to stop her, to save her from the fate that had befallen Alphonse. Only, to say, in the face of this bravery, that she did not think Meirin should put herself at risk after Delyth had already tried to do as much… No, she would not insult the clanswoman. It would be too much like questioning her ability to see it through. Instead, Delyth simply nodded. “I swear it.” Then, as the wind around them whipped her braids about her face, she held out a hand to grip Meirin’s arm, half to seal the promise and half to acknowledge her courage. Meirin’s grip on Delyth’s arm was firm, though her palms were wet and cold. She was afraid. But she was going to do this anyway.
“Enyo.” Meirin turned to face the Goddess, her spine pine-straight. “Give me the artifact. I’ll be Aryus’s Vassal.”
Enyo, who had been braiding Va'al’s hair back affectionately, looked startled. “You?” She seemed to consider the idea and then shrugged as if she didn’t care all that much who Aryus inhabited. “Very well.”
✶
“What?” Etienne was standing without having any memory of getting there, his eyes wide and his hands tr
embling at his sides. “Meirin, you can’t—”
She didn’t answer him, her eyes focused on Va'al lifting the horn from his bags where it had been stored since they regrouped the previous evening. The wind was working itself into a frenzy, tearing at her braids as if it had a mind to unravel them. Delyth, unreadable as she ever had been, stepped past the clanswoman to stand beside him.
“Is this why she spoke to you?” he demanded, his voice climbing higher even as the sky above them darkened to a tumultuous grey. “Did you convince her to do it?”
When Delyth didn’t answer, he turned away, desperately moving to step into Va'al’s path. Only to be stopped by a hand on his shoulder. The warrior spoke then. “Stop, Etienne. This is not your decision.”
“No,” he said, but his voice was a whisper. “It shouldn’t have to be anyone’s decision.”
This couldn’t happen this way, not again. He should have offered to be the Vassal, should have not played the coward’s role once more. Alphonse had been lost to a God for his hubris.
And now Meirin would be lost for his fear.
The first thick droplets of water began to fall as Va'al placed the horn in Meirin’s hand. She already had a knife ready, and as she raised it to slice open her hand, Etienne could do nothing but watch, numb with horror and leaning into Delyth’s grip.
He was almost relieved when the knife jumped from her grip, torn away by a sudden violence of wind. The God who had stopped her was framed in the storm he had created.
“Now, we can’t have that, can we?” Mascen said and threw back his head to laugh into the torrent.
Chapter XXII
Eleventh Moon, Waxing Crescent: Eastern Branch of the Afonnieder
Meirin watched the arc of her knife as it flew through the air and then landed in the earth, blade first. The hilt stuck up, quivering with the impact, so inviting, if only she could dash across the distance and pick up her weapon. But Mascen was still before her, and his black eyes were sharp as he looked down at her.