Goddess

by Liv Savell

  She did probably the most foolish or the most courageous thing she had ever done in her entire life. The warrior reached back her hand and punched him square in the jaw. She felt her wrist creak, the bones grinding together, but Mascen did not move from the impact. He laughed and backhanded her hard. Her head snapped against her shoulder, and her body followed, flying across the clearing and landing in a pile of limbs and whirling thoughts. The horn was no longer clutched in her small fingers.

  “Mascen!” Enyo screamed, the storm redoubling its efforts. Meirin tried to push herself upright, but her mind was addled from her brief flight. Maybe she would just lay there a little while longer.

  “Mother, don’t be so dramatic,” Mascen drawled, stepping closer to the collected Gods. “I can play this game all day. All year. My entire life. But I’ve been growing bored. You’re so predictable. You never try anything new. Anything interesting.”

  “Let us get our bodies back, and I’ll show you something new,” Enyo hissed, her promise less than threatening as she made no move to attack, rotten, stone arm hanging uselessly at her side.

  “I’m not a fool. Don’t insult me, mother.”

  ✶

  Etienne stumbled back to fall to his knees at Meirin’s side. “Are you alright?” he asked, fingers trembling, and brushed a stray lock of hair away from her rain-spattered face.

  Around them, the storm raged so that it was all but impossible to see the others through the tumult, but Etienne could recognize Enyo from her voice alone. And was that Delyth behind her? The mage squinted even as the tall, winged figure came barrelling away from Enyo’s tent, a familiar sword in hand.

  Mascen’s eyes were on her too. “So it seems that you will keep our bargain, after all, mortal.”

  Etienne turned to look at Delyth, his brows pinching together. What bargain? Delyth wouldn’t make a bargain with Mascen… Would she? The God of Disasters turned to his mother, his gloating face as clear despite the deluge. “Some loyalty you command, Mother, if your priestess is willing to steal your sword for me.”

  And then Delyth was upon him, opening a gruesome cut in his arm—a real wound that fountained blood rather than lava.

  Mascen turned in anger, and with a single motion, sent her flying back twenty feet where she struck a tree and lay unmoving.

  Etienne sucked in a deep breath, looking down at Meirin again. Mascen would destroy them all. Could destroy them all so easily. And millions would follow after.

  There welled in him a desperation so great that, finally, he understood what had driven the clanswoman to take the horn. She had even more to protect than he did, and alone, they would never be able to save the people they loved.

  Her eyes were unfocused as she looked up into Etienne’s face. Maybe she saw understanding there, or perhaps she was simply hopeless, but she grabbed the front of his tunic and pulled him closer. “Do something, Etienne. We can still finish this.”

  The mage shuddered, recoiling from her whispered command. What was he supposed to do? He could not fight, not like Meirin and Delyth could. Besides, they had already proven just how ineffectual trying to fight a God was. The winged warrior might have wounded him, but neither looked as though they would rise again anytime soon.

  “How annoying.” The God stalked towards Delyth, teeth bared, and one hand clamped over his arm. “Well, I suppose you’ve still managed to be useful.”

  Calamity was lying several feet away from the warrior, gleaming cruelly on the wet earth. Still, Delyth didn’t stir.

  Etienne swallowed. How much worse would things be if Mascen touched that blade. Would he slay Delyth with it? Alphonse? The mage stood, hands trembling.

  What could he do, if not fight?

  He still had such a small grasp of the magic Delyth had been trying to teach him, and even if he could cast it, no Ingolan spell could be prepared in time. He was useless, just as he always had been. The reason that Alphonse had been taken, that all of this had started in the first place.

  He clutched his hair with both fists, grinding his teeth together. What was he supposed to do against a creature made of magic?

  Magic that came from the Cursed Realms. Just like all magic did.

  Etienne froze, suddenly understanding the idea that had been on the edge of his awareness since the night before. If all magic came from the same place, then there was only one type of magic—just two ways to access it.

  Etienne grabbed for his dagger and sliced open his palm so that blood welled up in a quickly watered pool before casting the blade aside. He dipped his fingers in the stuff, tracing on his skin the runes for the biggest magics he knew; trapping and tracking. Somehow, the blood stayed where he left it, unmarred by rain.

  In his belly, the magic pooled, restless as a snake in so poor a container. He had used Thloegran beliefs to summon the power, but he wanted something more complex than any Thloegran intent could give him. So rather than merely aiming the power at Mascen, Etienne began to chant.

  It was a familiar spell now, after the months he had spent revising these words on the way to Thlonandras. Not a binding spell, but one of invisible walls, of magic bars.

  He had used it on Enyo once, a lifetime ago, to keep her trapped in a tent. This version was stronger, more carefully thought out. And he hoped it would be enough.

  Etienne was yelling now, the words harsh against his throat as the magic responded to his spell, coiling out of his body. He had been right. The magic did not care how it was directed, only that it was directed.

  For a long moment, nothing happened. Calamity was almost at Mascen’s feet. He went to take another step, to devour the final few inches, his face haughty with victory.

  Only to stop, unmoving.

  He tried again, pushing on the spell in a way that made Etienne stop mid-chant to groan. Hastily, he replaced spent runes with new, drawing more power to feed into the working.

  Mascen moved to try again, to bend towards Calamity.

  And nothing happened.

  He was trapped every bit as completely as Enyo had been all those long moons ago.

  ⫸

  Etienne’s forgotten blade was in her hand. He had thrown it aside, moments before, after making the cuts in his own flesh that would allow him to imprison Mascen. Meirin could see the God in the periphery of her vision, but his anger paled in comparison to the importance of the knife. It was a simple thing. Straight-edged and leather-wrapped.

  She had the knife, the key. Or rather, one of two keys. What was it she was supposed to do next?

  Movement flashed in that peripheral scene, Enyo dashing around her contained child. The Goddess’s good hand glinted white, a flash of ivory. She had found the horn in the tumult, while Etienne had cast his spell and Meirin had been too shaken by Mascen’s blow to notice.

  Enyo arrived at Meirin’s side in a spray of dirt. Flecks of it freckled the knife—brown marring silver. The horn Enyo pressed on her was likewise sanded with wet clumps. It was so loud beneath the wind, as though the sky were screaming. How was anyone supposed to think like this? Meirin had to stand, to use the keys, but— She felt the heaviness of the bone horn in her palm and the pain of Enyo dragging the dagger against her other hand.

  “Say their name. Say Aryus.” Enyo hissed. Her grip on Meirin’s wrist was a manacle.

  That was it. They had to bring back the God of Death. To destroy the God of Disaster.

  Meirin’s speech was messy and ill-formed, but she repeated after the Goddess. There was a moment of still, no longer than a breath, but in that time, Meirin’s eyes found Etienne. He was outlined in thunderheads and rain, body rigid as he fought Mascen. The mage’s hair stood on end, and his pale skin was parchment inked by his own blood. He was a human, fighting a God. And he was winning.

  Then, there was nothing. Meirin collapsed in a spray of delicate, pink petals, out of place in Mascen’s frigid torrent.

  “NO!” Mascen roared, reaching forward and yanking the wall down.

  “YES
!” Enyo jumped to her feet.

  A curious smile curved her lips as Meirin sat up, looking at her hands, her legs. Dark eyes swept the clearing and landed on Mascen with a strangled giggle.

  “A very pretty thing am I, fluttering in the pale blue sky—delicate, fragile on the wing. Indeed I am a pretty thing. What am I?” Meirin—no, Aryus stood, their smile growing all the wider.

  Mascen looked over those assembled to face them: Etienne swayed, but already his bloodied fingers moved over his skin, preparing a second spell. Maoz stood to his left, Calamity gripped in both hands as though he meant to protect his young kin. Enyo and Va’al steadying themselves for a fight. Aryus laughing.

  “You’ve fumbled your hand, son,” the Trickster God said, and Mascen disappeared in a fountain of earth and curses. The storm around them lifted.

  “Oh, there is the sky.” Aryus chuckled and turned slowly in a circle to face Etienne, where he slumped, pale with blood-loss and effort. “Do you know what I am?”

  ✶

  “Aryus, God of Death,” Etienne said numbly, looking into the eyes of the woman he had come to respect and care for.

  The God laughed again. “No, silly. The riddle. Aren’t mages supposed to be clever?”

  Etienne looked around the camp, at tents torn from their stakes and belongings scattered by the wind. Delyth stirred slowly but could not seem to push herself up, and the Gods were all looking at him and Aryus, ruffled but unharmed.

  How was it that they had done nothing against Mascen? Did they expect mortals to always be doing their dirty work for them?

  “Well?” Aryus hummed. “Pale blue sky. Flut-muttering, on the wing buttering?”

  Etienne sighed deeply. They had survived at least, though the cost of that survival seemed greater each time they managed it. He made himself look up into Meirin’s face, now contorted into an ill-fitting grin.

  “You’re a butterfly,” he said and sent Aryus stumbling back in a fit of breathless giggles.

  ⥣ ⥣ ⥣

  * * *

  Delyth straightened with all the speed of an ailing elder. Her shoulders were laden with the thick trunks of river-side trees, and their bark scratched at her wings when she was not careful to hold them apart. The air smelled of roasted meat from the Gods’ dinner, but it served only to turn the warrior’s stomach. Let them gorge themselves on Maoz’s kills. She had no desire to eat. Besides, with all their fuel damp from Mascen’s storm, creating a hot enough fire would be difficult. The Gods insisted it must be a massive blaze for the ritual to work.

  “Will you miss anything about your human form?” Enyo’s voice became audible as Delyth neared the growing bonfire at the center of their camp.

  Va'al snorted. “No. I could play at being human whenever I wanted back in the old days without ever having to shit. I don’t think I’ll even be doing that for a good long while.”

  Delyth turned to look at him, catching both Enyo’s gaze on her and Va'al rolling his eyes at the Goddess. Enyo never should have ‘been human’ to begin with; she had no right to miss anything about the time she had stolen.

  The warrior dropped her load of wood and turned away, walking stiff-backed from the site of the bonfire. She ached, her belly so full of fear that she could not swallow.

  Alphonse might die today.

  Delyth trembled, her gut a den of snakes. She was going to be ill. Perhaps she shouldn’t let this go through. Perhaps there were other ways to free Alphonse, ways safer for her paramour…

  Etienne’s long-fingered hand fell on Delyth’s shoulder, squeezing hard. She turned to look at him, taking in his pale, sharp-boned face. She did not remember his fight with Mascen herself, but she had heard the others talking about it. Somehow, the boy had overcome his fear enough to pin a fully formed God so that Meirin might summon Death. Delyth took a shaky breath and reached out to place a hand on his shoulder as well. Or reached up, rather. He had a few inches of height on her.

  “We—she could—” She couldn’t form the words. It was too much. As though voicing them might make the worst even more likely to happen. Etienne seemed to understand. He couldn’t look her in the eyes any longer but stared over the top of her head and gave a quick, short nod.

  The warrior woman pulled him roughly into a hug, crushing his thin body against hers. He flinched at first, then relaxed, wrapping his long arms around her shoulders. When he spoke again, his voice was thick with tears. “We’re doing the right thing. She— She’d never forgive us if we put her above the fate of Thloegr.”

  Delyth nodded, so afraid that her fingers were numb, and pulled away. Her cheeks were wet again, for all that it had stopped raining, and angrily, she rubbed her face against her sleeve. “She’s not dead yet, Etienne. We don’t know that we’ll lose her.”

  “But—the injury—”

  “She’s a healer, Etienne. She’ll recover.”

  Something in his face softened, a relaxing of the brow and lip. Etienne nodded and let his gaze move back to the fire and its ring of Gods. “We have evidence proving that the Vassals still reside within their bodies, and they can resume control when the God inhabiting them is indisposed. Logically, it stands to reason that the Vassals will resume control when the God leaves.”

  ✶

  Delyth nodded and left, shoulders bent as though fighting a gale, and Etienne turned away. The warrior seemed to need space now more than anything else, and he was all too happy to give it to her. He had his own thoughts to work through as well.

  The land along this portion of the Afonneidr sloped upwards from the river’s banks to become the flat plains and gently rolling hills of Thloegr’s heartland. There were trees here—freshwater willows and delicate, curling-bark birches. Mostly, the banks were reed-furred and cloaked in the nighttime song of owls. They were well into autumn now; too cold for frogs. Etienne picked his way past these, down to the mud at the river’s edge. The camp was well behind him, though he could hear, even now, the rumble of voices and the occasional crash of wood being dropped on the fire. Meirin would be sitting there, or Aryus rather. With the other Gods.

  He took a deep breath and watched the play of moonlight-fingers along the rippling surface of the water, then began to sculpt a channel into the soft earth so that he might divert a few lazy tendrils of river water into a shallow pool. It was so cold that his fingers went numb and then began to ache. It was a little pain, all things considered. Not like the heavy-bladed guillotine hanging over his head, the possible loss of his oldest, closest friend.

  Etienne took his knife and pricked his finger, relishing the sudden flow of magic despite himself. It was a heady feeling, to break open the barriers between worlds enough to suck power into his veins. The sort of thing that one could get addicted to if it didn’t kill you. He spoke the scrying charm taught to most students at Moxous, and the magic left him, sluicing out and into the pool he had made.

  The murky, dirt-thickened liquid went glass-flat and inky, columns forming themselves out of light and will. The shelves followed. Then the books and tables, until the Moxous library was reflected in miniature before Etienne’s eyes. At so late an hour, few people were studying, but the image of the place alone was enough to fill the mage with longing.

  He had not seen the last of Moxous. He would walk there again with Alphonse. They would study together or sit beneath oak trees to enjoy the gentle warmth of an Ingolan spring. She would become a healer and he a sorcerer. He would feel Meirin nudge him over a joke and watch Delyth tease Allee into fits of blushing speechlessness. He would not lose them here. Not for the Gods.

  In all honesty, Etienne had no way of knowing if what he had told Delyth was true. He had no idea what the separation of the Gods and the Vassals would do to the human form. Alphonse would be better equipped to guess. She had always understood people and their bodies better than he could. Still, he had to hope. He had to believe that they would move past this, that the end of Mascen would open a new era for Thloegr, an era for Gods that could no
t harm their mortal followers. An age for prosperity.

  And for him, for Delyth and Alphonse and Meirin, a chance for peace and love.

  ⥣ ⥣ ⥣

  * * *

  It took until nightfall for the bonfire to grow in strength. The flames leaped, high and bright, a beacon across the low plains. The humans couldn’t stand closer than thirty paces from the fire without sweating, but the Gods were not so affected.

  They stood in a wide circle around the bonfire, ten paces apart and facing the flames. Aryus had the blade. A simple thing, plain steel and leather. It should have been more impressive, beautifully wrought gold, or cut gemstone. No matter. It was the blood they were after. Enyo watched, rapt, as Aryus raised the knife above their hand and aimed its point to the crook in their arm. The tip kissed skin, then broke it, blood welling up from that point even as Aryus pressed the dagger further in and down their arm, a long, dripping ribbon. They completed a similar stroke on their opposite arm and then passed the knife to Esha.

  As though the dagger had been a weight holding them still, Aryus flowed into motion, Meirin’s braids streaming out behind them. They tramped runes, long forgotten, into the earth before the fire, half-stomping, half-dancing on bare feet. Then Esha began, and Maoz, and Va’al.

  Enyo took the blade last and held it up to the starlight before bringing it down to cut across her one wrist, the second impermeable stone. It was less pain than release, with all the world and all her freedom stretching out before her. Enyo tossed the dagger aside and skipped through the mud, lifeforce draining out of her arm and trailing behind her. She could see the priestess through the flames, pale eyes washed out by the yellow of the fire. Delyth watched her, of course. Watched as she came into her power.

  The others waited as Enyo finished her dance, and then together, they began to weave sunwise about the fire. Esha’s voice, gruff and foreign, was out of place in the song-chant of summoning. Maoz joined, and then Aryus, their voice surprisingly sweet. Va'al’s baritone was almost as it had been in the days of old, and Enyo smiled to add her chant to his.