by Liv Savell
Turning, they repeated the ritual in the opposite direction, footfalls speeding up. Her feet were hot, and the hair on her arms and legs stood on end. It was the power. The magic being drawn forth to open the gate and summon what was lost. Their chanting grew faster, and Enyo could feel her human body fading in strength, losing blood too quickly. She looked around at her companions. Va'al was focused and grim, Esha steady. Maoz looked pale as if he might be sick. Aryus… Well, it looked as if they were having a lovely time.
Stopping in her original spot, Enyo swayed on her feet. Soon. Very soon, they would have to complete the ritual, or she would fail.
The chant died, silence falling on the plains once more but for the crack of the fire and the river’s distant hum. For a breath, it seemed as if nothing would happen, but then the fire blossomed, doubling in height. The flames were so hot they grew blue and white, and finally, Enyo felt their sear. Her lips prickled, her hand clumsy as she drew a crude rune onto her forehead. Her mark was different from the others, each God choosing to name their new body. The blood was silver in the moonlight on their brows.
In a single breath, all five Gods and Vassals took three steps into the bone-melting fire.
✶
Etienne’s heart stopped. Alphonse was gone, her body swallowed by blue flame along with Meirin and the others. He called their names, but for long seconds there was nothing, no sound or movement. No smell of burning things.
A roaring sound, like that of an avalanche, drowned out the fire and the river, all things that rustled or called in the night. It was so much noise that Illygad herself seemed to shake from the strength of it. It rolled on, wavering in pitch intensity even as a beam of light exploded up from the center of the fire. It held steady, light like solid steel, and the Vassals fell back to the earth, ragdoll-limp but unsinged. Meirin and Alphonse lay near each other; the beginning and end of the God’s circle, their hair strewn across the trampled mud and their star-veiled eyes closed.
From the bonfire stepped a slender form, white hair and colorless eyes. Pearl and feather wings hung heavy from their shoulders. They moved out of the way, coming to stand and watch as the next figure descended. A woman with skin as dark as night and thick hair braided tight to her skull. Her face was adorned with silver-blue markings the very same shade as her eyes. Both forms had emerged naked, so it was easy to see that she was perfection: every curve, every line, every dimple or freckle or scar.
She was followed by a man impossibly tall. His skin was the color of a forest floor or canopy, streaked with dark lines and tattoos of beasts and fowl and fish. His hair was pitch, and rooted in the crown of his skull were two spiraling horns.
The next man was almost human in appearance, dark-skinned with a hooking nose and sparkling, mischievous eyes. His hair writhed like shadows, blending in with the flickering tongues of night around him.
Then, nothing. The beam of light wavered, the fire rippled and dimmed. The other Gods were stone-still, as though preparing to mourn one of their own. Would they mourn her? Or were they concerned about facing Mascen without their full force?
Would it hurt Alphonse’s chances?
And then the fire parted to reveal a woman. Her skin was molten lava, drying into dark grey patches only to be reborn again in cracks and magma. Her eyes were coals plucked from the fire, burning and flickering still. Her hair was made of vines that swayed in some non-existent breeze. It had to be Enyo. By far the most terrible, the most strange, the most impressive.
With her exit, the bonfire collapsed within itself, no more than a few flickering logs and a heap of smoke. And still, the Vassals did not rise.
༄
Squinting, Delyth tried to see past the light, edging closer and closer to the bonfire even as magic spilled in waves of tangible power. She saw the first of the Gods step through, then the second, but she paid them no real attention. Her gaze was focussed on the slight form of Alphonse sprawled before the blaze, still after the frenzy of spell casting.
A third God stepped through—Maoz, she thought— and Gethin, just barely within her line of sight, pushed himself slowly from the ground.
Hope bloomed fiercely within Delyth’s breast, a winter avalanche of feeling after there had been so little. She was stretched past her limits, swelling with joy. It caught in her throat, in her eyes.
The Vassals were waking! Alphonse would live!
Delyth gave a wordless cry half between a sob and a shout of exultation. She took two running steps forward and fell to her knees before Alphonse, gripping the healer’s good hand with both of her own and struggling to keep herself from holding on too hard. She didn’t want to hurt the healer.
Va'al stepped from the fire, easily recognizable by his malevolent expression. Delyth’s heart caught in her chest, too-swollen so that she could hardly breathe. Enyo would come through next, and then, finally, Alphonse would rise. She would wake slowly, perhaps, struggling to pull her body upright, but then she would be free, and Delyth could pull her up, tug her close.
“Aderyn bak,” Delyth whispered, early, perhaps, but tears were already dripping from her eyes. They rolled down her nose in too-thick drops, landing softly onto Alphonse’s pale skin.
The light brightened again, then, and Enyo stepped through, rock and magma creature that she always had been at heart. Eagerly, Delyth looked down, stroking her thumb across the delicate wrist, still sluggishly bleeding.
Any moment, Alphonse would rise. Even now, she should be waking, opening lovely amber eyes for the first time in moons. “Alphonse,” Delyth whispered, breath coming in gasps. “Alphonse, it's time to come back, to wake up.”
Enyo strode away from the fire, last of the Gods, and around them, Gethin and Meirin and the old priest were stepping away as well, with their wrists seared closed from fire and healed like old burn wounds.
Still, Alphonse didn’t rise.
“Aderyn bak dewr,” Delyth sobbed, her throat like glass. “My brave little bird. Come back to me.”
She pulled the slight form into her arms, gathering her close even though her head lolled back unresponsively. She was so small. So tiny to have borne all she had. Carefully, Delyth settled Alphonse against her, propping her tawny head against the warrior’s strong shoulder and rocking as though the healer was a small child. “Alphonse,” she crooned. “Alphonse, come back.”
Only, she wasn’t coming back. She had been trapped too long or been hurt too badly. Instead of growing warmer, her skin chilled even this close to the fire. Her eyes did not flutter beneath their lids. No air stirred past her lips.
“Alphonse,” Delyth sobbed.
But the healer was dead.
And so died part of Delyth with her.
There was within the warrior’s chest a chasm wide enough to destroy her, but she swallowed it, fighting against the sorrow. She had only to keep it caged until they found Mascen until they could drown in it together.
Slowly, Delyth stood, Alphonse still held gingerly in her arms. She could see now where Tristan lay, the earth around him red with blood. He had not survived his infestation either.
Etienne watched her progress with wide eyes, Meirin leaning against him even as tears coated his cheeks, his neck, the collar of his shirt. He reached out a hand, an abortive gesture, then let it fall to his side.
“Help me bury her?” Delyth tried for speech, but it came out in half-choked whispers. He nodded, trembling, and while Etienne began to dig, Delyth lay Alphonse out in her tent.
With gentle fingers, she brushed the other woman’s hair, tangled from Enyo’s lack of care, and braided two locks back away from her face to form a loose circlet. Instead of the wild and showy sarong and breast band that Enyo had summoned, Delyth found a dress long carried with her things in the hope of Alphonse’s return and clothed her in the more modest blue. In her hands, she placed the veil. Alphonse had loved it for all she gave up wearing it in the end.
She might have just been sleeping then, if not for the angry ma
rks along her arms, and Delyth could not breathe, not sobbing so much as gasping as though she had been speared through the chest, all her body folding inwards.
When she could move again, it was only with agonizing slowness. She lifted the small form once more and stepped out into the gathering dawn. In that wan light, she and Etienne gave the person she loved most in all the world back to the earth.
⥣ ⥣ ⥣
* * *
Eighth Moon, New Moon
Today was the best day and the worst day of my entire life. I do not think another day shall ever compare. The darkness consumed me as a party of bandits approached us on the road. I was afraid, and then there was nothing at all.
I woke to blood. In my mouth, in my eyes, in my hair. And in my hand? A heart. It was firmer than I had expected, hot and dark against my fingers. I have never touched a heart, not physically. I remember now how strong it was. It must be, to beat away second after second, day after day, year after year.
I stood in a field of bodies after the harvest. I killed but one of them—just one amid the dozen. I shouldn’t feel relief, not when Delyth bore the brunt of the killing, but I do. I am relieved even though that one is a monstrosity against my soul.
I screamed. I wept. Or at least I tried to. Locked within myself, I didn’t do much at all.
Delyth, bless her, swept me up and washed away the blood, though it will forever be with me. The smell of it. The feel of it, sticky and hot against my skin. Repulsive.
But then, the most miraculous of things happened. On the worst day of my life, Delyth, who is often so taciturn, told me she loves me.
And I love her as well. It is impossible not to.
How can anyone love me when I do not think I even exist any longer? But she does. Delyth would never lie to me. She chooses me. She wants me.
She loves me.
Chapter XXIII
Eleventh Moon, First Quarter: Eastern Branch of the Afonnieder
The raised edges of the scars running up her arms were sensitive to the touch. Meirin kept running her thumbs over them, startled each time by their appearance. She didn’t remember a moment of the Death God’s inhabitation though, Etienne had explained to her all that had happened in her brief role as host to Aryus.
By far, she was the best off of the Vassals. The priest who had been holding Esha was still sleeping but had been able to stand during the burial of Alphonse and Tristan. Gethin, on the other hand, could not regain his own feet and even now slept in a tent.
And then, of course, Alphonse and Tristan both had died.
Gratitude was a warm cloak about her shoulders. From her perspective, she touched the bone horn, said “Aryus,” then woke in a heap of limbs to watch the Gods step through flames in their original forms. An entire day was lost, and so many things changed. She hadn’t expected to survive and so felt directionless. Where did she go from here? What did one do after the end? And it was the end for her. Mascen was still free, and the Gods were gathered, debating the best way to trap him and confine him, but Meirin felt that her path was no longer aligned with them. Gethin was back, her task completed. She needed to return home.
From the shadow of her tent, Va'al coalesced, less appearing and more… thickening, as though he had been a part of that particular shadow all along. Meirin hadn’t seen him since Tristan had been buried, and even then, he had not stayed long. “It’s time to go,” he said, stepping into the circle of Gods. Esha braided her long, dark hair in the morning sunlight while Maoz fed a fierce-eyed bird of prey goblets of meat, and Enyo danced with eerie grace among the wildflowers that blossomed at her feet. None of them seemed eager to do anything but play in their new forms. Except, evidently, Va'al.
Aryus reappeared with a flash of light and a burst of petals, something they had been doing all morning to no one's amusement but their own. “Go where? Enemy lair? Dare split hairs in a dark affair?” They shot into the air, giggling, and winked out of existence again, showering Maoz with petals that made the beast God wrinkle his nose in distaste.
Delyth raised her head from the kiln of her sorrow, eyes dark as a snowstorm. “Alright. Let's go.”
Meirin’s hands were heavy, her arms weak as she lifted her fingers to face, brushing back her dark hair. She was in no state to travel. No state to fight. The draining of blood the Gods had performed had left her fragile. “We cannot go with you,” she said, her voice as tired as she felt. She was the least affected by her role as Vassal. Gethin and the priest would be even less useful. Their paths needed to separate now if Delyth and the others stood a chance of stopping Mascen. She had played her part, and now she needed to step aside so the others could finish what they started.
Etienne met her eyes and nodded before looking away again, as though he was not sure about what she would think of his next words. “I can go. Need to go.” He looked past her, up at Delyth, his expression set.
Va'al, though, only snorted. “You’ve all served your purpose. You’ll just slow us down.”
“Slow us down
till we drown
Mascen in some water.”
Aryus erupted into song above them, choking with laughter, and Maoz dusted yet more petals off his shoulders, his hawk lifting into the air with a scornful cry.
“The one of my blood will not hinder us,” he growled, half annoyed and half proud.
“I will go.” Delyth hadn’t been asking.
The memory of Etienne keeping Mascen from Enyo’s terrible sword came to mind. He wasn’t useless. In fact, he might be the most powerful mage in all of Thloegr. Perhaps Ingola, too, since he had figured out how to master both styles.
He was slow. There was no denying that. With human legs and a body made for scholarly work rather than exercise, Etienne wasn’t built for speed. But he looked determined, and he wanted to do this, she suspected, for Alphonse. “Aryus and Delyth have wings. Surely someone could carry him? He’s proven himself adept with magic against the Gods. He has trapped Enyo twice—” Meirin said, watching the Goddess scowl, the lines in her new face turning severe. “And Mascen. It would be foolish to leave him behind.”
“So slow
a paltry load
to go, you’ll guess a riddle.” Aryus landed with a graceful bow. “I have seas with no water, coasts with no sand, towns without people, mountains without land. What am I?”
Delyth eyed the God with decided unease. “I’ll carry him. We want him there in one piece.”
Aryus managed to look affronted. “Angry little dragon warrior.”
Etienne snorted as though he found the idea of Delyth as little just as absurd as she did. “You’re a map, Aryus. And I don’t care as long as we get there.”
“Finally, something we can agree on.” Va'al’s arms were crossed over his chest, his foot tapping. “The sooner we can get there, the better. Then we’ll be free to fix the mess the humans have made of our land.”
“Then this is goodbye, I suppose.” Meirin struggled to get to her feet, leaning on Delyth’s strong hand to brace her up. Gratitude welled up inside Meirin. She would not consider them friends, but they were comrades. They respected one another, and that was, somehow, better. To have earned the esteem of someone as highly trained and brave as Delyth was the type of approval Meirin had always wanted. She was Delyth’s sister-in-arms, not a baker’s wandering daughter. Not just another clan girl, playing at being a warrior.
Surprising herself and Delyth alike, Meirin pulled her in for a tight hug. “Don’t forget who you are, Delyth. And—Thank you.”
“I—” Delyth stiffened at the sudden contact but warmed enough to hug Meirin back. She didn’t seem able to promise anything, but she nodded. “Thank you. For what you did and for your help getting here.”
After a moment, Delyth stepped away, her shoulders tense and her eyes a little sad. “Safe travels back to the Mynydd Gwyllt.”
“And safe travels to you too.” Meirin gripped Delyth’s arm one last time. This felt more like goodbye forever
than it did for the others. Would Delyth make it out of this battle alive? “Oh. I nearly forgot.” Meirin reached for her hip, unlatching the dagger from her belt. The highly decorated handle shone in the morning light, and not for the first time, Meirin smiled. It was amusing that Delyth had such a pretty weapon. Everything else the warrior owned was exclusively practical. The dagger, though, had a mother of pearl inlay and gems on the top of the pommel. It had been in Meirin’s things since the destroyed town. Delyth would have left it behind after killing the child, but they had already lost most of their weapons, and the folded-steel dagger was as sharp as it was fine.
Holding it out, her arm shook slightly. So blasted weak. “This is yours.”
Delyth’s face tightened, and she gently closed Meirin’s fist around the thing. “Keep it. Or give it back to Tanwen.” She turned away and moved to tear down her tent.
That left Etienne and Meirin more or less alone by the edge of the clearing where they had made camp. She could see the priest stirring in his tent. He would be up soon enough, and then she’d have to construct some sort of litter to transport Gethin between herself and the priest.
Maybe they would camp for another day or two.
If the Gods won against Mascen.
If not, it wouldn’t matter where they were when Mascen recreated Thloegr. Pushing aside the thought, she smiled at Etienne, who looked somber.
“Guess you’ll get to see Caerthleon before me.”
“Better to see it later, I think,” he said, obviously going for optimism, though his smile didn’t quite meet his eyes. “After Mascen’s been gone for a while.”
He rubbed the back of his neck, suddenly awkward, as though he wasn’t quite sure what to say, his ears red and the toe of his boot scraping on the ground. “Look, I, uh, like you quite a bit. Maybe we’ll see each other again? In my city or yours.”