The Traitor God

by Cameron Johnston

  I licked my lips. My head was pounding and my energy drained, but I couldn’t avoid voicing my fears any longer. “Cillian, she… said something; a disease.” My voice cracked. “She said they can’t heal you.”

  Charra frowned. “No idea what she is on about. I’m fine, so no need to worry.”

  “Liar.”

  She flinched and looked away, eyes tracing the lines of mortar in the wall. “You like your answers straight, so here it is: I’m dying. My own flesh has betrayed me. It’s killing itself and the white-robes tell me the disease has spread through my whole body.” She lifted a hand to her mouth and coughed some more, then stared at the blood flecking her fingers. Her gaze drifted to meet my horrified stare. Her voice reduced to a whisper, “Sorry I didn’t tell you. I had a similar scare once before, but I got better. Not this time.”

  My world dropped away. The deal had been broken, and those bastards I’d bargained with ten years ago never had fully healed Charra, they had just stopped the disease in its tracks.

  “I’m so, so sorry, Charra. There must be something we can do. I’ll force the Arcanum to help.”

  She shook her head. “There’s no more to be done, my old friend. Magic can’t fix everything.”

  Healers used their magic to quicken a body’s ability to mend what was broken and fight off infection, but if her own flesh was killing itself then any attempt at magical healing would just hasten her end. But I couldn’t accept that.

  “You’re wrong,” I growled, hands shaking. I was no healer, but there had to be something. “There must be another way. We’ll go to the Halcyons, try something else. They–”

  “They tried, and they failed,” she said. “I’ve accepted it. In this life you can do everything right and the worst can still happen. Sometimes it craps on you at the roll of a dice; mine just happened to come up all ones.”

  I slumped, mind thrashing through options: gods, great spirits, daemons, ancient Escharric texts of forbidden knowledge, even blood sorcery; I had to find a way to fix this. I’d lost Lynas – I couldn’t lose Charra too. If only I was stronger. If I had more power I could… No, that way led back to the Worm’s false seductions. I dismissed the possibility of obtaining and translating ancient texts that might be of any use as unrealistic. Pacts with great spirits or daemons of the outer realms? Risky. Illegal. And more importantly, I didn’t have the faintest idea where to begin, which put it in the same bucket as blood sorcery. Which left me gods, of whom four were missing and one a traitor to Setharis. If I tore off hunting them then I would be leaving her at the mercy of the Arcanum and that thing growing beneath the city.

  I swallowed and took a deep breath. “How long do you have?”

  “Months?” She shrugged, oddly calm. “Weeks?”

  No time at all. My unseeing eyes stared at the floor. What was the point of going on if she was just going to die on me anyway, whatever I did, however hard I fought?

  Charra’s hand cracked across my cheek. The guards started, seemed confused between the sanctor’s sudden horror and Charra’s slap. They didn’t know what was happening but didn’t try to stop her.

  “Don’t you dare wallow in self-pity,” Charra growled.

  “Charra, I–”

  “Not while…” She bit her lip, eyes boring into me. “I’ve accepted I’m dying, and so must you – you promised me you’d look after her.” I had, but then I’d only known Layla as a child and that was an age ago. I seemed to be having trouble caring, about anything; I didn’t know if it was the magic changing me, the residue of the alchemic they’d given me earlier, or if it was just me being a cold bastard worn far too thin by the world. There was only an ember of life and love deep inside me and I held onto it grimly, hoping it would reignite. It was too terrifying to consider what I might become if I lost that.

  The door creaked open and Cillian entered with an aura about her like a grizzled veteran contemplating a coming battle. She glanced at the sanctor who was still fretting over our momentary touch, and her lips tightened.

  “Your time is up, Edrin,” she said. “We will take care of your friend until she has recovered enough to leave.” It was a polite way of saying she was hostage to my good behaviour. Cillian had learned the game of politics well.

  Charra grabbed my sleeve. “Promise me.”

  How could I refuse? “You have my word.”

  A small sigh of relief escaped her lips. “Do whatever you have to.” She was telling me she was expendable and that her daughter needed me more, whatever the cost.

  A strange emotion surfaced, one that took me a while to recognize: shame. It had been a long time since shame and I had last been acquainted. I’d had my fair share of regrets over the years, but not shame.

  I knew fine well that the Arcanum had ways and means to discover Layla was Lynas’ mageborn daughter, and they might even find out that we had hidden that fact against the law of Setharis, whatever any falsified papers said. The Arcanum would destroy everything belonging to Charra as an example, and they would hunt Layla down and send her to the pyre. She was much too old to go through the Forging so they would put her down like a rabid dog. And there wouldn’t be a damn thing I could do about it.

  A magus could fight another magus, our loyalty belonging to Setharis and the Arcanum as whole, but the mageborn law was magically ingrained, so if they found out the truth about Layla then even I wouldn’t be able to lift a hand to stop them.

  I hugged Charra tight, like it was our last. Tears blurred my sight. “Goodbye, my friend.” It had been all too brief and I doubted she would be allowed to see me again. I fixed her face in my mind, so I could remember it until my end.

  She coughed, struggling not to cry. “There’s been absolutely no pleasure in knowing you, Walker.”

  “Vile woman,” I said, smiling so I didn’t cry.

  Cillian narrowed her eyes at us, not understanding the ripples beneath the surface of our conversation.

  I stood on cramping and burning legs and waved off the guards. I welcomed the pain as I hobbled from the room.

  As they escorted me down a hall back to my cell I caught sight of the very last thing I needed to see, my old tormentor, Harailt. I was so deep in despair that I couldn’t even bring myself to dredge up all the old grudges. I said nothing as the guards ushered me past him.

  “Wait,” Harailt said. The guards halted. Cillian tapped her foot impatiently, but otherwise remained silent.

  I turned my head to face him.

  “Edrin Walker,” he said, with less hatred in his voice than I might have imagined, and showing no surprise at the sight of me.

  “I’m not in the mood,” I said, lacking the strength to headbutt him. “Leave me be.”

  “I owe you an apology, magus,” he replied.

  I glared.

  “For my past actions,” he continued. “I was less than gentlemanly. I hope you can forgive me.” He extended a hand.

  I slapped it aside. A bright bead of blood welled up in my finger from a cut.

  “Sorry,” Harailt said, holding his hand up to show the scuffed signet ring on his finger. The gold and onyx emblem of House Grasske was cracked and bent. “I found I could not part with it, even after… well, in any case I was foolish and petty in the past. I think you were the first to show me that. I am ashamed that I was not a better man. There are many things I would change if only I had the opportunity.”

  “I…”

  “All I can plead is an arrogant and ignorant childhood,” he said. “Events have transpired to educate me and put me on a new path.”

  People could change a lot in ten years, but I couldn’t forget the terror he caused and I wasn’t the sort who forgave: by nature I was the sort of man who would let a grudge fester and then wait in a darkened alley to break your kneecaps with a hammer. Or I was before meeting Lynas, but without him I was slipping back. I refused to believe in this new Harailt. I sagged into my guards’ grip, not knowing what to say. In the end I just nodded, too dazed
to reply. For years I’d nursed a variety of elaborate and brutal revenges, but now I was sick and tired of it all. What was the point? Cillian finally had enough of the delay and started walking again, the guards dragging me in her wake.

  “What happened to him?” Had Eva been correct as to his changed nature? I refused to believe it.

  “For a time he looked likely to succeed Lady Ilea,” Cillian said. “Instead he was cast out of his House. He is no longer the heir to House Grasske. His cousin sits in his stead. It has been commonly viewed as a wise decision.”

  I couldn’t help but agree. The thought of Harailt with all the power and influence of a High House at his fingertips was madness.

  Harailt ran after us, “Ah, I forgot to say; it has been… such a unique pleasure seeing you again. It’s been far too long, my little Edrin.” He chuckled, leaning in until we were almost touching. “I hope we meet again, very soon.”

  That intonation. Those slick tones of the Old Town – the very words of the blood sorcerer!

  Out of the sight of the others he mouthed “I skinned your friend” and smirked in malicious amusement.

  I snarled and tried to tear his fucking throat out with my bare teeth, only to be wrenched back by my guards. “He’s a monster! Harailt is a fucking blood sorcerer in league with the Skallgrim! I’ll gut you, you–” They slammed me up against a wall, knocking the wind out of me.

  Harailt staggered back and fell on his arse, a look of shock on his face as his eyes flicked from me to Cillian. “The man has gone mad. I was just trying to be nice.”

  Liarliarliarliar!

  I lost it. Biting and clawing, thrashing to get free. Kill! Come Dissev–

  Something slammed into my skull and I sagged, everything gone blurry. A noxious rag was placed against my mouth, its alchemic stench making everything hazy and distant.

  I woke wrapped in chains as they dumped me into the bed. They may as well not have bothered – my body was a wreck after letting the magic roar through me like a wildfire. And I hadn’t even saved Charra in the end, just delayed her death. Exhaustion, despair and gnawing fury crushed me down.

  The sanctor settled into the chair at the bottom of the bed to keep watch.

  “Get some rest,” Cillian said. “You will need it. I hope for your sake everything you told me was true.” She chewed on her lip. “I hope for our sake that you were wrong.”

  I screwed up gritty eyes, tried to focus. I’ll kill you Harailt! If it’s the last thing I ever do. But darkness descended, fatigue dragging me down into a safe and welcome nothingness.

  Chapter 22

  I yelp and try to flinch away, but for a young girl Charra’s grip is strong as iron.

  “Don’t be such a baby,” she chides. With a cloth already stained red she dabs away crusted blood from my mashed lips and swollen nose.

  Lynas sits on a stool to the side of the bed, a wry and knowing smile on his face. His knuckles are skinned and raw, but otherwise he’s come through the fight without a scratch. How I always come away worse off I have no idea.

  “Is it broken?” I say, peering down at my nose.

  She flicks it with a finger. I shriek and scoot back, clutching my face. “That’ll teach you,” she says, faking a scowl. “Did I say I needed saving?”

  “No, but–”

  “But nothing. I’ve been on the streets all my life.” She glances around the tiny room that consists of nothing more than a straw pallet, single stool and a wobbly table with folded rags stuffed under one leg. “Well, until now.” It barely has enough room to fit all three of us but her eyes still shine with pride. It is her room, bought and paid for with her own coin.

  I gingerly pat my nose, wincing at each spike of pain.

  “You know I can handle sleazy old men like that,” she says. Her mirth at my bruised face and sheepish expression makes me smile. My burst lips object. That feral child has changed remarkably over the last two years. Somehow without me even realising it Charra has become the practical backbone of our trio. “We both know I fight dirty. Make you a deal: if I ever want your help, then I’ll ask for it. Good enough?”

  I nod. “Sorry.”

  “What were you thinking? Just charging in like that?” She smiled, knocking a fist against my shoulder. “Idiot. His sort of slime treat women like dirt all the time.” She shakes her head. “You wouldn’t last a week as a woman.”

  I grin. “As if you will ever see me in a dress! As for what I was thinking…” I shrug. “You know me, always leaping before I look.” In truth I’m bloody well worried something is very wrong with me, and even Archmagus Byzant’s constant ministrations haven’t convinced me otherwise. Ever since the Forging I’ve grown increasingly cracked in the head – I always need to have that last little needling dig, to stick in a barbed comment at exactly the wrong moment. I’m scared I’ll get myself killed. I’ve been in more fights in the last few months than in the whole two years previous. If I keep going like this I’ll wind up with a knife in my back lying cold and stiff in a gutter somewhere.

  Lynas smiles and shakes his head at my foolishness, but he isn’t the same as he used to be either. He’s come out of his Forging a shadow of his former self, and it isn’t only the discovery that he isn’t Gifted enough to become a magus. He is merely going through the motions of living, a puppet dancing on strings of habit. Something deep inside has been shattered.

  For once I am the lucky one. For unknown reasons Archmagus Byzant has taken a personal interest in me, listens to all my fears and tells me not to worry, that the world will all be set right again, given time. However, things are getting much worse. Charra can’t possibly understand what we went through, but Lynas and I both know we’ve been changed. Nobody ever remembers their Forging, but each and every Gifted wretch is carried out of that ritual chamber the same way: skin slick with sweat, throat raw from screaming, head bursting with pain and sobbing uncontrollably. I came out a magus, others come out like Lynas: broken. Some don’t come out at all.

  Lynas rises and looses a huge yawn. “Better get going. I have to get back to my accounts.” He waves goodbye and leaves.

  Charra frowns. “He seems obsessed with numbers lately. He’s never shown an interest in accounts and coin before, but in the last month he’s had his nose buried in ledgers and his fingers are constantly stained with ink.”

  “He told me he’s thinking of starting his own business,” I say. “He has a whole bunch of ideas. Keeps wittering on about taxes and tariffs and asking me what I think – as if I’d know anything about all that.”

  “I hope he’s well,” she says, looking thoughtful.

  I carefully explore my cuts and bruises with fingers that feel like knives. “Take care of him, will you? I think he could use somebody looking out for him right now.”

  Her dark eyes study me. “Of course I will. What did those bastard magi do to him up there?” It doesn’t seem to have sunk in that I am one of those bastard magi now.

  I shudder. “Nothing good. But that’s all over with now. I’m sure that he just needs time to recover. Something to focus on.” We could hope…

  She stares at the door, doesn’t say anything and doesn’t have to. She is as worried about Lynas as I am. I can’t be sure if he is throwing himself into business as some sort of way forward after his hopes and dreams were crushed, or if it was a strange effect of his Forging. Either way, I hope it helps him heal.

  It is a huge mental effort to haul my sorry, beaten body up off the pallet. “I’d better head back to my room or they’ll have me washing the privy floors again.” I struggle to ignore the self-destructive impulse urging me to stay longer. “Goodbye, Charra.”

  She smiles sadly, her face growing more lined, hair greying. “There’s been absolutely no pleasure in knowing you, Walker.”

  A sudden panic shattered the dream memory. My eyes shot open, the world a dull smear of grey, heart slamming, body aching. I jerked upright, muscles screaming in protest. Chains rattled around my an
kles and wrists. Crusty blood bunged up my nose and for a moment I was back in my dream with burst lip and swollen nose. But no, that was long gone, being home was just dredging up old memories. Dried blood covered the straw where I’d laid my head.

  The sanctor rose from the seat at the bottom of my bed and rapped on the door to let them know I was awake.

  I didn’t have much time left and I had to do something right for once: Harailt had to die, and I should have done it long ago. I ground my teeth and thought of Layla. I had to see her safe before there could be any reckoning, but it was impossible to ensure her safety while I was locked away like this. I’d have to be sneaky, have to unbalance the bastards, kick them in the balls and leg it while they were busy puking. I would probably have to do something monumentally stupid, but that shouldn’t be too hard; I’d pretty much refined that to a high art.

  The guards came for me again and shovelled a thick and salty broth down my throat. Afterwards I felt strangely improved for having had a few hours’ sleep and some food, which was far from right. My body ought to be completely crippled, muscles seized up and solid as cured ham, much like my left thigh still was thanks to Dissever’s presence there. How had the damn knife even fitted without ripping me to shreds? It had gone fluid, hadn’t it? My memory was somewhat vague. I should not be healing as fast as an elder magus, not at my age. It was not something that could be caused by briefly giving in to the Worm. The realisation washed my grogginess away with a thrill of distilled fear.

  I couldn’t bury my head in the sand anymore. A hundred little things over the years piled up into one inescapable conclusion – that something fundamental had changed inside me during the last ten years. The Worm of Magic was burrowing deeper into my flesh, changing me, and it had quickened on the day a god died.

  My power was swelling, my Gift grown stronger. I found it much easier to reach into people’s minds than I could ever remember. Breaking into those stolid and unimaginative guards outside Lynas’ warehouse should have proven troublesome and yet I’d cracked them open as easily as tossing eggs at a rock. I healed quicker than I should and as the years ground on I was growing increasingly resistant to alcohol and alchemics. Every magus lived with the fear of change – we had all seen the warped flesh and bizarre mutations, the seeping wounds and howling madness, that resulted from somebody using more power than their Gift could handle. Even if they somehow pulled back from going over the edge it always changed a magus. I was terrified of losing control.