Immortal Progeny (Fragile Gods Book 1)

by Philippa Ballantine

  Each of those lost was a gift wasted. They were in tune with the natural world and able to manipulate it, and each of them was almost impossible to replace. While the theists could make a new believer and use their innate strength in days, training a Zoeker took decades of study. It was why some of their kind dabbled in the idea of following the theists; making their own progeny and taking the easier path.

  "I'm alright," Wisdom whispered to Groa, batting away her support. He reached for the akasha, letting it wrap him in its warmth, even as he tottered weak as a toddler towards his fellow Zoekers.

  None of them would meet his eyes as he straightened, touching them through the akasha, seeking answers. Strangely, they were all closed to him.

  "Wisdom!" Kenust's voice drew him to the side of the tree almost hidden in the mist. It was a relief to see the older man survived, but when the others stood aside so Wisdom could reach him, his blood ran cold with what he saw.

  Setna was propped up between two large roots of the swamp oak, clutching one hand to his side. It did not look like much of a wound, but something in the akasha warned Wisdom it was far more than first appearances suggested.

  He heard Groa come up and stand behind him. She did not gasp, but she did not need to.

  "Poison," Kenust said, pressing his hand over Setna's and looking up at the newcomers. "It is some mad theist concoction, delivered by a snake progeny of some kind. I was first to arrive and drove it off but..." He closed his eyes for a moment.

  Without comment Groa dropped down next to him, bending her gifts to the wound, but Wisdom knew it was a waste of time; Kenust was the strongest healer they had, and poison was a nasty business.

  Setna shifted his head, his gaze locking with Wisdom's. It was as clear and certain as it had been only the short time ago when they talked in Jaarhalt. "How many villagers survived?"

  Wisdom looked over where the survivors grouped in a shocked huddle. "Fifty perhaps, teacher."

  "Good." Setna let out a long sigh, his fingers slipping away from the wound. "I am apparently not quite the runner I once was. They had a progeny waiting for me, large, a combination of a python and several deadly adders I would guess. They used to have trouble with snakes..." His mouth twisted in a rare display of disappointment.

  Setna trained Wisdom, was his mentor on his journey of self-discovery, and developed into the closest thing to a father since his own cast him out. The younger man had always strained to shine under Setna's eyes and make him proud. Now he found himself at a loss as to what to do.

  "Groa," Wisdom said, hoping against hope he was wrong about the situation.

  The woman's face folded in despair for a moment before she grabbed hold of her control. She merely shook her head. Theist poison, made from so many beasts, was beyond ever her akasha.

  Setna did not allow them any time to flail around for false hope. Instead, he leaned forward and grabbed hold of Wisdom's hand. His grip was still surprisingly strong, but he caught Groa's gaze with his eye and jerked his head away.

  She took her cue immediately and without complaint. Groa and Kenust bowed once to their teacher and stepped away to a respectful distance

  Wisdom ground his teeth together to hold back a scream at the unfairness. He still had so much to learn from Setna, and he was their leader, as well as the only one with a clue how to get back to the House of Flame. Already in his mind's eye he saw their mission flying apart, the theists ready to claim victory as the remnants of the Zoekers ran through a countryside turned against them.

  "No," Setna gasped out. "No, I have made the adjustments, all my power goes forward with you. I can see it all now, brother."

  Wisdom squeezed his mentor's hand, as he understood what he was saying. The gift of precognition, a chance to see into the future was a rare thing, and one that sometimes appeared at the end of life. Despite the situation, Wisdom understood it was a great gift Setna was offering them all.

  Wisdom leaned forward, and his expression must have said it all because Setna let out a growl of annoyance, much as he was given to do under normal circumstances. "No, not pre-cognition, I want you to look back rather than forward."

  Wisdom frowned as he tried to understand what his teacher meant. Often, when learning at his knee, Setna assigned him puzzles of logic and akasha which when unraveled revealed a truth. Was this one of those times?

  "No tricks today." Setna's grip tightened on Wisdom's arm, hard enough to focus his attention back to his teacher. "You must go back literally and figuratively; you have to find Vervain."

  Mention of his love was enough to make Wisdom ache in totally different ways. Setna was not tapping into the akashanic ocean, he was simply becoming delusional.

  "Her fate is sealed." Wisdom placed his other hand over Setna's, hoping to ease his passage through the final moments of his life, and perhaps part some of the confusion he was suffering from. "She was killed at the hand of the priests of Serey. Much as I hate to say, there is nothing more we can do about it...."

  "There is always something to be done about it," came Setna's angry reply. "And don't ever say fate in my presence...you know better than that, lad." His face grew red as the poison coursed through his body. He surely couldn't have much longer.

  Setna had not called him 'lad' in quite some time.

  Wisdom nodded. "Indeed, there is only the real and the unreal. I am not slipping... never fear, master." He took hold of the old man's hand. "It doesn't change that Vervain is dead and all her strength is lost with her."

  Setna's eyes were having trouble focusing on him. "I didn't tell you, I didn't want you to waste your life to get back what was lost. You they would have killed, but not her. They took her...but now...at the end I see what she is." He let out a laugh that was short and bitter. "Strange how as that darkness draws in some things become so clear."

  Wisdom was having trouble understanding what his teacher was saying. Vervain died, that was what Setna told him, and he took it as truth—now he didn't know what to believe. He shook off the prime's hand and leaned back as the realization flooded over him.

  Setna clutched at his throat, but pushed the words out. "I suspected what she was that day I found her in the river...but I couldn't bring myself to believe it...now..."

  Anger boiled up inside of Wisdom then, as he remembered all the stories about the importance of honesty for a Zoeker. Even though Setna was dying he wanted to punish him. What had all of his friends and colleagues died for today if not for a chance to uphold the truth? Their teacher lied to them.

  Dimly he heard Setna gasp out the words. "The temple-city of Serey...Providence...they will have her there...they will see what she is. You must...use the pathways...find her..."

  The final rattle of air passed through Setna's throat, a hollow, empty sound, perhaps as hollow as all the training he had given Wisdom.

  The young man stared at him for a long moment, at the upturned eyes, the swollen throat and the clutching hands, and was filled with a terrible loathing. Wisdom stood and looked around him.

  It was only Groa who dared move towards him and ask, "What did he say? What must we do?"

  Wisdom looked up at them with chill eyes, and a pit of emptiness in his chest. "You must lead these survivors back to our first camp of the summer. I will find you there later."

  "But, teacher,"—the title sounded strange directed at him—"you must take Setna's place now, take us back to the House of Flame." He saw the need in her, in all of those around him, and he did know; his teacher placed the location of the House in his head. He could have done it, but there was a lie that had to be destroyed, and Vervain had to be saved.

  Wisdom pressed his hand over hers. "Setna gave me a task, Groa. I must finish it. I will find you in the first camp once it is done." He lowered his voice. "But if I am not back in a moon's cycle, then head east as best you can. Atyin and his circle can be found in the foothills there. If need be he'll lead you all back to the House."

  She frowned, but where she would
have only a short while ago argued with him, Groa now nodded. "And the villagers?" she asked.

  Wisdom looked at the survivors. They could not travel to the House, and they could not be simply left.

  "Take them back to the camp with you, and do what you can for them." Groa and he shared a knowing look. Neither of them mentioned it, but they knew; they had seen it before. Most of the free villages eventually turned to their attackers, becoming part of their flock. Those few who resisted would be hunted and their carcasses turned to homunculi.

  "As you will, teacher," Groa replied, folding her hands together. "We will await you at first camp. Travel well."

  "Let us both trust ourselves," Wisdom said softly, wrapping his tattered cloak over his shoulder. "That is all we have in this world."

  The Zoekers bowed to each other, not too much, and Wisdom turned his face to the marsh. That final tenant of their way was all they had to cling to. He would hold onto the terrible secret of Setna's lie, and not share it with them. It would be his burden.

  Once he found Vervain, which he had to, he would save her, and the balance of the world would be restored. The others would remember their teacher kindly, but Wisdom would always carry the wound. Balance would be restored.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Ghosts in the Temple

  The sisters were wrapped in flesh and blood, tumbling together into madness. They pulled each other back and forth, as if they were struggling to be born—though neither of them could remember a mother that might have held them within her body. Rowan felt her sister keenly; her pain, her loss, but also her determination and strength. It felt strange, even as it flooded across to her.

  She struggled to think of a time where she experienced any of her own. Have I ever had any of my own? When was it I had anything of my own anyway?

  Everything had always been Mother's. Only the darkness, the shadows, and the whispers: Those belonged to Rowan as long as she could remember.

  The people—normal people that was—were afraid of the dead. After all, death took even beloved ones and made them terrifying to their families and friends. Once on that side of the veil, the lost were part of the great unknown. Those pieces of flesh left behind became nothing more than parts for the priests. They became weapons of war to welcome the one God.

  Pity for the dead consumed her. They were lost and only she could hear them. Instinctively Rowan, reached out to them—full of sudden love for them. They were people and animals carried away from life and lost in a storm of despair. Even those who died peacefully in their sleep yearned for the light again, and the touch of their loved ones. All the minor day-to-day troubles that haunted them in life mattered little to them on the other side. Death scoured away those inconsequential matters, and revealed what was true and dear. Love. Connection. Hope. All that was gone.

  On the heels of pity, profound empathy filled Rowan, and she wanted to help them; take them in and heal all their hurts.

  I'm not afraid of you, she whispered to them from her deepest being. Come to me. I am not frightened by you. I love you.

  The people were cautious, hanging back, whispering only their final memories to her. They were afraid and uncertain after so long, so it was the animals that came first; as trusting as they had been in life. Great beasts moved forward her from the shadows.

  They towered over her with thick coats, wide ears like sails, and long curved horns. She did not know the name for them, even as they touched her with their trunks, and peered down at her with gentle brown eyes. However, their spirits were so powerful Rowan was almost overwhelmed. She heard their hearts in her own head, felt the communion all of them shared, like a family. In the darkness they whispered to her of their lost lives and past wonders.

  She walked with them on the snow and ice, scouring the cold ground for grass and brush, with their calves nestled at their sides. It was peaceful under a bright blue sky before the coming of the people and their cruel temples. The beasts owned the world. They cared for each other, and each of them was fiercely protective of their young. The whole herd was led by a great female—a matriarch in fact—who took them to the best pastures each season.

  Then the humans came, and the temples’ hunger for flesh made the beasts their first prey. They did not die easily, but the warriors of the temple drove the beasts before them, into pits filled with spikes, or worked them to such a frenzy they plunged off cliffs. If the flesh was marred slightly it did not matter—there were plenty of them. The temple took those beautiful, intelligent beasts and made them into monsters.

  Tears leaked from Rowan's eyes, and it was the first physical feeling she experienced in the darkness. As she wept it felt as though they drew closer, feeling her empathy like the sun on long dead and stolen skin. No one thought of them, spoke their name, or wished them well for hundreds of years. Their bones lay buried under the temple, but they were never acknowledged as part of it.

  Rowan stopped crying at that realization. Sensation was returning to her own body, and she felt her hands clenched into tight, painful fists. Anger began to take the place of sympathy. The temple grew strong on the backs of those beasts, beaten temple after temple and expanded their influence quickly. Yet they forgot the broad backs and wide tusks that built it all. They failed to remember the murder and blood they took to reach this point.

  It was time for that debt to be repaid, and suddenly Rowan saw how the ledger could be settled.

  Death was her instrument; it could play backwards or forwards at her will as easily as Tagier spun thread. The world demanded justice for the beasts of the tundra, who fell unremarked, whose very name had been forgotten. She unwound it from them; she summoned the memory of their strength. She gave them back their bone, their muscle, their fur, and called them back to the world.

  Rowan opened her eyes and looked across at Vervain. They were still in the bloodletting chamber, but things were different.

  Her sister stared at her, a frown on her blood smeared, exhausted face, but Rowan knew she felt them too. It was hard to ignore because the temple shook like a drum. It had only been days since the attack by the progeny, but even it had not rumbled the very roots of the temple like this.

  Below the sisters, the igniters and stitchers screamed, a satisfying echo of the cries Rowan and Vervain let out. The priestesses and priests were not so committed to their work it seemed, since they dropped it and fled. Rowan smiled. The bones of the temple, the bones of the dead beasts, would be silent no longer, and she was proud of that.

  However, she might have brought them back from the brink of death, but she felt hollowed out by the effort. Her instincts got them to that point, but the spirit of the beasts were more alive than most of the temple's humans. It was not Rowan who could clothe them in new flesh; she did not have that power.

  Vervain, she pleaded, though only with her mind not her voice, give them your gifts as well.

  Her sister's eyes—which were also her eyes in a way—widened. As a Zoeker that had to be even more terrifying, Rowan understood that. The wildness was nothing like the anti-theists much prized control.

  Give them form and life, Rowan whispered into her sister's skull. Let them have their justice. Clothe them with flesh to let it happen.

  Vervain and Rowan shared the same blood, but their unleashed powers were different. Vervain paused, looking around them at the walls and ceilings that shook so violently. The ground was already coated with broken bottles and their own spilled blood.

  It was odd how calm Rowan felt in that strange moment, as the bones of the unmourned beasts shook themselves loose. Her own demise didn't seem to matter in the face of such cruelty. Justice felt more important.

  We will be killed. Vervain's voice was a quiet whisper in Rowan's head. Her sister obviously had more care for their well-being than she did.

  Does it matter? Feel their pain and stack it up against all of ours. It is nothing.

  The roof creaked and groaned, the bones pulling themselves to the surface, and Rowa
n had no doubt her sister was right. The fact remained, the dead were coming for what they needed. They would not be stopped.

  Life was not her preserve though; the bones were too old for her to clothe them in rotten flesh.

  Vervain's gaze locked with Rowan's, and it seemed she finally understood. We are in this together. Live or die, we do it as one.

  She took a deep breath, her face going still and beautiful, then she stretched out her hands still locked in manacles. None of that mattered; the breath flowing through her was the breath of life. Her fingers spread wide, flickering in a pattern that seemed to be close to music.

  She gave flesh, sinew, skin and fur to those Rowan roused from the dead. Vervain clothed them in her own gifts, and it was beautiful.

  The bones erupted from the ground like a field of spears. So many bones, Rowan thought in genuine surprise. She had not been able to count the beasts, and had not expected such a large herd. All this time they were here and I never even knew. The stones of the temple rattled like loose teeth, some slid and gave way because the bones were huge and disrupted the foundations of the temple-city. When they were yanked from the earth they were twice as tall as Rowan, and thick and sturdy.

  Even though Rowan instigated it all, she still watched in amazement as her sister's work began. Light twisted around the bones, the kind of white light that grew in intensity, until even she could not bear to look at it. Dimly she heard the trumpeting of many beasts in the distance. The sound grew louder just as the light grew to a burning strength. No one could look directly at it and not lose their eyesight.

  Vervain cried out, and her voice surprisingly cut across the cries of the great beasts. Life might not be as eternal as death, but it had its own powers.

  The temple screamed, not just the people but the building itself. The herds of beasts, all those slain in the name of the deity, were wrapped once more in what had been taken from them.

  Rowan felt her breath jam in her throat. The ghosts of the dead beasts were impressive enough, but once her sister gave them life they were so much more. They towered above Vervain and Rowan and filled the temple with a thick musky odor. They had massive shoulders, and slightly sloping backs. The heads they swung about were powerfully muscled with large ears, curling trunks, and immense, curved tusks that arced out of their mouths to curl around the front of their bodies. Like she had seen in their hopes, there were babies within the herd, calves they kept tucked protectively against them.