Rory bent his knees to push again and again.
With a wet pop, Dhrun pulled all four of his arms apart at the elbows, leaving his hands still bound by the branches to his sword hilts. The bone and sinew of the joint capsules shone pearly smooth in the lamplight.
From Dhrun’s bones sprouted new forearms, massive black hands. The lower two of his new hands grasped the railing and pulled him back into balance. With his upper two arms, he slid Rory’s hands off his chest. Fast as a striking snake, Dhrun flowed around the druid. His arms slid up the other man’s armpits to wrap around the back of his neck.
A cry teared out of Leandra’s throat as she ran forward. She wouldn’t make it in time, and Dhrun was too far gone into his manifestation. Rory had tried to move the immovable. Dhrun’s muscles bunched. Rory folded over.
In the next moment, a moment too late, Leandra was in front of Dhrun. He threw Rory away and crouched, all four arms poised. Leandra had seen this manifestation before, in battles and brawls. The result was, unvaryingly, death or dismemberment for anyone unfortunate enough to so much as bump into Dhrun.
But Leandra did not need to move him. He reached for her, already swiveling his body to toss her over him in a hip throw. But the instant their skin touched, Leandra spun him out into an expanse of crimson language. She dove into him as if he were water.
Her mind was hot with terror and anger. Her life had been marked by death from the beginning, her disease announcing itself so soon. She had tried to make something of it, to change what she could with the little time she had. But now death was spreading out from her like roots from a tree.
It was then that Leandra knew in her heart she was Los reborn, a goddess, a demoness, a creature of death and change. The realization sickened her and filled her with determination not to be ruled by her nature.
So she used her talent to tear Dhrun away from the rest of the divinity complex. She cut away every sentence that composed Dhrunarman and Nika until there was only the immovable, implacable Dhrun left in her grasp. With a few concentrated thoughts she disspelled him into nothing.
Then the world was around her again. Shock and terror coursed through her veins, making reality seem unreal. Leandra was standing on the second floor of her family’s pavilion. Beside her a strange growth of roots erupted from the floor to wrap around a man’s legs. The man himself lay slumped forward, dead already, his neck snapped. Leandra’s father knelt beside the man, tried to gather him in his arms. But everywhere her father touched the dead man, black and gray tumors erupted from his skin.
Leandra wondered then how she could have lived so long without realizing who she truly was. If she had just examined her parents, her own nature, everything would have come clear.
In her own arms, Leandra was holding a beautiful youth, his dark skin seeming to capture the lamplight. He lay motionless, stunned. Leandra was mesmerized by the line of his jaw, the scrim of black beard. His musculature, though still impressive, was nothing compared to what it had been. And his arms … well … now he had only two of them.
Gingerly Leandra knelt. As she did so, he became a she—tall, fair skin, prominent aquiline nose, short black hair. Leandra laid her on the floor and then stood.
Others were filling the hallway. Guards and servants peered at her, their faces underlined by lamplight. Among them she saw Ellen’s severe expression and the pale faces of her mother’s twin druids. Between them stood a boy of ten or eleven years with Holokai’s eyes.
Leandra’s heart ached.
Suddenly her father was beside her, then her mother. There was a flurry of questions and repetitive statements of shock and grief. But it was obvious what had happened. The senselessness of it.
Though no one spoke their thoughts, Leandra could feel the nascent sentiments of blame moving among them. Dhrun was at fault for violence. No, it was Doria who shouldn’t have given Rory an intoxicating sedative.
But Leandra knew, and said so in monotone, that she was the cause of all this. Her father tried to explain her actions, to pardon her. Even her mother said so.
But Leandra wasn’t listening. She waited until the talking and tears stopped. Then she picked up what she had left of Dhrun and retreated to her suite.
Carefully she laid Dhrun on her bed and placed the mosquito net over them both. Dhrun tossed fitfully for a while. Leandra sat up and studied the other woman’s face, wondered if she could forgive her for ripping out the strongest component of her divinity complex. In her restlessness, Dhrun found Leandra’s hand. Their fingers interlaced.
Leandra closed her eyes, plummeted into dreamless sleep.
CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT
Leandra woke to heat and chattering parrots. Blinking and stretching, she sat up. Everything seemed a blur of tropical sunlight. More blinking resolved the visible world into a diaphanous white mosquito net, luffing in a breeze.
At first all Leandra could remember of the previous night was that she had taken the stress hormone. It was surprising that she had slept at all. But then she recalled the deaths, and the bright sunlight became blackness.
A woman stood by the window, looking out toward the bay. She wore a red lungi and black blouse, which in the breeze illustrated that the muscles of her shoulders and legs were shapely but no longer impressive. She had only two arms, two hands.
Leandra rose and went to the other woman. Before the two of them stretched a city, bright and busy.
“The druid,” Dhrun asked, “did he die?”
“Instantly.”
Dhrun nodded and set her short, glossy black hair swaying. “I tried to resist. I tried not to—”
“You did what you had to. The responsibility is mine. And I’m sorry about your … most powerful manifestation.”
The other woman looked down at her two hands and made them into fists.
“Dhrun,” Leandra started to say but then stopped. Started over. “Should I still call you that?”
“I suppose you had better,” she said, a little sadly. “It is odd to feel disabled with only two hands. Most people have only two.”
“You are strong enough with two.”
Dhrun shook her head. “I’m afraid not. With the wrestling god gone from my complex, there’s only an antique goddess of victory without a prayer—literally without a single prayer—and a young man.”
“I will pray to you.”
Dhrun smiled at her. “I can’t protect you any longer. I doubt I’ll be able to protect myself.”
“We will figure something out, I’m sure.” But even as she spoke, a blackness closed around her heart as she wondered if the damage she had done to her friend was too great, so much power gone so fast. Dhrun had changed, not just in terms of strength. Her accent and her demeanor had shifted. Little wonder—one third of her divinity complex had been removed. She was a different person, or set of persons.
They were silent for a long time, watching the city. Then Dhrun said, “I should have sought Rory out and said how sorry I was after Sir Claude died. I respected the old knight.”
“Don’t beat yourself up. It wouldn’t have consoled him. You were only protecting me when we were trying to escape the compound.”
“Should I express my condolences to your father?”
“Let me deal with that.”
Dhrun let out a long breath. “Thank you.” The two women embraced.
“Don’t give up,” Leandra whispered. “You’re all I have left.”
They stood like that in the tropical sunlight, felt the liquid breeze around them. Leandra realized how much solace she found in Dhrun’s Nika manifestation. She had taken her friendship for granted. In fact, Leandra realized, she had taken too many things for granted.
When they released each other, Leandra said, “I need to speak to my parents. Stay here and rest.” Dhrun started to object but Leandra insisted and stepped out into the hallway.
In the pavilion she found her father in discussion with Doria and several city watchmen. “Father,” she said
, unsure of how to behave around him.
“Lea,” he said with a nod. There was a weariness in his eyes that she had never seen before.
“How are you?”
He seemed not to hear her. “I spoke with the Trimuril this morning. I’m heading up to the Pavilion of the Sky. It’s vital that we capture all the prayers for the city’s defense. Recasting my metaspell should help that.”
“Will you be safe up there?”
“Yes, perfectly safe. There’s a bunker below the Pavilion. And all the prayers after the attack have created some anti-cannon and anti-rocket war gods. I’ll take two of them and several hydromancers with me. I talked it over with your mother. If all else fails, she could fly up.”
“And … Rory?”
“Cremation later today. His remains will be interred next to Sir Claude’s.”
“I should have realized how close Dhrun was to manifesting his lethal manifestation.”
Nicodemus continued to look her in the eyes, but his expression slackened further into exhaustion. “There are many things all of us should have done differently.”
Leandra was surprised her father had not offered a justification for the situation or her actions. Was he finally giving up on her? She was searching for the words that might tease out what her father was thinking when Doria approached. Without looking at Leandra, the old hydromancer told Nicodemus that his party was ready to depart. Nicodemus nodded. “Lea, I will be gone for a day, two at the most. The priests of the Trimuril are keeping runners in their monastery ready, if you need to send me a message.”
“What about Vivian’s anti-dragon spell?”
“I mentioned it to Francesca. She’s confident that she’ll be able to avoid it.”
“But if the Savanna Walker couldn’t avoid it with all the power of Los’s ancient body, how could she?”
“I don’t know, Lea,” he said in a tone that bordered on exasperation. “Your mother felt very strongly about it.”
“But I could protect her by separating her draconic aspects from the rest of her.”
Nicodemus flinched. “We should be careful in that regard.”
“You think I’d hurt her?”
“That’s not what I said.”
“Is it what you think?”
“I have been thinking about Rory and Sir Claude, and I couldn’t sleep last night. So, right now I’m too tired to think of anything else. And I need to get going.”
Leandra felt as if she were falling. “Of course,” she said and then decided that she was being foolish. She stood up straighter and repeated, “Of course.”
“I’m sorry, Lea. I’m just…”
“No, I understand. I will mention my concerns to mother.”
“Just … don’t…”
“We won’t fight.”
“Be safe.”
“You too.”
He embraced her, quickly, and then set out onto the street.
As Leandra watched them go, her sensation of falling intensified. She longed for the life she had known before she had bought the prophetic godspell from Lotannu Akomma. She used to be so certain. She had known in her bones that she was doing the right thing. But now everything had become confused.
She walked back up the stairs, heading toward her mother’s suite. But after turning a corner, she found herself standing before Ellen and the young boy with Holokai’s eyes.
Ellen stiffened, but then bowed her head and said, “My Lady Warden.”
The boy stepped closer to Ellen.
“Magistra,” Leandra said and nodded. Leandra couldn’t say that she’d ever liked the other woman, but she was acutely short on allies. “Magistra, I can’t thank you enough for yesterday. You did me a great kindness when you took off the loveless spell so I could talk to my father.”
The hardness around Ellen’s eyes softened. “I am glad to hear it.”
At a young age, Leandra had realized that most people would adopt a charitable opinion of anyone who gave to them. What exactly was given—flattery, attention, money—was almost less important than the act of giving. However, a smaller number of people awarded their esteem, not because of what one gave to them, but because of what one asked of them. Leandra had long ago discovered that the hearts of many physicians worked in this way, and that they were particularly vulnerable to requests from the vulnerable.
“This is a bit embarrassing,” Leandra said, “since you were already so kind to me, but I wonder if I could ask you for help again.”
Ellen stared at her. “How can I help?”
“You can call me Lea.”
Ellen’s mouth tensed just a fraction. That had been going too far.
Leandra continued. “The loveless spell … it keeps my disease at bay; however, it has some disadvantages.”
“That’s putting it mildly.”
“I’d like more time with the spell off of my mind.”
That gave Ellen pause. Behind her, the boy came closer. “You’d like it stored in a spellbook?”
“If possible, but what really worries me is that when I take it off, I get a dramatic disease flare. I’ve reduced the textual aspects of my body and started to take the stress hormone hoping it would prevent a flare. But I’m not sure if there is anything more I could do.”
“Your mother knows more than I do about your condition.”
Leandra gave the physician a deadpan stare. “And how well would you say my mother and I are getting along now?”
“Okay, it’s a bad idea. Maybe the worst idea I’ve ever had.”
“That’s why I wonder if you could help me with the dosing.”
Ellen seemed to think about it and then nodded. “Would you like to talk now?”
“I should speak to my mother first. May I come to you afterward?”
When Ellen nodded, something else occurred to Leandra. “Magistra, there’s one other thing … There’s a bit of a dangerous question I’d like to ask.”
Ellen put her head slightly to one side.
“The Savanna Walker’s revelations about my … origins … are likely being spread about as some rather wild rumors. I’m sure there are those who are saying that I’m the incarnation of evil.”
“You’re not?”
She wasn’t going to make this easy. “No more so than any other women.”
“Then there’s no hope for any of us, is there?”
Leandra kept her eyes fixed on Ellen’s. “I am trying to do the right thing.”
“What’s your question?”
“Have you heard of anyone speaking against me or my parents because of what the Savanna Walker said?”
“I’ve not, but given that I am your mother’s student—”
“I ask because everyone knows you don’t approve of me. I am not asking for your esteem or even your tolerance. But I hope you’ll help me do the right thing and protect the league and my parents.”
Ellen studied her, more thoughtfully now. “I will make some inquiries. If I discover anything, I will tell you and your mother right away.”
“Thank you, Magistra. Do you know if now would be a good time to see my mother?”
“It might be; she’s out in the garden. You can find me in your mother’s suite after breakfast.”
Leandra nodded and they walked past. But as she started down the hall, the floorboards squeaked. She turned around to see the boy, his dark eyes fixed on hers. Ellen stood at the end of the hall, looking on.
“Lady Warden?” the boy asked.
“Yes?”
“Is it true that you knew my father?”
“That depends. Who is your father?” Leandra would have bet every coin on the island that she knew, but she had learned long ago that assumptions were dangerous. She glanced up at Ellen and wondered what she and her mother had told the boy.
“The shark god Holokai. His last incarnation died two days ago.”
“I did know him, very well. What is your name?”
“Lolo.”
“
It is nice to meet you, Lolo.”
“What was he like?”
In the way the boy asked the question, Leandra knew that no one had yet told him that she had killed his father. “Holokai was very strong and very brave. He hunted down many neodemons.”
“Francesca said that the prayers from his cult will likely reincarnate him again soon.”
Leandra nodded.
The boy began to fidget with the hem of his blouse. “Could you tell me more about him sometime before I meet his new incarnation?”
“As soon as there is time.” And assuming, she thought, we are both still alive.
“Thank you,” the boy blurted before hurrying to Ellen.
Leandra turned and walked to the back stairway that led to the garden. She turned over the possibilities of Holokai’s reincarnation. The new deity would have only those memories that his cult had known to pray about. He would have no idea how he had been deconstructed. Leandra could tell him that his last incarnation died fighting a neodemon or the empire or whatever. If they deceived the new Holokai, he would have no way of knowing that everything he learned about his past life was a lie.
As Leandra walked down the narrow steps, she wondered if the same thing could have happened to her. Perhaps the truth about her last incarnation had been lost or misinterpreted. Perhaps she was not what everyone supposed her to be.
CHAPTER FORTY-NINE
The compound’s garden lay on its upper terrace, where a dam of dark volcanic rocks held one of the city’s smaller streams into a pool. On the water, lily pads surrounded a single blossom made pellucid by morning sunlight. Beneath the surface, speckled koi swam in languid overlapping circuits.
Francesca sat at the pool’s edge, comfortable in the shade of a banana tree. From her perspective, the water stretched out to the terrace’s edge, occluding the city below and mirroring the sky above: a patch of blue infinity.
Francesca found herself wondering about the koi. What did they think of the world above the water, if they could think at all? Perhaps they stared at the lotus flower and imagined a heaven of light and beauty. Or perhaps air was to them a lifeless void, the lotus symbolic of an uncaring universe. Whatever their underwater understanding, they could not imagine the flower as it was. Or at least, they could not imagine it as Francesca could.
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