Whom the Gods Hate (Of Gods & Mortals Book 2)

by M. M. Perry

  “Then why did you…,” Suman began. Anya silenced him with a raised hand.

  “We are still going. It just will not be as easy. There is another way into the sanctuary. A cave system. Luckily for us, nobody ever uses it. Unluckily for us, it is because the caves are infested with deathsglove.”

  “Actively?” Gunnarr asked.

  “Yes. My people regularly venture just far enough inside to feed the lichen enough to keep it active. It is the best way to protect that entrance to the sanctuary without actually guarding it. It is also a far less obvious clue that we care about what is beyond the caves than a round the clock guard post would be. We try not to draw too much attention to anything related to the sanctuary and its contents. How the Djinn ever found out about what we were keeping here…” Anya trailed off, her eyes fixing on Manfred.

  “We didn’t find out from anything you said or did,” Manfred said. “You’ve been well hidden from everyone. The gods can’t see into your sanctuary neither can we. It was the scrolls. They alerted us to you and your sanctuary. That it existed at least.”

  “That’s always struck me as odd,” Suman mused. He was oblivious to the annoyed look of the Djinn. “Gods gave the seers their powers. I’m assuming here, of course, that it was a seer who made your scrolls. How is it a seer can use their god given gift to see where the gods cannot?”

  “Because the gods did not give the seers their vision,” Anya said simply. Before anyone could question her further Anya changed the topic to more practical and pressing concerns. “Now I know you are tired, cold and probably hungry…”

  “The lichen,” Gunnarr said drawing Anya’s attention back to the problem at hand. “Are the caves even passable? There’s no point trying the caves if the lichen is everywhere in them. We might stand a better chance…”

  “My people will not be convinced to let you through,” Anya said, anticipating the large warrior’s line of thinking. “It has been at least a hundred years since the first Djinn came asking us for a dragon. My people were never swayed when the fate of all Djinn-kind hung in the balance,” Anya gestured at the Djinn, “they will not suddenly turn their back on ages of duty and belief to help one woman, no matter how noble her cause may be. I am sorry, but the caves are our only option. We have this in our favor, though. They are a vast and complex. So much so sometimes I think these mountains are more air than rock. I can scout ahead and try to lure the lichen to one side with the promise of a meal tonight. If I can focus its attention in one place, it should recede from the rest of the caves, at least a little. But I cannot guarantee anything. I have never tried anything like this before on my own. It is not too late for you to change your mind and turn back.”

  “You are willing to risk your own life in these caves,” Cass asked, “for someone you never met before yesterday? I can’t ask you to do this for me. You’ve done enough just getting us here. You all have. Go back, or wait for me here if you must, but I will do the rest on my own. Anya, I release you from your vow.”

  “You cannot. My oath was to my brother, and I will never break my promise to him.”

  Everyone remained silent, each considering the chance that if they entered these caves, that they’d never leave them. What hope there was seemed razor slim, even to Gunnarr. Yet after a long, silent pause with many sideways glances, they all looked back to Anya.

  “We all go, or no one does,” Gunnarr said, speaking for the group.

  “You inspire much loyalty. My brother failed to mention that,” Anya said admiringly to Cass.

  “Loyalty and desperation are not the same thing,” Patch said darkly, “there’s a reason they call it blind devotion.”

  Anya stared at Patch for a moment. She wondered if going in the cave was a wise idea after all. She knew she had to take Cass because of her promise and, if this was part of their prophecy, the Djinn as well but she did not know, trust, or have any particular reason for leading the rest of these people to the sanctuary. Once again she feared she was leading a viper into a nest of hatchlings. She pushed these doubts aside. She could tell, even in the short time she’d been with them, this group would never let Cass continue on without them, even if Anya insisted they stay behind.

  “We cannot go like this,” Anya gestured to the group huddled close together under their blankets. “Make camp here for the day while I gather supplies.”

  Anya pointed to a hut so cleverly concealed among the brush beside the road that no one had noticed it before Anya drew their attention to it. The windows were dark, but an almost imperceptible tendril of smoke rose from the chimney. It was small; Gunnarr wondered how they would all fit inside.

  “Someone lives there?” Gunnarr asked.

  “Yes. Ivan. He is disgraced among our people. They allow him to live so nearby as a mercy to his family. He has a wife and children, and now grandchildren. He will not speak of our plan to anyone, since he is all but shunned, so you do not need to worry about secrecy here.”

  “Why is he disgraced?” Viola asked.

  “Ask him if you wish to know. It is not a shame I will speak of, nor is it my place to further his dishonor by the telling of it.”

  Anya walked up to the door and tapped out three firm raps using a heavy iron knocker. It was a plain piece of metal, lacking adornment and decoration, a utilitarian rectangular solid bar of iron about the size of a man’s hand. The whole hut seemed built that way. Solid and serviceable, but without a hint of beauty or artistry. Nothing, not paint or carvings, broke up the monotony of bare wood beyond the knocker.

  When the door opened a shaft of weak light fell onto the group, hardly strong enough to be differentiated from the early pre-dawn glow cresting the mountains. An old man, wrinkled and wretched, stood in the doorway. He looked at Anya and her traveling companions with surprise.

  “Anya? Is something wrong?”

  “No, Ivan. Everything is fine. But if it would not be too much trouble, could my friends stay with you the night? They just need a safe place to sleep. I have plenty of blankets in the wagon. The road can be dangerous at night as you know.”

  Ivan turned his watery brown eyes onto the group and looked them over. He looked back at Anya and something unspoken passed between them. He nodded his head.

  “I would like the company. Please, come in.”

  Gunnarr went to gather the last of the blankets from the wagon as the group assembled in Ivan’s home. Once everyone was finally inside, Anya turned to go.

  “I must gather supplies to help my friends on their journey, Ivan. I will be back tomorrow early afternoon. Is there anything… any message you want me to take on to Kat?”

  Ivan regarded Anya. It looked for a moment as if he hadn’t understood what she had said. Viola wondered if memory sickness had taken him. His eyes held that same vacant stare she sometimes saw in older people who were under the care of by the priestesses of Purna. She had seen them from time to time in Faylendar, out in the gardens with the blue clad priestesses that served as their chaperones and keepers. The priestesses took them on outings as a kindness, but Viola wondered if it truly was kind to treat them so. They always seemed so frightened and confused. At that moment, so did Ivan. Then he snapped back and his eyes filled with comprehension again.

  “Oh, no, Anya, but thank you. I’ll tend to your friends. You go on,” Ivan said.

  Anya left and Ivan opened his arms wide.

  “My home is your home,” Ivan said, as he stepped back into the hut to allow them all to pass through the door.

  The building was, as Gunnarr imagined, barely big enough for all of them. Gunnarr anticipated a very uncomfortable evening leaning up against a wall to sleep. It wasn’t, by far, the worst place he had ever spent a night, but he did wonder why Anya thought they’d be more comfortable in here than out near the road next to a camp fire. Perhaps she didn’t want any passersby to spot them. Whatever the case, he wasn’t going to question it. He found a quiet corner and sat in it to get out of everyone’s way. He took up a l
ot of space regardless of how he was positioned, but in the corner he at least made it easier for everyone else to move around the little hut.

  The hut was very simple inside. One large room, the high peaked roof open to the rafters. The floor was plain grey stone laid carefully to keep it as flat as possible. A fireplace of thick hewn rocks was burning merrily opposite the door. It was the only cheery thing about the hut. A small table with a single lonely chair stood on one side of the room, a straw mat on the other. Whatever it was Ivan had done to earn his exile, Gunnarr thought, it must have been pretty bad for his people to make him live this way. A small pot hung over the fireplace with something boiling in it.

  “I’ve never had so many guests before,” Ivan said. His mood improved a little as he wended his way through them to a small cupboard which revealed, upon his opening it, several wooden bowls.

  “I don’t have much to eat but bean soup. But I do have a lot of bean soup. I keep the pot full all day long, in case I get hungry. I don’t have enough bowls for everyone, but maybe you can share with one another?”

  Ivan’s voice was on the edge of pleading.

  “Of course we can,” Gunnarr said for the group.

  They all murmured in agreement. Even Patch found pity for the lonely old man. Cass made her way over to Gunnarr’s corner of the room and, to his surprise, sat down next to him. As the old man passed out bowls he handed one to Cass. He smiled, a crack nearly lost in the many folds of loose skin that hung down from his cheeks, and moved on. Cass handed the bowl to Gunnarr.

  “You eat first. I’m not particularly hungry.”

  Gunnarr took the bowl hesitantly. The spoon in it was more of a wedge of wood than a spoon, a small divot in it the only indication it was something more than just a smoothed stick with a wide end. The soup in the bowl looked thick. Gunnarr could see at least five kinds of beans in it. He took a bite of it carefully, steam escaping from his mouth as he chewed. It was hearty, if a bit bland.

  “Any good?” Cass whispered quietly.

  Gunnarr shrugged and nodded.

  “I’ve had worse.”

  “I’ll bet,” Cass said smiling at him.

  Gunnarr felt a lump in his throat that had nothing to do with the soup. He tried to swallow it down but the sensation would not abate. He coughed a little and Ivan turned to look at him from the pot, where he was stirring the stew in preparation for ladling another scoop out into a bowl.

  “It’s mighty hot. Be careful.”

  Gunnarr nodded, his eyes fixed on Ivan so as not to have to look on Cass at the moment.

  “I’m sorry,” he heard her say next to him. “It’s just… you’ve clearly come a long way to find me. And… I’m well aware of the dangers of deathsglove. I do remember some things, mostly about places and things in general, nothing really specific to my life. I remember enough to know a cave full of deathsglove is the last place someone would want to be. And still you and your group are trudging forward for me. It seemed wrong to continue avoiding talking with you. But I didn’t realize how painful it must be for you. I’m sorry.”

  Cass started to get up but Gunnarr reached out and put his hand on her knee.

  “No. Stay. Please.” Gunnarr felt odd being so bold. Cass was usually the bold one. But he also felt differently about her than he had in the past. This was not his Cass. He knew that now. This was a person in need, someone who needed the help of a warrior perhaps more than anyone he’d ever met before. His grief had not gone, and might never be, but he could feel his resolve hardening. As much as this Cass seemed like a perfectly nice person, Gunnarr wanted her gone and his Cass returned to him. If that meant he had to climb atop a dragon and fight Oshia himself, he would do it.

  “I will then,” Cass said. She gave Gunnarr a smile then that was so genuine and so reminiscent of the Cass he knew, he almost forgot that this wasn’t her.

  She looked around the room at everyone. They were all sitting, trying to make themselves comfortable in the small space of the hut. Ivan seemed not the least put out. In fact, the old man looked like he was enjoying himself.

  “This reminds me of old times,” he said. Suddenly his face lit up and some of his wrinkles seemed to smooth away. Revelation was in his eyes. His voice went soft. “I’d always thought I’d be sad to have visitors.” He spoke to himself as if they weren’t there. He was clearly used to having no one to talk to, so in his shock of realization, he forgot for a moment they were there.

  “Perhaps,” he mumbled, “Perhaps I can now… Anya surely must know what it is she is doing, what it means. I… can leave now. I can go. I don’t have to stay. Kat has moved on. I should as well now I have the chance. Yes. Yes I will.”

  Everyone sat silently watching Ivan, transfixed. Viola wondered if she had been wrong in her initial presumption about Ivan. Perhaps it wasn’t memory sickness at all, she thought. Perhaps he had just been alone for far too long. Ivan felt the eyes of the room on him and blinked.

  “You people,” he began, “you have brought me something. Something quite unexpected. I’ve been stuck here, paralyzed if you will, unable to go down that road.” Ivan gestured toward the door and it seemed as if he was literally talking about the road down to Gull’s Landing. “I should repay you somehow, for the push, even if it was unintended. But I have so little. Whatever I have is yours.”

  “The soup,” Gunnarr said speaking for the group, “is mighty fine payment.”

  Ivan scowled and waved his hand in front of his face as if swatting at a fly.

  “Bean soup. It is not payment. But I will find a way to repay you.”

  Ivan sat down on the small bed in the corner of the room. He looked around at everyone searching for something. His eyes landed on the Djinn and studied him for a moment.

  “You are all so very different,” Ivan said as he scratched the stubble on his wrinkled neck. “Seems fitting somehow that you, outsiders, are the ones who have rescued me from my…,” Ivan trailed off. He laughed then and gestured around at his hut. “From all this.”

  “I don’t follow,” said Nat confused. “Are you trapped here? Is this some sort of prison?”

  Ivan picked up an iron poker and jabbed at the fire in the hearth.

  “I was exiled… hmm. Not sure anymore. Maybe forty years? Anyway, longer ago than you’ve been alive,” he leveled the poker at Nat, “Exiled here by my people. It started with a scholar. He was a good fellow. No one else from my village, well, of the few that ever left to go down to Gull’s Landing, was ever interested in talking to him. But I liked him. When I was a young lad, a little younger than you I expect,” Ivan said gesturing at Nat again, “I wanted to be like him, writing books about things lost in time. Studying creatures that no one knew about. I wanted my books to be read by people all over Tanavia. I imagined that one day children learning about gods and the fierce people who defied them would read from the pages of books I had written.

  “But, that was not the future for me. Before I ever set pen to parchment I fell in love. She was pregnant before the moon could blink once at our marriage bed and that was that. I could not leave my family behind to go out and study the world. Leaving the village is hard enough to do when you aren’t leaving your family behind as well.”

  What Ivan’s eyes saw now wasn’t the room before him, but the flickering of memories.

  “You have no scholars in your village?” Viola was incredulous. Scholars were everywhere, at least that’s how it seemed to her.

  Ivan chuckled as he spoke.

  “Yes and no. We have a type of scholar whose job it is to teach the children of our village. But not of the outside world. We are taught how to take care of our charges and the history of their lives.” Ivan stopped short of calling them dragons, but Gunnarr was unsure if this was out of habit. Gunnarr suspected the old man knew by now, particularly after seeing the Djinn, what it was they were after.

  Ivan continued his story, his voice becoming quiet enough that they all had to listen carefully to hear
his words, even in the small hut.

  “But our elders have little interest in teaching us about the world beyond. And Dyim is very isolated. We don’t get visitors and aren’t allowed down to Gull’s Landing unless we have express permission to do so. Many of our people go their whole lives without ever leaving, even for a day. It is rare for the elders to let one of our people truly leave. Anya’s brother, Driscoll, he wanted to go. It took him five years of petitioning the elders before they trusted him enough to let him go. I might have been given permission, if I had not had a wife and child. But most likely I would not have been. Driscoll was quite the exception. It surprised everyone when he was given permission to leave.”

  “The scholar, you met him at Gull’s Landing then,” Viola said, understanding.

  “Yes. He approached our people whenever they had business down there. We still have need of goods from time to time. Particularly in times of drought, when our farms do not yield enough food for us to survive. They train certain people in the language and customs of Tanavia, people they are sure they can trust to keep our secrets. Those people alone are allowed to go to Gull’s Landing to trade. When I met the scholar, it had been in the middle of a long drought. I spent many days speaking with him. He was very interested in my people. I was suspicious at first. Perhaps he had heard about the dragons...”

  Ivan paused and looked around. As he had suspected, no one looked surprised at the mention of the creatures most thought were extinct, if they ever had existed at all. Satisfied, he continued.

  “But he had not. He was mostly interested in how small, isolated villages viewed the gods. In particular he was curious about any stories they told of the gods and how they might differ from those more commonly shared. It was his belief, you see, that some of these older isolated stories might be more accurate as they hadn’t been influenced over time by changing opinions of the gods. I figured it was fine to talk about these things with him. I justified my conversations by telling myself that the more enigmatic I was about our people, the more curious he would become. Telling him a little bit about our views on the gods seemed harmless enough. I was also thrilled to talk to him about his findings and his travels. Before long I had befriended him.”