“A hunger that will, in time devour itself, brother,” Deitra replied.
Javen considered that for a moment, then sighed. “Perhaps, though there is no knowing what—if anything—will be left when that happens. Anyway, that is not the only thing that troubles me.”
She gave him a smile she clearly did not feel. “I had not expected it would be.”
“Mock if you will,” Javen said bitterly, “but I speak truly.”
A gentle hand on his face, and he turned to meet her eyes. “I do not mock you, Javen,” she said softly, seriously. “I would never do that.”
Javen watched her, and in her calm visage, he found strength, found some of his hope returning. “Your talents, I think,” he said finally, “are wasted in the arts and music, sister. You could have been something else, something more. I think that Father was wrong to make you thus. The Goddess of Hope, perhaps.”
She tilted her head, studying him with eyes twinkling with amusement. “Why, dear brother, don’t you understand? That is what music, what art is. It is hope. It is light in a world which has none, it is the shining of the stars in the darkness. No, father was not wrong to make me as he did, brother. I am what I am. I could be no other way.”
“As you say,” he answered, inclining his head. “Still, I fear Paren and our mother are not the only gods we must contend with. I have been watching, listening, and it seems another has joined the fray.”
“Oh?” she asked, and for the first time, she looked truly troubled. “What makes you believe that?”
He shook his head slowly. “Shadows move, sister, and there is something about their moving that is…purposeful. I do not like it. And there is the one called Sevrin. I cannot see him, not any longer.”
She frowned, closing her eyes. Seconds passed, seconds that might have been an eternity then, finally, she opened them again, and she looked more disturbed than she had. “I cannot either. He is…gone.”
“Yes,” Javen said. “But not dead. I have checked with our brother, the Keeper, and he has told me he does not count the man among his charges.”
Deitra studied him. “If not dead, then where?”
Javen shook his head. “I do not know. And the not knowing worries me. I believe that he is being hidden from our sight. That something—or someone—cloaks him.”
Deitra narrowed her eyes. “This other sibling you spoke of.”
Javen considered that for a moment. It was possible. So far, the other gods had neglected—or refused—to take sides, not daring to set themselves against their mother or father. It was a choice he understood well, for though he hated his mother, hated what she had become, he also loved her. She had not always been as she was now, just as the wilds over which she held dominion had not been as they now were.
Once, the deep places of the world had been full of mystery, of a fey magic all their own, so powerful even the most dim-witted mortals might feel it. Now, though, they had become dark places, and where once they had been filled with whimsy, now they held only menace. Still, for millennia, he had loved his mother, and for millennia she had loved him, and his siblings, in return. True, she had always been…different, from his father. Where Amedan’s path was straight and true, Shira’s was most always curving, uncertain, full of twists and turns. Not cruel ones—at least not until recently—but only ones that gloried in the unexpected, the unanticipated. And he remembered, too, her laugh. A full, wonderful laugh. His father did not laugh often, for in truth, in certainty, there was little room for humor. Yes, his mother’s laugh…even now, he could not say for sure when the laughing had stopped. When jokes had become scorn, when amused annoyance had turned to hate. He also did not know what had caused the change. None did. None save perhaps their father, and if Amedan knew the truth behind his wife’s hatred, he would not share it.
Javen sighed, casting away the memories of his mother in better times, and finally shook his head. “No. I do not believe it can be a sibling, as much as that might answer things. I have spoken with many recently. They all seem content to let matters play out themselves—save for Alcer. He has Chosen the girl, but I confess even I cannot guess at his motives. I think it would be wise for us to watch her carefully, for where there is deceit or treachery in the chooser, so, too, will it manifest in the Chosen, and our wayward brother has ever been…”—a small grin in acknowledgment of his words—“fickle.”
Deitra nodded slowly. “I have had much the same thoughts. Alcer has always kept to himself, preferring the company of his beggars and orphans to his family, and there is no knowing his mind. Still…if you do not believe it is he or one of the others…then who?”
Javen shook his head again. “I do not know. Something…new. Something…dark. I cannot tell you anymore than that, sister, only that it—whatever it is—exists. That much, at least, I have learned.”
“And how do you know this? If this…thing is as hidden as you say, then how did you learn of it?”
Javen laughed then, and his eyes—the pure white and pure black both—seemed to shine. “Call it chance.” He sobered then, frowning. “Whatever it is, I think we had best learn of it and soon.”
“Have you told father about this?”
Javen grunted. “I told him.”
“And?”
He sighed, shrugging. “And he did what he always does when I attempt to discuss something he wishes to be left alone—he ignored it. For the God of Fire and Light, Father has a way of hiding things that is dangerous.”
Deitra frowned. “I’m sure if we needed to know, Father would tell us.”
“Perhaps.” Javen turned to gaze in the distance where, he knew, Eriondrian and the others were traveling through the tunnels. A nobleman thief, a once homeless musician, an old man who cared nothing for the world or its people, Alcer’s Chosen, a Ferinan whose people had been butchered, and a young girl whose role in events—if any—was still unknown. And, of course, there was his father’s Chosen, the one who had been marked by the shadow and the light both. He had overcome the shadow within him, for now, but he had not killed it, only pushed it back. It was still there, waiting as the darkness always did, for its time to come forth. Javen knew that, as he knew many other things. He only wished he knew what would win out, in the end, for his father had given the man, Alesh, great power, power greater than any who had come before him, and in so doing had weakened himself. And if the Chosen should give in to the shadows’ seductive whispers, then the tragedies to come would befall not just mortals, but gods as well. “I hope he knows what he’s doing,” he muttered.
“Our father?” Deitra asked, then she gave him another smile. “You must have faith, brother.”
“Forgive me,” Javen said, “but I know far too much of chance to have faith. Our father is weakened, terribly so. Once, he could have stood against mother, could have overcome her, if need be.”
“And in so doing,” Deitra said softly, “he would have risked the world itself. For you know well what devastation would come should the two clash wills directly. It is likely every mortal on the face of the earth would have been killed.”
“Yes,” Javen said, turning to her, “now, it is likely we will as well.”
Deitra sighed, shaking her head. “You are in a dark mood today, Youngest.”
“Yes,” Javen said, “but remember, sister, sometimes, it is the young who see clearest.”
Chapter Three
“Gods, how long are these tunnels?” Marta said. “It’s a good thing my feet are made of stone, or they’d be hurting right now.”
“Your feet are made of stone?” Sonya asked from where she walked behind Alesh. “That’s amazing! How did it happen?”
“Well, I’ll tell ya, since you asked so nice and all,” Marta answered. “See, I got lost in a forest when I was just a kid—your age, maybe. Or not, who knows? Anyway, I got lost and was real thirsty and hungry too. Well, I found a beehive, so I ate it and—”
“You ate it?” Sonya said, shocked. “But…b
ut what about the bees?”
“Right, well, I ate them too.”
“How…how’d they taste?”
“Dry,” Marta said as if it was obvious. “Anyhow, I was really thirsty then, and I found this pool in the forest. I started to take a drink, and a fairy popped up, said, ‘don’t you take no drink of my pool, varmint. Or I’ll cut you up and…err…that is, she said, ‘don’t you set a single foot in my water, or I’ll turn it to stone.’”
Sonya gasped, and Alesh winced from where he walked beside Larin. The Chosen hadn’t said a word since they’d first made it into the tunnels, and judging by his grim expression, the girl’s fanciful stories were doing nothing to help his mood.
“So what did you do?” Sonya asked in an excited, thrilled voice.
“Well, I did the only thing any self-respecting person would do in such a situation, didn’t I?’ Marta said. “I walked into that water and punched the fairy in the nose.”
Another gasp from the young girl. “You didn’t!”
“Sure did,” Marta said matter-of-factly. “Only, thing was, she was serious. You know, about the stone. Both my feet are just as stony as can be.”
Sonya giggled. “That’s—”
“Ridiculous, is what it is,” Rion cut in. “Her feet aren’t made of stone. Also, what sort of fairy calls people varmint anyway?”
“Know a lot of fairies, do you?” Marta replied in an innocent voice. Despite their dire situation, and the fact that they’d spent nearly the last full day staggering through dark tunnels, their only light coming from a single torch carried by Larin who walked at the front of the procession, Alesh was forced to cut off a laugh.
Rion scowled, mumbling something under his breath, and Alesh and Katherine shared a grin before they continued in silence. Turning back to face the darkness of the tunnels and the sporadic, flickering light of Larin’s torch from up ahead, the smile on Alesh’s face slowly died.
The tunnels seemed to stretch on forever. At first, he had been impressed, shocked even by the sheer scope of them, humbled to imagine that Larin, without help, had dug these tunnels. It was hard to fathom that so much work could be done by a single man—impossible, in truth—but the smoothness of the tunnel walls, and the uniformity of the angles made him believe that Larin had used some other means besides conventional tools to dig.
It amazed him how this old, gruff giant could seem to know so much, to have discovered so much years ahead of anything even the world’s finest scholars spoke of. Here, walking before him in the dark, dank tunnels, grumbling to himself and spitting from time to time, was a man who could have—had he chosen—single-handedly brought the world of men into a new age of technology and of limitless potential.
When he’d first had the thought, Alesh had thought Larin selfish, possibly even arrogant, to hide himself away like a book locked away never to be read or studied while the world suffered from problems his vast talent could have eradicated years ago. That had been hours ago though. Since then, he had convinced himself that, perhaps, the man was right to do what he’d done, to keep the knowledge away from men.
After all, if you gave a young child a torch, the first thing they would do was burn themselves. And the second? Well, the second would be burning someone else. The world was that young child, so Alesh believed, and he thought it likely that it was not ready for the knowledge the old giant could give it. He thought perhaps it never would be.
Others might have disagreed, but Alesh had seen much of the cruelty, the ignorance of men in the last months. He still remembered vividly the chaos in Ilrika when the city had given itself to Shira, recalled all too clearly the smell of burning flesh, the piles of corpses. He remembered, too, being marched through Valeria to the Traitor’s Tree, battered with stones and rotten fruits, the people throwing them not caring whether he was innocent or not—not truly—only caring that they had some target on which to vent their own frustrations. Willing, all too easily, to accept his guilt at the word of the Chosen, preferring to let someone else do their thinking for them.
No. The world was not ready for such gifts as Larin might have given it. Men were not ready, for what tools or magics might be used to dig escape tunnels into the earth today might easily be used to dig siege tunnels tomorrow. The scar on his left shoulder gave a twinge, and he scowled.
You judge them so harshly, he thought, but you are no better. That, at least, there was no denying. How many men had he killed when he’d journeyed south in pursuit of Sonya and those who had taken her? How many fathers cut down, how many husbands and sons left to rot, their families never knowing what happened to them? The number eluded him, and he thought that, in some ways, that was his greatest sin. The not knowing, the not even taking time to keep track of those lives he’d destroyed, of those families he’d left broken in his wake. True, the men had not been innocent, but who was? Not Alesh, certainly. Besides, it wasn’t as if they’d held any personal enmity toward him. They’d only been following orders, only doing their duty as they believed it to be.
Still, his ignorance of the number did nothing to lessen the weight of the burden he carried, the weight brought on by what he’d done, what he’d become. He tried to console himself with the fact that he had come back from that precipice, had fled the beast that had threatened to control him, but he did not feel comforted. He had overcome the darkness within him once and only then with the help of Amedan as well as those who traveled beside him. Would he be so lucky, the next time?
“Are you alright?”
Katherine had moved up next to him. He could make out little of her face in the light of the torch, but she seemed to be studying him with a troubled gaze. And why not? he thought bitterly. She knows what you are capable of becoming, doesn’t she? She has seen the darkness you carry inside of you, and she is right to be afraid.
“I’m fine,” he said, his shame making his words come out rougher than he’d meant.
“Are you sure?”
Watching him again, as if he were some feral beast that might, at any minute, turn violent. He wanted to believe she was only concerned for him, that it was that worry which drove her questions. But he could not. He had killed many men, and what was worse, he had enjoyed killing them, had reveled in the feel of their warm blood on his hands, of the sight of them falling to his blade like so much wheat beneath the scythe. And had he really once thought she liked him? He had been a fool.
“Alesh?”
“I’m fine,” he snapped, louder than he’d intended, and he winced, glancing around to see the others watching him. He felt his face heat with shame and cleared his throat. Larin had continued walking ahead, and Alesh motioned at his back. “I’ll go check on Larin, see how much farther these tunnels will take us.” He fled from her and the others then, from their concerned looks, and it was all he could do to keep from breaking into a run as he made his way forward to where the old giant walked alone.
Alesh meant to ask how much longer they had to go, but the shame he felt was still too fresh, too raw, and for a time he only walked in silence, thankful the darkness of the tunnels hid the disgusted looks he suspected the others must be casting in his direction.
Finally, the old man spoke. “You’re a fool. You know that, don’t you?”
Alesh frowned. “You don’t even know me.”
Larin snorted. “I know enough. Oh, you’re strong, I’ll grant you that—the fact you survived the wounds you took is proof of that much. Brave too, I guess, or maybe just too dumb to know what you’re up against.” He shrugged his massive shoulders, as if it made no difference. “But a fool regardless.”
Alesh was exhausted, and the wounds he’d accumulated over the last few weeks—particularly where he’d taken a crossbow bolt in the arm—still pained him. He was tired, he hurt, and he felt ashamed, and so he wasn’t prepared to be as patient as he might have been. “And what? I’m supposed to listen to you? What do you know of it, or of anything? You abandoned the country, the world you were chose
n to protect. Instead, you decided to come live out in the desert like a hermit, squandering the gifts the gods gave you. If I’m a fool, Larin, I’m not the only one.”
The big man scowled, turning to him with angry eyes, and for a moment, Alesh thought he might attack him. For a moment, he hoped he would. For whatever else fighting did to a man, to his soul, there was no denying it helped block out the pain of what he was, helped him forget, at least for a time, his own sins. There was simplicity in combat, a simplicity that made all life’s other worries, all its other concerns, pointless. Finally, the giant only shook his head, turning away once more. “Brave, like I said. You can barely use that arm of yours, yet you’re all too ready to fight. Brave.” He grunted. “Or stupid. Now, fool, why don’t you tell me what exactly you’ve got me into? Who was that man chasing you? The Ekirani exile?”
Alesh frowned, his anger giving way to curiosity. “Exile? What do you mean?”
Larin glanced at him and sighed, shaking his head again. “Gods, was I ever as young as you? Those symbols on the man who attacked you—they mark him.”
“Right,” Alesh said. “As an Ekirani.”
“No, not just that. I’ve seen such markings before, though, I’ll admit, never on actual flesh. Still, they’re mentioned in some of the old texts, tomes few in this world have ever read. He is Ekirani no longer, boy. He’s an exile, a fallen.”
Alesh frowned. He had spent much of his life since being taken in by Chosen Olliman reading the old texts and books in the Chosen’s library, hoping against hope to discover some information about his parents, about what had happened in those dark woods so long ago. He had read some about the Ekirani as well, but had never heard of anything connected with what the man was saying. “So he’s been kicked out of his tribe. It isn’t as if people haven’t been kicked out of cities before.”
The Warriors of the Gods Page 2