“Do you think the innkeeper summoned the guard?”
Alesh frowned then slowly shook his head. The man had seemed to buy his story that they’d been at a costume party and that their friend—the bishop who, at that time, was barely conscious—had only drunken more than his share. “I don’t think so.”
“Then who—” Katherine cut off as another knock, louder than the first, came from the other side of the door.
Alesh took a slow, deep breath. He wished he had his sword, but it had been left at the Drunken Bard when he and the others had been taken. At least, he believed it had. There was no knowing for sure as he’d been unconscious at the time. He reached into his tunic, withdrawing the small blade he’d acquired back at the church and moved toward the door. “Stay behind me,” he said over his shoulder. Then, his muscles tense, he reached for the door’s latch.
He’d only just touched it when a third knock came, this one insistent. “Well?” a voice said from the other side of the door. “You gonna let us in or ain’t you? I got other things I could be doin’, you know. My father—he’s rich, like crazy rich—told me we could go out riding today. On horses—we got like, a million of ‘em.”
Alesh frowned, turning to Katherine. “Is that—”
“Okay, fine,” the voice went on from the other side of the door. “That’s a lie. He doesn’t have a million. I mean…where would you even keep a million horses? Lots though like…a hundred?”
“Marta,” Katherine said, smiling widely, and Alesh thought the sight of that smile was the best thing he had seen in some time.
Cautiously—for all he knew it might be a trap, though he couldn’t imagine how anyone would imitate the girl, say that for her at least—he slid the latch and opened the door. Marta stood on the other side, flanked by Sonya, Darl, and Rion.
They all grinned widely when they saw each other, save Rion who had a troubled, slightly confused expression. He also had what looked to be a fresh knot on his forehead with an accompanying bruise. But any concern over the man was overshadowed by his relief at seeing them all alive and well. “Gods, I thought you were all dead.”
“Give it time,” Rion muttered, but his usual surliness was nowhere in evidence. Instead, he seemed distracted, as if he was in a daze or sleep walking.
“It is good to see you again, Son of the Morning,” Darl said, “and you, Katherine.”
Alesh started to respond, but his words turned into a grunt as Sonya plowed into him, wrapping him in an embrace. Alesh laughed, hefting the girl up and hugging her back.
“Well, can we come in?” Marta asked. “Not that I mind hallways—I once met a talking duck in one, if you can believe it.”
Katherine laughed, coming to the door and embracing Darl before turning to the young girl and putting a hand on her shoulder. “We can’t. Now, come inside, all of you.”
Alesh ushered them through the doorway, still holding Sonya, and once they were all inside, he closed and latched the door once more. “I can’t believe you’re all alive,” he said. “Bishop Orren said you’d been killed or were going to be or—”
“We are all well,” Darl assured him, cutting off his rambling.
“But…how?” Katherine asked. “I mean, thank the gods you’re all okay, but I thought…” She turned to glance at Alesh. “We thought—”
“Uncle Rion saved us,” Sonya said as if that explained everything.
Alesh glanced at Rion who had come out of his daze—if daze it had been—enough to look embarrassed. “Just got lucky is all,” he managed. Then frowned, his eyebrows drawing down in thought. “Luck,” he muttered, barely loud enough to hear. “Something…there’s something…” He trailed off, once more getting a confused, distant expression. Alesh raised an eyebrow at the others.
Marta sighed. “Don’t ask. He’s been like that for a while now, walking around and muttering. I think it might be on account of he ran into a door jam and hit his head.”
“Or when he tripped,” Sonya offered.
“Yeah,” Marta said, “maybe that. Or on account of that mongrel dog bowling him over and who’d ever think that would happen, just walkin’ down the street and all.”
“Yeah,” Sonya said, nodding quickly, clearly eager to agree with anything the other girl said. “Or when that lady threw those rotten apples from her window only one wasn’t so rotten, and it hit him.”
Alesh frowned, glancing at Darl. “More lies?”
A troubled look came over the Ferinan’s face, and he shook his head, glancing at Rion who was still lost in thought. “I’m afraid not.”
“Not lies,” Marta said as if it was obvious. “Bad luck, that’s what it is.”
“Bad luck?” Alesh said. “For the man Chosen by the God of Chance and Luck?”
Marta nodded thoughtfully. “A bit odd, you say it like that. Though, to be fair, some folks might think it a bit strange to have a bishop tied to their bed. Not that I’m judging mind—I’m sure there’s stranger things…not that I can think of any off hand.”
“What?” Alesh said. “No, I mean…that is—”
“No need to explain,” Marta said, refusing to meet their eyes. “I’m sure you have your reasons. Though,” she went on in a voice little more than a whisper, “my experience, men and women don’t tend to want an audience for the things they do in bedrooms. Well…some don’t.”
Alesh’s face was suddenly suffused with heat, and he heard Katherine make a strangled noise beside him. “No, look,” he said, glancing at the grinning Darl, “it’s not like…that is, it isn’t…” He took a slow, deep breath and tried again. “This man is Bishop Orren. He was going to turn us over to Tesharna—he’s the man responsible for the attack at the inn.”
Darl studied the old man who lay on the bed, saying nothing, only watching. “And what do you wish to do with him now, Son of the Morning?”
“Well, I’ve got an idea or two about that but first, tell me how you all found us.”
“Well, that was easy enough,” Marta said. “Just followed the moaning.”
Alesh hissed. “I told you, we didn’t…we weren’t—”
“What Alesh is trying to say,” Katherine said in a carefully controlled tone, “is we have only just arrived here, in the room, and secured the bishop. We were just about to leave to look for all of you when you knocked.”
“Sure, whatever—no business of mine,” Marta said. She noticed them all staring at her and frowned. “Either I just got a whole lot prettier and nobody told me, or you all are waitin’ on somethin’.”
“They want to know how we came to be here, to find them in this inn.” Darl said.
Marta sighed. “It’s a borin’ story. Why don’t you tell it?”
“Because,” Darl said simply, “it is not mine to tell.”
Marta rolled her eyes at Katherine as if to say Do you see what I’ve been dealing with? “Fine.” She said. “well, after Rion tripped the first time—”
“I counted six in all,” Sonya supplied.
“Right,” Marta said. “Anyway, after he tripped, we heard you guys might be here. So here we came.”
Alesh frowned. “News? From whom? If someone knows we’re here, it won’t be long until the church finds out. They’ll send people and—”
“No, no, not one of those somebodies,” Marta said as if he were hopelessly dense. “A…you know, a different somebody.”
Alesh and Katherine shared a confused expression before turning back to the girl. She took in their faces then rubbed at her temples. “A god, alright? Though he don’t seem very godly, limpin’ around and mutterin’ under his breath—which smells like cheap wine, by the way.”
“Alcer,” Katherine said. “You mean he came to you.”
“Partways,” Marta said. “Made me walk the last bit to go to him, the bastard. Loves doin’ that. Anyhow, he told me you’d be here.”
Alesh frowned. Whether or not Alcer was on their side, he didn’t love the idea that the gods could find them
whenever they wanted. After all, some of those gods would be all too happy to see their heads on spikes. Still, he consoled himself that the gods didn’t always know where they were. If they had, Orren would have had no need of sending word to Tesharna and the others, for they would have been dead already. “But how did Alcer know where we were?”
“He’s a beggar,” Marta repeated. “I thought I already told you that.”
She watched Alesh as if for some reaction. When he gave none, she sighed. “It’s amazin’ the sort of things adults don’t know. Like, when you get hair on your chest or any chest at all,” she said, glancing with obvious envy at Katherine, “do your brains just sort of leak out of your head? Like a wineskin that’s been stabbed with a knife, maybe? Anyway, he’s a beggar, right? Beggars, orphans, the homeless, there’s something we all share in common.”
“Oh?” Alesh asked. “What’s that?”
She rolled her eyes again. “We watch don’t we? We see. See the sort of things nobody else pays any attention. Moldy bread tossed away from some bakery, an occasional coin somebody drops and is too rich or too drunk to bother pickin’ up.” Her face took on a haunted look as she went on. “Shadows that move when they shouldn’t, or folks—men mostly but not always—that watch you a bit too closely. For most people, those sorts of things might not matter but for us, they can mean a night spent with a full belly or a night spent…well, with something a lot worse. Look at it this way,” she went on, glancing at each of them in turn, “who do you think’s got the best eyes, a deer or a lion?”
“A deer?” Alesh asked.
She grunted. “How in the name of the gods should I know? But my guess’d be the deer anyway. If not, they got the best sense of smell or hearin’ or something. Because if they didn’t, I guess we’d have a world full of fat lions and not a deer to be seen, wouldn’t we?” She finished the last in a satisfied tone, apparently impressed with her own wisdom.
“You were saying,” Katherine prompted. “About Alcer.”
“Oh, right,” Marta groused. “Him. Well, he watches, you see? Watches like all the rest of us do. That’s about all he does—and talks. Gods know he does more than enough of that.”
“Did you speak to him as well?” Alesh asked Darl, thinking it would be easier to get the story of the god’s words from the Ferinan than the girl who seemed to think it absolutely impossible to answer any question directly.
Darl shook his head. “No—she insisted on speaking to him alone.”
Marta rolled her eyes. “I didn’t insist on it—that’s just the way it has to be. I told you, he don’t much care for talkin’ to a lot of people at once. Besides, odds are you wouldn’t have been able to hear him anyway. The words of the poor, like the words of the dead, are for them and them alone, you get it?”
“Not really,” Alesh said, “but did he say anything else useful?”
Marta winced as if she’d feared he would ask just such a question. “He says a lot—you ask me, there ain’t much of it appears useful, even if you squint real good. Anyway, he told us where to find you and so here we are.”
It was clear to Alesh that there was more she wasn’t telling them, but he would let her keep her secrets, for now. The gods knew he had enough of his own. “Okay,” he said, nodding. “Now, we nee—”
“He’s bleeding,” Rion said out of nowhere, and they all turned to look at him. But his gaze seemed far away, distant, as if he looked on a different place. “He’s bleeding, and his luck has gone south.” He laughed at that, but there was no humor in it. Instead, there was an edge to his laughter that Alesh did not like. “The God of Luck’s luck has gone south. And for the rest of us? What does it mean? What can it mean? Nothing good, that’s for certain.”
“Rion?” Alesh said. The man didn’t answer, continued to mumble, until Alesh grabbed him by both of his shoulders, giving him a shake.
Rion’s eyes snapped wide, and he finally seemed to see Alesh for the first time. “He’s broken,” Rion said as if explaining something. “And…and I think…I think I am too.”
“Who’s broken?” Alesh asked. “Javen?”
“Yes,” Rion said. “Broken…and dying.”
Alesh didn’t like the sound of that, not at all. He turned to Darl. “Help me untie the bishop—we need to leave. Now.”
***
Pain greater than anything he had ever known spread through him like a raging fire. He traveled through space, carried by his will as he always was, but his will, his strength, was weakening, nearly spent. And the shadows were everywhere, creeping after him, seeming to barely move at all yet appearing in front of him just the same. You can do it, he told himself, you have to. They have to know. They have to understand. He was weak, tired, and traveling through space—which had once seemed so easy—was taking all his strength. Yet, he knew if he stopped, if he faltered, the creature behind him would catch him, would finish what it had begun.
Not a creature. Your brother, he thought. Or so he called himself. Summoning the last ounce of his strength, Javen cried out in pain and fear as he forced his way through space, hurtling through it without grace, like a man who casts himself down a deep well with no knowledge of whether or not there is water at the bottom.
Then he struck the earth, hard, and gasped as the breath was knocked from him at an impact that would have killed a mortal. He barely noticed, however, too concentrated on holding onto the ragged remnants of his will, of what made him, him. Whatever his brother had done, it went beyond mere wounding. There was something else at work within his body. Some poison he could feel spreading, reaching out tendrils through his being, corrupting all it touched. And what it touched—what gods were made of—was will.
Javen believed if he stopped focusing on it, if he allowed himself to become too distracted, the poison’s progress would speed up, and he would fall apart like a statue of ash touched by a single finger. Yet try as he might to fight against it, the poison was eating away at his will, eating away at him, and he would lose the fight, sooner or later. Against such a foe, there was no winning, not truly. It was to him like death was to mortals, inevitable and unavoidable, a thing to be kept away, for a time, but one that would overcome a man’s—or a god’s—defenses in the end.
He felt hands on his shoulder and blinked, looking up to see Deitra, his sister, crouched over him. After the cave which had been choked with despair and the poison which coursed through his veins, the sight of her, with her long golden hair and perfect features, was of more relief than a glass of water to a parched throat. “Sister,” he rasped. “You…are as beautiful as always.”
“Javen, what’s happened to you?” Deitra said, cradling his head in her hands, kneeling and resting it on her knees. “Oh my, your poor eyes.”
My eyes? Javen thought, confused. He could not be sure as the time he’d spent in the cave already felt like a dream—no, a nightmare—one so terrible a man’s own mind fought to rid himself even of the memory of it on waking. Still, he did not think the shadow had done anything to his eyes, at least none of which he was aware.
“I don’t…have to tell—”
“Shhh,” Deitra said, cradling him, “don’t talk.” She turned, looking at something Javen couldn’t see. “Father! He needs help.”
A moment later, he was there, standing over him. Amedan, the God of Fire and Light, Father of all the Gods. But he isn’t, not really, Javen thought. There is one god, at least, who does not call Amedan father.
“Light be good,” Amedan said, kneeling beside him. “What is it, Javen? What has happened?”
They both watched him, waiting for his answer, and Javen told them. He had to pause from time to time as he was overcome with a fit of coughing, his words strangled by a sudden, terrible bout of pain. By the time he was finished, he was covered in a cold sweat, and his body was wracked with shivers even as his skin felt flush with fever.
Deitra turned to Amedan, confused. “I thought…I had thought I knew all your and Mother’s chil
dren.”
“No child of mine did this,” Amedan said, and though he was often prayed to for mercy—and often showed it—there was no mercy in his voice then, only anger. Javen had rarely seen his father in such a state, but he saw it now, saw that while the God of Fire might be kind, he was not only that. “Watch over your brother, Deitra,” Amedan said, rising, and in that rising and through his delirium, Javen thought it like the rising of the sun itself. Not with warmth and comfort, not this sun, but the harsh side of it, brutal and capable of burning the world itself.
“Do what you can,” Amedan said in a voice like thunder. “I will return.”
***
She stood at the edge of the world’s tallest cliff. Snow covered the ground around her, so thick it would have been impossible for a man to traverse. But she was no man or woman—she was a goddess. The Goddess of the Wilds and such places were her places. The wildness of the torrential snow as it fell in thick clouds, the sweeping wind sending snowdrifts spiraling across her sight, were hers to control or, at least, to call her own. For what her husband did not understand—what he had never understood—was that the wild could not be tamed, not truly.
A lion might be taught to lie or sit like some domesticated mutt, but that same lion would one day choose to rise up against those owners who thought it cowed, and they would find that its teeth had lost none of their sharpness, its claws none of their sting. For the wild was unpredictable, could only be unpredictable.
The ocean roiled beneath her in heavy waves, pushed on by wind and their own imperative, crashing against the cliff thousands of feet below and sending great spumes of water and mist fountaining into the sky. It was as if some great hand reached out from the water’s surface only to fall back, only to reach again, meaning to grasp whatever it could, to drag what it touched beneath those shifting waters.
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