“Maula shavings,” he replied proudly. “Gremdes found some for me while rescuing some survivors back on Oma. I’ve been out for months.”
“Surprising that Gremdes would brave Oma,” Crescen said as he stirred a tiny portion of the Maula into his broth. “I recall him mentioning his change left him coldblooded.” With that, Crescen slurped his noodles, and promptly regretted adding the Maula. He felt very warm as his tongue burned and his eyes watered. Though he stifled the worst of the pain, he now had a whole bowl of noodles to brave.
“You know what Gremdes is like,” Vestus replied. “He throws himself onto the fire more than anyone.” He paused, seeing Crescen’s synthetic hand resting on the table. “Er … no offense.”
“None taken,” Crescen replied with a smile. “It’s a pity Gremdes is away—I’d rather his company than Arronel’s for what’s to come, even if he’s less suited for this sort of work.”
Vestus turned glum at the mention. “I … if I’d known this might be your last bowl, I’d have—”
“Please, my friend,” Crescen pled, clasping a hand over Vestus’s and looking him in the eyes. “Do not weep for me even if I do not return alive. There will be many refugees in my stead, and they will need food and comfort.”
Vestus nodded reluctantly, then pulled his hand away. There were noodles that needed tending, other patrons who were hungry. None had anything to pay, of course, but they would return the kindness down the line or pass it on to another; such was the way of the worshippers of the Living God. Such was the way Taryl Renivar preached: a world of perpetual kindness.
“I hate seeing people go,” Vestus said, when Crescen’s bowl was nearly drained. “You know, I’ve lost my share. Family, friends, and no goodbyes from any when it happened.”
Crescen was reluctant to reply. He had news for Vestus that he’d neglected to pass on before now; he wasn’t certain it would be well received, or if he was doing any favors in sharing it. Even so, “I think I saw her, back on Breth.”
“Who?”
“You called her Quinan, if I recall. Omati, like yourself. Appeared several months ago, vanished after a week.”
“Where?” Vestus tensed.
“On a train, on Breth,” Crescen replied. “If it’s her—and I stress the if—she’s in the company of Airia Rousow’s successor, as well as Lord Renivar’s daughter. Quinan was most likely a false name, given to deceive you.”
Vestus needed a moment to absorb the information, but nodded as he came to understand. “The … the timing fits. Quinan was acting strange after Rousow appeared in our streets and began striking down Reahv’li left and right. She must have recognized the Heartless God and used her appearance as a diversion.” He shook off his funk and found it in him to smile once more. “Even so, I must forgive her. She may have been misled.”
Crescen smiled back. He did not share that even had she been worthy before, Quinan—Zaja, as he suspected her to be called—had killed Reahv’li and tainted herself in the process. She had infiltrated Yeribelt before, by chance, but would never be worthy now. He would save that ill report for another day.
“You think—you think maybe I came on too strong?” Vestus worried. “That I pushed Quinan away?”
“She’d have known you meant well,” Crescen assured, shaking his head. “You’re a good man, Vestus.”
Vestus nodded. “I know. I wouldn’t be welcome here otherwise.”
And with that, the bowl was empty. Crescen stood up, hoping privately that it wasn’t his last bowl of noodles, for it certainly hadn’t been his best. He scraped his tongue against his teeth; it still burned from the Maula shavings. Had it not been for that bit of seasoning, the meal would have been impeccable; even so, it only fueled his resolve to make it back alive.
“It’s time I depart,” he told Vestus. “The Corridor exits near our destination, but the path’s length is uncertain. I don’t enjoy my trips through the void, but there stands little point in delaying the inevitable.”
Before he could depart, Vestus piped up with one last question. “By the way, I’ve been meaning to ask … what happened with the singer?”
“Hmm?” Crescen grunted as he glanced back.
“I’d heard a singer was supposed to be coming in from Breth, that she might need help building a stage. What happened with her?”
“Right, Miss Rujet,” he said, snapping his fingers as he remembered. “Lost track of her, I’m afraid. Tainted herself in the process, so it was a wash all around. Few people have failed to prove their decency as admirably as she.”
“Sorry to hear that,” Vestus replied. “Would have been nice to have a new sound around here.”
Crescen would have welcomed it too, but what was done was done. He left the shack at last. A dark task awaited him, but it was the long walk on the path between worlds that he dreaded most.
*
Compared to the domains of gods they’d met in the past, Chot Vot was crude, with no marks of ornamentation, no aesthetic prowess. If not for the torch holders embedded in the walls, the corridor would have been just another featureless cavern. Jean brushed her hand along the wall and sent out a brief pulse—there were other chambers beyond, carved into the mountain’s interior.
“Place is bigger than it looks,” she said to Flynn, who was walking by her side. “This peace god guy really up ahead?”
“There is someone significant,” he promised. “The feeling is different from the others we’ve met. I don’t think any two are the same.”
The corridor soon expanded into a throne room of considerable size, and on the opposing wall a great seat was carved from the stone, its back blending into the mountain’s interior. The wall was host to many earthen protrusions, and upon them sat a bevy of Keltian women in various states of undress, all fawning over the man in the center. He was dressed in black silk, his skin azure blue, his hair shock white. Despite the fuss over Zaja’s appearance at the mountain entrance, it hadn’t occurred to Jean that the god they worshiped was Omati, like her.
“You know this guy, Zaj?”
Zaja returned to Jean a look that made her feel dumb for asking. “No. Why would I?”
Their host lay strewn across his throne, a glass of wine swirling in his hand. As they came closer, his posture shifted and he sat up, drinking from his glass before setting it on the armrest and rising to his feet.
“This is the time where I would inform you you’re standing in the presence of a god,” he declared with some bombast. “But somehow, seeing your weird mix-up, you might already know that.”
“Don’t look like a god,” Shea commented skeptically.
“He is,” Zella assured her. Of her host, she asked, “But of what order? I’ve never heard of a God of Peace before.”
He smiled knowingly and glanced back to his servants, whose attention he captured with a single gesture. “Ladies? The table, if you will.”
One by one, they demurely dropped down and exited through one of the side chambers. This behavior unnerved Jean, who detested such submissive attitudes. They returned just as quickly, individuals scurrying in with chairs while several more hauled a table into the center of the chamber, placing it between the seven and their host. They were urged into the chairs; Jean shoved back the girl attempting to seat her before handling it herself.
“So, what, this dinner time or somethin’?” she asked.
“I hadn’t thought about that,” he replied, giving her comment serious thought. “I haven’t bothered eating a meal in over a year now. Might be fun to shake things up. Girls! To the kitchen!”
“Yes, Lord Gruent,” one said softly as they left in single file.
“Gruent?” Zaja asked, bewildered by his surname.
“Yetinau Gruent,” he replied dismissively. “No need for formalities, though. It’s been a long time since anyone saw me as something other than a divine being. Call me Yeti.”
“Yeti?”
“I also answer to the Yet-man,” he added wi
th a wink, pointing to himself. “Guys in the factory used to call me the Yet-man. Wonder how they’re doing? Probably all wrinkled now. Dodged that bullet, didn’t I?” Yetinau swung back to snatch his glass of wine from the arm of his throne.
“Yeti—er, Yet-man?” Zella started, unsure which nickname to use.
“Right, right,” he interrupted, tapping his forehead. “Still need to clear up that ‘God of Peace’ business.” He tossed back what wine remained and threw the glass aside. Its pieces settled by the time he’d taken his seat and kicked his feet up on the table. “So we’re clear, I haven’t brought peace. I’ve only redirected war, establishing something of a haven in these lands. That would make me, in case you weren’t following, more the God of Neutrality.”
Jean noticed Zella taking this in, but wasn’t patient enough to allow her to draw her own conclusions. “Nice fuckin’ haven,” she said sarcastically. “Real mature use of yer godlike powers.”
“Hey … you,” Yetinau rebutted with a shaking of his fingers. “Just because I have supreme powers to affect the patterns of man and nature alike doesn’t mean I have to be all rapey with it. Everyone here serves me willingly, got it?”
“They merely do so ignorant of the fact that you were once human?” Chari asked. “Or that your skin pigmentation is owed to your alien origins, not your divine prowess?”
“Yes!”
It didn’t sit well with Jean to be tabled with someone who would lie about his identity to ensure the adoration of his followers. But as the urge to make a scene rose inside her, Jean’s willingness to follow through on her ire curiously diminished.
“That does bring me to ask,” Yetinau said as he pulled his legs from the table. “You kids are obviously from all over the place,”—he glanced at Zaja and added, “Oma, represent!” before continuing—“How did you find me?”
“I sensed you,” Flynn said plainly. “We probably would have passed right by otherwise.”
This admission disturbed Yetinau visibly. “You sensed me? How? I–I haven’t done anything to draw attention.”
“It’s just something I can do,” Flynn replied with a shrug.
Yetinau set his elbows on the table and leaned in, studying Flynn closely. “Okay … okay, I see it. There’s a conflict in you. Something you cultured and something you found.” He sat back in startled realization. “You’re not Keltian! This—it’s not your natural state.”
Flynn had lied for so long about being like Jean that it insulted her when he begged Yetinau for more, as if there were some chance he could go back to normal. “What is it? If you know what happened to me, tell me.”
Yetinau shook his head dismissively. “Sorry, man. Just saying what I see. Phenomena like you isn’t my specialty, though you’re not the only one who’s torn up inside.” He glanced cryptically at Poe, who sat patiently at the opposite end of the table.
“Said you made a haven here,” Shea interjected. “Why worry at being found?”
“Depends on who’s doing the finding,” he replied. “If such fine, fine ladies of the local flavor—like yourself, soldier—come in, of course they’re welcome, no question.” Jean wrung the armrest of her chair but said nothing. “But when an off-worlder shows up, well … there are things that make even a god nervous.”
“Where are your fellow gods?” Zella asked. Yetinau looked at her, and she clarified, “I’m sorry, I just recalled what circle your power stems from. Yours is a Trinity of Laws, and your companions are Order and Chaos.”
“Ha ha, right!” he affirmed, snapping his fingers as though just now recalling. “Never met the guys. Are they guys? Never caught any names.”
“Never…?” Zella was baffled.
“You are new blood, then?” Poe asked. “You’ve simply not had the circumstance yet to know your counterparts?”
Yetinau shook his head as if there were nothing strange about that. “Not new blood. I mean, maybe a little. I’ve been doing this, oh—” He counted on his fingers. “Couple decades. Four years, by our calendar,” he added for Zaja’s benefit. “But I’m betting they’re not looking for me for the same reason I’m not looking for them. All safer staying put. That much power gathering in one place? I don’t need a target painted on my back.”
“What exactly are you afraid of?” Zella asked.
“Don’t you know, Zella Renivar?”
Jean tensed as Yetinau reached across the table, clasping a hand on Zella’s forearm and guiding it toward the center of the table. Jean intended to put a stop to it right then, but found herself sitting calmly instead. Why the fuck isn’t anyone else doin’ anything?
“I never gave my name,” Zella replied, unnerved.
“It was easy to guess,” Yetinau said as he tugged at the uneven threads holding the sleeve of her shirt together, unraveling stitches that had been replaced just days earlier. Jean instinctively averted her eyes—she hadn’t forgotten the brain-searing pain that those runic carvings could cause. “Can’t actually read this, admittedly,” he said before throwing Zella’s arm back toward her, “but even here, there’s a grapevine. I know of Taryl Renivar’s living sacrifices, and I know the only one left alive is his own daughter. If I could, I would kill you here and now to stop him.”
Jean stood as she asked, “Why the hell don’t you?” It hadn’t come across with the hostility she’d have liked, but at least it came out.
Yetinau looked at her and smiled. “I would love to bend you over and fuck you on this table in front of all your friends until the break of dawn.”
Jean was outraged, and wanted to jump across the table and beat the tar out of him. Just like before, however, the impulse was there, but the follow-through was entirely absent. Her threat of “You even fuckin’ try…” came off limp as a result. Yetinau only smiled in satisfaction.
“Normally, you’d be dead now,” Flynn pointed out to him.
“Yes, I’m sure,” he agreed.
“Your divinity staves off violence,” Chari realized. “That is why the surrounding lands are at peace. Any army that comes here would find themselves unwilling to fight.”
“It does a lot of things,” Yetinau agreed. “But … yeah. In a nutshell. Even if I don’t do anything, I give off this kind of aura. This whole place is a sacred circle, and long as I don’t upset said circle, no one gets hurt. It took years to get this much space protected, and I’ve got something too good going on to mess it up now.”
“So where does that leave us?” Flynn asked.
Yetinau shook his head in irritation. “Do what you want. I can’t force you to leave, but I’m asking you not to stay.”
*
Yetinau’s request was clear, but had no teeth. There was little desire among the others to keep moving, and it wasn’t difficult for Shea to understand why. As she stepped outside and listened to the wind, all she saw was nature surrounding her. There were no flames on the horizon, no scent of smoke in the wintry air, no sounds of gunfire. They hadn’t known such peace since leaving the Cavonish border. Shea pulled her cigarette case from her coat and lit a smoke as she stared up at the stars.
“Shea.”
She instinctively twitched, even as she knew there was no danger. “Bit embarrassing,” she said. “For weeks, thought you one of mine. Two looks by that wanker, knows you’re not.” She studied Flynn for a moment. “Still hardly see it.”
“We talked about this after leaving the ship,” Flynn said, curious that she was bringing it back up.
“Just a wonder: Chance to get back what you were, would you?”
“Anywhere else, I think I’m better off as I am,” he replied. “But if I settled on your world, I think I’d have to go back to the way I was.”
“Just have to be different, eh, mate?” she replied teasingly.
Flynn nodded somberly. “I think it’s better that I am.”
Shea shook her head in disagreement. “Fancy you more as you are.” She paused to reflect on the weight of those words, then glanced at F
lynn, who was looking back at her. Neither said anything on it. “’Sides, your mates are used to this; ‘magine waking up tomorrow, no recognition?”
As he looked up at the sky, he replied, “That’s not going to be a problem forever.”
Shea worried briefly that something more sinister was being insinuated. It only took a moment’s thought about their situation to realize what he meant. “War’s been won, soldiers go home.”
“Or they die,” he added, courting the risk of failure Shea had opted to leave unspoken. “Zaja is going to one day, regardless, but she nearly quit after we survived that clash. Poe has no intention of looking back once he gains what we’ve been searching for. Jean and Zella are tolerating me in their own ways, and I’ll be lucky if we part amicably.”
Shea shook her head piteously. “Not so good at making friends, are you?”
Flynn suppressed a small laugh. “I’ve had years of practice making them. It’s keeping them that I’m not so rehearsed in.” His humor dried up. “I thought it would be simple, when it was just me, Jean, and Mack. I’ve lost one and estranged the other.”
“Afraid of being alone, yeah?”
“What kind of life will I lead once I am?” He shook with uncertainty. “It can’t be a normal one, after the places I’ve seen and the things I’ve done.” He looked at his hands and asked, “After what I’ve become?”
Shea empathized more than she could put into words; every day on the front she had prayed to go home and rescue some semblance of life with her adopted family. But war had changed her; it had killed her second father, possibly her second mother. It had almost certainly changed her more valiant brothers, if they were still alive. Her return to Selif had been a rude awakening: the life she’d been hoping to return to was long gone. The only certainty she had left was that the den Vier line ended with her.
Flynn looked at Shea, who glanced at her hand and the half-burnt cigarette pinched between her fingers. She offered it, but Flynn held his hand up and declined.
“No plans to go home here,” she said as she took another drag. “Think I planned to clear off once we’re done? Worlds ahead, mate—don’t see us splitting company for some time.”
Killers, Traitors, & Runaways: Outcasts of the Worlds, Book II Page 29