by James Derry
Bliss suggested, “We could still kill them.”
Jamal pleaded, “We won’t tell anyone…”
Victory cut him off. “Silence.”
“This isn’t fair—”
“Silence!” The force of Victory’s shout made Sygne stumble back on her heels.
But Sygne persisted. “No. I won’t stay quiet! Yur was a repulsive man, and what you chose to do to him, I can’t judge. But Jamal and I… we have nothing—”
“Silence!” The war goddess stomped, and flagstones cracked beneath her feet. Sygne yelped, and Jamal caught her as she fell.
“Sygne,” he said, “wait for a moment.”
“Yes. Silence,” Victory said. She glowered, but not at Sygne and Jamal. Her gaze was focused over their heads. A new, spritely goddess was floating down the steps of the conquered Kritan temple. Her hair appeared to be made from clouds. It was held back from her face by a rainbow.
Victory gestured to the goddess. “I introduce Silence, cupbearer of the Pantheon. She is also the goddess of courteous discretion.”
“‘Silence?’” Sygne repeated. “‘Discretion?’”
Silence’s lips were pursed in a coy pout. She curtsied, and, with flicks of her wrists, produced two dainty ivory cups decorated with beautiful gold inlay.
Jamal reached for one of the cups immediately. “Ooo! Is that honey-and-hibiscus lemonade?”
“It is whatever you wish it to be.” Victory said. Her tone had turned decorous and cold. Far better than sounding murderous.
Jamal glanced up dubiously. “Wait. This isn’t some poison that will render us mute?”
Silence tittered and shook her head. Victory said, “No. I would not allow such trickery. Nor would Silence. I remind you, this is courteous discretion.” The war goddess turned to Sygne. “I admit that you have performed a great favor for us this day. Mine cousin deserves to face Justice for what she’s done.”
Bliss sneered. “I deserve to have mine opinions heard.”
“Either way,” Victory said, “I see that it is this mortal who allowed this to happen—by revealing the truth.”
Sygne took a deep breath. Once again, it seemed that they had survived another impossible circumstance. She took her own cup from Silence.
Jamal asked, “What type of drink did you get, Sygne?”
She sniffed her cup. “It’s potable water for the impoverished and downtrodden peoples of the world.”
Bliss rolled her eyes. “It’s just one cup.”
***
The love goddess was only right in a superficial sense. Jamal and Sygne had been offered just one cup apiece, and yet they sipped on their cups for fifteen minutes and never once needed a refill as they hashed out the terms of their agreement with the goddesses.
Victory and Bliss would let them keep their lives—and their tongues—if they promised to never reveal the truth behind Yur’s death. Bliss claimed that their guaranteed secrecy was essential to the welfare of the entire Issulthraqi Empire. It would simply break too many hearts if the people learned that their beloved goddess of passion had killed a hero of Issulthraq. Jamal watched Sygne’s face pinch at some portions of the conversation, but the scientician never failed to nod at the proper times. Jamal noted that Sygne assiduously avoided any promises to stay quiet about the other things she had discovered in Krit.
The final term of the agreement was that Jamal and Sygne had to part ways and never see each other again. Bliss insisted on this condition, and Jamal thought he saw the love goddess’s eyes flash vindictively at Sygne as she suggested it.
Only one other matter remained. Someone had to take the blame for Yur’s death. Again Bliss’ eyes glittered. “I have an answer for that. The scheming wizard.”
Sygne asked, “You mean Sessuk?”
Bliss nodded. “I recruited him to help plot against Yur. Sessuk planned Yur’s blasphemous party. Foreign diversions. Secular enchantments. And a dalliance with a Firstspawn.” She turned to Victory. “Yur was far too stubborn and curious for his own good. I wanted to show that before I ceased his borderland campaign.”
Sygne asked, “Did Sessuk help you sneak into Yur’s bedchamber?”
Bliss scoffed. “I can slip mine way into any mortal’s bedchamber. I need no help with that. But I am sure that Sessuk believes he is more responsible for Yur’s death than I am.”
Victory said, “Then I shall stick his guilt to him.”
Their negotiations must have ended, because Jamal’s cup was finally empty. He tipped it back until the last drop of lemonade fell onto his tongue. He asked, “Could I have another cupful?”
Silence clamped her fingers over her mouth and giggled.
“What?” Jamal asked.
Victory picked the cup from Jamal’s hand. “Mine expectation would be that you would prefer mead or grog—not such a dandy-sweet drink.”
Jamal grinned. “The rest of me is tough enough. I prefer to keep my tastebuds sweet.”
***
They found Sessuk hiding under a small bench in the temple. Victory grabbed his heel and hauled him out from his hiding spot. “I condemn you, Vizier Sessuk of Krit. You killed General Yur of Issulthraq.”
Sessuk’s hands were still tied behind his back. He squirmed and sputtered, “B-Bliss! Bliss helped to kill him too!”
Victory’s severed-finger avatar reanimated and hopped to her side. The war goddess scowled. “Mine disgusts finds a new low. I see you are an informer and a traitor as well.”
Victory let go of Sessuk, as if she had decided he was too loathsome to hold.
Sygne stepped forward (but not exactly in between the war goddess and the object of her scorn). “Wait. Isn’t there some other way? Do you have to kill him?”
Victory glared at her. “Listen well to mine advice, heathen mortal. You have made a good deal to extend your life and the life of your friend. Do not snap your bargain by over-stretching it.”
“But doesn’t he deserve a…”
Sygne’s body went tight. She was frozen.
Bliss asked, “Did this man tell you what happened after you escaped with Yur’s first choice of an oblation?”
Sygne couldn’t move her mouth. Jamal answered for her, “They used Ramyya instead.”
“Used her?” Bliss considered this. “I suppose that is one way to put it. Sessuk recommended the dancing girl, which was a very pleasant surprise to the General. This mortal,” Bliss pointed to the vizier, “had the girl dragged screaming to the stage and chained to the submersion rack by force.”
Sygne felt her limbs go loose. She had regained the ability to speak, but she was speechless. She stepped out of Victory’s way.
Sessuk scrambled to his knees. “Wait! Wait! I am not afraid of a notorious death. Just give me a moment. Please…”
“Mine patience ran out long ago,” Victory said. Her finger raised its sword.
“No… Please! Just give me a moment to think of my last words.” Sessuk reached out beseechingly to Sygne.
Sygne felt nauseous. She offered in his defense, “That’s his thing. He likes to think of pithy asides to amuse his gods.”
“Yes!” Sessuk burst out gratefully. “I want to say something memorable, and clever. This is a lot of pressure…”
“I am certain you will come up with something,” Victory said, “off the top of your head.”
The finger swung its sword—so fast that the vizier didn’t have a chance to flinch. The top of Sessuk’s skull fell to the floor, where it wobbled on the stones like a dropped bowl.
“Oh,” Sessuk said, his eyes going duller with each passing second. “Off the top… Yes… That’s pretty good.”
He fell forward, onto his face, and his brains slopped out of the open end of his head and squelched into a puddle at Sygne’s feet.
She had to focus hard on not vomiting. So much so that she didn’t notice as her balance swung backward. She wondered why the ceiling had tippe
d into her vision. It grew dimmer, dimmer.
12 – The Road
Sygne awoke in a large tent. Despite the dimness, she suspected it was daytime outside—something about the smell of hot sun on the dusty goat-hair fabric of the tent. Someone lit a candle, and she shielded her eyes.
“Where am I?”
Jamal answered, “You’re in a caravansary, just outside Krit.”
“Oh.” Sygne could feel the start of a headache lumbering forward from the thick fog that filled her skull.
“We finally escaped the city, Sygne. We’re safe and sound.”
Sygne folded her shallow pillow over her ears. “A little more safe; a little less sound, please.”
“Oh yeah. I bet you’re having an awful hangover right now. Interacting with gods can really twist your system. And who knows what the Dweller did to us?”
“At least we’ll live to find out.” Sygne winced at the throb in her head. “Is that why I fainted?”
“I suppose. That and the gruesome half-capitation.”
Sygne groaned. When she had pushed that image out of her head, she asked, “How are you feeling? I think this is the worst headache I’ve ever had in my life.”
“The love-goddess-who-shall-not-be-mentioned might have been pumping more negative energy your way. My forearm was hurting viciously this morning.” He showed his new bandages. “And I was nauseous for a while…”
“This morning? How long have I been asleep?”
“More than twenty-four hours.”
Sygne pushed herself into a sitting position. Her head responded with a fresh, incessant pounding. “What?” She noticed that she was wearing a new sleeping robe made out of soft linen. “Where’s my pocketbook?”
“Don’t worry. All of your belongings are here.” He gestured to a small stack of materials in one corner of the tent. “These tents are managed by matrons of the Lisha tribe. They’ve been feeding you broth. They changed your clothes… I worked out a deal with them. If you want, they’ll escort you north. They’re headed as far as the Bedotan River. From there you can—”
“Where are you headed?”
Jamal softly shook his head. “Are you sure I should tell you? Remember our deal-that-won’t-be-mentioned.”
“Tell me. Please.”
Jamal glanced over his shoulder. And Sygne knew what he was thinking. They had promised Bliss and Victory that they would sever ties completely. Were the goddesses listening in on their conversations now? Could the gods really do that? Would they consider Jamal’s answer a breach of that agreement?
Jamal equivocated. “A person like me… An aspiring poet-singer… He might head west. Hop from port to port along the Slumbering Sea. I think he might find better luck if he entertained seafarers with more worldly tastes. Those are the types of people who might appreciate his songwriting abilities.”
“I hope a person like you does just that. And I hope he has great success.”
“Great success?” Jamal shrugged. “That might be harder to find than I expected. But it’s still better than fighting cavemen or monsters. Damn better than fighting people. And far safer than trying to fight a god.”
Sygne chuckled at that. The finality of this moment in this dim, dusty tent was starting to crash down upon her, and her laugh nearly turned to a sob. “I think you have made a wise choice.”
“I suppose this is ‘farewell’ then.” Jamal grimaced. “If we’re to follow our agreement, then we should part ways immediately.”
“I suppose so.”
Sygne leaned forward unsteadily, hoping Jamal would catch her in a hug.
Jamal held out his hand to stop her. “You know. You have saved my life several times.”
“I did?”
“Sure you did, Sygne. At the pool with the cavemen. Fighting Sessuk. And stopping the fight with Victory’s finger.” Jamal cleared his throat. “While I was winning, of course.”
“Of course. I suppose I did.”
“And it’s a Gjuiran custom to offer a display of gratitude to a hero who saves your life.”
“A hero? I thought I was an ‘old sage.’ Or a ‘plucky sidekick?’”
Jamal smiled and shook his head. “I saw you yelling at Bliss. No one could doubt your role, after seeing that.”
“Oh. Okay.”
“You’re a hero, Sygne of Albatherra. My hero.”
“You’re my hero too.”
Jamal leaned forward. Sygne was disappointed that he aimed to kiss her cheek, but she closed her eyes, planning to savor the moment anyway—to forget that this was her one kiss goodbye.
His lips grazed her cheek, lingering there for just a moment. He whispered, “I think Ilona was right. The Pantheon is trying to unite the Ancient Ones. People should know about that. Possibly in Albatherra? The Dweller’s needle is in your pocketbook.”
Jamal leaned back and stood. Sygne blinked at him, taking in what he had said.
“Goodbye, Sygne.”
“Goodbye, Jamal. I’ll keep an ear out for tales of the ‘Singing Swordsman.’”
“And I’ll listen for news about you, wherever peasants are learning to purify their water, or properly clean their filth.”
“Thanks.”
“Fare thee well.”
With that, Jamal slipped out of the tent.
Sygne sat there on her pallet for a while, staring at the candle that he had left behind. The light shimmered across Sygne’s vision, and Sygne threw herself backward onto her thin pillow and let herself cry.
After a while she blinked her eyes dry and rolled off of her low cushions. First she went to her pocketbook. She checked some of its contents. Compass, maps, sand timer. She flipped to a blank page. She needed to take notes—and make plans. It would be difficult to convince the Mentors that the Ancient Ones were more than just myths. But they trusted her, and she had a specimen. Already her head was feeling better, but now she was hungry. She had gone far too long without a proper meal, and she needed to fill her stomach and make ready for the road ahead.
Tomorrow, after all, would be another adventure.
From the Author
Thanks for reading! If you enjoyed this book (and even if you didn’t), I would love to hear your feedback. Please consider reviewing MYTHS OF THE FALLEN CITY at the site where you purchased it. Every review helps the book connect to more readers who might enjoy it—and every opinion is welcome! Also, you can contact me at [email protected].
And there are more reads to come. Keep flipping pages to find an excerpt from Sygne and Jamal’s next adventure, RELICS OF THE DESERT TOMB, which is available now!
Also, check out my site http://www.james-derry.com for my progress on upcoming releases, and my random ramblings on writing, reading, pop-culture, and more. And connect with me on Facebook (https://www.facebook.com/derrywriter) or Twitter (https://twitter.com/derrywriter).
Excerpt from Groundbreakers Book 2
The Groundbreakers return in RELICS OF THE DESERT TOMB
Jamal awoke to find himself wedged into the prow of a small boat. The Fecund Mermaid skimmed the edge of the Slumbering Sea, just beyond the point where the waves rolled over each other like lovers stirring under silk sheets. Jamal took a moment to enjoy the salt air—and the way the sunlight played across the water in tiny diamond sparkles.
The dinghy was swiftly approaching a port town on a rugged coast. A thicket of black masts bobbed up and down in the bay.
“A-ho! The great ‘Singing Swordsman’ is finally awake!”
Jamal grinned at Jebrili, who was The Fecund Mermaid’s captain—and also, currently, her only other occupant. Jebrili’s cleanly shaven head gleamed brightly in the sun; his four golden incisors flashed brightly as well.
“Get up, will you?” the captain said. “You can help me string my own fine instrument.” The seafarer gestured to the rigging pulled tight around the dinghy’s small sail.
“What town is this?” Jamal asked
.
“This is Sarthoon! The salted pearl of the blighted oyster bed that is the Ruffian Coast.”
“It doesn’t sound like a hotbed of poetic and melodic appreciation.”
“Oh, it’s not!” Jebrili chortled. “I’ve heard your music, ‘Singing Swordsman,’ and I believe you don’t need audiences with refined musical tastes. You need audiences that are too inebriated to have any taste left at all!”
It took them an hour to navigate the bay and establish a mooring. Jebrili wasted a good deal of time ‘deballasting’ the ship, which meant emptying the supply of wine that he kept in the Mermaid’s bilge. He did this by pouring the wine straight down his throat.
Jamal asked, “Shouldn’t you wait until we’re in a bar to start drinking?”
Jebrili belched and asked, “Have you ever heard the one about the drunk man who walked into a bar?”
“No. What happened?”
“He saved a lot of money on drinks!” The salty captain rocked back and forth with another bout of loud laughter.
They flagged down a skiff to take them to the shore. The entire slope of the beach was coated in black slime, like the filth of Sarthoon was oozing down to the sea. Broken oyster shells had been scattered over the slope, to keep people from slipping.
When they were in the city proper, Jamal tried to scrape the black grime from his fine leather sandals.
“This is an inauspicious beginning.”
“Don’t sorry, Wordsman,” Jebrili slurred. “I mean, don’t worry Swordsman. You’ll have a gig every night in Sarthoon. Especially in the fleshpots downtown!”
“Fleshpots? That sounds disgusting.”
“A-ho! They are.” Jebrili grinned as if that were a good thing. “You’ll soon see why indiscriminate travelers call Sarthoon the ‘Capital of Lice!’”
“Lice?”
“Sorry, Swordsman. I meant to say ‘Capital of Vice.’ Although in honesty, Sarthoon does have a severe pestilence problem. Which reminds me…” The captain pointed to his smooth scalp. “You should have shaved your head before we disembarked.”