‘If she’s not there, she’ll be on her way to Rilporin or already in the city. But we have a spy – and an assassin if necessary – in place, with orders to take out Corvus and Lanta.’ The way he was looking at Mace sent a sudden chill up his neck. ‘Major Tara Carter of the West Rank.’
Mace rocked on his feet. ‘She’s alive? When was this order given? By who?’
‘Forgive me, I had no way to inform you. She and Ash came looking for me, the day before Rilporin fell. The Fox God gave her her orders.’
Mace’s fingers were hooked into claws, but then he realised he wasn’t looking at a man any more; the hairs on his forearms stood up as though there was about to be a storm. Crys’s words of earlier came back to him. People can usually tell. Mace could very much tell.
‘I needed someone to attempt the kills, someone they wouldn’t suspect,’ the Fox God said. ‘A warrior, but not a man who they’d never let get close to them. And not a Wolf, either; they’d recognise a Wolf from the tattoo. Tara was my only choice. But she too had the choice, I promise you that, Sire. She knew, she accepted, the risks.’
‘Of course she bloody did,’ Mace said bitterly. He’d spent the last months trying not to think of her dead or captured, knowing all too clearly the fate that would await a woman – and a woman soldier, no less – in the hands of the enemy. ‘Of course she accepted, that’s exactly the sort of thing she’d do.’
Mace breathed deeply. It was a bold move and Crys was right – Tara was the only one who could manage it. And she was good, very good. He didn’t like it, but he couldn’t argue with it. And even if he did, what was the point? It was done. Still, Tara, alone in that nest of degenerates. A slave. He winced just at the thought.
‘Thank you for informing me,’ he said, aware the stiff formality only proved his worry for her. ‘So, Mabon. Take Pine Lock and kill or capture every Ranker there. We want to prevent news reaching the capital for as long as possible. Give the population the Rank’s weapons and tell them to hold, then meet us at the western edge of Deep Forest in the Cattle Lands. Once we’ve regrouped, we’ll offer battle and force Corvus’s hand, destroy his army and push on for Rilporin and this mad priestess of theirs. Six weeks and this will all be over.’
‘Six weeks,’ Crys echoed, but he didn’t look relieved. He looked sick, as if he didn’t want the war to end. He excused himself and Mace watched him go, frowning.
‘Prophecy says the Fox God must die to end the war,’ the Warlord murmured. ‘You’ve just told him how long he has left to live.’
THE BLESSED ONE
Ninth moon, first year of the reign of King Corvus
Red Gods’ temple, temple district, First Circle, Rilporin, Wheat Lands
‘Holy Gosfath, Red Father, I have come to serve you. If it is your will, tell me your desires and let me fulfil them. I am yours, Lord.’
The god was propped in His throne, His eyes dull with apathy and world-ending grief. He didn’t bother to look up as she spoke, or answer when she finished. The walls of the Waystation were lit with a red light that glowed from everywhere and nowhere, while the brighter gold of fire licked around Gosfath’s legs, sparking from His talons, His horns.
Again she had summoned Him to the temple and again she had been brought into His presence instead. But it had felt different this time. He’d approached, she was certain of it, had drifted right to the edge of Gilgoras, ready to set foot inside, before retreating. Perhaps next time He would honour them with His presence in the temple. In the circle. Another step in the spiral path to resurrection.
Lanta approached the throne and the massive red form slumped upon it, nerves fluttering in her belly. ‘Holy Gosfath, Lord of War, I have come to you. I, Lanta Costinioff and your Blessed One, have come to offer you succour. We are lost without you, Lord, and we are doubly lost without your Sister-Lover.’
Gosfath twitched, and His head swung slowly until those black eyes were spears impaling her.
‘Gone.’
Gosfath’s hurt swept over her like a black wind and Lanta shuddered, a sob escaping the prison of her lips. Her own pain was as a leaf bobbing on a torrent when compared with what He had lost and her hands ran across His calves and knees, giving – and taking – comfort. Yes, His grief was immense, but so was Lanta’s. As was her determination to reverse the horrors of the Dark Lady’s loss.
‘We are doing much to bring Her back, Father. In the temple in Rilporin, dedicated to you and to Her, we pray and sacrifice and commune. In the temple, Father.’
‘Gone.’
Gosfath twitched His leg from beneath her hand, the loss of contact an unexpected blow, a rejection that stung. This is your fault, it said. You did this, you left me here alone.
Lanta forged on, needing Him to understand. ‘She is gone, Father, but not forever, I swear it. I work tirelessly, day and night, to bring Her back to you and to us, to all Gilgoras. And when She is returned, we will wreak such vengeance on the world as has not been seen in millennia. You shall have blood and screams as your bounty, my god. We need your mighty strength in Rilpor, in the temple, if we are to bring Her back. We … need you to come to us, Lord. There is flesh there to slake yourself on, flesh for pleasure and flesh for pain.’
Tentatively, Lanta reached out and touched Him again. His skin was hot, a slow increasing heat like a pot put on to boil, but she didn’t pull away. If this was a test, she would not fail it. If her hands were to be the sacrifice Gosfath demanded, she would burn them in His fires and glory in it. She took a slow breath. ‘May I serve you, Lord? In the temple? Will you come?’
Gosfath leant forward and ran a finger down the soft skin of her neck, the talon scoring a bright line of blood. She didn’t flinch, though the muscles around her eyes tightened at the sharpness of it. And then He sat back. He licked the drop of blood from His talon, and then sighed like wind howling through a tree canopy.
‘Gone.’
There was no warning, no way to prepare herself; Lanta was flung back along the pathway from the Waystation to her body, thrust back into it like a man attempting to stuff an eel in a jar. She reeled on her knees and Gull, taken by surprise at her return when he’d expected her to be lost in the rapture of communion, failed to catch her as she collapsed. She lay there, sucking in the scents of old blood and damp stone, her thoughts whirling.
Rejected. He does not want me, not as servant, nor as vessel. He is undone, and so are we because of it. He will not come.
Lanta wiped her cheeks with the back of her hand; her palms were newly blistered beneath the bandages, burns upon half-healed burns, a gnawing insistence that ate at her mind.
‘What happened?’ Gull demanded, pale, the pulse jumping in his throat.
‘The god did not desire. Gone, He said. The same word three times, to every question about the Dark Lady and about our efforts to bring Her back. I asked Him here, more than once. He did not acknowledge it.’
She stared sightlessly past Gull’s shoulder as a sick dread swamped her. ‘If we cannot summon Him here, the Dark Lady will have no guiding light to steer by. She won’t know that we have a host for Her, a life for Her to take and use to remake Herself. We could fail.’
Gull licked his lips and pressed them, wet and cold, to her cheek. ‘We will not fail. We cannot. We must not. If it is not pleasure our Lord seeks, I will go to Him. I mean no offence, Blessed One, but I have served the god directly for years. We are old acquaintances. Perhaps I can use that.’
Lanta rebelled against the idea, but she knew it made sense. It wasn’t about pride or position or power, not any more. They were so far beyond such things now, a thought Corvus would no doubt be shocked to learn. The truth was Gosfath was attuned to His priest, as the Dark Lady was attuned – had been attuned – to Her Blessed One. It might be that Gull could persuade Him where she couldn’t.
‘Go, my friend. See if you can learn anything; see if He will speak with you. I have another matter to attend to. Will you need me?’
�
��Thank you, Blessed One, but no.’
‘Then I will leave you to your rapture.’
And as for me, it is time to move the pieces on the board.
The battered slave flinched when she opened the door before jerking into a curtsey. ‘Blessed One.’
‘Where is your owner?’ Lanta pushed past without waiting for a reply, into a suite lit with bright sunlight from the empty windows. The rooms were fresh and clean, luxuriously appointed, but she knew instinctively that this was left over from Rilporian occupation. As King’s Second, Valan had resources and opportunity to surround himself with wealth and had not done so. The man was a good son of the gods and a devoted bodyguard.
Valan stood when Lanta swept into the room and inclined his head. ‘Blessed One. An unexpected surprise. Is everything well? The king is not here.’
‘I’m not here to see Corvus,’ Lanta said. ‘My days are trying enough without his carping.’
Valan ducked his head again, unspeaking, and gestured her to a chair. ‘Tara. Food and wine for the Blessed One.’
Lanta raised an eyebrow. ‘You gave it a name? Did you also give it those cuts?’
Valan had the grace to look uncomfortable. ‘I was blessed with a large allocation of slaves,’ he said when she was seated. ‘All of them new. It seemed reasonable to use their names until their talents – or otherwise – were established. Tara is … different. Clever, for a Rilporian. Organised. She runs my household and anticipates my needs. When she converts, I will free her. She will cast off the soldier she professes to still be married to and make a fine consort.’
The woman in question carried a small table to Lanta’s side and placed a cup full of dark wine on it, handed another to Valan, and then put a platter of plums, cheese and sliced pork on the table. She curtseyed and moved to stand by the fireplace, her every action neat and silent despite her bandaged hand and the sweep of bruising curling up from the neckline of her gown.
‘Consort? To you?’ Lanta asked with the smallest touch of alarm.
Valan made a wry grimace. ‘I mourn Neela and will do so for some time. I doubt this one will still be available when I am ready to take another, not once she has placed her feet upon the Dark Path.’
‘She could warm your bed in the meantime,’ Lanta pushed. ‘You have been alone too long, Second. A bed-slave would ease your cares.’ She didn’t give him time to respond. ‘You, slave. Anything the second wants, anything at all, you provide. If he honours you by taking you to his bed, you will pleasure him as you pleasure your consort, do you understand?’
The woman gave a jerky nod, her ridiculous hair – cut short on one side, long on the other – bobbing into her eyes. ‘Yes, Blessed One.’
Valan’s face twisted, a hint of revulsion, a hint of embarrassment, as though the idea wasn’t new. As though he both wanted it and was repulsed by it. Lanta wasn’t surprised – the woman was pretty in a way, strong-featured and broad-shouldered, bred for hard labour, but nothing like the spite-filled waif she remembered as the dead Neela. And besides, Valan was well known for his strange, un-Mireces-like prudishness, a source of much amusement among his fellow warriors. Something else that suited her.
‘Your hands, Blessed One. You are hurt?’ he asked, a clumsy changing of the subject that she allowed. She’d got the information she needed, after all.
‘The rigours of my calling. It is nothing to concern yourself with,’ Lanta said easily as she made a show of grasping her cup and sipping. ‘Now, to the purpose of my visit, Second. I have doubts, grave doubts, and must share them with you.’
Valan put his cup down and shifted to the edge of his chair. ‘I am yours to command, Blessed One.’
‘Doubts about Corvus,’ she said, not bothering to break it gently. How Valan reacted now would determine everything, her actions in the coming months, the coming years.
His face went still, wary but not angry. He folded his hands in his lap and sat straighter. ‘I am King’s Second, Blessed One,’ he began and she felt a flicker of doubt; perhaps she had misread the situation after all. ‘I am a good son of the Red Gods. My feet are on the Path, and all I do is dedicated to Their glory. My king acts in the gods’ best interests – to my knowledge. And it is to the gods that we ultimately must answer, Their judgement higher than that even of kings, for kings make mistakes and gods do not.’
Mistakes like your dead consort and children, Valan. Mistakes like letting the greater proportion of our blood be wiped out so that we must dilute it by rutting with these heathens. Yes, King’s Second, yes. I know your heart.
Valan took a breath, knuckles turning yellow. ‘How may I serve the gods, Blessed One?’
RILLIRIN
Ninth moon, first year of the reign of King Corvus
Red Gods’ temple, temple district, First Circle, Rilporin, Wheat Lands
Rillirin had never smelt anything so disgusting in her entire life. Not the cave-temple to the Red Gods in Eagle Height, not the stink of corpses in battle or the overflowing latrine pit from the overcrowding in the South Forts. The captain of the East Rank, whose name she had stubbornly refused to remember, and Pesh, the Krikite dedicated to the Red Gods, marched to either side of her as they proceeded through the smoky stench of the temple towards what had been – once – the godpool, where a familiar figure dressed in blue awaited, the torchlight throwing glints of fire into her hair.
The Blessed One stood with her arms crossed and her head thrown back with the old imperious arrogance Rillirin had always loathed, though her expression changed when she recognised her: ugly triumph blossomed in its place. ‘At last!’
The three of them came to a halt, Rillirin wheezing gently, her legs heavy from the brisk pace, the weight of collar and chain. The weight of her pregnancy – the babe seemed to have doubled in size in the last few weeks.
‘The vessel, Blessed One,’ Pesh said before the Ranker could speak. ‘The Godblind proved his worth to the cause a final time.’
‘And where is he now?’
‘Dead, I presume. We poisoned him and, in his already weakened state, I suspect he died, though I left before it happened. Time was of the essence to reach Pine Lock and find soldiers willing to stage an ambush on the word of a’ – he glanced at the captain – ‘savage.’
‘Dom isn’t dead,’ Rillirin said, more calmly than she felt. ‘You know nothing about him if you think something like poison could stop him.’
‘I understood her importance,’ the soldier interrupted, keen for his share of the glory in her capture. ‘We killed as many as we had to and captured as many as we could safely transport, Blessed One. As soon as I identified the woman, I brought her here.’
‘Aye,’ Rillirin spat even as Pesh opened his mouth to argue, ‘and aren’t you the fucking hero for dragging a pregnant woman across half the country, causing who knows how much damage to the child? Pair of fuckwits, both of you.’
She was sure her babe was in robust health, but Gilda’s warning all those months ago – that Lanta wanted it – was echoing in her head as it had done every day since her capture and through both failed escape attempts. Perhaps if the woman thought the babe was useless she’d leave them be. A vain hope, a fool’s hope, but all she had in the circumstances.
‘She’s a mouth on her,’ the Ranker added. ‘Been listening to it for a fortnight and I’m about sick of it, being honest.’
‘Then feel free to listen to it no longer,’ Lanta said. ‘Leave us. Both of you.’
They both gaped and Rillirin tutted. ‘Oh, did you think you’d be getting a prize?’ she asked sweetly. ‘Some gold or slaves of your own in appreciation? That’s not really how the Mireces do things, is it, Lanta? In fact, you should probably both give thanks to your dead goddess she hasn’t just killed you.’ She cocked her head at the Blessed One. ‘I need to piss, by the way.’
A man stalked out of the shadows and Rillirin recognised Valan, the king’s second, just before he slapped her across the face. ‘Address the Blessed One w
ith respect.’ He snapped his fingers and the men who’d accompanied her all the way from Fox Lake melted away like snow.
Lanta put her hand on Valan’s arm and steered him gently to the side, then stepped forward until her flat stomach brushed Rillirin’s round one. ‘Such defiance,’ she murmured, her breath tickling Rillirin’s face. ‘Such fire.’
Not really, Rillirin wanted to tell her. I need a piss because I’m scared. But I’ll never let you see that, not ever again. She forced a sneer on to her face. ‘Such filth,’ she replied, pointing with her chin over Lanta’s shoulder. ‘Do you bathe in it?’
The Blessed One’s face was cold, but then a smile warmed it. ‘No. But you might, if you don’t watch your tongue.’ She put both palms on Rillirin’s belly, the gesture possessive, almost hungry. Valan moved around behind Rillirin and prevented her from recoiling as Lanta’s fingers roamed over her, measuring, gauging, one sliding down between her thighs.
Rillirin released her bladder and laughed when the other woman jerked away in disgust, an involuntary yelp bursting from her throat. ‘I did warn you,’ she said, even as Lanta slapped her other cheek with her wet hand. She was light-headed with hunger and exhaustion, fear crowding the edges of her thoughts, but she knew if she gave in now, gave in to the collar or the threats, that she’d never pull herself and her child free.
Valan’s hands on her upper arms squeezed hard enough to leave bruises, but they did nothing else. They couldn’t, not while she was pregnant. A few slaps, a few pinches, but no more. She was safe until the babe was born. Sort of. Rillirin vowed to make the most of that time – she’d find a way to escape; she’d find allies in the city somehow, among the slaves perhaps.
Lanta dried her hand deliberately on Rillirin’s sleeve. ‘Liris never minded your smart mouth, as I recall. I, on the other hand, am less forgiving.’ She nodded and Valan grabbed a fistful of Rillirin’s hair and yanked her head back. He put a knife beneath her chin and pressed until a bead of blood welled up.
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