Crossroad

by Riley S. Keene

  Athala. Whole again.

  The wind stopped once she was complete, the last bit of glowing purple encased in Athala’s skin. Isadon stumbled, struggling to one knee. He swayed over her for a moment, panting heavily.

  This time Elise did go to Him. She reached over the prone body of her lifeless friend and put a hand to Isadon’s shoulder to steady Him.

  “It’s done,” He said between gasps for breath. “I’ve done it.”

  “Is she…” Elise gestured down to Athala’s body. “Is she alive?”

  Isadon frowned down at the unmoving form. “I don’t know. I’ve never done this before. But I’ve done all I can. As the God of Death, it is not an inconsiderable amount.”

  “Wait—you’ve never done this before?” She looked down at Athala. The wizard’s eyes were open, but they were vacant. The rest of her body was still. Her chest was moving, but just barely. “Has no one ever asked you to bring back the dead?”

  “They have,” Isadon said with a breathless laugh. He shook His head, and parts of His face flickered and frayed, murky smoke trailing from the motion. “But it’s never been necessary. What those people needed was not their loved ones back, but closure. Counselling. Therapy.” He gestured at the Temple behind Him. “My Priests handled that.” He looked down at Athala, His eyes full of an emotion Elise couldn’t place. “She is the first one that I—and Neuges—actually needed back.” He smirked at Elise. “I hope you don’t mind that I didn’t do this exclusively for you.”

  Elise didn’t answer.

  Instead of the sarcastic comeback that formed between her clenched teeth, she reached down and touched Athala’s hand. The comeback—along with everything else—flew out of her head for a moment as a purple spark jumped between their fingers.

  Pain.

  There was pain unlike anything she’d ever felt before.

  This wasn’t a stabbing pain, or a throbbing pain. It wasn’t crushing. Nothing like a broken bone or a long fall. Nor was it like fire.

  The closest type of pain she could equate this to was an acid-induced burn. It wasn’t right, but it was close.

  Pain filled every aspect of her. It was like the burning in the back of her throat after vomiting, but everywhere. Searing. Purging. Her vision went white as her senses were eclipsed by the pain.

  She had a moment of clear thought, but all she could remember was screaming as Ermolt was engulfed in Dragonfire in Jalova.

  As the pain ebbed, she realized she was screaming.

  There was also another voice screaming with her.

  The vision of white began to resolve, afterimages and trails outlining the world around her as her awareness returned. Her scream died in her throat and she gasped for breath. Nearby, the other voice did the same.

  Elise lowered her head, and tears streamed from her eyes in a torrent. Her sobs tore through her, wracking her body, but Elise couldn’t figure out why she cried. Not, at least, until she realized the fingers beneath hers were grasping back, firm.

  Alive.

  “Elise?” Athala said in a voice that sounded like the clearest water given after days of dehydration. “Is that you?”

  Chapter Forty-Three

  She moved before she could clearly assess her surroundings. Athala threw her arms around Elise. The feeling of her friend’s splint mail armor on her bare skin was uncomfortable, but it was the first physical sensation she’d experienced in what felt like years.

  Decades.

  The Conscript turned and threw her arms around Athala with another sob. Her embrace was so warm and welcoming, and Athala was so happy to have it. She ignored the tears that ran down her shoulders.

  “I’m so sorry,” Elise whispered against the curve of Athala’s neck, her breath like fire. “We failed you.”

  Athala placed a hand to the back of Elise’s head and cooed at her. “I would never ask you to do the impossible. You couldn’t have saved me.”

  The Conscript laughed under her touch. “You may not have asked, but we found a way to do it anyway.” She pulled back to wipe at the tears that flowed freely.

  Athala gave her a moment to clean herself up, and instead looked to Ermolt. The barbarian was smiling, with tears on his own cheeks, but he was averting his gaze. Athala knew that he wouldn’t be ogling her nude form even if he were looking at her, but she appreciated the gesture. She was comfortable enough with Elise—they had seen one another dressing before—but the idea that her nakedness was to be hidden from men had been drilled into her from a young age as a noble. It was only reinforced by her tastes as she had come to age.

  There was movement in her peripheral vision, and for the first time, Athala was aware that there was someone else there. As she looked up at the old man, she made an embarrassed squeaking noise and tried to cover herself with her hands. She flailed for a moment as she tried to scramble backwards using only her feet. It was likely more of a spectacle than her bare flesh.

  She was about halfway behind Elise when she realized that describing the other person as an old man was likely inaccurate. He was shrouded in dark energy, flickering around the edges. It was almost as if the man struggled to hold himself together.

  Her eyes flickered to the symbol on the robes, and she understood. Or, well, understood more than she had a bare moment ago. The spiked eye of Isadon stared openly at her, and with the wisps of darkness creating a sort of aura, Athala knew she was faced with the so-called dead God.

  Elise confirmed her suspicions. “This is Isadon, God of Death,” she said to explain His presence. “It was with His help that we brought you back.”

  “Um, th-thank you,” Athala said. “I apologize for my, um, well…”

  “Nobles,” Ermolt said with a snort. Athala turned to watch the barbarian as he shrugged his pack off his back and peeled it open. He struggled for a moment before he pulled a much more compact satchel out of it. Athala’s eyes widened as he held it out to her. “I thought you might want this, so I brought it along.” He grinned, lopsidedly. “And good thing, too. Who would have known that a God wouldn’t have the power to bring you back along with your trousers?”

  Athala grabbed her pack from him with murmured thanks. She scrambled to dig through it, and grabbed the first garment she saw that was long enough to cover her fully. It was a carefully-folded dress, made of fine blue silk, with lighter blue fabric sewn into pleats along the sleeves and sides of the thigh. It felt odd to fetch such a fine garment just to cover herself, but she wasn’t going to hunch over her bag in the nude and try to find something more appropriate. The silk felt nice against her skin anyway. Luxurious. After what she’d been through, it was nice to be a bit pampered.

  She tried to not think about her death, and tried even harder to not think about the experience that followed. The endless nothingness in that vacancy that the universe was trying to pass off as an afterlife. Instead she focused on getting dressed. She pulled the garment over her head and struggled her arms into the sleeves.

  When she was decent once more, she slung her bag over her shoulder. Its familiar weight was good. Right.

  It was only then that she faced the God. Her mind was blank, and she was unsure of what to say to Him. She’d never spoken to a God before, much less one to whom she owed her life. The most important thing to her was to balance the account. Gods never did anything without demanding something in return. She didn’t want to owe Him an unspecified favor in the future.

  But her mind was blank, and the words refused to come.

  She picked at her fingernails, and the sensation was incredibly relaxing. A thousand years in the making. But the act helped focus her. She opened her mouth to address Him, but was interrupted by enormous arms enveloping her. Athala squeaked as Ermolt lifted her off the ground, laughing the whole time.

  “I’m so glad to have you back,” he rumbled, holding her tight in a way that squeezed all the air from her lungs. “I missed you.”

  “Ermolt, Gods, I can’t breathe!” The arms around her lo
osened slightly, and Athala gasped for air.

  “Forgive me. I just… I failed you. And I promise I won’t do it again.”

  “You didn’t fail me!” Athala kicked her legs and tried to push him away. “What I wanted was for you two to get out alive, and you did. For… Gods, put me down!”

  Ermolt laughed louder but lowered her to the ground gently, as if he held a prized possession. Athala straightened her dress with a huff, although she couldn’t keep the smile off her face.

  “How do you feel?” the barbarian asked. “Is everything… where it’s supposed to be?”

  “Seems to be,” Athala said. She took a moment to count her fingers, lifting her dress a few rhen to count her toes as well. Her own fingers trickled down her form as she tried to remember just how wide her hips and waist were. This dress had been tailored for her, and it fit alright. It seemed a little loose, but she had lost some weight before her death, anyway. All that running around. Satisfied, she nodded to Ermolt. “At least, if anything isn’t right, it’s not so bad as to not be obvious?”

  “What about your magic?” Elise asked. The Conscript moved closer, concern on her face. “The Dragon spells?”

  Athala focused her attention inward. The first thing she noticed was that her own spells were still fresh in her mind as they had ever been. They were ready to be called forth at will. The modified version of Sirur’s spell was there as well.

  But Meodryt’s spell was missing.

  Disappointment flooded Athala, and she opened her mouth to tell Elise as much when she noticed something else that was different.

  Power.

  So very much power.

  Her magic—the wellspring of energy that she associated with her willpower—felt massive. She had always been a powerful wizard for her age, and considered the vast reservoir she wielded to be quite impressive. But this? This was an ocean. Beyond an ocean.

  This power was an expanse without parallel.

  She didn’t even know how to begin to examine it.

  It was bottomless.

  Athala tried to wrap her head around it. Perhaps it was a side effect of returning from the dead. She didn’t know where she had been—she forced aside thoughts of that endless void she’d been lost in—but she hadn’t used her magic at all. And with no body to limit how much power she could accumulate, she could had amassed a massive stockpile of power.

  Now that she was in a physical body, it was likely already bleeding off from that massive amount to reduce down to what she could physically accommodate.

  But it didn’t feel like it was bleeding off.

  “Meodryt’s spell is gone,” Athala said at last, choosing her words carefully. “Everything else is here. Sirur’s spell, and my own besides. But… But my power. It feels like so much more than usual.” She paused, unsure of what to say. There was no use worrying them. “But that doesn’t seem unusual for someone who has been dead for…” She paused and looked back and forth between her friends. They didn’t look too different, if a little more tired than usual. “A month?”

  “Almost. About three weeks,” Elise said, and she reached out to pull Athala into another hug. “But it was any amount of time too much.”

  “I did My best,” Isadon said, and Athala turned to the God. “I hope it is to your satisfaction.”

  “Thank you, again,” Athala said. She curtsied politely to the God, as if He were just another person who had given her a hand when she was in need. “I assume there is something I can do for You to show my gratitude?”

  “Your friends have done half of what I need,” Isadon said. He folded His hands in front of His person, framing the Symbol of Isadon on His chest with thin arms. “They have been through trials aplenty just to get this far, and gave Me the faith that was required to power your resurrection.” He paused and looked past her head, towards the empty dais that stood behind them. “But there is still one thing. And I do not think you or your friends will be opposed to helping Me with it.”

  “What is your price, God of Death?”

  Isadon winced, and laughed with a thin bitterness. “Do not mistake Me. I know My price will be great, but it is in alignment with your own goals. I want you to bring about the Age of Mortals.” He held up a hand before any of them could object. “This is no ploy, I assure you. The last God who asked this of you only wanted you to kill Her competition, and leave Her the only God left. She would kill all of you to keep Meodryt as the last dragon, and preserve Her reign. And I promise you, you weren’t the only tool She was using to that end.”

  “There were others?” Ermolt frowned, and then looked to Elise and Athala. “Do you think Ibeyar is being led by Her as well?”

  “Perhaps,” Isadon said, but He shook His head. “I do not know. She is good at hiding Her plans, especially from Me. But I know Her well.” He closed His eyes, and concentrated on His words. “You must bring about the Age of Mortals, but you must also stop Ibeyar. He will unmake the current world order by ascending to Godhood—a process he is farther from completing than he knows, but closer than any human has ever been—and that unmaking will cause your jobs to be harder, if not impossible.”

  “I don’t think I’m alone in saying we were already planning on ridding the world of that monster,” Ermolt said, his voice thick with emotion.

  “And we were already going to stop Ydia.” Elise said, pressing her lips into a thin line. “I can’t imagine anything better than fulfilling the prophecy She created by striking Her down alongside Her other would-be victims.”

  Athala nodded, but said nothing.

  They were all correct. Revenge against Ydia meant the death of Meodryt, and the thought of striking down the dragon who had devoured her gave her a thrill. And Ibeyar needed to be stopped, not just for what he would do, but for what he had already done. For the lives he’d claimed, and for the misery he’d caused.

  But more than that, Isadon was right. When they killed Sirur, and when Ibeyar had stolen Numara’s power, they had set into motion events that could only end in one of two ways. Centuries of tentative peace between the Gods was thrown out of balance. The Gods would go to war, and thousands would die. If not millions. In the end, only one would reign over Neuges.

  The only way to stop it was to end it before it began.

  They would need to cut the heads from all six sides of this conflict before They could send Their followers to pointless deaths. Together, they would need to kill all the Gods.

  And if Isadon tried to create a dragon to reign supreme when all others were dead?

  They would kill Him, too.

  Athala would not be a tool again.

  “There is one thing that you have to do for Me before you begin on your quest,” Isadon said, interrupting her thoughts. He tried to smooth out His robes, but too much of Him was fraying. Shadowy energy drifted out of the gap in His form. “In order to sustain you, and help you, I need something.” He gestured around the ruins around them. “This Temple is long gone, and My city as well. But I need a base of power, a foothold. Just a little something to brace Myself against once Ydia knows I’m back.”

  Elise crossed her arms over her chest and glared at the God.

  Athala joined her.

  “I don’t need you to rebuild my entire religion,” Isadon said with a wispy chuckle. He waved a hand dismissively. “I only need one Temple. I had a rise in Lublis once upon a time. I need it reinstated. With just that, I can stand strong against Her and protect you from Her attacks.”

  “Um,” Athala said, the starch shaken from her form. “Does it, um, have to be Lublis?” She felt that ocean of power within her still, and somehow even near-endless magical might seemed inadequate.

  She couldn’t deal with her brother. Not now—and not on top of everything else.

  And if she couldn’t do it now, then she may as well plan on never dealing with him. It seemed like a logical conclusion.

  Elise touched her shoulder, the Conscript’s grip gentle and warm, but unyielding. �
�There’s nothing to be had for it,” she said, and Athala dreaded the words that followed. “We’ve already promised your return.”

  Meanwhile…

  Isadon was exhausted.

  Bringing back Athala required a significant amount of Isadon’s power. He had been hoarding and holding what little He had left for centuries, sealing it in the Favor, drawing it out of the stones of His temple, and subsisting on as little of it as He could. It felt wrong to have consumed so much of it now, but now He had followers again. And He had their pledge to try and restore His rise in Lublis.

  His power would rise again.

  He would be a God once more.

  As His new three-person flock descended His tower, He descended in a different direction. If He was going to return, there was something missing from the world that He would not suffer it to miss a moment longer.

  He did not descend the tower, but instead He descended into the space between the worlds.

  His presence lit the stairs as He strode down them into darkness. The Endless Staircase had been one of His first creations after His ascension, though only one other had ever seen it. He tried not to think about Her as He carefully measured His power, and tried to estimate how long He could last if She found Him again.

  Not long. Not long at all.

  Especially with what He intended to do next.

  Maehala was gone, and that emptiness hurt Isadon in a way He suspected the other gods would never understand. This was His cause. His passion. He braved the trials and ascended for this, and now? Nothing.

  Distantly He could sense the lost souls of the dead screaming and railing through the endless maddening depression that the afterlife had become. The work of His entire godhood had been left to dissolve in the void. Loss and anger filled His heart.

  This would not stand.

  He raised His hands in the void, and reached out with His power. The framework was still there, at least. He wouldn’t have to start over from scratch, but it would be a struggle. He pushed His power out into the void, focusing it not with His will, but with His heart. It was what He felt separated Him from the other gods. They were so concerned with being above it all, they barely cared for their causes. Did Dasis actually care for the fauna of Neuges except to serve as sustenance for Her followers? Did Teis actually care for the weather besides as a drive for His people to pray to Him? Did Ydia care for—