Among the Fallen

by NS Dolkart

  She blinked at him, her features so bright in the light of the full moon that it reminded him of the fairies. It was outrageous of him to connect the two, but he couldn’t help it. He felt as though he was Ptera’s prey, just as the islanders had been prey to the elves. What a ridiculous exaggeration on his part.

  But was it, though?

  Yes, yes it was.

  “What did the Graceful Servant say to you about me?” He was trying to be gentler, but it wasn’t coming out that way. “Was this her idea, Ptera, or was it yours?”

  Another long pause. “Hers,” Ptera admitted at last. “She said that you would be vulnerable to other people’s influence so long as you were unmarried, and that this way, your head would be clear to make better decisions. She thought you should marry within the faith as soon as possible.”

  Oh.

  “So you’re just doing your duty, then? That’s disgusting.”

  She shook her head, smiled tentatively. “Sometimes Ravennis gives us the opportunity to choose which duties we prefer.”

  That made Narky laugh. “I see. So I’m better than being tortured to death. Can’t argue with that.”

  “You’re too hard on yourself.”

  Ptera’s face was serious, and Narky suddenly realized what it was that made that face distinctive: her left eye was ever so slightly higher than her right. It was striking, now that he noticed it. He couldn’t decide whether it bothered him or not.

  “You’re a handsome boy,” she continued, “and no one’s done more than you in the service of Ravennis. Why shouldn’t I choose you if I get the chance?”

  He had no answer for her. It was the most flattering thing anyone had ever said to him, and he didn’t know what to do with it. Was that really how she saw him? A handsome boy, despite his lack of muscles or height or chest hair, despite his prominent scar and missing eye? His instinct was to be skeptical, to wonder what she was concealing from him, but nothing made sense. If she didn’t really find him desirable, why had she connived to marry him? Even if it had been the Graceful Servant’s idea in the first place, it sure didn’t sound like she’d resisted.

  Still, he hated not having a say in the matter. They had ambushed him, the two of them, and they expected him to simply fall in line and bind himself to Ptera for the rest of his life. No amount of flattery could cover over that fundamental truth. He was traveling to Anardis with a woman whose help had likely saved his life already and whose support he would certainly need in the days ahead – he could hardly afford not to marry her and keep up his end of the bargain. But it was a bargain she had made without him.

  It was best to have out with it. “I don’t like what you’re doing to me,” he said. “You haven’t really given me a choice, the two of you. I’m not such a bastard that I’d send you away, and you’re taking advantage of it.”

  Ptera winced. “I’m sorry you feel that way.”

  “I do.”

  They walked on in silence. Oh Ravennis, what was he going to do about this? He was wide awake, but his legs were growing tired. Where would they sleep tonight? How would they sleep tonight?

  Ptera seemed to have read his mind. “We don’t have to sleep together if you don’t want to. I think you’d like me if you gave me a chance, but I don’t want you to think you have no choice. We can sleep separately, and I’ll still be your ally in all things. Ravennis is more important than me or you.”

  He nodded unhappily. That was the other thing. She was supposed to help him spread the word of Ravennis – how was he supposed to tell her that he didn’t know what that was?

  The biggest trouble with spreading the word of Ravennis was that Narky wasn’t sure how he should relate to God Most High. Ravennis was Narky’s God, Ravennis owned him, but Criton’s God was the true power in the world, the builder of the mesh, the slayer of the Yarek and so on, and it was His prophet who had rescued the islanders from Bestillos and his army. Was Narky supposed to pretend that God Most High had had no role in his salvation?

  And that was only the beginning. Whatever relationship Narky had with Criton’s God, the real question was what relationship Ravennis had with God Most High. The Graceful Servant had viewed God Most High with something bordering on contempt, as if He was some doting old fool who would eventually tire of the world and wander off somewhere. That didn’t strike Narky as right, but where did the truth lie? Was Ravennis an ally to God Most High? A rival? A high-level servant? Or was He perhaps a sort of divine parasite, feeding off God Most High’s plans to further His own agenda? Narky worshipped Him and belonged to Him, but he was allowed to wonder. It was his duty to wonder, if he was to be Ravennis’ high priest.

  He wished his God would give him a sign, perhaps appear to him in a dream and explain what was expected of him. If Eramia could appear to Hunter in a river, why shouldn’t Ravennis appear to Narky in a dream? Would the Keeper of Fates really leave him to his own devices on this most important of missions?

  He hadn’t been left just to his own devices though, and so his thoughts wandered back to Ptera. What was he to make of her? She certainly knew how to say the right thing. She was trying her best to win his heart, despite their bad start. He had to admire her effort, at least.

  Did he find her attractive? It seemed almost like a silly question – he had never not found a woman near his age attractive, at least attractive enough to distract him a little. She was no Eramia – the girl, not the Goddess – and no Phaedra either, but those were awfully high standards. Yes, her hips were narrow, and her hair was limp and brown, but her face was fascinating to look at now that he had discovered its secret. It pulled him in. And she had something that neither Eramia nor Phaedra had ever had: she wanted him.

  They stopped at a house that had Ravennis’ mark painted on its door. After a little while, the bleary-eyed owner answered their knocks and gave a little yelp when he saw them. Narky barely had time to explain who they were before the man said, “My wife and I will sleep in the barn. Please, take our house and may Ravennis bless us all.”

  Ptera thanked them, and a few minutes later they were alone inside, staring in the darkness at the single bed.

  “Shall I take the floor?” Ptera asked innocently, and Narky shook his head. Hunter would have offered to take the floor himself, and he would have thought to do it before Ptera said a word. Narky, unfortunately, was not Hunter.

  “I think there’s room enough for both of us,” he said. “We can lie head-to-toe.”

  “All right,” Ptera said, but they both just stood there.

  The dry season was coming to an end, but it was a warm night for the time of year. In weather like this, Bandu would have stripped her clothes off without a thought. No! He shouldn’t have thought about that. Now he didn’t feel like sleeping anymore.

  Ptera was staring at him. “I heard that Ravennis gave you a sort of mark,” she said at last. “May I – may I see it?”

  “I don’t think you’ll be able to in this dim light,” Narky said, but Ptera just stood there waiting until he gingerly took his shirt off. She stepped closer and ran a hand along his chest, feeling the ridges where Ravennis’ mark had cut into his skin.

  “I didn’t realize it was so ornate!” she said.

  “He nearly killed me,” Narky told her. “When I repented for what I’d done, He let me live and gave me this.”

  Ptera nodded. She didn’t ask him what he’d done. She also didn’t take her hand off his chest until he gently pushed it away. She was testing him, he thought.

  “Thank you,” she said, and went to lie down in the bed.

  Narky lay himself down by her feet and did not sleep. He kept thinking of her hand touching his skin, and of the fact that she wanted him, she wanted him, and she was right here beside him. He had resented Bandu once, for keeping him up at night without even realizing it, but how could he resent Ptera when she had made it clear that he could have her if he would only ask? If he could not sleep for thinking about her, he had only himself to bla
me.

  He sat up in bed.

  “You win,” he said. “I want you.”

  20

  Phaedra

  Pirates. Kidnappers. Where was their ship headed now? She and Hunter sat on their bunks, unable to do anything but worry. Perhaps they were in their new God’s hands, but who was to say whether He had really planned this? It didn’t feel particularly like they were in His hands – it felt like they were in the hands of men.

  Piracy had always been a danger in the archipelago, but there had been a treaty struck when Phaedra was young, making every island responsible for patrolling its shores and harbors for pirated ships and goods in an effort to eradicate the problem. Its effectiveness had made her father rich, since investing in merchantmen had swiftly become a much less risky proposition. But the problem had never gone away completely, and now it had become their problem.

  Did they want a ransom? There would be no one to ransom her and Hunter. Was it the ship and its cargo they were after? If so, the two of them were completely expendable. And if this was God Most High’s punishment for the captain, Phaedra failed to see how it could improve the lives of His servants. Before, they had been trapped. Now they were likely doomed.

  Their new voyage lasted a few hours before their captors called them above deck. Up the ladder they went, limbs stiff and aching, blinking in the morning sun. There were men around them, and a good number of them too, but Phaedra could not focus on them, because she saw now where their ship was headed.

  It was headed for Tarphae.

  Someone had repaired one of the docks in Karsanye’s harbor, and to this they were headed at full speed. Phaedra’s heart pounded thunderously in her chest and she had to force herself to breathe. The cursed island. Home. Apparently it was now a pirate haven.

  The ship’s captain was still alive, but he was tied to the mast. A half dozen other sailors knelt beside him, staring terrified at the pirates who had taken their ship. The cook wasn’t among them, though he had been on the ship last night. Had he been killed and thrown overboard? That wasn’t necessarily surprising, but it was undeniably horrifying.

  The pirates were predominantly young islanders around Phaedra’s age, but their leader was far older. His beard was flecked with hints of gray, while his eyes sported the beginnings of crows’-feet. He smiled as his crew forced Phaedra and Hunter to kneel beside the others.

  “Hello there,” he said. “My name is Mura. You haven’t heard of me; nobody has, except my friends and a sizable number of dead men. Now, let me tell you what is going to happen. There are nine of you now. Three will not survive the afternoon. The rest may live a good deal longer if you obey my every command and make no attempt to free yourselves. Do you understand?”

  They all nodded dumbly. Mura’s men tied their hands behind their backs, and soon they were being helped onto the new dock. Phaedra winced as her foot touched the planks, terrified that Karassa would notice her presence and take offense. But nothing happened. Was God Most High shielding them from the Goddess’ vision?

  How long had these pirates been using Tarphae as their refuge? The island had been deserted when Phaedra and the others had come back for their king, and that was only a few months ago. Karassa had tried to swallow them with an earthquake, and now even Her great capital of Karsanye was mostly rubble.

  But out of this rubble, the pirates had built an altar. It was made of uneven stones, probably from the remnants of the nearest building, and it stood just past the end of the docks, waiting for them. Three of you will not survive the afternoon.

  Which of them would Mura choose for his sacrifice? Surely, God Most High would not have protected her and Hunter all this time just to allow them to be sacrificed to Karassa. Even so, Phaedra knew better than to complacently assume His continued protection. It was too easy to accidentally offend a God, and if they ever lost that protection, their first and only warning might well be their deaths.

  Hopefully He was still protecting them, and Mura would choose others instead. The captain would be a tempting target, Phaedra was sure. He was also responsible for the crew’s defiance toward God Most High, so if Mura didn’t choose him, it would mean that the dragons’ God had had no part in this latest turn of events. That was too frightening to contemplate, so as horrible as it was to hope for anyone’s death, Phaedra dearly hoped the captain would be chosen.

  But after him, it was anyone’s guess who would most appeal to Mura’s bloodlust. The tallest ones? The brawniest? The weakest? It all depended, she supposed, on what he meant to do with those who survived.

  In the end Mura did choose the captain, and two continental sailors besides. The three sailors who were islanders heaved a collective sigh of relief, while the last remaining continental shifted his gaze from person to person, looking hunted. Mura smiled at this and turned back to the captain, unsheathing a long knife from his belt.

  Phaedra closed her eyes while the horrible deed was done, squeezing them together so hard that tears formed in the corners and blurred her vision even after she opened them again. She wished her hands had been unbound so that she could cover her ears as well. What she heard made her want to bury her head in a pillow and never take it out again. The screaming, the pleading, the gurgling… she felt sick.

  A sudden burst of heat made her open her eyes. All three dead men on the altar were wreathed in flames.

  “The Goddess has accepted our sacrifice!” Mura cried. “Praised be Karassa, who protects us and grants us the use of Her islands.”

  “Praised be Karassa,” his men echoed. This wasn’t their first time, Phaedra thought. That only made it more horrifying.

  “God of Dragons protect us,” she muttered under her breath.

  The heat of the altar was intense, despite the lack of any visible fuel. The flames ate greedily at the bodies, turning them to ash before her eyes. Karassa was taking to these pirates’ sacrifice far better than anything Phaedra had ever seen on the holy days of her childhood. How easy it had been for Her to discard the Tarphaeans and start anew!

  Phaedra felt a true hatred for Karassa growing within her. To think that they had spent months worrying that some other God had overpowered Her to slay Her people! Phaedra hoped the Oracle that had warned of a Judgment of the Gods had been right – Karassa deserved to be judged, and judged harshly. May God Most High cast Her out of the heavens!

  When the bodies were little more than charred husks, Mura collected some of the ashes in a bag that had been hanging around his neck, tucked into his shirt. That struck Phaedra as odd. Did the ashes have a ritual purpose? The Tarphaean priests of Karassa had never collected the ashes of a sacrifice to Phaedra’s knowledge, and Phaedra’s knowledge was extensive. These ashes were different, of course, and not just because they were made from the corpses of men: they were a direct sign of the Goddess’ favor. They were the kind of thing Psander might have used to bolster her home’s defenses.

  Was Mura a wizard? Phaedra had been wondering what God Most High meant to do with her and Hunter, but now it suddenly seemed clear. In one blow He had punished the captain and crew for imprisoning her and Hunter, and brought her to a place where she could learn more of magic! If she could survive the place, anyway.

  The pirates dragged the prisoners to their feet and led them roughly onward, through the rubble of Karsanye. Her captors had no sympathy for Phaedra’s handicap, shoving her nastily when she fell behind, and slapping Hunter when he asked to help her.

  “What good is she to us?” one of them asked Mura. “You should have sacrificed her, too.”

  Mura ignored the man. He strode ahead, leading the way through the ruined city, and then past its borders and out into the countryside. After another hour’s walk, Phaedra spotted their destination: a farmhouse and mill on the edge of the Sennaroot river, active with people and animals. These pirates were also farmers, then?

  Not exactly, it turned out. The farm and mill ran on slave labor, its seven workers overseen by four more of Mura’s followe
rs sporting weapons and whips. This was where the pirates came for supplies and safe harbor in between raids. It was also where Phaedra and the others would be staying.

  When they got closer, Phaedra spotted the six graves outside the farmhouse. The pirates had been courteous, then, when they arrived here, and had buried the former inhabitants. They must have thought it necessary for securing Karassa’s favor. Phaedra wondered if they were right, or if the Goddess had watched them with amusement as they reverently buried the very same people that She had so carelessly slaughtered.

  Mura caught her gaze, and seemed to read her mind. “Do you worship Karassa?” he asked.

  The four remaining sailors all nodded vigorously. Phaedra felt Hunter’s eyes on her, waiting to take his cue. He was like that, Hunter. Never comfortable being the first to speak.

  “No,” Phaedra said, assessing the situation and deciding that Mura was unlikely to be deceived. “But I respect Her power.”

  That seemed to be the right thing to say. Mura laughed a big, genuine laugh and said, “Who wouldn’t, after what She did here?”

  He knew, then. How?

  “Oh yes,” he said. “It was Karassa who drowned the people of Tarphae; She told me Herself. She came to me in a dream and invited me to claim Her island, if I would devote all my worship to Her. She has provided for us ever since, and in return we have given Her sacrifices and kept Her holy days, as will you.”

  Phaedra nodded along with the others, and said nothing more. If Mura ever found out that she and Hunter were Tarphaean, that would be the end of them. He’d be delighted, honored to sacrifice them to the Goddess of their childhood.

  One of the overseers, who introduced himself as Bennan, surveyed the new captives about their skills. Luckily, Hunter had the sense to lie and say that he had grown up as a merchant’s son. It was at least a plausible background for such an obviously well-bred person, and it didn’t encourage anyone to pick fights with him the way that the truth might have. If he had told them of his nobility, it would only have made them want to further demean and humiliate him. If he’d told them of his combat training, they’d surely have taken it as a challenge.