He told this man in his room of light and gold what he had told Sigurne in her room of magery and silence.
The Exalted of Cormaris was quiet when Rath at last finished speaking. He had interrupted Rath only a handful of times, and only for clarification or wording. Since the exact wording was in Rath’s room in the thirty-fifth holding, this was frustrating; Rath seldom felt the awkward child, and it was not a reaction that he appreciated.
But the god-born did not seem to notice; he merely absorbed the information he had requested. Only when it was clear that Rath had come to the end of the words he knew how to offer did the Exalted leave his throne. He rose.
To the silent Priests who had led them this far, he now gestured.
They stepped forward, to either side of his throne, and uncovered small braziers that rested on stout legs against the tiling. These, they lit, and incense began to trail thin smoke toward the ceiling. Caught in beams of light, the smoke was striking; if the dead cast shadows, they would be these trails, these rising streams.
To the Priests, however, they signified little; once the braziers were lit, they walked to the doors, and these, with some obvious exertion, they closed.
Sigurne moved to stand closer to Rath. “I don’t know if you’ve experienced this before,” she said quietly. “But if you haven’t: don’t speak to the god until, or unless, he addresses you. Let the Exalted ask questions. If the Exalted asks a question, speak to him; the god will hear your answer.” She smiled a small, weary smile. “I have been between worlds many times, but I admit I have never grown fond of it. There is something about it that is not quite comfortable.”
As if she were talking about the ache damp weather caused. He could not help smiling at her. Even here.
But it was brief; he turned to watch the Exalted. His face was shorn of expression, but his eyes—his eyes had turned gold into something liquid that captured the essential nature of light. It was hard to look at him. It was impossible to look away.
Even when the mists began to roll in, in lazy, billowing clouds that, unlike normal mist, were neither damp nor wet, Rath could not look away. The floor vanished, the braziers disappeared, the throne wavered—but the man with shining eyes did not. He was the bridge between worlds.
God-born.
He had not raised his arms, had not lifted his face to the heavens where the gods were reputed to dwell. Nor had he raised his voice. He stood, and only when he slowly turned was Rath free—if a man could ever be said to be free in the presence of a god.
It was said that gods chose their forms when they appeared in the lands between. Without experience, Rath could not divine the truth in that belief. But the god appeared robed, much as his son was robed; he carried a rod in one hand, and in the other? A staff. His hair was gray, but not the gray of age; it was almost silver. His face? Neither young nor old, or perhaps all of these things, for his face was hard to look upon. It shifted, rippling constantly, as if it were the surface of a lake. On his left shoulder, an eagle sat, an eagle the color of mist, with blue eyes.
The god’s eyes were all colors or no color, and in their way, they, too, were hard to look upon. But it was his voice that made the deepest impression: it was a chorus of voices, all speaking at the same time, and to the same beat, but all distinct enough that he could peel each back by layer—if he wanted to ignore the actual words.
It was, however, for those words that he’d come.
“Father,” the Exalted said quietly.
Cormaris nodded. “Why have you summoned me?”
“We seek your counsel,” was the soft reply. The Exalted then turned. “This is Sigurne Mellifas, and her two companions, Ararath of Handernesse and Matteos Corvel.”
“Sigurne,” the god said. He inclined his head, and the eagle spread its wings a moment before settling.
She inclined her own head in turn; bowing in these mists would have made her momentarily invisible. “It has been some time,” she said softly.
“And yet, not enough time? Were it up to you, Sigurne, I believe you would gratefully never come to this place at all.” He spoke, in all of his multiple voices, with affection.
“We seldom disturb the gods to share either peace or happiness.”
“No. And I will not even call it selfish. What is of enough concern that you present yourself here?”
“A dreaming Wyrd,” she replied. “Three dreams.”
“Ah.” He turned to his son. “Tell me of these dreams.”
As Sigurne had predicted, the Exalted turned to Rath. “Tell me again,” he said quietly, “the content of these Three Dreams. Precision and brevity are not required; the time in the between passes differently.”
Rath did as the son of Cormaris requested.
The god listened, silent and impassive. Only when it was clear that Rath had finished did he speak. But he spoke to Rath.
“Ararath Handernesse,” and if a multitude could speak quietly, this one did.
Rath inclined his head, although this took effort. Standing for a moment in the god’s gaze, he felt the weight of it, as if all history had been—and even at this moment was—absorbed by the gods. He rarely felt insignificant when he did not desire it. He felt worse than that, now; he felt entirely exposed, and in a way that the lies and the elaborate fictions that he had often constructed for his personal use could not alleviate.
“Who was the dreamer?”
Silence.
The air grew colder, and the god’s voice sharper. Rath felt Sigurne’s hand on his arm; he could not look away to see it. “Who was the dreamer?”
“Ararath,” the Exalted said. “Please answer the question.”
“My apologies, Exalted,” he said, because he could—barely—speak to the son of Cormaris. “But that is not information that I can freely divulge. Had I realized that I would be required to do so, I would not have approached Sigurne, and I would not have come to trouble you.”
The eagle launched itself off the shoulder of the god, and Rath felt the beat of its wings. He closed his eyes as the eagle landed upon his shoulders, but he did not attempt to evade it.
Talons pierced robe, jacket, shirt, and skin.
Rath did not move.
But the god did. He covered the distance that separated them, marked by eddies in mist and gray. Some three feet away from Rath, he halted.
“This is not a game.”
“No,” Rath replied. “I have endeavored to overcome my caution and my personal scruples to deliver this information. The information itself is in no way filtered.”
“Do you think you can protect her?” the god asked.
It was not the question Rath had expected. Her. That much, he had already divined. But he shrugged the shoulder that did not contain the weight of the eagle. “As I can, I have. And as I can, I will continue to do so.”
“Is she seer-born?”
Rath was silent.
“They cannot hear your answers; they cannot hear my questions. This much, I am willing to cede you, in this place.”
Rath glanced at the eagle, then. “Yes. She is seer-born.” He almost asked why this was relevant; most of the Wyrd-driven dreams were not the dreams of seers. The seer-born were very, very rare. He stopped the words from leaving his mouth. Not even someone as jaded as Rath could argue niceties with a god.
“It is relevant,” the god replied, “because what she sees, when she dreams, is not necessarily the Wyrd of the nameless god; it is a gift that resides in part within her own future. I would have you bring her here,” he added, “But I will not demand it.”
“She dreamed of gods.”
“Yes.” Cormaris frowned. “And it is troubling. What you say implies much.”
“The god we do not name cannot be here.”
“No. If he were in your ‘here,’ you would not question; you would know. But something is . . . wrong. I am aware of Sigurne Mellifas, and her lifelong burden. If I am not mistaken, you are more intimately acquainted with the daggers b
lessed by ancient rites than even she.”
Rath nodded.
“There are demons, here.”
“There are demons,” Rath replied, “in the City. What they seek, we do not know. But they kill for things ancient in our measure: old and broken artifacts. Ancient Weston writings.” He paused, and then, meeting the endless gaze of Cormaris, asked, “What city lay here, before our founding?”
The god was silent for long enough that Rath thought he would not answer.
“There were three, but it is not of these that you speak. They were cities of men, and they rose and fell long after the gods last walked your world. But before that, this was home to The Shining Court, and it was part of the dominion of Allasakar. If the kin can delve there, there is a danger.”
“They can,” Rath replied.
This time, the god did not ask him for the details that he did not wish to divulge. “How long have the demons been present in the City?”
“At best guess? Thirty years. Perhaps more.”
“And they have operated undetected until very recently.”
Rath nodded.
“But the Kings have not fallen, nor have the Exalted. There has been no war, no obvious display of power.”
Thinking about the burning brothel, Rath grimaced. “There have been no obvious contraventions of the Kings’ Law. And without even one such incident, we cannot move forward.”
“I understand the small political games men play in these times,” the god replied. “But they do not understand their peril.”
“Is there peril, in this?”
“Yes, although I do not fully apprehend their intent. There are things that lie beneath Averalaan that We do not wish disturbed.” He frowned. “But if the Lord of the Hells delves there, it is not in his interests to disturb them either.” He reached out and stroked the eagle’s head. “You have not told Sigurne all of your intent,” he added.
“No. I have not told anyone of what I intend, because if there is any other way, I will choose it. In my experience, the kin are not human—but they share some human frailties: greed, lust, desire for power. All of these things can be manipulated, with care. They need make only one mistake, if it is the right one, and we are free to act.”
“And you can be certain that they will make such a mistake?”
“Nothing is certain,” Rath replied bitterly. “And in truth, I delivered the information to Sigurne because I had hoped—”
“That I might supply her, or my son, with information that could be used to sway the Kings.”
Rath nodded.
“Understand,” Cormaris said, “that the gods are not of your world. We cannot directly affect events there except through our children; we are not omniscient, and we see what our children see, no more. What you see, and what you have seen, none of my followers has seen; if there have been deaths, and if the demons hunt in the City, they have taken care to kill where such deaths cannot be witnessed by any of the god-born. It is troubling,” he added softly, “for such subtlety is the mark of the powerful and the ancient among their kind.
“Where we can aid, we will aid you,” the god continued. “What will you do?”
“Die,” Rath said, exhaling. He no longer felt the eagle’s talons, although the eagle had not left his shoulder.
“And how will that serve your purpose?”
“I am brother to The Terafin,” he replied. “Estranged, by my choice. It is our belief that one of the demon- kin has taken the form and shape of Lord Cordufar. If . . . my connection . . . to The Terafin is known, it might be a matter of ease for them to take my form and likeness.”
“Estranged.”
Rath nodded, but it was stiff and offered nothing.
And the god was merciful; he asked but one question. “And will your sister see you, if you choose to approach the seat of her power?”
“Yes,” was the bitter, but certain, answer.
Cormaris grew silent; the mists rose and fell, as if they were attendants to the god’s whim. His eyes were all colors and no colors as he held Rath’s gaze. But in the end, he offered Rath little hope.
“I believe you are correct; they will go to The Terafin. If they approach The Terafin, and they are detected, the word demon will be on every powerful tongue before the day is out, and the interests of The Darias will not stand in Council against the anger of The Terafin.”
Chapter Eight
18th of Emperal, 410 AA Averalaan
JEWEL, HER LEGS DANGLING off the seawall, gazed across the bay to the looming square block that was Senniel College at a distance. From there, she looked to the cathedral towers, and the towers of Avantari, the palace from which the Twin Kings ruled the Empire. Averalaan Aramarelas had always seemed like a magical place to her—one she could see and could acknowledge, but one that remained forever out of reach.
But during the Festival of The Gathering, the Kings left their palace. Once a day, accompanied only by a small group of Swords, they came to one of the bridges that separated the Isle from the rest of the City. From her vantage on the seawall, she could see that bridge—and could see, as well, that both sides were crowded with Festival clutter and Festival celebrants. A Rath word, that. At this distance it wasn’t possible to tell who was rich or who was poor by anything other than the side of the bridge upon which they gathered.
People were in the streets, as well; if you wanted to be alone, this was the wrong damn time of year to do it. There were extra stalls, set up nearest the bridge, where merchants sold food, drink, and the small bits of badly embroidered heraldry that were supposed to be the Kings’ crest. Sword crossing rod, at angles: One for the Justice-born King, and one for the Wisdom-born; swords to either side. The background was an odd blue, rather than the richer color of the real thing, because technically it wasn’t a crest that could be worn by anyone but the Kings.
Besides the stalls were wagons, and counters behind which people sat. They didn’t ask for coin, and they offered food and drink as well; these counters were paid for, and offered, by whichever one of The Ten it was who claimed this day of The Gathering. You could see them, because they always had a crowd, and the crowd itself never seemed to thin or disperse.
Jewel sat alone.
Finch had arranged the daily outing to the Common. She had heard the brief discussion from her room, and she had done nothing to interrupt it; instead she waited until the den had filed out of the apartment. Only then had she come out of hiding. She had taken a few coins from the iron box, and she had made her way here. Where here was a section of the seawall at which no business was done.
She pulled her knees up, tucked them beneath her chin, and wrapped her arms around her legs.
Here, in the silence of waves, where the salt on the cool breeze was the strongest, she could hear her Oma’s voice. It was not a voice she wanted to listen to, not today, but the press of the other voices that usually drowned it out were harder to hear. So she accepted, with as much grace as she could muster, the shadows of her Oma.
Oma, what is a ghost? She also exposed the shadows of her younger self, speaking from a time in which the world had been smaller and safer.
Well, if you listen to all these Northern Priests, her Oma had replied, rolling up her sleeves and sitting at the kitchen table because Work Did Not Wait and you could do it while you talked, ghosts don’t exist. She had snorted when she said it, but that wasn’t suprising; her Oma had never cared for Northern gods.
Jewel had picked up a small knife, because if Oma worked, everyone had better be working. She could remember that knife now only as a sensation in her palm. It had been small enough that it was deemed safe to use, and sharp enough that safe-to-use came with harshly barked warnings to be careful.
But don’t you let those Priests fill your head with clutter. The older woman had picked up a potato. It was fresh enough that they didn’t need to peel skin; they could scratch it off with the knife’s edge. Ghosts, she added, exist where the wind exists.
But what are they? The dead go to. . . . Even at that age—and Jewel could not quite remember what that age had been, it had receded so far in memory—she had known better than to finish that sentence. She could, if she tried, frame the incident and mathematically derive an age from the probable dates—but that wasn’t the point of memory. No one was testing her, here.
She’d scraped the skin off potatoes alongside her grandmother.
The dead go where the dead go, her grandmother had said sharply. But her hands slowed their movement, and her expression lost its edges.
“A ghost,” she told her granddaughter as she rose and walked to the shuttered windows, “is the spirit of a dead person, robbed of flesh and life.”
“What do they want?”
“Hmmm?”
“What do ghosts want?”
The old woman had come away from the window slowly enough that Jewel could see the sun against the weathered, leathery wrinkles of her face and neck. Had she been anyone else—and Jewel could recognize this only in hindsight—she might have stayed there, anchored to the light. But she was Oma, and there was work to do.
She went back to the table, resumed her seat, picked up her much larger knife and the half-naked potato, and began to once again scrape it.
“Ghosts,” she told her granddaughter, in a slightly different tone of voice, “are memories.”
Jewel, who understood what a memory was, couldn’t see how this was true. But she said nothing, skinning while she waited.
“They’re a reminder,” her Oma continued, “of things we would sometimes rather forget.”
“I wouldn’t,” Jewel said quietly.
“Wouldn’t what?”
“Want to forget.”
Her Oma’s laugh echoed down a decade; it was bitter, because her laughter so often was. “What could you want to forget at your age?”
Lots. But Jewel didn’t say this. “If you died,” Jewel told her, “I wouldn’t want to forget you.”
“And you’d want to be haunted by your Oma?”
“Yes. Because you’d still be here, then.”
And after a long pause, a long stillness in which her hands and her knife were momentarily at rest, her Oma had exhaled heavily. “Aye,” she said softly, “there’s that.” She looked at her granddaughter and added, “You just pray I’m not one of your ghosts, girl. I’m cranky enough alive.”
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