Godmaker (Jeweled Goddess Book 1)

by Ingrid Seymour

  “Delfos Delfos Delfos,” he repeats the name over and over again, until it loses its meaning.

  We’ve played together, fought together, grown up together. This is not the way it was meant to be. We had a plan, and he was meant to live, meant to take his contagious smile to hidden corners of the world where he would make others happy, and small gray-eyed, ruddy-cheeked children would ride on his strong back, holding on to his tresses.

  It should be me. Not Delfos. Not Delfos. My eyes are dry. There are no tears for this. They’re insignificant compared to this grief.

  I wrap his large hand in mine and squeeze too hard. He blinks and looks at me. Too much, too hard . . . this is how I love him. I ease the pressure.

  “Please, don’t go,” I mouth.

  I fall into his gaze and touch his pain. It is immense and tastes of lost dreams and broken promises.

  “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry,” I whisper.

  A smile stretches across his lips. He doesn’t blame me. His heart is too big for that.

  “Live, Bia,” he murmurs. “Live and love.”

  I shake my head, not in answer, but in disbelief at what’s happening.

  “Please,” he says.

  His life is breaking, and now his heart is breaking too. All because of me.

  I can’t do that to him, so I nod and promise. “I will. I will.”

  The final drumbeat comes, and it’s accompanied by Delfos’s final breath. My friend is gone, so the world is a darker place.

  Chapter 13

  Godmaster Neo applies his thick healing poultice to my burnt biceps while I sit on a tall table. There is instant relief, a cool and tingling feeling I’m familiar with. The medicine is infused with his Godskill—this way he can prepare enough in advance and others can apply it when the injured are too many for him to tend to personally.

  With deep detachment, I watch my skin knit together under the grayish, strange-smelling remedy, until it looks as if Fausto never touched me.

  Godmaster Neo tends to my other wounds, applying medicine with practiced hands. He frowns at the deep gash in my stomach and probes it with two fingers.

  “This is deep,” he says, applying a generous layer of poultice. “You lost a lot of blood.” His gaze turns to my discarded armor and padding. “Are you dizzy?”

  I stare ahead, past all his assistant healers, past this room, past this life. Delfos’s blank eyes—their vivacious flames extinguished—remain imprinted in my memory, taking center stage even though I desperately try to think of something else. I squeeze the Godjewel in my hand as if it could somehow save me from this anguish.

  “Bia!” Godmaster Neo’s voice snaps me back to the moment. “Drink this. All of it.” He pushes a tall, metal cup in front of me. “You’ve lost a lot of blood. This will help you feel better.”

  Nothing could make me feel better, but I do as he says.

  He puts a hand on my knee and squeezes lightly. “I’m done.”

  Our gazes lock. His expression is tired beyond measure. His mouth caves, accentuating the sorrowful lines that must have been there before, but I’d never noticed.

  I’ve lost Delfos, but Godmaster Neo has lost so much more: half of his charges, Potentials who have been under his care for thirteen years.

  He starts to withdraw his hand, but I snatch it. “How can you stand this?!” I demand.

  Godmaster Neo has been a caretaker for a long time, so he’s watched hundreds, thousands, of us die. Why does he keep doing it? Why does he give us the care our own parents won’t? Why open himself to this crippling pain?

  “Someone has to,” he whispers so no one else can hear him.

  “Delfos is gone,” I say, a deep sob escaping, nearly choking me.

  He lowers his head.

  “He wanted to live,” I say.

  Godmaster Neo assents. “For as long as he was with us, he lived intensely, loving his friends, making us smile. He will be well-remembered. I know you shall never forget him.” He says his last words with certainty, as if he knows my heart and can see how deep Delfos is etched down in its deepest corner.

  “That was easy.” Across from the room Odella jumps off the healing table and flexes her right leg. She casts a wickedly satisfied smile in Romer’s direction. A few tables from mine, my friend seethes, clenching his fists and sending death wishes our enemy’s way.

  Odella throws her head back and says, “Idiots. So easy to fool.”

  Romer scrambles off the table and launches at her, ready to tear her throat.

  Godmaster Neo is between them in the blink of an eye. “Romer! Stand down!”

  Chest pumping with huge, angry breaths, Romer looks at Odella over Godmaster Neo’s shoulder, calling her foul names.

  “Fighting outside the arena will get you disqualified,” Godmaster Neo reminds him.

  Odella thrust her chin in challenge at Romer. She’s baiting him, trying to get him thrown out of the trials. He doesn’t seem to care.

  “Romer,” I say, my voice calm, but carrying an undercurrent that promises pain, “she will die in the arena by our hand. We will avenge Delfos and shame her.”

  “Good luck with that, Skillbarren.” Odella turns on her heel and leaves the healing room without a backward glance, while Romer nearly crumbles in Godmaster Neo’s arms, the sorrow for our friend’s death making his legs weak.

  “Potential Bia,” someone calls at the door.

  I’m mildly aware they’re referring to me.

  “What is it?” Godmaster Neo barks in annoyance, after leading Romer back to the healing table.

  “Godleader Helena requests her daughter’s presence immediately.”

  I blink. Her daughter’s presence?

  Mother stopped referring to me as such several years back, as if that could make everyone forget she’d given birth to Skillbarren.

  This unusual summons can only mean one thing. The Godleaders know about my jewel and have given Mother the task to dismiss me.

  ***

  Mother sits in the middle of a large assortment of cushions, all in shades of green. Curtains hang from the windows and walls, making the expansive area feel warm and welcoming. Godfire burns in a large fireplace, in front of which two large felines of Godmaster Jocobo’s making lie atop thick furs. Within Mother’s reach, there is a low Albasino table topped with fruit, cheese, bread, and all manner of sweets.

  Before I turned four, Mother would allow me to play here when she wasn’t around. It felt like the greatest honor to be in her favorite room in all of Esmeralda Hall. Mother’s special room, crafted by her hand and skill, all for me to play in. What a treat. Of course, that was before she decided I was useless.

  “Bia!” she says in a welcoming tone I’m entirely unaccustomed to. “Sit.” She extends a hand toward the cushions across the table.

  I lower myself and sit perfectly straight, facing her. The overly sweet scent that wafts from the delicacies before me offends me. I feel I deserve nothing but bitterness.

  “You must be hungry after the battle.” She invites me to partake of the food.

  I refuse politely. Just the thought of eating makes me nauseous. All I want to do is lie down, close my eyes, and forget what happened.

  Mother shrugs half-heartedly, demonstrating how little she cares for my needs. “You fought well. I commend you.”

  The Godjewel is hidden safely in an inside pocket of my tunic. I feel its presence like a thorn in my side.

  “I always fight well,” I say. She’s never taken interest in my battling abilities.

  No Skillbarren has ever won the trials, so why would that matter to her? It was easier to just give up on me. The thorn in my side digs deeper, as I realize she must know something. Why else would she compliment me?

  Mother leans forward, abandoning her leisurely pose. She matches my arrow-straight posture. “You have broken the rules,” she purrs with a hint of satisfaction. “Elina, too.”

  And there it is. The reason why I’m here.

>   I don’t know what to say, so I remain quiet.

  “What has the Godjewel unleashed? It was so subtle, and your attempt at hiding it worthy, if useless.”

  Chaos! I want to run out of here and warn Elina, but Mother’s smiling eyes keep me rooted to the spot.

  I force myself to speak what I feel should be kept a secret at all costs.

  “Strength,” I answer.

  Mother’s eyebrows go up. After a moment, she nods in understanding. “It seems one of the overseers was concerned about the way you threw that shield.”

  The stewards assign several overseers each year since it is impossible for Godmaster Salino and Mador to supervise every single fight. The overseers’ job is to spot issues such as Potentials who refuse to fight, illegal alliances or pardons, and any other sort of irregularity.

  Mother tries to elaborate, “You know, the shield that saved, um, what was his name?”

  She makes a beckoning motion as if my friend’s name will come to her out of thin air. I don’t bother to tell her. Her mouth would only soil Delfos’s name.

  “Anyway,” she continues, “your indiscretion was almost brought to the Pantheon’s attention. Luckily, one of my . . . aides acted quickly and intercepted the overseer. By the time he reached us, he had nothing unusual to report. The first clash went on as planned.”

  I’m speechless, once more. I never thought Mother would take such a risk for me. She could lose her spot among The Thirteen if her interference were discovered.

  Outside of the trials, it is against the rules to use one’s Godskill against another citadel resident. If discovered, the perpetrator is immediately sent to the Godmaker and forced to Descend. And it’s impossible to lie your way out of the situation. The Godmaker can bare any skill open and reveal all the ways it’s been used in the past. Mother’s “aide” wouldn’t stand a chance. And how long before Godleader Helena’s involvement is discovered?

  “I see you realize the risk I’m taking by doing this,” Mother says. “I don’t take our Godline’s position lightly, Bia. I must ensure our future, our influence amongst The Thirteen.”

  I didn’t realize our Godline was at risk of losing its significant power. We are one of the strongest and most privileged. Esmeralda’s Gods and Goddesses possess some of the most valuable skills the citadel has ever seen. Mother’s value alone is extraordinary. Joya d’Diosa is indestructible thanks to the Albasino walls that surround us.

  “So how strong do you think you are?” Mother asks. “I don’t imagine you have a clear idea at the moment.”

  “I don’t,” I say, my head too full of doubts and questions to elaborate further.

  “Well, then we must find out.” Mother stands in one fluid motion and grabs a Godfruit from the table. She tosses it in the air and catches it on the way down.

  Extending a hand in my direction, she offers it to me. I stand and take it. It’s now cold and heavy, made of Albasino, the strongest material known to anyone, harder even than diamond.

  “Be my guest. I presume you have the Godjewel with you.”

  I wrap my fingers around the petrified Godfruit and shiver with an onslaught of memories I’ll never be able to leave behind.

  Slowly, I tighten my fingers around the fruit, curious to see how strong I truly am. It feels as solid as Mother’s heart must be. My arm begins to tremble as I increase the pressure. Veins pop on my forearm. My fingernails turn pale at the tips. The Godfruit shows no signs of surrendering.

  Mother’s expectant expression changes. She shrugs slightly as if to say, “No surprise there.”

  Determined to give it my best, I put the Godfruit between both of my hands and squeeze inwardly. Sweat coats the surface of the Albasino. My elbows point outward as I push and push and push. My entire body trembles now. My teeth are clenched so hard, they feel as if they’ll shatter into a million pieces.

  “Maybe we should try with something else. It was too ambitious of me to—”

  There is a slight cracking sound, like an egg parting open. Mother’s eyes widen, revealing all white around their dark irises.

  The cracking sound continues somewhere in the depths of the Godfruit. Face scrunched in a grimace, I give it my all, and finally the Albasino breaks, disintegrating between my hands, falling to pieces on top of all the lovely cushions.

  “Impossible!” Mother says in a tone that suggests she wanted me to be strong, but not this strong.

  Realizing the depth of her shock, she turns away from me, clearing her throat. “That is . . . extremely impressive. Of course, I didn’t expect anything less from a daughter of mine.”

  You did expect less, much less. I dust my hands and hold my tongue back. I must tread carefully. She shares my secret, a secret that can undo me.

  “You realize you will have to keep this hidden during the entirety of the trials?” she says. “I expect you will find a way.”

  “It will be difficult.”

  “Yes, but I know you’re smart. You will figure something out. The Godline and I may not always be in a position to help you. I’m sure you understand. Though, within reason, we’ll do everything we can to ensure you are the champion. Your newfound talent could be crucial for Esmeralda in the future. Not to mention that a victory would make you the third consecutive winner for our Godline. Three of my daughters. What an honor!”

  Something calculating twinkles in the depths of her eyes.

  I hold her gaze, wondering if she knows how little I care about being Esmeralda’s next champion, how little it means to me that, if I win, everyone will know—without any room for doubt—that Mother’s offspring are the cream of the crop.

  Only one thing matters to me, and it’s not winning.

  It’s avenging my friend.

  And it matters so much to me that I’m willing to ignore Mother’s methods, and the underhanded way in which I’ve gained a spot in the second clash.

  By the jewel, Odella won’t get away with killing Delfos.

  Chapter 14

  The sixteen-year-olds are in our hall this morning, as it is tradition. Last year, I joined my sister’s Tier after the first clash. At the time, I didn’t quite understand why that was necessary. Today, however, I do.

  Now I see what their presence attempts to hide.

  Half of my Tier mates are dead.

  In spite of that, the hall hums with activity, as if nothing has changed, except it has. Forever. Delfos isn’t here, and no matter how many other Potentials they parade in front of us, nothing will change that, or the fact that in his place sits a too-eager sixteen-year-old who won’t stop chatting with his peers about last night’s events.

  My breakfast lies cold and untouched in front of me. Across the table, Romer isn’t doing much better.

  “Why do we need this stupid day of rest?” Romer asks to no one in particular. “I’d rather we get on with it.”

  I agree with him, though at least this rest time might give us the chance to plan against Odella—not that planning did us much good during the first clash.

  A few tables behind Romer, Meristo laughs, throwing his head back. Odella and Ynes mimic his exaggerated manner, obviously wanting everyone to notice their confident mood. They been talking about all those who died, but I close my ears to those news. I don’t want to know.

  I squeeze my juice-filled goblet a little too hard, but realize it before revealing my secret. Picking it up, I examine it’s metal surface and notice a perfect imprint of my thumb at its base. I set it down, facing the mark away from anyone.

  “I was rooting for Delfos,” the eager boy says. “He used to sit here, I think.”

  Well, at least he liked my friend. It makes the fact that he took his spot a little easier to digest. Though not by much.

  “I couldn’t believe it when Aristo healed his broken arm,” the boy adds.

  Romer and I exchange a quick glance.

  I turn to the boy. “Excuse me.”

  He looks back moonstruck, as if surviving the first
clash has turned me into the Original Mother.

  “Y-yes?” he says.

  “You said Aristo healed Delfos. Did I hear that right?”

  The boy nods repeatedly. “Yes, he did. Um, Lara from the Peridoto Godline,” he explains as if I haven’t been living with Lara for the last thirteen years and don’t know who she is, “she froze him in place long enough to bend his arm over her shoulder and break it. She’d lost her sword, or she would have . . .” He trails off, realizing that his next words are uncalled for under the circumstances.

  “At any rate,” he continues, “Aristo came out of nowhere and fixed Delfos’s arm. He did it quickly even though a bone had poked through the skin. It was gruesome.”

  How could he know such detail?

  Seeing the question in my expression, he says, “It’s my skill, to see from far distances.”

  I nod. “Thank you for explaining.”

  “A God’s pleasure, Bia d’Esmeralda.” He inclines his head, making me feel foolish. “My name is Miros d’Zafira.”

  “A Goddess’s pleasure, Miros d’Zafira.”

  “I hope . . . your alliance wins.”

  This means he hopes Romer wins, which he realizes almost as soon as the words leave his mouth. He grimaces, looking mortified, surely wishing he’d phrased things better.

  I smile and thank him without rancor of any kind.

  “Odella and her allies have no honor,” he says. “They should not make fun of our brave, fallen warriors.”

  My gaze flashes in Odella’s direction. I have to envision her slow death in the arena to stop myself from jumping over the tables to swipe the beast-like smile from her face.

  “No, she shouldn’t,” I say, standing up to leave.

  Romer follows suit and joins me outside.

  “Aristo helped me, too,” I say once we’ve made it to his room.

  Romer considers. “Did he help others, I wonder? He’s playing smart, looking for a faction, most likely. It’s really his only hope.”

  “That’s my thought as well.”

  “Too bad. It’s nice he helped Delfos, but . . .”