“Piss off. I already know Arken wants the power to create. And I’m talkin’ real creation, not whatever shit he does in Amortis. He wants to birth new life. Doing so means the end of Ripheneal’s creations.”
“Where did you ever get such an idea from? We sought Arken to make for a better world, one in which we should share the power of creation. What I told you before — I didn’t lie about any of it. Ripheneal is rotten to his core. He would have been replaced. We must show the Council there are alternative ways to govern; by committee is one of those ways, I am certain of that.”
I snorted and had myself a seat on the fallen branch. Polinia grunted, her legs kicking into the air. “I can’t believe it,” I muttered, grinning in disbelief at the parting sky. “You actually believe it, don’t you? Everything you said, you believe it in your heart of hearts. Or whatever’s in your chest that makes a goddess keep chugging along. Have you spoken to Arken recently?”
“Three days ago,” she said. “He told me what you had done. He claimed you would use the conjurers to incite war against him. We cannot have that, Astul. We need his army here, in the living realm.”
I had been about to let her unwrap a little secret, but in lieu of this juicy information, that would have to wait.
“Along with his goddess of war,” I added. “You know, this isn’t helping your claim that you don’t want to burn this place to the ground and start over.”
Polinia wriggled. “Can you please help me—”
“No. Well, maybe. Tell me why you need Arken’s army.”
She sighed. “Arken believes — and he may well be correct — that it’s a possible way to draw out Ripheneal. I thought he might misstep in search of the book, but it appears he is still in hiding. He is aware of our plot, I think. But if there is chaos in the living realm, if his creations suffer from the intrusion of Amortis, he may be forced out, to preserve his title as the god of life… else, he offers the Council a prime opportunity to replace him. If he makes an appearance, we can end him. So, yes, some sacrifices must be made. I am sorry.”
“I guess Arken didn’t mention he has the book and that he knows precisely where Ripheneal is.”
“What?” she said, exasperation pulling at every letter.
“For fuck’s sake,” I grumbled, chopping my sword into and through an overhead branch out of frustration. “You know, I thought — I really, honest to fuck thought I was dealing with a bunch of supreme beings capable of outwitting and outmaneuvering me. Thought I had to play by your rules, which is why I went back to Amortis in the first place. Now I see the truth, and you know what the truth says, Polinia? It says that if Braddock Glannondil and his ill-spoken-of sister had gotten under the sheets together and nine months later popped out a halfwit baby, that daft child would still probably be smarter than you. You’re stupid, understand? Dumb.
“You go and strike an alliance with the god of Amortis, who I might add is universally known for wanting Ripheneal’s position as sole creator, and then you have the gall to act surprised when he feeds you misinformation. He never intended on keeping you around, Polinia. Not you, Laviel, Kem, or Harran.”
Betrayal often marks you in one of two ways. The first and most well known is the look of disbelief mixed with a smattering of broiling anger — you feel used and tricked, and revenge is on your mind. This was the kind of betrayal Lysa often displayed. But Polinia got hit with the other type. The sort of betrayal that cuts so deep, you’re left numb. Unable to feel, unable to react. Are you even alive? It’s a question that’s not easily answered.
Not one to take enjoyment in staring at hopelessness, I helped Polinia out from under the log, but warned her if she made a move to flee, we’d soon see if she and headless chickens exhibited similar behaviors.
She sat up, palming her broken necklace as it slid off her chest. “I thought I could…” She put a hand to her forehead.
“I guess you had good intentions,” I said, “but good intentions don’t always make for good outcomes. They rarely do, in fact.”
There was a shuffling of foliage. Lysa was shambling along, fingers still probing her temples.
“Watch your” — Lysa snagged her foot on a fallen tree and greeted the ground with her face — “step.”
I helped her up, brushing crushed leaves from her shirt. Only the whites of her eyes remained free of mud.
“Lysa,” I said, extending a hand between her and Polinia, “meet Polinia, goddess of nature and fucker-up of my plans. Polinia, meet Lysa, conjurer extraordinaire.”
Lysa glowered at the goddess, eyes twitching. “You killed them.”
Inspection of Plump Pertha’s wreckage from afar didn’t offer me much hope. Even if some conjurers were alive, they had likely been trapped beneath the boat, their lungs filled with water by now.
“You killed them!” Lysa’s voice rose in pitch. “You killed them!” A shriek now. Eyes wet, fists clenched, knuckles white.
She lunged at Polinia, tackling the goddess of nature. They rolled on the ground, Lysa on bottom, then on top. A fist was thrown, then deflected.
“Murderer!” Lysa shouted, pinning Polinia’s head to the ground with a forearm across her throat.
Polinia squirmed, but Lysa kept her knees firmly planted in the goddess’ stomach, allowing only her legs to kick harmlessly about.
I’d intended to stay out of this until the two came to an amicable agreement — such was the way of life amongst the Rots — but when Lysa’s skittering hand along the forest floor found and clenched a rock, I stepped in.
Just in time, too. I’d apparently never seen a furious Lysa before, because I’d never seen Lysa move so fast. She picked up the rock, brought her hand up and down all in the same motion.
About six inches before Polinia’s face turned to blood, smashed bone and raw flesh, I snagged Lysa’s wrist, breaking her momentum. She dropped the rock onto Polinia’s nose, which elicited a yelp but resulted in a mere superficial wound.
“Get… Lysa, get — stop fighting me!”
The blond-haired ball of fury twisted in my arms, attempting to fling herself back onto the goddess. Drool dripped down her chin, and I was fairly damn certain foam bubbled from her jowls.
I held her under her pits, my hands wound up around her shoulders. Polinia touched her nose, then examined her bloody finger.
“Murderer!” Lysa screamed again, wriggling to get free.
“Would you fucking calm down?” I said.
“She killed them! All of them!”
“And now she’s in our debt,” I said. “So walk over to the river and take a drink of water to calm that burning feeling you have right now, because killing her won’t do us any good.” I looked at Polinia. “Unless she decides not to cooperate.”
Lysa angled her head around, chin on her shoulder. “We can’t trust her.”
“You can,” Polinia said softly. “I do not take deception lightly. I understand the irony in this.”
“You’d better,” I said. “Can I let you go, or are you going to turn mad on me again and try to sink your teeth into her?”
Still obviously miffed but a smidgen calmer, Lysa mumbled something resembling “I’m fine.”
I released her. Or rather, she shrugged herself away from my grip. Then she stood, gave Polinia a wide berth and a louring glare, and walked to the river bank.
“I’m swimming across,” she said, dipping her toes into the water.
The word don’t almost left my mouth, but I swallowed it upon realizing how ineffective that damn word always was when dealing with one Lysa Rabthorn.
The River Menth wasn’t gushing along any longer, so she wouldn’t get swept up in a belligerent current. Plus, maybe she’d find a survivor or two. Also, I’d heard swimming does wonders for a bad temper.
“Good to know gods can be wounded just like I can,” I said, noting the thin trickle of blood running from her nostril.
“We’re not immortal,” she said.
“Would b
e a shame if you were. Say, what happens to a goddess when she dies? Which plane of existence do you get to joyfully hop around in for all of eternity?”
Polinia was quiet, lips fastened shut.
“Oh, come on. I won’t tell. I promise.”
She stretched her mangled necklace out, removing its pieces of bark. “There is no afterlife for gods and goddesses.”
“Strange, don’t you think?”
“Everything in the universe must balance. We are born with a power beyond that which any man or woman can reach, living or dead. There are consequences for that power. Checks. Balances.”
Now I understood why she seemed so eager to cooperate. Maybe she did hold resentment for Arken’s betrayal, but the thought of the lights going out forever… well, that’ll have you cooperate with the creator of Hell himself.
Her brief insight into godliness was interesting, but it didn’t comport with what Arken had told me.
“Explain this,” I said. “Arken and I have a heart-to-heart in Amortis, right? And he tells me he used to be your regular, run-of-the-mill lad.”
Polinia nodded. “Yes. Although I think that is an embellishment. I’ve seen few creations in my time who possess the necessary catalyst, if you will, to unseat a god. The Council elevated him upon his victory; it’s not unheard of, although it’s not common.”
“You’re too kind,” I said, grinning.
She furrowed her brow in confusion, apparently not understanding she’d just given me a compliment. Although I did have a few more things to accomplish before unseating a god, and my motivation for doing so was entirely different than Arken’s, I assumed.
Lysa had made it across the river. She vanished behind Plump Pertha.
“I have a plan,” I said. “I had a better plan until you fucked it up for me, but you’re lucky. Because I didn’t put all my hope into the conjurers… just most of it. What’s the goddess of war up to?”
Polinia wiped a dollop of blood from the bow of her top lip. “Her name is a slight misnomer at times, I think. Her manipulation of armies is unmatched, but she’s a fine diplomat in her own right. She intended to bind the major families of Mizridahl, unite them in a war effort against Kane Calbid in the name of Grannen Klosh. Once the coalition was at Vereumene’s walls, Arken’s armies would flank them.
“But now? I am not sure if she has a purpose any longer. Once Arken ends Ripheneal, then… I’m not sure what will happen. The Council will certainly elevate him to god of life.”
Slivers of morning sunlight beamed onto the shoreline, warming my face. “Actually, all of life ends at that point. End the creator, and you end his creations. Ripheneal told me that one.”
“That cannot be correct.”
“It is. It’s in the book.”
Polinia covered her mouth. She mumbled something.
I paced around for a few moments, listening to the layout of the scheme in my head. “All right. Listen closely. You and Kem and Laviel and Harran have one job: ensure the goddess of war keeps to the plan. I want her and Arken’s army — whatever he’s sent through so far — at Vereumene’s walls. I’ll handle the rest. Convince her by any means necessary.”
“That won’t be difficult,” she said. “Arken has designated me as his messenger to the living realm.”
“Good. When you deliver the message, come to Edenvaile. You’ll need to tell Lyria when to march, and I’ll have a better idea of that time frame once I set a few things in motion.”
Polinia scooped up a clump of soil and rubbed it on the scratches along her arm, her eyes never leaving mine. “What are you intending, Astul?”
I grinned. “Doing what I do best. Causing chaos. Lyria will have her alliance, but they’ll be fighting for me.”
She shook her head. “That won’t solve our problem. Arken needs to—”
“Arken,” I said, laughing. “Don’t worry about Arken. Arken will soon find himself in the living realm with no allies to turn to. His pursuit of Ripheneal will be his undoing.”
I didn’t tell her the best part of this plan, mostly because she probably wouldn’t be particularly excited about it. Arken was only one god. I intended to rid this world of all the gods.
We didn’t need them. And I’d prove it.
Chapter 24
Thirteen days passed. Also, none had survived. Plump Pertha and the River Menth had swallowed every last conjurer and spat ’em out somewhere in Amortis. Hopefully. Who knows what happens when you die for the second time in the living realm?
Lysa had conjured me a phoenix, and a day later gifted herself one as well. Then, she went off to the Hole. If she would actually follow instructions for once, she’d return to Amortis and find Rovid. The reaper man’s quest to deliver us a wraith wasn’t a would-be-nice thought anymore. It was damned necessary. We needed a tear opened at the center of Scholl as soon as humanly — or inhumanly — possible. Otherwise, this newly hatched plan of mine wouldn’t work.
The problem with sending Lysa, of course, was that she often let mischief take her places she ought to not go. She promised me she wouldn’t try anything silly to avenge the fallen conjurers — who she felt she had an innate connection to — but she had broken promises before. I just hoped she saw the big picture, rather than the small slice of revenge.
I had a mission of my own: find my dear commander. I paid the Hole a visit, grabbed as many purses as I could carry, then paid obscene amounts of gold to messenger camps. Reason being? Simple: shut them up about seeing a flaming bird pass overhead, and have them thread some whispers into my ear about any information regarding caravans of weapons, armor and other supplies leaving nearby provinces: the mark that either Vayle or Kale — if the latter had returned from his building-a-spy-network business — would leave upon the cities they visited.
Thirteen days after the untimely but informative encounter with Polinia, word came from the Elory messenger camp that a caravan carrying steel had passed through Tigwold messenger camp, the capital camp of Rime.
Rumor had it that one of the caparisons thrown over the horses drawing the wagon had a faint outline of a bronze talon etched against a black sky: a sigil that had also been tattooed onto the forehead of a man who called himself Lord Undlow, Father of Hommen — a city home to the Undlow family.
Not many family heads tattoo their sigil onto their face, but Manrick Undlow was not a normal man. Odd was one description. Mystifying with a touch of mental a more fitting one.
Also, he loved Vayle. Enamored to the point of addiction. He had asked for her hand in marriage over thirty-six times, and every time, Vayle had a new excuse as to why she could not agree to be his betrothed, each one delicate and gentle enough that Manrick would always say, “Ah, I see. Another time, then.”
Apparently the thirty-seventh time was the charm.
“Shepherd!” Manrick said when I arrived at his keep.
Hopefully he’d keep his insanity to a minimum and tell me where I could find my commander.
“Oh, Shepherd,” he moaned happily, stroking his white beard. “Wintry, my boy, wintry! ’Tis when it’s all happening, this wintry.”
I made the mistake of asking what was happening this winter, or “wintry,” rather than asking for the short and sweet directions to my commander.
“Vayle, my good lad. She has finally seen the light!” He jumped around the room, swinging his cane about, toothpick legs snapping and cracking. “Marryin’, the two of us are this wintry! She said yes, she said yes!”
I stifled a laugh — figured I’d better hold it in until I found Vayle.
“Well, well,” I said. “Congratulations, old man. Speaking of Vayle… where is she?”
He twirled his cane in the air, then pointed it at me. “Gone, my lad! Gone! Not far, I’d reckon, not yet anyways. Said she had some business to take care of, northways, at old Kemper Village. I offered her my finest, but she’s a good girl — good girl, that Vayle, strong and smart. She ain’t needin’ or havin’ any of what I was offer
in’.”
Smarter than you can imagine, I thought. “My thanks, Manrick. I’ll be sure to—”
“Ya ain’t knowin’ where your own lady commander is? What’re ya, daft?”
There was certainly a daft one present in that room. “She enjoys having me chase after her.”
His cane trembled, and his face turned darkly serious.
“Oh, don’t worry yourself,” I said. “I understand she’s a taken woman now. I wouldn’t think about trying my luck.”
“Mm. Best ye not, Shepherd. Best ye not.”
I told Manrick I’d see him in wintry and that I’d be bringing gifts for the wedding, then I hiked a couple miles outside of Hommen, to where I’d left my phoenix, and took flight to Kemper Village.
One disadvantage to soaring high above the earth on a phoenix is that unless you want to incite grave concern and start rumors that you’ve your hand deep in the black magic cookie jar, you can’t exactly swoop down into unsuspecting villages and secure your fiery bird to a tie stall. You generally need to make landfall several miles away, then hoof it to your destination.
This is not enjoyable in the cold. Less so in the cold and without wine. And still less so in the cold, without wine, and in improper winter clothes. A cloak, a leather jerkin, and some pants and thin undergarments do not make for good snow armor.
But the wind wasn’t blowin’ too hard, and the snow fell in flurries, so I managed to enter the lowly, crudely cut palisade of Kemper Village while the villagers were still mingling in the square and torchlight still illuminated the small manor.
I even had some semblance of feeling remaining in my fingers.
The villagers eyed me suspiciously, their backs bunched up from coats of wool shaved off their menagerie of sheep who wandered about.
A few men were shoveling snow from the dirt paths. Knuckles around the shovel handles turned white as I approached. Swords dangling from a belt tend to make you look inhospitable.
“Fellas,” I said, a smile on my face, “I’m looking for a friend.”
They stared at me. Hard, unmoving eyes — the eyes of Northernmen, clouded over from decades of bluster and gray skies.
An Assassin's Blade: The Complete Trilogy Page 91
