by M. M. Perry
“You are all so boring and tiresome. Not even the thought of you standing here, stupefied, until you collapse from exposure brings me pleasure anymore. Perhaps it’s time I close up shop on this mortal plane. Maybe in another hundred years or so,” Oshia said to no one in particular as she walked past the offering pit.
“Let him go,” a voice said from behind Oshia.
He turned, his strong masculine form almost completely exposed except for a swath of soft cloth at his groin. Silver sandals were strapped around his feet, his smooth skin slightly golden, as though it were being touched by the last rays of the setting sun. His physique would have put the finest athletes to shame. Oshia’s lavender eyes peered out from beneath long, flirty lashes at the woman that was confronting him. He pushed the golden locks brushing his forehead back with a boyish gesture. A beatific smile spread across his impossibly handsome face. When he finally spoke, his strong baritone voice echoed around the domed room.
“Cassandra,” Oshia said as he put his hand to his chest, as if her unexpected appearance took his breath away, “this day has suddenly turned out so much more exciting than I expected.”
Far away, on a plain that stretched for miles—a place dotted with towering figures from an era long past—a lone, young looking woman sat at the base of a statue, dwarfed by its size. The seer, for that is what she was though she wished with all her heart it was otherwise, leaned against a stone foot that was bigger even than the hut she lived in. For the past two days, she had been haunted by a vision she had managed to keep at bay for years, until now. In the last few days, it had replayed in her mind, over and over again, unbidden. She did her best to keep it from her while awake, but last night it had forced itself into her dreams, where she could not turn it aside, signaling that its time had come. The time of the terrible fate she had foreseen, that had been swooping down upon her for more than a decade like a watch’s scything hour hand approaching its nadir, had finally arrived. As with all seers, Selina could feel the magical clockwork inside her ticking over into place as her preternatural sense synched itself with her mundane faculties. She made a conscious effort to touch the magical eddies of fate around her for just a moment, and shuddered—it would come to pass very soon now.
Selina wiped at her eyes, wondering when she had started to cry. She could hardly believe she had any tears left, sure she had shed them all those years ago when first she beheld this terrible fate. She squinted into the wide blue sky that caressed the fields around her and sunlight fractured against the tears that still clung to her lashes, splintering into a brilliant starburst. Through the bright rays she could see the griffins soaring high above. They had come looking for an old friend, hoping she might have brought them some scraps again. The tears began again, a slower trickle this time. She knew that, like her, they would never see Cass again; they had already taken their last trip with her across the ocean’s waves into lands that rarely felt the trod of men anymore. Selina wept for them too, but mostly for herself. She would not have thought all those years ago when the god thrust Cass upon her and demanded Selina raise her, that she could come to love the child so much in such a short time.
The air before Selina shimmered and Timta appeared before her, as if summoned by Selina’s memory of her. Selina scowled at the god for a moment before angrily looking away and doing her best to surreptitiously dry her eyes.
“I have nothing to say to you,” Selina said bitterly.
Timta silently approached Selina and rested a hand on the seer’s shoulder, gently turning the mortal towards her. Selina resisted, but only half-heartedly, and was soon gazing into the amber-colored eyes of the goddess of light. Her hair and eyes were so similar in coloration they seemed wrought from the same golden substance. She wore a white toga, unadorned but for the medallion around her neck—a large bronze sun, the center missing. She was so beautiful, even Selina had a hard time discerning the familial resemblance between the goddess and Cass. Yet it was there to see if one looked hard enough and had some knowledge of what happened when the blood of gods was mingled with that of men. Though Cass inherited her physical traits from her mortal father, she had always had a godling’s luck and exuded the same type of overpowering charisma that Timta did.
“I am sorry,” Timta said, “it pains me to see you suffer so.”
“You gave me this suffering,” Selina shot back. “You asked me—no, commanded me to care for your child. You let me fall in love with her and then did nothing, NOTHING when I pleaded with you to help me stop her from going to Oshia the first time. Don’t you care about her? You know what he’s done, and what he’s going to do to her, yet you let her go!” Selina railed.
Timta clutched the seer to her and held her there, though Selina fought against the embrace. Timta stroked Selina’s soft black hair, and spoke to her in a calm, soothing voice, as one might a frightened pet.
“Be still, my acolyte. She needed to go then, as she does now. This is her destiny. This is the fate I saw for her—the reason I risked both bringing her into this world and revealing myself to the children. This is her destiny,” Timta said calmly.
“But you’re the ones that make destiny! You can change this,” Selina cried into Timta’s toga.
“Why would I change it?” Timta asked.
Before Selina could answer, the god vanished, leaving her alone, save for the griffins that still circled overhead. A voice floated to her, as if travelling on the wind from far off. Perhaps it was the wind.
“Why would I change it?” the whisper repeated, “when everything is happening just as I’d planned?”
“You’ve cut your hair,” Oshia said to Cass. “Hmmm. I think I like it. But really, you must do something about all of this dirt and grime. It doesn’t suit you.”
Cass looked down to see that her clothes had vanished, replaced with a slinky outfit that Cass would place on the scraps of cloth end of the clothing spectrum.
“And how is this an improvement?” she asked disbelievingly as she tugged the swaths of silky fabric more strategically into place. “I mean, I’m pretty sure as soon as I move, this will all just fall off. Why not just strip me naked and be done with it?”
Oshia chuckled, a musical laugh. The sound seemed to float in the air long after he’d finished, tinkling as it echoed off the cavernous room’s walls, like tiny soap bubbles bursting on impact.
“Oh, how I’ve missed you. So forthright and strong willed. I know you’ve missed me too. You just couldn’t stay away, could you?” Oshia said silkily as he stepped forward, close enough that his body was brushing hers. He rubbed his cheek against Cass.
“I was gone for more than a decade,” Cass replied, stepping away from him.
“Was that all it was?” Oshia said stepping forward again, “one does tend to lose track here.”
“You’re like a damned cat,” Cass said stepping away again. “If I pull away, you want to get closer. Does it work both ways too? If I pay attention to you, will you lose interest?”
“Oh, I don’t think so,” Oshia said grinning.
“I’m not even here for you,” Cass said cutting to the chase, “I detest everything about you. And I’m not going to stay.”
Oshia’s smile faltered.
“What,” he asked disbelievingly.
“Unless,” Cass said walking over to the king, “you free Callan here, and give him what he wants. What he truly wants,” she quickly clarified, “and not the twisted desires you planted in his mind.”
Oshia’s brow furrowed in confusion.
“You’re here for him?” he asked incredulously.
“He hired me to protect him, so yes.”
Oshia pouted dramatically, “And you didn’t come back for me? Not even a little bit for me,” he made an exaggerated puppy-dog face.
Cass shook her head.
Oshia laughed then—a full throated thing equal parts mirth and madness.
“Oh my! So you’ll stay here, with me, even though you apparently detest
me, for this repugnant little mortal? You,” Oshia said walking a slow circle around Cass, leaning in close to whisper directly into her ear, “have sold yourself short, my dear. I would have given so much more to have you here. Anything. Everything.
Abruptly, he stepped away from her and breezed over to Callan.
“But nothing, or next to nothing, works too,” he said, touching Callan lightly on one bicep. Clothes appeared on the king, rippling rapidly outward from the point Oshia had touched him as if being spun right onto his body. When he was once again in the clothes he’d arrived in, Callan’s eyes suddenly focused. He looked confused as he took in the scene; first Cass, barely dressed, and then a stranger—a handsome young man with lavender eyes. Something about the man’s eyes bothered Callan, and he found he couldn’t hold their gaze. He looked away from the disturbing young man, and back to Cass.
“What’s going on?” Callan asked.
“You,” Oshia said with flair, “are free to go. Run along now, I’ve people to do.”
“But… my wife,” Callan stammered.
“Oh yes, yes. She’s fine. Getting out of bed as we speak. Fit as a fiddle. Go on now. Shoo,” Oshia said gesturing for Callan to leave.
Callan looked to Cass, hoping for some sort of explanation, or at least an affirmation. Then he noticed how distressed she seemed. In all his time with her, despite the challenges they’d faced, he’d never seen her look so grim.
“Cass,” he began.
“No!” Oshia shouted. “No talking. Just go.”
Oshia’s voice had lost all of its earlier playfulness, and where it had been teasing before it was now imposingly commanding. His face suddenly looked far less handsome, and where there had been mirth and cunning before, there was now only a level of contempt and barely restrained anger that made Callan quail. He shot Cass one last, furtive look as he shuffled quickly out of the temple.
“Now,” said Oshia sweetly, “I believe that concludes my part of our deal. And no trying to worm your way out of it this time, or I will become cross. I’ll be the only one doing any worming in this relationship.”
Oshia strolled nonchalantly over to Cass and took her hand delicately in his own. He leaned down and kissed it softly, his lips lingering as he rolled his head to press his cheek to it.
“Come to my chambers, dear. We’ve a great deal of catching up to do,” Oshia said, leading Cass by her hand towards the well-lit area through the arch at the end of the offering room.
“Oshia!” a woman’s voice called out just as they were about to step through the arch.
“By all that’s divine,” Oshia cursed, turning to address the intruder, “you’d think this was a damned trading post. Go away before I…”
He stopped mid-threat when he saw the young woman before him. Her long, soft, black hair, which fell nearly to her waist, stood out in bold contrast against her white toga and smooth, unblemished alabaster skin so pale that it appeared to glow in the soft candle light.
“Well,” Oshia said, “this is turning out to be a banner day for unexpected reunions! Issa, how are you, you old hag?”
Chapter 17
Callan stumbled out of the dark temple entrance, feeling disoriented and confused, but his head was starting to clear. It was something akin to getting mightily drunk, only in reverse. He remembered being in the temple, hearing a voice behind him, but everything after that was a mad jumble of unfamiliar sensations and short snippets of memory. He squinted as his eyes adjusted to the comparative blaze outside the gloom of the temple and saw his travelling companions standing around, looking up at his sudden appearance apprehensively. Except for Inez, who stood out from the pack as the only one whose face didn’t bear some mixture of sadness and fear. On the contrary, she looked like she had just discovered her wagon was made not from mundane wood, but crafted from solid gold.
“Was he here then?” Inez asked excitedly.
“Yes,” Callan replied, assuming Inez was talking about Oshia. “And Cass… she was there too. Why?”
Gunnarr turned away from Callan. Viola put her hand on Gunnarr’s shoulder consolingly.
“She sacrificed herself, so you could save your wife,” Viola said sadly.
“What?” Callan asked walking over to Viola. “Sacrificed? She’s not dead, I just saw her! What are you talking about?”
“Cass was the warrior in the story. The one she told us last night. She’s the one who left Oshia all those years ago. The only one ever known to actually have seen the god and lived to tell of it. Oshia gave you up, and granted your wish, but in return Cass had to give herself to him,” Viola said.
Callan looked back at the temple entrance. More flashes of memory came to the surface. He could recall the feeling of being compelled to act against his own will. The feelings of physical intimacy and sublime release perverted and fouled so thoroughly he was certain he’d never be the same again.
“No! That wasn’t how it was supposed to work. My wish was to save my wife. I get my wish, he… she… it gets my life. That’s how this is supposed to work,” Callan said indignantly. “He cannot have her. She can’t do this.”
He turned around and unsteadily made his way back into the depths of the temple, still not feeling completely himself. He hurried as much as his jellied legs allowed, heading straight for the huge stone door without bothering to feel about in front of him and make sure he didn’t smash face-first into anything. Had he been less worried about Cass, he might have noticed that although it was still dark inside, it was not the absolute blackness that had confronted him before. When his hand finally fell on the cold iron ring, he wrenched at it with a righteous fury and, to his surprise, the door jerked open several feet.
Inside, the offering chamber was cold and dank, the smell of old moisture filling the air. A meager amount of light filtered in from the temple’s entrance far behind him, but there was no other light in the room. The candles had disappeared, leaving no signs they’d ever existed. Callan hurried across the offering chamber towards the back wall where he vaguely remembered seeing another entrance to the chamber, but when he got there he was confronted by a solid wall. He made his way around the entire room, scanning each wall carefully while he hoped he’d simply misremembered where the arch had been in his befuddled state, but found no sign of it. It was then he noticed that the shallow bowl-shaped depression in the center of the room was empty, save for a thick film of dust—neither a single tarnished coin nor fragment of statuary remained.
He ran from the chamber and out of the temple, stopping only when he exited the structure into the gardens, realizing he didn’t know exactly where he was running too. He looked from Nat to Viola to Gunnarr, his pain and confusion plain for them all to see.
“There’s nothing there! I didn’t imagine it… did I? No, it was all there, I know it was, just a minute ago,” Callan said.
“It was,” Gunnarr agreed, his deep voice listless, “but you got your wish. Your journey has reached its conclusion. If you wanted to confront Oshia again, you’d need to make another pilgrimage. Even then, no guarantees he’d appear for you.”
Callan slumped down onto the ground, finally allowing the feeling of inebriation he’d been fighting against to overtake him. He put his head in his hands, hoping it would stop the landscape from skewing back and forth around him.
“No,” he said quietly, “no, not this. I was willing to give up my own life. That was fair enough. A life for a life. But it was supposed to be my life, not hers.”
“And if Cass had died in battle on the way here?” Viola asked, “Would that have been so different?”
Callan was silent for a time. Viola began to think she might have assuaged the king’s pain and guilt, in some small way at least, until he looked up at her and she saw the tear well up and perch on the edge of one lash, only to suddenly fall and streak down one cheek.
“Yes,” Callan said miserably. “That would have been a warrior’s death. But to be at the mercy of that… thing. That’
s not death. At least not a quick one. This is so much worse.”
Gunnarr turned to Callan, surprised to find his own thoughts coming from Callan’s mouth. He took a deep breath and walked over to Callan. He bent over and offered the king his hand. After an uncertain moment, Callan grasped it, and the Braldashadian easily lifted Callan to his feet. Still clasping his hand tightly, but not painfully so, he placed his other huge hand on Callan’s shoulder.
“She is not dead yet,” Gunnarr said lifting Callan to his feet, “and she is full of surprises.”
Callan smiled weakly, “If there’s a way to get her back, I swear to you that we will find it.”
Gunnarr nodded. “Then our course is set. Let’s see if we can put this valley behind us before nightfall.”
Everyone headed for their mounts, a bit less morose than before, a small flicker of hope rekindled among them.
It was then that Nat spoke up.
“Has anyone seen Auntie?” he asked.
The instant Callan had confirmed Oshia was indeed inside the temple, Inez had quickly made her way past him and through the entrance. No one had noticed her departure, all being too engrossed with filling each other in on Cass’ situation. As soon as she entered, Inez saw the light at the far end of the temple foyer. She hurried up to the door and squeezed inside. As she did, the door closed heavily behind her. She could feel the change happening before she saw any outward sign of it. The power that coursed through the temple was reverting Inez to her true from. She looked down at her arms and watched the emaciated, wrinkled limbs plump up and the skin pull taught, smooth and unblemished, around them. The homespun ankle-length dress began to recede, revealing the comely legs beneath, transforming into a clean, brilliantly white toga as it shrank.
Issa closed her eyes for a moment, reveling in the feeling of wearing her true form again for the first time in more than a century. When she finally opened her eyes, she saw Oshia about to walk through the arch opposite her with Cass.
