The Gods of Men
Barbara Kloss
Contents
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Verse
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Verse
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Verse
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Verse
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Verse
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Verse
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
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Acknowledgments
About the Author
The Gods of Men
by Barbara Kloss
Copyright © 2018 Barbara Kloss
All rights reserved.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, media, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination, or are used fictitiously. No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the author.
Edited by Laura Josephsen
Cover Design by Damonza
The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of copyrighted work is illegal. Criminal copyright infringement, including infringement without monetary gain, is investigated by the FBI and is punishable by fines and federal imprisonment.
www.barbarakloss.com
To Jenny, Briana, and Carly, for without whom this would’ve been a very different (and awful) story.
Prologue
Imari stood upon the palace rooftop, the tip of her toes peeking over the stone ledge. Hot desert wind ripped through her thin clothing, and her loose pants swelled like two small sails. She blinked, and her teeth ground on grit. There’d been a good bit of sand with that gust.
She’d always loved the view from this side of the desert palace. A huge orange sun floated over the Baraga Mountains like a great balloon, the sky around it the colors of Ricón’s fires. Her oldest brother called it magic fire, but Imari knew that magic didn’t exist within the Five Provinces. Their ancestors had seen to that. Besides, she’d seen the powder he’d put in the flames.
A heavy blanket of bruised and swollen clouds marked the endless desert lands due south: Ziyan, her people called it, though the rest of the Five Provinces called it the Forgotten Wastes. There, the sky remained forever volatile and angry. Even though Ziyan’s edge lay a few days’ ride from the palace, she’d never been allowed anywhere near.
Imari had heard the stories of wanderers who’d braved the endless sea of sand, searching for treasures that’d been left behind by a forgotten people. Those wanderers never returned. Vana, her kunari, said the wanderers found refuge in an oasis deep within the sands and simply did not want to return. Ricón said the sands ate them alive. Imari believed Ricón. Ricón was the only one who didn’t treat her like she was nine years old. Which she was.
“Surina Imari…?”
It was Vana, which meant it was time to perform.
“Sano kei,” Imari said, climbing down from the rooftop.
Vana stepped around the potted palm just as Imari jumped from the parapet and landed upon the hot, dusty tiles below.
Vana frowned, dangling Imari’s sandals like two pieces of incriminating evidence. “Surina, you know how Sar Branón feels about your climbing all over the palace like a chimp.”
Imari smiled. “Yes, that’s why I always make sure to do it when he’s not watching.”
Vana rolled her dark eyes to the setting sun and motioned for Imari to come to her. Imari crossed the veranda, but Vana grabbed her arm as she passed. Vana tried desperately to tame Imari’s loose braid, then licked her thumb and rubbed at a spot on Imari’s jaw. With a helpless sigh, Vana handed over the sandals and shoved Imari at the open archway.
Imari slipped her sandals onto her feet, then stepped into the great dining hall where her papa’s guests were gathered. Her papa, the sar of Istraa, entertained his rois often, but tonight marked an important dinner. The divide between the Five Provinces’ two most powerful territories—Corinth and Brevera—grew increasingly hostile, as in the days of the rebellion from her papa’s youth, and her papa feared for their border. This dinner was his plea to the rois of Istraa’s various districts, asking for their assistance in fortifying the northern boundary, which separated Istraa from the other Provinces.
Of course, her papa hadn’t told her this. It’d been Ricón. He really was the only one who ever told her anything. And if he hadn’t told her this news, she wouldn’t have agreed to perform tonight.
It wasn’t that she didn’t like performing—she did. But the past few days, playing made her feel strange. Her fingers would tingle, and it didn’t stop there. The tingling would travel down her arms and into her chest, where it would build and build and push against her lungs until she couldn’t breathe. She thought it some sort of illness, and she would’ve said as much to her papa had she not known the importance of this dinner.
Perhaps Ricón shouldn’t always tell her everything.
Plates of seasonal fruits and spiced tea had been set out—a final course to enjoy while Imari performed. Good, then perhaps no one would notice if she faltered.
Anja, the sura of Trier and her papa’s wife, waited beside the stool set at the front of the room, tapping her long finger impatiently upon the seat. Her heavily painted eyes narrowed as they raked over Imari, and then darted accusatively to Vana. Imari didn’t look to see Vana’s expression, but she imagined it well enough.
Anja handed Imari the little bone flute and leaned in close, as if to bestow an encouraging kiss. “I hope you take your playing this evening more seriously than you take your appearance,” she whispered instead.
Imari glanced down and her cheeks warmed with embarrassment. She wanted Anja to like her. She really did. It wasn’t that Anja was mean to her. Anja had just never understood Imari. On top of that, Imari was a constant reminder to Sura Anja of her papa’s unfaithfulness. It was as if Anja couldn’t look upon Imari without seeing the vile temptress herself. Whoever she was. Imari didn’t know. No one spoke of it. Not even Ricón.
Anja’s gaze slid over her once more, as if to say “the sieta are punishing me for some past ill,” before returning to the table.
Vana stood near one of the large columns, providing no solace.
Imari climbed on the stool and let both feet rest upon the support. She couldn’t reach the travertine floor, anyway. She spotted her brother Kai first, sitting between two rois from the western ridge. Kai’s onyx hair was tied back in a long ponytail that looked neater and tighter than anything Imari had ever managed, and he wore a bronze sash over his white tunic, marking him as a sur of Trier. He was much too deep in conversation with the two rois to c
atch her eye. There were many other prominent men and women—most she recognized, some she did not—and then she spotted Ricón, sitting beside their papa.
Ricón kept his black hair long and free but neatly combed. Like Kai, he wore the traditional bronze sash over his tunic, though his bore an embroidered black stripe at the shoulder, marking him as the oldest sur and Trier’s heir. He spoke to an elderly gentleman with braided black and silver hair, but, feeling Imari’s attention, he glanced up and met her gaze. His lips turned in a slow grin, which spread wider and wider as he took in her appearance.
Her papa glanced over at her then, with joy at first. She saw the moment her appearance registered, and rather than watch his disappointment flourish, she turned her attention back to her flute. She angled her legs, lifted the instrument to her lips, took a deep breath, closed her eyes, and played.
This particular piece wasn’t her choice, but her papa had requested it. It was the ballad of Istraa, telling the story of the war with Ziyan, formerly known as Sol Velor. Imari didn’t know all the details of that battle, but she’d been forced to memorize the important parts, thanks to Vana’s scrupulous tutoring. A little over a century ago, that war had almost destroyed the Five Provinces, because it was spearheaded by Azir Mubarék, leader of the Liagé—a title given to those few Sol Velorians who’d been born with supernatural power, called the Shah. According to the histories, vague as they were, Azir Mubarék had grown consumed with his power, and so the world united to stop him, thank the spirits above.
The ballad, however, was much too bombastic for Imari’s tastes, but her papa’s guests seemed to appreciate it. When she finished, they all stood and applauded. Ricón’s was loudest, and his broad smile said just how much he knew she hated the piece.
The guests settled in, which meant the remainder of the musical menu was in her control. She played on. She chose other favorites of Istraa, moving fluidly from one piece to the next, but when she slid into the fourth piece, Soul a mon Sieta, she hesitated.
One note sustained, soft. Uncertain and wavering.
It was as if the flute didn’t want to play Soul a mon Sieta. As if it had awoken, latched on to that note with all its might, and now that it had hold, it wasn’t letting go. Not only would it not let go, it wanted to direct the next note.
Imari was quickly running out of air for her E flat. She ended the note and dropped into an A sharp.
The note breathed, swelling as if opening its lungs for the first time. Something stirred inside of her. She thought it mere improvisation—instinct. She had no idea how wrong she was.
She followed that instinct through a pentatonic scale, dancing with flourishes and augments. Losing herself in the notes, the melody, drifting with the sound as it filled the empty spaces, slipping out the door and onto the rooftops of the palace she’d climbed only moments ago. But this time she jumped off, soaring through the air, weightless, heading straight toward the Baraga Mountains. No, not the Baraga Mountains.
Ziyan.
A gale scooped her up, whipping and tossing her, clawing her deeper and deeper into forbidden wastelands. Melodies screamed out of her flute for the voice she did not have. Her fingers flew faster and faster, notes rose and fell like the tides of the great dunes, and with one final gust, she was thrown from the sky, dropping and spinning to the ground in a whirl of sound. Spinning and falling in a melody of dizzying madness, and then…
Silence.
Imari gasped and pulled the flute from her lips, her body drenched in sweat. Her arms tingled, a pressure throbbed in her chest, and the symbols etched upon her flute glowed a pale white, fading even as she watched.
She looked up. She wasn’t in Ziyan. She was at the palace, seated upon her stool. She put a hand to her chest, trying to calm herself, and then she saw the dinner party.
Each and every one of them had slumped over their plates; some had faces in food—even Ricón lay with his chin drowning in cream, his hand still wrapped around his goblet. An entire court… sound asleep.
At least, she hoped they merely slept.
Trembling, Imari slipped from the stool. The air sizzled and hummed strangely, and her arms and legs tingled with energy as she padded over to Vana. Her kunari had slumped down the column she’d been leaning against, her head bent forward, chin resting upon her generous bosom.
“Vana!” Imari whispered, tucking her flute beneath one arm and using her other to feel around Vana’s face.
Vana didn’t move.
With growing horror, Imari pressed her ear to Vana’s heart.
There was a slow beat. But it beat.
And Imari knew: She had done this. She had lulled everyone in this room into a deep sleep, with music.
No, with the Shah.
Her pulse drummed in her ears. If her papa’s guests realized what she’d done—what she had the ability to do—and if word got out…
Metal clanked on the table. Imari’s gaze whipped back. A few of the guests stirred. Ricón slowly lifted his head, one hand pressed to his forehead as if he suffered from an immense headache. His gaze whirled and landed on Imari.
“Go,” he mouthed, but the fear in his gaze terrified her.
She got to her feet and ran out the side doors of the dining hall, and she stopped short.
Her little sister, Sorai, lay on the floor wedged against the door. No doubt listening in on the performance. Sorai loved hearing Imari play, and she’d thrown quite the tantrum when her mama had forbidden her from attending this dinner. It looked like she’d come anyway. Imari could hear Anja now, scolding her for teaching the littlest princess of Trier bad habits.
The music had affected Sorai even out here. Imari glanced around. The dark and narrow hall lay empty. Still, it wouldn’t do for Sorai to be caught like this.
“Mi a’drala,” Imari whispered, bending down beside her sister to wake her.
Sorai didn’t move.
It was then Imari noticed Sorai wasn’t breathing.
The flute slid out from beneath Imari’s arm and clattered to the floor, but Imari barely heard it. She pressed her ear to her little sister’s chest.
Only silence greeted her.
And Imari ran.
1
Ten Years Later
Sable lit the small candle, and her nose wrinkled. The butcher’s cellar reeked of rust.
Storage crates vomited chicken feet on the floor, shelving bowed beneath the weight of too many brining jars, and bird carcasses dangled from the ceiling in macabre decoration, dripping remnants of life all over everything. Garlands of meat casing draped like beaded curtains, and Sable almost missed the enormous workbench, buried beneath a tangle of bloodied cleavers, meathooks, and feathers. Overall, Velik’s cellar was a bloody mess. Not that she’d expected any different.
If I were Velik, where would I store bones? Her gaze snagged on a hutch.
Sable slipped around the table, careful not to knock into anything, which was no small feat, considering, and opened the top drawer. Inside, she found wads of cloth and rope, but no bones. She opened the next drawer, and the next, and frowned. They had to be there somewhere. She’d watched him carry some in just this afternoon.
And then, beneath the smothered table, she spotted a huge bucket of animal fat, with the pale end of a femur sticking out of it.
Not where I’d keep them, but I’m not Velik, thank the wards.
Sable crouched beside the table, set down her candle, and grabbed the femur and a greasy hip joint. She tucked them into the pouch secured at her belt, slipped her hand back through the fat, and she’d just found a boar’s foot when the latch on the cellar door clicked.
Sable cursed, snuffed out her candle, and bolted beneath the stairs. The cellar door creaked open, and lantern light split the shadows.
“I know you’re down there,” Velik growled. Heavy boots thumped down the wooden stairs. Through the slats, Sable caught the glint of a meat cleaver in his hand.
He stopped at the foot of the stairs
. “Come out, come out,” he taunted, setting his lantern on the table. “The longer you wait, the more painful I’ll make it.” He bent lower to search beneath the table.
Sable seized the opportunity. She chucked the boar’s foot at the lantern. Bone struck, glass shattered, and the lantern crashed to the floor, plunging the cellar in darkness. Sable leapt onto the staircase, bounding up two steps at a time, then shoved through the door and out into the fresh, wintry night air.
Behind her, Velik exploded through the cellar door. “Come back here, you bastard!” Velik yelled, charging after her.
Sable grabbed hold of a neighboring fence post, used it to pin her momentum, and made a hard left. A dozen more yards, and she’d be under the cover of the village center, where she could lose Velik. She hurdled over another fence.
“Skanden won’t hide you forever!” Velik shouted, thundering after her.
Sable’s boots pounded the frozen earth, and her arms pumped, propelling her faster. The lights of Skanden’s main square flickered ahead, but Velik was still too close. Whatever happened, she absolutely could not give away her destination.
Making a last minute and possibly very stupid decision, she dodged right, sprinting through the lower residences. This side of town had a climbable section of wall. She used it sometimes when she wanted to avoid the guards at the main gate. She’d just never used it at night. No one in their right mind went beyond the village walls after dusk. She decided not to dwell on that fact.
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