The Gods of Men

by Barbara Kloss

  The Wolf’s arm flexed around her, and he looked sternly ahead at the approaching gate, where his men waited, speaking with a few guards.

  They tore through the wide open gate. Sable expected the Wolf to slow once inside the city, but he only pushed harder, navigating the streets on instinct and leaving his men in the dust. People jumped aside; guards scrambled to clear a path. The Wolf powered through them all, holding Sable close, physically shielding her from curious eyes. And there were many. So many.

  Up, up, up they galloped, winding through a maze of tight and winding cobblestone, while buildings crowded in like an angry mob. Banners and clothing lines were strung between cantilevered upper stories, blocking the sky, and a haze of sweat and livestock and smoke tainted the air.

  The Wolf turned onto a wide and sloping street. The cramped city fell behind, and the street leveled at an enormous drawbridge suspended by thick chains. Below stretched a canyon of rock and forest. Above loomed the great fortress, spires puncturing the clouds. Their stolik thundered over the wooden planks and passed more guards, through a pair of broad and open doors, and into a large courtyard, where a young man shoveled hay.

  The Wolf dismounted before their stolik came to a full stop. No sooner had his boots touched the ground than the young man called out, “Prince Jeric!”

  The title caught Sable off guard. Of course, he was the prince of Corinth. She knew this. But since the day she’d learned the truth about him, she’d thought of him as the Wolf, the hunter, the killer. His men addressed him as Wolf.

  She’d almost forgotten he was, first and foremost, a prince.

  The Wolf Prince turned around as the young man set down his shovel and jogged toward them. The man had curly, straw-colored hair, prominent bones, and an eager smile that made him seem younger than he probably was.

  “Farvyn, your grace,” the young man stuttered in a pinched voice, bending in a bow before the Wolf, though his pale gaze kept shifting curiously to Sable. “Remember me? I was the messenger who found you and your pack—”

  “I remember,” the Wolf snapped.

  The young man—Farvyn—stood tall and grinned. He was missing one of his canines. Judging by the rest of his teeth, it’d probably rotted out of his head. “Moved me to the stables after that. Figured I’d be more help here, I wager, though I enjoyed…” His voice trailed at a dark look from the Wolf, and Farvyn’s expression faltered. He cleared his throat. “I’ll take him for you…” Farvyn reached for the horse.

  The Wolf turned his body just so, making it clear that Farvyn would not be taking anything anywhere.

  “Where’s Dom?” the Wolf asked.

  “Below, gettin’ fresh feed. All this rain keeps rotting it.”

  Just then, Braddok and the others trotted into the courtyard. Braddok flashed the Wolf an irritated look.

  “I’ll take it from here,” the Wolf said to Farvyn. “Go help my men.”

  Farvyn hesitated, then remembered himself. “’Course, your grace.” He scurried off to help Braddok and the rest of the Wolf’s pack.

  The Wolf held out a hand to Sable.

  It isn’t wise to alienate the one friend you have in this land.

  Sable pressed her lips together and, reluctantly, took his hand. He helped her out of the saddle, and, truth be told, she was glad for his support. Her side ached, and even with the Wolf’s aid, her balance was unsteady.

  “Wait here,” he said, then escorted the stolik through a small archway. He returned a minute later, just as Braddok approached.

  The two men glanced briefly over at Farvyn, then exchanged a long look.

  “I’ll go on with them.” Braddok gestured toward Chez, Aksel, and Stanis, who chattered a few paces away, giving Farvyn instructions and more than a little harassment.

  The Wolf clasped Braddok’s shoulder. “I’ll find you after.”

  “If you’re lucky.” Braddok winked.

  The Wolf grinned.

  Braddok cast one last glance at Sable, then started after the others.

  The Wolf turned to face her. Looking at him now, Sable felt as though a gulf stood between them.

  “We need to find my brother first,” the Wolf said. His lips parted as if he wanted to say more, but he closed them and extended an elbow instead.

  Sable didn’t reach for it.

  “Sable,” he warned, his tone strained.

  She looked away from him and took his elbow.

  He led her across the courtyard, pushed open the doors at the far end, and led her into a great hall. There, her eyes wandered from impossibly high arches to blazing hearths so tall and so wide, a half-dozen Braddok-sized men could have stood abreast within. Tables stretched along the length of the room, empty except for burning candelabras. Two tiered, wrought-iron chandeliers hung from the ceiling, and the floor was a mosaic of black-and-white patterns, coated in gloss so thick it looked wet. At the end of the hall stood a magnificent chair.

  Corinth’s throne. It was all black—glossier, even, than the tiles—with a wide seat and broad back as though it’d been built for a giant. Embedded into the back of the chair was a wolf’s head, and the throne’s legs ended in feet, balanced upon black claws.

  A courier rushed past, then stopped to bow to his prince.

  The Wolf walked faster, pulling Sable after him. She sensed he didn’t want anyone to get a good look at her.

  A few other men stood about—one in blue robes so dark they looked black, the others dressed in rich wool and leathers of the Corinthian style. They chatted quietly, then stopped when they spotted their prince and his veiled guest. Before they could say a word, the Wolf led her to a small door between two of the great hearths, where a guard stood, armed in black-and-silver plates. He nodded at the Wolf and stepped aside, opening the door. Beyond was a long and narrow stone stairway, lit dimly by burning sconces.

  “Is it always so dark here?” Sable asked.

  The Wolf gazed up the stairs. “Yes.” And then he led her forward.

  He slowed a little on the stairs, for her benefit. It hurt to draw a full breath, and the exertion—and altitude—was quickly wearing her down. The stairs leveled into another hall, littered intermittently with openings to other, smaller corridors, but the Wolf didn’t veer. A few more men guarded this hall, bowing their heads to the Wolf Prince as he passed, though their eyes followed.

  The Wolf stopped before a pair of guarded double doors at the end of the hall. Beyond, Sable heard the faint murmur of voices.

  The Wolf tipped his head toward her. “Don’t speak unless I say,” he said too quietly for the guards to hear. “Even if you’re asked directly. I will speak for you. Do you understand?”

  A thousand responses crowded for voice, but all that came out was a curt, “Yes.”

  His eyes flickered over her face, and then he stood tall and released her arm. “Stay behind me,” he murmured. He took a deep breath, pushed the door in, and stepped through. Sable followed.

  The chatter inside died.

  The space beyond was of moderate size, built to hold the large table at its center, which was currently occupied by a dozen men, who—judging by the heavy and awkward silence—had been discussing something of great importance before the Wolf had interrupted them.

  “Just as I suspected,” the Wolf said without ceremony. His deep voice filled every corner, charged the silence. “I’m gone for a month, a legion has breached our borders, and you’re all sitting around the table having a chat.”

  Glances crossed in uncomfortable silence.

  “So you’ve heard,” said a man’s voice, but Sable could not see who’d spoken. The Wolf’s broad shoulders blocked her view.

  “You lost an entire legion of Scabs,” the Wolf said. “That sort of news travels fast.”

  Postures shifted and shrank, and a chair creaked as its occupant stood. A note rang inside Sable’s head like a chime, sudden and insistent, and now she could finally see the man who had spoken.

  He had hair like
fire and eyes of steel, and, Sable noted with some surprise, the Wolf’s strong square jaw. He also shared the Wolf’s height and authority, though his physique lacked the Wolf’s sharp discipline, and where the Wolf carried an edge of deadliness, this man carried only cruelty. It was in his eyes. Like a snake, he stared without blinking, his thoughts twisting behind a cold veneer, always searching for the perfect moment to strike.

  “Brother, how good of you to join us,” the man said in a cloying voice, and confirmed Sable’s suspicions.

  This was none other than Prince Hagan Angevin, heir to Corinth’s throne, and the Wolf’s older brother. Sable had always believed the Wolf to be the Provinces’ greatest threat. Now, looking at his brother, she wasn’t so sure. There was something about him that set her on edge.

  Prince Hagan’s gaze drifted to Sable, and the note in her head rang louder.

  The others noticed her then and strained to see the person within the cloak, and Sable was glad for her cowl.

  “A word, Hagan,” the Wolf said sharply. It was not a request.

  Prince Hagan smiled. It was a cruel smile, one that delighted only in pain.

  “Of course.” He turned to address his council. “Leave us.”

  Chairs screeched, and the council exited the room. One man, dressed smartly in armor, clasped the Wolf on the shoulder and cast Sable an inquiring glance as he left. The rest filed out, save a woman and an elderly man dressed in heavy robes. Sable was struck by the woman’s uncanny resemblance to the Wolf. They shared the same storming blue eyes and burnished hair, though hers fell in rivulets to her waist. She was as beautiful as the Wolf was handsome.

  “Go on, Astrid,” Prince Hagan said quietly but firmly.

  “If you don’t mind, I’d like to hear what Jeric has to say,” she replied in a voice that didn’t care at all whether or not the prince minded.

  “I do mind.”

  Her expression darkened, but Prince Hagan’s resolve did not waver. Something passed between brother and sister, and finally, in a furious gather of fabric, the princess stood and strode for the door. She stopped before Sable with harsh appraisal.

  There was something… off about the Angevin princess that Sable couldn’t place. Her eyes narrowed.

  The princess sneered, then left, slamming the door behind her.

  The note in Sable’s head quieted.

  The robed man lingered, and Sable realized she’d been wrong to call him elderly. To do so would diminish the strength of his being, and there was nothing frail about this man. He was old in the way Tolya had been old, as though he’d survived years beyond that which was permitted. There was no hair upon his head, and the rest of his body was hidden beneath an exquisite robe the same midnight blue as that of the man in the hall, but his was trimmed in silver. His eyes were dark and fathomless, as if he saw the past and present and future in one glance.

  Wary, Sable looked away from him.

  “He stays,” Prince Hagan said, nodding at the robed man.

  The Wolf bristled with restraint. “You sent my men to Stovich’s.”

  “Your men?” Prince Hagan scoffed. “You’ve set your sights on being a Stryker. I didn’t think you’d mind.”

  The Wolf took a step forward. It was a subtle push of power. “You had no right to do that.”

  Prince Hagan picked up a decanter and filled his glass. “On the contrary, I had every right.”

  The Wolf cocked his head to the side. It was a sharp motion, as if catching a new scent, one he didn’t like or trust. “Where’s father?”

  Prince Hagan picked up his glass, admired the craftsmanship. The back of Sable’s neck prickled with unease.

  “Hagan.”

  Prince Hagan downed the glass and slammed it on the table. He looked at his brother, all humor erased. “He’s gone, Jeric.”

  A deadly quiet settled in the room. It swelled and roiled, filling the cracks.

  Corinth’s king was dead.

  Which meant Prince Hagan was now king. There was no further use for Sable here. Or was there?

  Her gaze flitted to the robed man, who was watching her intensely. She glanced away again.

  The Wolf’s eyes narrowed on his brother, his features sharpened. “When?”

  “Soon after you left.”

  The Wolf’s hand flexed—a habitual tick, Sable realized, as if holding himself back from instinct. From grabbing his sword. “You knew he wouldn’t last, and you sent me anyway.”

  Hagan refilled his glass. “Come, Jeric. We haven’t had a father in years. Don’t pretend you’re upset.”

  The Wolf took another step. He was fury contained in ropes of experience, pulled tight enough to snap. “I lost a good man because of this, Hagan.”

  “You have lost many. But your errand wasn’t for naught, despite what you may think.” Here, he picked up his glass and tilted it toward Sable. “Are you going to introduce me to our guest?”

  Sable watched him, and her unease intensified.

  “There’s no need,” the Wolf said lowly. He turned to Sable and reached for her arm.

  “No need?” Hagan said. “You bring me Sar Branón’s bastard daughter, and you expect to take her away without first giving us a proper introduction?”

  The moment stood outside of time, frozen in bewildering suspension, and his words trapped her like a spell.

  Sar Branón’s bastard daughter…

  By the wards.

  It wasn’t possible. Not even the Wolf had figured it out. So how in all the stars had Prince Hagan learned the truth?

  The Wolf’s gaze whipped back to his brother. “What in the five hells are you talking about?”

  But Hagan only had eyes for Sable. “Fascinating. All this time, and he never discovered the truth about you.”

  Sable felt the Wolf’s scrutiny on her then, but she didn’t turn to look. She couldn’t, and confidently wear the lies she had always worn—the very lies that would save her now. The Wolf had warned her not to speak, but he hadn’t anticipated this. And Sable had to defend herself; she was the only one who could.

  “You’re mistaking me for someone else, Your Grace,” she said with impressive calm, despite her pounding heart. “My name is Sable. I’m just a healer.”

  “Sable.” Hagan cocked his head, eyes unblinking. “Curious name for an Istraan, isn’t it?”

  “I’m from Skanden, so I don’t find it curious at all.”

  Hagan took an easy step forward. “It’s a nice little story, surina. You’re quite convincing. Even my Wolf brother failed to sniff you out.”

  The Wolf turned to her. “What is he talking about?”

  Still, Sable looked only at Hagan. “I am not the sar’s bastard, Your Grace,” she said firmly, though the words felt like rocks in her mouth. “Whoever convinced you of this is greatly misinformed. His bastard died. Years ago.”

  Hagan’s eyes flickered to the robed man, who then approached Sable.

  “Tell me what is going on,” the Wolf demanded.

  “Go ahead, Head Inquisitor,” Hagan said to the robed man, who stopped before Sable.

  Head Inquisitor.

  Maker’s Mercy.

  The Head Inquisitor drew an object from his robes: a flute.

  Her little bone flute.

  The sight of it here, in the Head Inquisitor’s hands, took Sable by so much surprise, she momentarily forgot her composure.

  The Wolf noticed, and he fell impossibly still.

  Hagan smiled. “There, you see? I thought the flute might rekindle your memory.”

  “What is that?” the Wolf asked, his voice dangerously low.

  “Why don’t you ask Sable?” Hagan said her name with irony.

  Without meaning to, her gaze met the Wolf’s.

  In that moment, all of her lies collapsed. Walls she had carefully erected and hidden behind—walls and supports that had given her safety and purpose—all of them crumbled like sand and left her standing on a solid rock of truth.

  The Wolf�
��s eyes shifted like the seas before a storm, and his expression darkened as all of the lies she had told, and all of the details she had hidden, suddenly fell into place.

  “You… are the sar’s bastard?” His words were arrows, and they sank deep.

  She opened her mouth to deny it, but the lies would not come—could not come. The Head Inquisitor held the flute closer to her. Instinctively, Sable flinched back, but too late. The flute touched her shoulder and the etched glyphs pulsed to life, glowing with silvery moonlight.

  Illuminating the truth before them all.

  The Wolf hissed and stepped away, as if she’d burned him.

  “She’s also Liagé,” Prince Hagan interjected.

  “No,” Sable persisted, glaring at Hagan. “The power has nothing to do with me. The flute’s an old Liagé relic, and somehow it—”

  “Illuminates only at your touch?” Hagan finished instead, his sarcasm thick. “Did it illuminate that night as well, when you played Sar Branón’s entire court to sleep? Or when you killed the little surina with your music? I’ve always wondered: Were you trying to elevate your standing, bastard?”

  Sable’s heart pounded hard and fast, with fear and memory, and her nerves hummed with flight. “If I’d known what it was, I never would have—”

  “But you did, and it killed Surina Sorai,” Hagan said, cutting her off. “Instead of executing you as Sar Branón should have, he smuggled you into The Wilds and let you live while the rest of us believed you dead. Fortunately, or, perhaps, unfortunately for you, I never believe what I’m told.”

  “And what is it you’re hoping to achieve? Are you trying to elevate your standing by showing the Provinces I’m alive?” Sable snapped, throwing his words back at him. “Sar Branón hasn’t sent for me in ten years. He won’t care that I’m here now.”

  The words stung more than she’d anticipated, and they came out in a fury.

  Hagan regarded her, his expression inscrutable. “Perhaps. Perhaps not.” His gaze flickered to the Head Inquisitor. “She’s yours.”

  “You can’t…” Sable started.

  Pale hands grabbed her arms from behind. Her gaze whirled to the pair of robed men holding her, their cheeks scarred grotesquely.