The Gods of Men

by Barbara Kloss

“The same side I’ve always been,” Jeric growled. “Corinth’s.”

  But even as he said the words, he wasn’t so certain anymore.

  “And I am Corinth’s king,” Hagan continued, his tone menacing. “Either you’re on my side, or you’re a traitor to the crown. Don’t think for one moment that shared blood will keep your pretty head from my little garden beyond the wall.”

  Jeric flashed his canines. “You’ll have to catch me first.”

  He shouldn’t have said it, and he regretted the words as soon as they fell out of his mouth.

  Hagan’s eyes shifted. It had always been so, like some other consciousness taking over, twisting madly, sick with pleasure, and Jeric wondered what darts Hagan would throw at him now.

  “Yes… so quick—so skilled with your blade,” Hagan snarled. “Infamous for your skill in hunting Scabs and Liagé, yet you failed to recognize the Liagé right beneath your nose. I’m surprised at you, Wolf. Have your senses dulled?” He cocked his head to the side, eyes narrowed. “Or were you… distracted?”

  Jeric watched his brother carefully, his expression impassive.

  “You spent weeks with her, and yet you don’t ask about her,” Hagan said.

  Jeric’s eyes narrowed. “Why would I? She’s Liagé.”

  Hagan regarded him. “Well, since you won’t ask, I’ll tell you.” He paused for effect, then bent his head closer to Jeric. “I’ve decided to marry her. She is the daughter of the sar, after all.”

  Jeric’s blood ran hot, a liquid inferno scorching his veins. His senses heightened, and everything focused on the life standing before him. The precious seconds before a kill. “What did you say?” Jeric asked darkly.

  “I think you know very well what I said.” Hagan paused. “You don’t approve?”

  Blood rushed to Jeric’s ears. “The people will never accept her,” he said. It wasn’t his real reason.

  “When the people understand what this alliance means for Corinth, they will. United with Istraa, we’ll be undefeatable. And she’ll give me strong sons,” Hagan added with a smile that crawled into Jeric’s mind. “I can tell by the way she fights when I touch her.”

  Jeric punched Hagan square in the face.

  Hagan staggered back, but before he could regain his balance, Jeric hoisted him up by the collar, holding him close. He was a knife’s edge from killing his brother, whose bottom lip was bleeding and already beginning to swell.

  “Ah, there it is.” Hagan grimaced. “I knew you felt—”

  Jeric shook him hard, silencing him. “If you’ve so much as breathed on her—”

  A click sounded to his left, then his right. In Jeric’s periphery, archers took position upon the second-level walk.

  Godsdamnit.

  Hagan had planned this. He’d expected Jeric’s reaction and brought backup.

  “I’d advise putting me down before one of them fires,” Hagan said through his teeth.

  Jeric seethed, arms shaking. His rage was an avalanche, wild and deadly, but if he gave in to it, Hagan’s archers would surely end his life, and she would suffer for it.

  With a defeated growl, he released Hagan.

  Hagan stumbled back and wiped his bloodied lip on the back of his hand.

  Jeric’s skin was too tight, his rage leashed by a thread. He had to get out of there. He stalked past Hagan and stormed for the doors.

  “Where are you going?” Hagan demanded after him.

  “To get a drink,” Jeric snarled.

  Hagan didn’t try to stop him.

  Jeric spotted Astrid lingering in the shadows of the second-story corridor, watching them. Their gazes met, and she promptly turned and left. Jeric wondered how much she’d seen, how much she’d heard.

  Not that it mattered.

  He’d made a decision, and he didn’t have much time.

  37

  Sable lay on her bed with the flute pulsing beside her, but she couldn’t bring herself to play it. Her body was too weary, teetering on the edge of awareness, and she feared one more lapse into unconsciousness would be a lapse from which she’d never recover.

  The Head Inquisitor had come to visit her shortly after Hagan. He hadn’t asked what’d transpired, but his instructions had held an urgency they hadn’t before.

  “It will go easier for you if you figure this out,” he’d said. “This… obstacle, between you and your control over the Shah. You must break it down, Imari.”

  “You think I’m not trying?” Sable had answered, having difficulty breathing. Her lungs contracted with ropes that would not loosen, and pushing against them caused her great pain.

  He’d considered her. “I know you are.”

  He hadn’t said another word, hadn’t offered any new ideas. He had simply left the plate of food and started for the door. There, he’d paused. “His Majesty will be quite preoccupied over these next few days, celebrating his coronation and the Day of Reckoning. Take the time to rest.” And then he’d left.

  Sable had fallen asleep afterward, and she’d woken to a small cache of herbs, which had been tied neatly upon her plate. Minsing, lavender, and veroot. All responsible for promoting sleep and suppressing pain, but not in very large quantities. The Head Inquisitor probably didn’t trust her with more.

  With a resigned sigh, she’d plucked the leaves and added them to her water. She’d finished the glass and fallen asleep not long after, then woken to the brightly burning lantern. Her flute lay beside her, its symbols glowing faintly.

  You must break it down, Imari.

  He was right, but she couldn’t bring herself to move, or care. Her body was a rock, heavy and unresponsive. And her mind…

  The Head Inquisitor had been right not to give her a larger dosage.

  By the wards, she was tired. So tired. Of hiding. Of fighting.

  Of existing.

  She wanted to close her eyes on the world, fall asleep and never wake up again.

  Do not fear… The voice echoed in her mind. A sun piercing clouds. You are my chosen, and through you, I will make a great nation. If only you have the courage.

  “Courage,” she grumbled. “Courage for what? Making a nation through that monster’s rutting seed?”

  Of course, there was no answer.

  Sable glared at the ceiling—at the voice that kept speaking ambiguously in her dreams, telling her not to fear.

  Sable picked up her flute and held it like a weapon. “Who are you?”

  Still, no answer.

  “What do you want from me?” she cried in anguish. Her throat clamped down, and a hot tear leaked over her cheek, but suddenly, she couldn’t stop her words. A lifetime of anger and bitterness and pain broke through her chest. “You tell me not to be afraid—that you’ll be with me—then where are you? Where have you ever been? Is this my punishment for her death? I was a child. I didn’t mean for it to happen, but it did, and I carry that with me every ruttting day of my life. So what else do you want from me? Haven’t I suffered enough?”

  Again, no answer.

  Sable screamed and chucked her flute across the room. It slammed against the chamber wall with a tinny echo and clattered to the floor. She slumped forward with her head in her hands, and the tears came.

  They came in a flood. Deep, wrenching sobs that tore her apart from the inside. A lifetime of pain, of regret and suffering and loneliness. Such loneliness. Her shoulders trembled with it, and her body contracted, unable to draw breath as her sorrow spilled out of her. She was breaking apart, and she didn’t have the strength to hold herself together anymore.

  She didn’t want to hold herself together anymore. She’d lost all reason to.

  And so she cried. She cried until she had nothing left, until the tears no longer came. Until her consciousness drifted and took the pain with it.

  Imari… said the voice, like embers on a cold night.

  Sable’s head lolled to the side. A single note hummed in the depths of her soul, low and mourning, and her chest reverberated
like a plucked string.

  Imari.

  “Leave me alone…” she replied weakly.

  It is time, Imari.

  Keys jangled outside her door.

  She didn’t open her eyes. She no longer cared. The door opened, and the pressure shifted in the room as a body entered. A creak of leather, and the door closed.

  Still, Sable didn’t open her eyes. It didn’t matter. She didn’t matter. If only she’d died in her sleep.

  The silence stretched. And stretched.

  A throat cleared.

  Sable cracked her eyes open.

  The sight of Braddok startled her at first—his enormous silhouette squeezed into her small chamber. He hunched forward a little, holding himself as compact as possible, as if he wasn’t sure where to put the bulk of himself. He watched her with steady eyes, and she had the impression he’d entered with a very specific kind of resolve, but the sight of her had stopped him short. She wondered how terrible she looked, and what three weeks down here had done to her that would cause a man like Braddok to hold back.

  Braddok looked… presentable. Clean and tidy in a way that didn’t quite fit him, like a wild bear dressed in king’s robes. He’d undoubtedly readied himself for the feast he was supposed to be attending.

  Except he was here.

  His eyes fixed on her cheek, where Hagan had struck her, and his brow furrowed.

  “Don’t you have a coronation?” Sable said roughly, wiping her eyes and pushing herself to sit up.

  A beat. “Aye,” he said, then tossed a bundle at her.

  It landed on her bed. She didn’t turn to look.

  “Put that on,” he said. When she didn’t move, he ducked his head lower, and his voice dropped to a whisper. “You’re getting out of here.”

  She stared at him, the words foreign. A moment later, they unfolded like new blooms, lurid and aromatic, tilting toward the sun. Drinking in light—desperate for it—but also afraid that it was nothing more than some cruel illusion.

  Braddok frowned. “Did you hear me?” he said again, more fervently, and with growing concern. “I’m getting you out of here.”

  The clouds broke apart, and Sable looked at him, uncertain. “And going where?”

  “I don’t know,” he said gruffly. “Wherever you rutting want to go. That’s your business. I’m just here to help you get out. The Wolf would’ve come himself, but he can’t miss the coronation. Not without raising questions.”

  Sable’s heart skipped a beat. Warmth spread through her body, bright and unfiltered, and a bass note breathed deep inside of her.

  The Wolf was setting her free.

  “The Wolf sent you.” She repeated it because she couldn’t digest the words. She repeated it because she wanted to hear Braddok say it again.

  “Aye,” Braddok said, “and if you don’t hurry, everyone at the temple will return, and we’ll never get your arse outta here.”

  Sable turned her head to look at the bundle Braddok had tossed upon her bed. A cloak, about her size and made of expensive wool, and a pair of pants and a tunic. Sable pulled a sheathed dagger from the pile, then looked at Braddok, who shrugged and said nothing.

  Why now, after all this time?

  “Well?” Braddok said. “You coming or not?”

  Go, Imari…

  Sable staggered to her feet. Braddok’s arms tensed outward, ready to catch her. She stood there a moment, testing her balance, and then, when Braddok looked certain she wouldn’t fall, he turned decidedly around, giving her privacy. With careful and unsteady hands, Sable took off the simple brown—and now filthy—dress and put on the clean clothes. Her fingers fumbled weakly with the fabric, but even as she put them on, new strength thawed her stiff and frozen bones.

  Hope’s greatest power was replenishing the strength that despair had stolen.

  She slipped into the cloak, secured the dagger at her waist, then turned to face Braddok. Her eyes felt like cotton.

  He looked over her once, and his gaze settled on her bare feet. “Don’t you have shoes?”

  “I did.”

  His lips pinched together, hidden within that ruddy beard of his, and then he faced the door, listening a moment before opening it. A dimly lit hall stretched beyond, quiet and empty.

  “Where are my guards?” Sable asked.

  “Drinking, I’d wager. I gave them the night off. There are some perks to everyone knowing you’re the Wolf’s favorite.”

  He seemed pretty proud of this role.

  “Won’t they report you?” Sable asked.

  “Better not. Or I’ve plenty of stories to share with His Majesty,” Braddok said with a wink, then glanced down the hall. “Hall’s clear. Let’s go.” He stepped aside to give her room.

  Sable cast one last glance about her prison, and her eyes settled on the flute. The glyphs shone softly in the lantern light. She considered leaving it, but then she thought of every other time she’d tried leaving it behind, and so she picked it up and tucked it away into the folds of her cloak. She joined Braddok in the hall, and he closed the door after them.

  Sable hadn’t seen much of Skyhold beyond her prison; she’d been unconscious when they’d dragged her there. A few narrow corridors branched from the winding one they walked, their depths swallowed by darkness, and everything smelled cold and wet and old.

  “Where are we?” Sable whispered.

  “Beneath the castle,” Braddok answered. “It used to be an old dungeon, but the Angevins keep their catch beneath the temple now. Except for you, it seems. This is mostly used for storage.” He stopped before one dark opening, examined it, then grabbed one of the lanterns and led them into the mouth. This hall was narrower than the first, and Sable caught whiff of something foul. Her nose wrinkled.

  Braddok noticed. “There’s an entrance to the sewers down here. Not many know about it.”

  Ah. “And you know about it because…?”

  “Because the Wolf and I used to steal cakes from the kitchens and hide down here.”

  The simple and very human confession made Sable grin.

  “Ah, here we are.” Braddok stopped in a crouch and set the lantern down beside a grate in the floor. It’d completely rusted with time, so she was surprised when Braddok lifted it silently and with little effort. He glanced back, noting her puzzlement. “We might have snuck out once or twice,” he added with a smirk.

  Perhaps she and the Wolf Prince had more in common than she’d realized.

  “Now, listen,” Braddok said, all seriousness. “The sewers beneath Skyhold are a rutting maze. King Tommad tried to improve them, but it ended in a mess of old and new lines. If you keep to the main artery, you’ll get out just fine.” Braddok bent forward, reached beneath the lip of the opening, and tugged. A rope loosed, and its end plunged into the darkness below. “The main artery isn’t always obvious. It’s part of the original construction. Much of it’s crumbling, but you’ll know it by the writing on the walls. Apparently, the Liagé even blessed their own scat.”

  Sable peered down the dark hole, catching strong whiffs of human waste. “Where does it end?”

  “Near a mile outside the city,” Braddok said, sitting back on his heels. “Where the Fallow joins the Miur. You’ll find a horse waiting for you there, tied between the Kissing Rocks. And here.” He tossed a cloth pouch at her.

  She barely caught it and almost dropped it for the weight. Coins jangled. A lot of them.

  “The Wolf asked me to give that to you,” Braddok said. “Said it’s the amount you agreed upon, plus extra for your troubles.”

  Sable’s heart grew too large for her chest. She tucked the coins into her cloak as Braddok set a pair of large boots before her.

  “Can’t have you walking through that muck barefooted,” Braddok said, matter-of-factly, and also barefoot. “I’ve got plenty to spare.”

  Sable took them gingerly. “Thank you,” she whispered.

  He nodded once and glanced down the hole. “You’d better get
going.”

  Sable slipped her feet into Braddok’s enormous boots. They were still warm, and she suddenly realized how cold she’d been. Of course, his boots had been made for a giant, but she wrapped the strings around the heel twice, so they wouldn’t slip off. She patted herself once, making sure the dagger and coin were secure, then lowered herself into the hole, supporting herself upon the first rung of a roped ladder.

  Braddok held out the lantern, which she took.

  “Don’t drop it,” he said.

  “Can you get back?”

  Braddok snorted. “Please. I could navigate these halls in my sleep. In fact, I think I might have once or twice…” He glanced furtively around, then looked seriously back at her. “Be careful. The sewers aren’t a place for a princess.”

  Sable grinned up at him. “I’m a thief, remember? The shadows are old friends of mine.”

  Braddok grinned back.

  The moment held, expanded. It was a silent truce, one of mutual respect.

  “Thank you,” Sable said quietly. “Tell the Wolf…” She stopped, uncertain of what to say. Of what she felt. None of it was right. None of it was enough, and all of it was complicated.

  Braddok seemed to sense as much and said quietly, “I’ll tell him.”

  She nodded once, then slowly descended the rope ladder, and Braddok closed the grate after her.

  Sable’s boots landed on damp earth. She help up the lantern and looked around while trying not to gag on the stench. The tunnel had been roughly hewn, glistening with condensation and dark with mildew, which made it difficult to tell if the dark splotches were stains or old Liagé writing. She held the lantern high, searching for symbols—anything that might give her direction—and then, in her periphery, she caught a shimmer. She held the lantern toward it as she approached the opposite wall, and the shimmer held. It was a symbol—one she couldn’t read—but its origins were unmistakable.

  It was fitting, she thought, that the writing that’d protected her all those years in Skanden would guide her now.

  I am with you…

  With a quick glance to the ceiling above, Sable continued on through the muck and horrible stench. Plugging her nose did little to dull the smell, so she gave herself over to simply taking quicker and shallower breaths.