The Gods of Men

by Barbara Kloss

  Imari didn’t hear the door open. She didn’t hear him step inside or close the door behind him, but she felt him there—felt the air shift around him. She heard his heart like a distant gong, deep and steady—a timbre that belonged only to him—and something inside of her responded to it. Like a string plucked, ringing out softly in answer to his call.

  She glanced back.

  Jeric stood before the door, gazing steadily back at her.

  In that moment, she knew she would’ve done it all over again: jumped on his horse, pulled him from the Kjürda, and brought him back to humanity. She would’ve endured his wrath and fury and imprisonment—risked her life for him, without hesitation—all for the treasure of gratitude filling his eyes as he gazed upon her right then.

  He’d replaced his traveling clothes with fine black leathers, trimmed to his lean and muscular build, and his sun-streaked hair had grown longer, too—long enough, now, to comb back, sharpening the strong lines of his painfully handsome face. Exertion heightened the color in his cheeks, and Imari wondered if he’d sprinted here.

  “Hi.” It wasn’t her best response, but it was the only one that came out.

  “Hi.” His voice rang unsteadily; his jaw clenched and unclenched. “How are you feeling?”

  “All right, I think,” she replied. “You?”

  “Alive, thanks to you.” He took a step forward. “Imari.”

  He said her name like a promise, a discovery and a beginning, and she liked the sound of it on his lips, with his accent.

  “Jeric,” she said, then added, “Or should I call you Highness now?”

  He took another step forward. His eyes pierced. “Just Jeric.”

  “Well, Just Jeric. I’d give you a proper curtsy, but two of my ribs are broken. So you’ll have to pretend.”

  An imperceptible grin touched his lips, and he took another step, closer to her. “No, you wouldn’t.”

  “You’re right. I wouldn’t.”

  He approached steadily, eyes never leaving hers, and he stopped just within reach. He might have touched her for the way her pulse responded.

  “I believe this is yours.” He withdrew her flute and held it between them like a truce. “I didn’t trust it with anyone else.”

  She hesitated, then took it, and her fingertips brushed his. The glyphs pulsed to life at her touch, shimmering with moonlight. Imari worried Jeric would flinch away, but he did not. He stood there, gazing down at the object with curiosity and wonder, and the silvery light reflected in his eyes.

  She was glad he didn’t fear it.

  “Did Rasmin give that to you?” he asked.

  “No.” She turned it over, trailing her fingers over the holes. There was a marking below the last hole that she’d never seen before. It was new. She wondered what it meant. “Ricón—my brother—he gave it to me as a gift when I was a child.” Her brow wrinkled with memory. “Neither of us realized what it was. It didn’t glow back then.”

  A beat. “And you kept it all this time?”

  “Not on purpose,” she said. “I tried getting rid of it, but it… kept finding a way back. So I hid it in the floorboards of my room. It’s what Ventus found. It’s the real reason he captured me that night.”

  By the wards, it seemed so long ago.

  She felt Jeric’s eyes on her as she tucked the object into the inner pocket of her robe, out of sight.

  Her eyes met his. His gaze brushed over her face but hitched on her jaw, where he’d struck her while possessed. The red in his cheeks deepened, a muscle feathered in his neck, and when his gaze settled back on hers, there was a fire in them that hadn’t been there before. “I will never forgive myself for how I’ve treated you. For bringing you here. For leaving you alone with him.”

  She didn’t say it was all right; it wasn’t. But then, he wasn’t asking her to.

  She clutched the robe closer, and the flute pressed against her hip. “What changed your mind?”

  It was the question that’d been burning in her mind since the moment Braddok had set her free, and it was the one question Braddok hadn’t been able to answer.

  Jeric’s brow furrowed. “I killed someone. One of my own.” He scraped his bottom lip with his teeth. “He was… trying to hurt a young Sol Velorian woman. And all I could see was your face.”

  Imari didn’t miss that he’d said Sol Velorian—not Scab.

  “So I killed him.” Jeric raised his hands, curled them into fists, and opened them, his expression haunted. “Every person I’ve killed… I remembered them all. Every single one of them. I saw what you saw. I saw what I am. What I’ve done.”

  Imari watched him, quiet, unable to believe what she was hearing, but unable to deny the raw conviction in his voice.

  He lowered his hands and looked back at her. The intensity in his eyes gripped her tight, held her still. “There are two sides to this war, Imari, but it will never end if we don’t stop feeding it.”

  Imari looked back and forth between his eyes, which were full of determination and resolve. “What are you going to do?”

  “Set the Sol Velorians free.”

  Imari stilled, her lips parted. “All of them?”

  “All of them.”

  If he did that, it would completely destabilize Corinth. As far as Imari was aware, Corinth relied on those Sol Velorian slaves for the bulk of their hard labor. “Can you even do that?”

  “That’s not a question I ask.”

  Imari grinned, then asked, “What about the ones who helped Astrid?”

  He glanced past her, at the window. “I’m setting them free.”

  Imari blinked. She remembered the guards in the tunnel, and she wondered if they’d survived. “But Jeric… they hate you. They hate Corinth. Who’s to say they won’t try again—”

  “They hate me because I have hunted them and slaughtered them,” he said fiercely, looking back at her. “Relentlessly. Ruthlessly. I can’t fault them for fighting back, for trying to take the freedom I’ve denied them. I won’t forget what they tried to do, but I won’t punish them for it. Not this time.”

  Imari marveled at the Wolf King, wondering how a man focused solely on his sense of justice had become one of incomprehensible mercy. “What about the Liagé?” she asked. Meaning: what about her?

  Jeric heard Imari’s unasked question. His eyes didn’t leave hers. “They go, too.”

  His words settled in the slip of space between them, and Imari’s chest filled with hope.

  “You’re not concerned about their…” She hesitated, then stood tall, accepting it. “Our power?”

  “Oh, I am. What you have… the Shah… it terrifies me. Because I don’t understand it.” His gaze drilled into hers. “I am powerless against it. I thought wiping it out would make the world safer, but all it did was create Astrid.” He clenched his teeth and looked back to the window, this time with regret. “I have to let it go. I have to believe there are more like you, who will use it for good.”

  Imari grabbed his fist, unfolded it, and slipped her fingers through his, holding on tight.

  His hand warmed hers, and he didn’t pull away.

  “I’ll see if Istraa can help,” she said, wondering how, exactly, she would do this as the words tumbled out of her mouth. She hadn’t spoken to her family in ten years. But Jeric would need all the help he could get, if he were to follow through with his plans. “Obviously, I can’t make promises yet, but… I’ll do everything I can to make sure you’re not alone with this.” She squeezed his hand tight.

  He squeezed hers back and met her gaze.

  And suddenly, looking up into his deep blue eyes, she remembered their kiss. When she had been Sable and he had been Jos. When neither of them were who they’d claimed to be, and if they’d known the truth, it never would’ve happened. Their world didn’t allow for it. But it had happened, and Imari wasn’t sure what to do with it. What she should do with it.

  “It’s so obvious now,” Jeric said quietly. His gaze brushe
d over her face. “That you’re the daughter of a sar. I don’t know how I missed it before.”

  “Don’t be too hard on yourself. Anyone looks like royalty with a bath and a fancy robe.” She gestured at herself.

  Jeric smiled, showing his teeth, and Imari’s heart forgot a beat.

  Someone knocked on the door.

  Jeric took a liberal step away from her and let go of her hand.

  She wanted to take it back.

  “Come in,” he said, as though he already knew who stood on the other side of that door.

  Imari didn’t have a moment to wonder. The door opened.

  And Ricón stepped through.

  43

  Imari’s heart stopped.

  So often she’d dreamt of this moment, if she were ever reunited with her family. Her brother, especially. But her dreams could never fill the gaps of time—could never predict how the years would shape his appearance, his person. His ponytail fell to his waist, and there was a scar across his brow that reached precariously close to his left eye. She wondered how he’d earned it. His face was squarer now, structured by the strong bones that reminded her so much of their papa, and his muscles filled out his frame handsomely, drawing him up straighter, more commanding.

  But despite all the changes—all the years that’d transformed her brother from adolescent into man—his eyes hadn’t changed. They were warm and dark and loving, and pouring over with regret as they took in the sight of her.

  A little squeak of air escaped her lips, and she took a step forward. “Ricón…”

  His eyes glistened with emotion, and suddenly Imari was crying, unable to stop the tears. Judging by the look on his face, those years had been as hard on him as they’d been on her. And her tears fell harder.

  She started for him but her legs wobbled and gave out.

  Her brother was there to catch her. He wrapped his arms around her, held her tight, but not too tight. His next breath trembled, and his chest shuddered against her. He was grieving, too.

  For a long time they stood there like that, the world lost in their embrace, until Ricón pulled back and held her face between his hands.

  “Sano mondai…” he said. I’m sorry. “Sano ti mondai, mi a’fiamé…” I’m so sorry, my little flame. His words caught on emotion.

  Imari remembered the Smetts. She remembered how she’d yearned for someone to love her so fiercely.

  Ricón did.

  “I never should’ve let them take you,” Ricón said fiercely, in their language. “I should’ve hidden you away—anything, other than stand by like I did…”

  Imari placed her hand over one of his. “You were a boy, Ricón. Don’t blame yourself,” she replied in their language, though she stumbled over the words, the accent. It’d been so long. Like her flute, this, too, would take time.

  “Is everyone… well?” she asked, suddenly starved for any and all information concerning their family.

  “Yes…”

  “Papa and Kai and Vana… and Anja, they’re all—”

  “Yes, yes, mi a’fiamé.” He smiled sadly, kissing her hands and wiping a tear from her face. “They’re all fine.”

  “How did you get here so quickly? Trier is at least two weeks from here—even for you, tazaviem.” Lightning rider—an old nickname. “Did you fly?”

  Ricón chuckled, then clasped her hands and backed away to look at her fully. “Sieta, look at you. You’re beautiful. For a little chimp.”

  Imari laughed, then snorted on snot.

  “And still lacking the manners befitting a surina, I see,” he said, all smiles.

  “And you still haven’t answered my question,” she replied, stabbing him in the chest with her finger. It was much harder than she recalled. “How’d you know I was here?”

  “The Wolf sent for me,” he said.

  Her heart squeezed. She looked for Jeric, but he wasn’t there. He’d slipped out of the room without her notice. “When?” she asked, swallowing a lump.

  “Two weeks ago.”

  Right around the time he’d set her free.

  “Does Papa know?” she asked.

  “No. The letter was addressed to me. I showed no one. I didn’t think Papa would let me leave if I asked.” He paused and touched her face. “Not because he doesn’t want you home, mi a’fiamé. He hasn’t been the same since he sent you away, but it is dangerous for me to ride into Corinth, when Istraa is…” He stopped himself. Words crowded behind his lips, but he did not release them.

  “What is happening in Istraa?” Imari asked.

  His brow furrowed. “It’s… complicated. I’ll explain more on our journey home. But I told Papa that I was leaving to check the weak points in our border.”

  “You weren’t concerned it was a trap?”

  A mischievous smile curled his lips. “Oh, I was. But I wasn’t about to ignore it… not after spending my life doubting myself for letting them take you away. So, against the wishes of Jenya and my men—”

  “Jenya?” Imari asked.

  “She is Saredd.”

  The Saredd were Trier’s most esteemed warriors, and they were traditionally men.

  “A woman?”

  Ricón grinned. “Sei. You’ll meet Jenya soon. And the others. I trust them with my life.” His expression changed; his eyes searched. “The Wolf is not at all what I expected.”

  “He wasn’t what I expected, either,” Imari found herself saying.

  Ricón studied her, thoughtful, and then said, “Sieta, Imari. There’s so much I’ve missed… I want to know everything. The good. The terrible.” He squeezed her hands. “And I especially want to know how in Nián you’ve earned the Wolf of Corinth as an ally.”

  The implication in his eyes warmed her cheeks. “It’s… a long story.”

  “I’m sure,” he continued, watching her intensely. “Imari… I want more than anything to bring you home. I’ve wanted to since the day they sent you away. But… is that what you want?”

  She held his hands tight and gazed into his eyes. “Yes. I miss the desert, Ricón. I miss its heat and its rains—I miss you most of all. For so long I denied myself the right to desire it, because of what I did, but I’ve finally come to terms with that.” Here, Ricón squeezed her hands. “I will not hide anymore. I want to come home.”

  He pressed his forehead to hers with a sigh. A decade of tension released with that one breath. “You will not face it alone, mi a’ fiamé. Let’s get you home.”

  Imari didn’t see much of Jeric the following week. After what’d transpired during Hagan’s coronation, Corinth’s jarls were in a fit, claiming the Angevin line had forfeited its right to rule and challenging Jeric’s position as king. This was made especially tumultuous when Jeric announced his plans. Jeric’s pack didn’t leave his side for a moment; they followed him everywhere as he traveled to local towns, trying to garner support from those who remained loyal to him.

  Imari kept to the castle, with Ricón and his Istraan escort. They were all free to roam as they pleased, but, in light of current political tensions, Jeric advised they stay within the fortress’ walls. Imari didn’t mind. Her body was still weak from the power she’d exhausted, plus it gave her time to catch up with Ricón.

  He’d explained what’d happened after their papa had smuggled her out of Istraa. Ricón had wanted to write, but he’d been forbidden. He’d even snuck a few letters, but they’d been discovered and promptly confiscated. Their papa had reprimanded him severely for it, warning him of what could happen to Imari should anyone connect her new identity to their family. For that reason alone, he hadn’t penned another letter, but he’d never stopped thinking about her, wondering if her new life had wilted the spirit he had loved so very much.

  Thankfully, he said, it had not.

  Thankfully, she said, he had not seen her one month ago.

  Imari visited Astrid. Jeric had mentioned his encounter with his sister, but the princess showed no improvement. She simply sat there upon her p
allet, staring vacantly at the space before her. Imari asked to go inside Astrid’s prison, but neither Ricón nor Jeric would have any part of that. So Imari was forced to stand behind Astrid’s warded door, trying to get the Corinthian princess to respond. The whole thing left Imari uneasy. She wished Tallyn were there, or even Rasmin, just so that she might get some insight.

  And then the day came for Imari to leave. She dressed in a combination of culture, with her Istraan leather pants made from a wildcat and a soft spun tunic—both items Ricón had brought. They were slightly large, but he hadn’t known her size.

  Her boots, Jeric had specially made for her by a local cobbler, and he gave her a beautiful fur-lined cloak of Corinthian blue that’d belonged to his mother.

  “I can’t take this,” Imari said.

  “Why not?”

  “This belonged to your mother, Jeric.”

  “And she’d be proud for you to have it,” he said simply. “It wasn’t made to sit in a chest collecting dust.” He held it closer. “Take it. I want you to have it.”

  Resigned, she took it from him, and he helped her put it on.

  His eyes moved over her appraisingly, and he nodded, pleased.

  “Horses are ready,” a gruff voice spoke, and Braddok appeared. He met Ricón’s gaze, and both men stood a little taller. Both were heroes in their own right. Whatever their differences, they’d respect each other on the grounds that made them great across all cultures: their loyalty, faithfulness, and skill.

  What a gift it would be, Imari thought, to have men like this on the same side.

  Jeric’s pack stood a few paces behind Braddok. Ricón’s men and Jenya—a stunningly fearsome woman—stood a few paces behind Ricón. All of them watched the exchange of nations, ready should lines be crossed.

  “You have my gratitude,” Ricón said to Jeric with a thick accent, then extended a hand.

  Everyone watched, silent.