Goddess

by Liv Savell

  “I still say we would have had an easier time finding Aryus a Vassal on the road,” he told them both, not for the first time. “We’ll have to get nearly to Caerthleon before we stumble upon a human out here.”

  Not that they were likely to listen, still playing in their mortal bodies like they were new horses to put through paces, not prisons keeping them from accessing their full power.

  “A day or two longer without Aryus and their ridiculous sense of humor won’t kill us.” Enyo smirked. “Besides, the roads are boring, dusty places. No one worth— What was that sound?” She stopped in her tracks, and so did Maoz, a few paces behind.

  Va’al cocked his head to listen, sifting through the whisper of wind through browning leaves and the occasional spurt of bird song. Somewhere, not far away, came the sound of children giggling. Another bright chiming laugh rang out, and Enyo turned, prowling through the tall grasses. Three minutes walk revealed a grove of trees evenly planted in rows and columns.

  “What have they done to these trees?” she hissed, disgusted. Anger made her lips curl.

  Maoz shrugged. “It looks like an orchard.”

  “I know that!” she snapped, rounding on the hunter with a growl. “Who told humans to try and tame the wild? I believe you put that idea into their heads!” Maoz glanced at Va'al, his expression impossible to read.

  “I taught them to forage and to convene with nature how it was, not force it into neat little rows and boxes!”

  Va'al looked from the orchard to Enyo, unimpressed by her tantrum. It had actually been Esha who gave the humans the trick of cultivation; he had been the one to tell Enyo it was the Beast God. Va’al had lived among humans longer than either of them, and he had not found them any more neat or orderly for all their cultivation. They were just animals—animals that lived in cities, perhaps, but still they stank and glutted and fucked.

  Of course, so were they, for the time being.

  The God only just stopped himself from growling out something of the sort when he had a better idea. There might be a way to soothe Enyo’s ruffled feathers and get what he wanted at the same time.

  “Enyo,” he cooed, “I think I have the perfect punishment.”She was already unstrapping Calamity from her pack, her version of justice. “How about we use one of them as a vassal?” he said, stretching out the word to emphasize it. “Then we can, I dunno, burn the trees and kill the rest?” He cared less about the last bit, but he was trying to make a sell here. Had to play to his audience.

  “Burn the trees?!”

  “He’s right about the Vassal,” Maoz pondered.

  Even Enyo’s hackles were coming down. She buckled Calamity back into its place. “Fine. We’ll use one.” They turned to enter the orchard and came upon two children running through the trees. “Aryus does like to play.”

  Before Maoz or Va'al could comment, Enyo sprinted through the trees. She was a mere blur—beside Va’al one moment and the next catching up to the little boy, perhaps nine or ten years old. His skin was dark, his eyes long-lashed, and he squealed in terror as Enyo scooped him up as easily as she might a bag of grain. The sister, turning to see what had happened, gasped and fled. “This should do, should it not?” Enyo asked, ignoring the flailing creature in her arms.

  Va'al shrugged. “Sure. It's a human.” Besides, having a small one might make moving it around and getting it to do the ritual easier. He walked up to Enyo and smiled at the boy mesmerizingly. “There, there, pal. What’s the fuss? We’re just here to play a game. You even get to hold a bright, ivory horn.” The child stilled as Va'al drew out the artifact, and he turned to the other two. “So, what do you say? We could go ahead and get the thing over with.”

  Maoz was, at most, mildly pensive. “Will it be a problem if Aryus is in a child’s body? Will they be weaker?”

  The boy, sated by whatever power Va'al still had over the mind, stood mesmerized, his eyes on the glinting horn.

  “Aryus is Death. I can’t see how size matters.” Enyo laughed and pulled out her dagger. “Here, boy. Your hand.” He blinked but reached out—such a good child, in the habit of obedience. Enyo brought the tip of the blade to his thumb when a voice called out.

  “Stop, curse you! Let go of him!”

  A man was running forward with an ax in hand. He looked much like the child. “The father. Maoz, you have many bastards, perhaps you should talk him down?” Enyo snipped; the hunter made no move to intervene as the man closed the distance between them. “Fine.” She dropped the boy’s bleeding hand and stalked forward. Something in her stare must have frightened the human father because he faltered.

  “Are these your doing?” She demanded, pointing to the fruit trees. The farmer’s brow creased. “Of course. This is my land.”

  “Your land? No one can own land, human.”

  “What—I was granted this land. I provide food for Caerthleon. No one has disputed my claim in twenty— What are you doing with my son?”

  Va'al sighed and looked up at the sky above them. Brilliant blue, broken by green. Really, all of Illygad seemed to be conspiring against him today—first Enyo and Maoz, now this man, meddling in the affairs of the Gods. At least, he momentarily seemed preoccupied with Enyo. Best to use that time wisely. With a bit of luck, Enyo could keep him distracted long enough for the ritual to go through.

  Playfully, Va'al twirled the horn for the little boy, juggling it and then hiding it behind his back. Even with the father so obviously upset and his hand bleeding, the boy giggled.

  Children were so easy to beguile.

  Va'al handed him the horn with a wink, and the boy grinned, showing off a gap-toothed smile. The God grinned back. “Alright, little one, to play the game all you have to do is say ‘Aryus.’”

  The child cocked his head to one side. It was a particularly odd name and a particularly odd game, but, after all, the nice man had given him a horn. After a moment or two, he said the name and blew a sad little note.

  Only, nothing happened.

  The wind did not stir; the earth did not tremble. The God of Death did not appear.

  ❂

  “Hey!” The father pushed past Enyo, and she spun, grabbing him by the nape of the neck and holding him as one might a kitten. Ember eyes glittered as she watched Aryus’s rebirth.

  It was rather anticlimactic, but then perhaps that was just Aryus’s way?

  “Aryus?” she asked, but the child didn’t respond, toying with the horn. Her frown was tight. “Va'al?” He seemed equally baffled and peered down at the child, who, upon looking up and seeing his father struggling in Enyo’s grip, started to cry again.

  She had never liked it when children cried. Her own children were weaned off the tit as soon as possible; Enyo didn’t see much reason to spend time with them. Of course, she had spoiled Mascen, but he had been different. Better. The rest of her children were abandoned as soon as possible.

  And the crying.

  “Stop it,” she said, but the child continued. “Did you do it correctly?” she hauled the father over, inspecting the boy’s bleeding hand. The older man was whimpering in a most dissatisfying way. This wasn’t some glorious battle or hunt. It was just catching fish already trapped in a barrel—weeping, sniveling, useless fish. “Quiet,” she commanded, shaking the father. He sucked in his breath, but his son only wailed louder.

  Why hadn’t it worked? Why had Aryus not come?

  ⚀

  “Of course I did it correctly,” Va'al snapped, finally fed up with her. He understood the old magic just as well as she. Hadn’t he been the first to escape their banishment?

  Va'al had thought that he could not get any more aggravated, but he was rapidly becoming aware of a particularly unpleasant feeling. Like he, the Trickster, was actually the one being tricked.

  “The artifact,” he demanded, snatching it back from the child who just began to squall louder. “How do we know it is the right one?”

  It would be just like Aryus to leave a fake, to think
it some great joke. Always laughing was the Death God.

  “What do you mean the right one?” Enyo growled, jerking the father in her temper. He gasped and started praying, his murmured words to Rhan only seeming to anger her more. She dropped him, but when he tried to scramble towards his son, she gripped him by the sides of his face and twisted. The body fell, discarded, neck broken.

  The child screamed, and Enyo snarled. “Stop crying now, or I will rip your tongue from your mouth, do you understand, boy?” The child crumpled, shoving his hands into his mouth to keep the sobs muffled. “Better. Va'al, hand me that ridiculous horn.”

  Va'al tossed it to her, stalking off. Always, Enyo had to see for herself, as though she did not trust him to do the simplest of tasks. Well, let her, frustrating woman. He would find a way to rid himself of this mortal form even if he had to drag her, kicking and screaming the whole way.

  Enyo scraped the edge of her dagger against the horn with a sound like folding steel. Cream paint chipped off in odd flakes to reveal a simple, iron horn beneath. A trick. A joke. A ruse.

  So, Aryus’s artifact was no longer an option. What was his next move?

  The misfit God looked back at Enyo, his smile widening.

  She wasn’t going to like it at all, but there was a much more reasonable Goddess close at hand.

  Chapter XI

  Tenth Moon, Waning Gibbous: Central Thloegr

  Excerpt from the Journal of Etienne d’Etoiles

  Tenth Moon of the Year 1819, Central Thloegr

  The Death God’s horn is remarkably plain. It bears no etchings, no seams. The instrument is made of bone in the shape of a simple, curving cylinder, narrow at one end and flared at the other. It is not the horn of an animal—no animal in my knowledge has horns of this size, color, and shape. It seems almost as though it was cast of bone. Molded out of the porous material like clay. This, of course, is conjecture. There are no means available to me to tell how the artifact was created, but its composition is no less than miraculous.

  I know so little about these artifacts. Why do the Gods need them? Was it the Gods who made them? Why was I able to summon Enyo with a spell if these artifacts are the true keys to the Gods’ return?

  Perhaps even more importantly, why does Enyo want to awaken more Gods? In all my previous observations of her behavior, her motivations have been entirely selfish. It is, of course, possible that the Goddess has strayed towards a more altruistic path, but I doubt it. The most likely explanation is that she needs the other Gods for some end that benefits her.

  There is no telling what that might be, though.

  I confess I feel guilty about my treatment of the ghost in Aryus’s tower, though perhaps, without the artifact to look after, he will finally retire from this world…

  ⫸

  The storms had slowed them down, but Meirin was used to mountain weather. Many patrols, she returned with her clothes soaked by mist and her boots damp and cold. Besides, Etienne had said the nature of the storm was strange, and he and Delyth both suspected it was Enyo who caused it.

  Which meant, if they were close enough to experience the discomfort of a gale, then they were indeed close to catching their prey.

  As the storm abated in time for their evening supper, Meirin found very little to be frustrated about and instead busied herself with cleaning her weapons. Her companions were quiet, as usual. Delyth rarely spoke unless it was to instruct or inform. Etienne could be a good conversationalist at times, but he too fell into prolonged silences. Thoughtful or miserable, Meirin didn’t know.

  With a warm supper in their bellies and the potential for a dry night, Meirin tried to think of something worth discussing, if only so she wouldn’t feel so isolated.

  “Would anyone like tea?”

  ✶

  “Yes, thank you,” Delyth said, surprising Etienne. He knew that tea in the evenings had been a time she and Alphonse had often spent with each other, long before he realized how close they had really become. Somehow, he had expected her to turn the cup away when offered from another hand. But, he had noticed that she was attempting conversation more since their run-in with the bandits, and perhaps this was some other attempt at trying to be… better. Less broken.

  Etienne was glad, in a sad, removed way. Alphonse would not have wanted either of them to stop living. And there was still hope of saving her. If the runes worked. He turned his eyes back to the dirt, where he was practicing drawing the runes for Enyo’s trap with the tip of one finger.

  When he looked up again, water was already heating above the flames. “It seems strange, doesn’t it? How many things we do alike despite how different our countries are. Tea in the evenings, worshipping at temples, respecting the dead…”

  The magic was wholly different, he supposed. And the settlements. But the people—Delyth, Meirin… They were not the savages he had once been led to believe.

  Meirin poured the hot water into cups as she listened and looked up with a small smile crinkling the corners of her eyes. “Did you think we would be vastly different? I mean… How distinct can two peoples be? We’re all human—” Her gaze flickered to Delyth and then returned steadily to the task at hand. Human enough, at least, to be effectively the same.

  “I suppose Ingolans have a poor view of Thloegr and its children? I was always taught Ingolans were soft-handed, soft-minded people who wore perfumes and couldn’t hold their ale.” Meirin was smirking as she passed Delyth a cup, then Etienne.

  Etienne snorted. “And I was taught that the people of the Wildlands were brutal savages that knew no law, practiced blood magic, and worshipped strange Gods.”

  True enough, he supposed.

  But that didn’t take into account their loyalty to their clans or temples, their courage, and their skill in battle. In Delyth, he had seen unwavering determination. In Meirin, an empathetic and clear-sighted companion.

  “There’s always more than one side to a story,” he said, considering their story so far. It was time, he thought, to change his role in it.

  “Certainly. In my side of the story, you don’t smell all that floral.” Wrinkling her nose playfully, Meirin settled back and looked up at the sky. “If we keep up this pace, I suspect we’ll encounter the Gods tomorrow. Are we ready?” She sipped her tea, looking directly at Etienne. He was the crux of the plan. He had to lay the trap; he had to work the big magic. Could he handle it? Was he able?

  Etienne hesitated, dropping his eyes back to the rune he had carved into the dirt. After a moment, he brushed it away.

  “We’re ready,” Delyth said, her voice steady. Etienne flinched, startled by the sound. He had all but forgotten she was there, sipping at her tea distractedly. “Etienne has mastered the rune trap, and I will help him set them. Then, all we have to do is meet Enyo and her companions to lead them back to the traps so that Etienne can perform the binding ritual.”

  It had been a long time since Etienne had seen Delyth’s stoic calm so impenetrable. Perhaps being so close to freeing Alphonse gave her some comfort.

  Not him. He was awash with nerves. There were just too many ways the plan could go wrong.

  “How, exactly, do you propose we get them to chase us? I mean… Will they simply want to because they don’t like you? Or should we antagonize them?” Her tone made it clear; Meirin didn’t think the idea of deliberately poking a God was a good one. Still, she was willing to be chased down by Enyo and Tristan, willing to be ‘bait’ for this little plan they had cooked up.

  “And—Do you really think we can elude them long enough to spring the trap?” Despite the nature of her questions, seeming so doubtful, her tone was only mildly concerned.

  “It's a little… difficult to predict exactly what Enyo will do,” Etienne said, vastly understating the Goddess’s fickle nature. “But there are things we could say that would undoubtedly make her angry enough to chase us.”

  Or just conjure a blizzard and mire them in snow for days.

  “She’ll take the
bait,” Delyth said, her eyes distant. “Enyo always gets what she wants, and we’ve managed to take that away from her.”

  Etienne suddenly remembered the explosion on the mountain top, Enyo’s fury after he and Delyth had escaped… He shuddered. “Perhaps we should try and get their attention from a distance if possible.”

  Meirin swallowed some of her tea, thinking it over before nodding. “At a distance sounds most agreeable. And uphill from where we have to run, if possible. I can’t imagine trying to climb a hill while being chased by rabid Gods would be all that enjoyable.” Sighing, the warrior turned her dark eyes onto Delyth. “Will you be able to fight Enyo, even as she is wearing your lover’s body? Or should I assume if it comes to blows, I should take on the Goddess and you one of the Gods?”

  Delyth looked away, but when she spoke, her voice was calm. “I will fight Enyo.”

  Etienne saw again a badly injured Delyth, wing broken and covered in blood, rear back to punch Alphonse hard enough to make the smaller woman crumple, the air around them thick with smoke.

  She would do whatever it took. To stop Enyo from killing them all.

  “If it comes to that,” he said, turning to try and assure Meirin. “Though the idea is to fight them as little as possible.”

  “Of course,” she agreed. “Still, if they want to fight, they will fight whether or not if we want to. They are Gods, after all.” The woman shrugged as if the idea of fighting a deity wasn’t all that frightening to her. Her dark coppery skin looked very nearly like shadow or smoke in the firelight, and her warpaint eerie and intimidating. She looked like someone who would fight a God and survive. “Good night.”

  “Good night,” Etienne echoed, and his gaze followed her to her tent. Somehow, he felt as though they had been incredibly lucky to get Meirin’s help.