by AB Bradley
“Well, I think you’ve let your insecurities blind you to your master’s love. You say he regrets the life of glory he never led. I tell you this. A man who sacrifices everything for one thing, never really loved anything else. He could have left you to your own devices or thrown you on another’s doorstep. Instead, he raised a boy into a man with strength and intellect and love for others. He raised a boy into a man who wields a blade not like a murderer, but an artist. He raised a boy into a man who I suspect has a destiny far beyond what he can fathom.”
Iron toyed the the palm frond, tearing its edge. “I never saw it that way.” He glanced at the woman from the corner of his eye. “Thank you, Nephele.”
“Love’s a funny thing. I became a priestess of the Gentle Lover because I wanted to have the power to find my one true love. Once I was blessed with the knowledge of true love, I realized I never would.”
“It doesn’t exist? That’s kind of sad. I mean, logically speaking, it’s probably true. Still doesn’t make it easier to hear.”
She laughed and brushed her hair behind her shoulder. “Of course it exists, but like gods, it exists in a way we can’t quite grasp. Imagine a sky.” She swept her hand toward the sun. “True love is the sky. We all live beneath it and wonder at it while we’re young, but how many of us take the time to really consider the sky once we’re grown? True love isn’t contained in a single thing. Everything is contained within it. Whatever—whoever—you look to, you can find love within them.”
For someone who appeared so shallow at first, Nephele’s words revealed the deep intellect hidden behind her pampered attitude and painted smile. Iron liked seeing the real woman, even if the real woman only appeared for a few fleeting moments.
“I’ve told you my story,” he said. “What about yours? You’re an eloquent mystery to me, Nephele Catrona. How’d you end up waiting to be the main course for cannibals?”
Nephele finished her meal and tucked her knees to her chest. Her chin nestled snugly between her legs, she stared into the undulating waterfall. “I was a little girl, barely more than nine when I became a priestess. I did it to spite my mother, you see. She and Father had plans to marry me to some other noble house in Sollan—it was called Thean during the time before the High King—and I absolutely detested the whole idea of a forced partnership. I ran to the temple, and there I was anointed.” Her brows contorted with the surfacing memories. “I traveled the world. I experienced many loves. And then I came home to make amends with the family I abandoned. I arrived on Harvest Festival, the last Harvest Festival Sollan would ever celebrate. That night, Sol committed the Godfall. He crushed every priest and priestess, every acolyte and proud follower of the Six.”
“But you survived. That’s got to mean something.”
“Survival is quite an odd term, don’t you think? The Nephele Catrona that lived before the Godfall died with the Godfall.” She scrunched her eyes closed and shook her head. “The serpents slaughtered that woman’s family. She ran from the temples. She watched in the shadows as the Serpent Sun stormed through Sollan and cut down one innocent after another. She cried as she exchanged her holy robes for the tattered dress of a whore. No, that Nephele did not survive the Godfall. Her body did, but not her spirit. The old Nephele was a spoiled lover. The new one, a warrior to stand against the Sol and his alp demons.”
Iron looked to the waterfall as she spoke. He saw the young woman in the massive city, a noble who chose a dying god and was cast low for it. “It sounds like Sol’s hurt everyone he’s touched.”
“Hurt doesn’t begin to describe the horrors I witnessed those days after Harvest Festival. He beheaded each of the High Priests and Priestesses. He toppled the great statues of the temple and placed his golden throne on the Burning Mother’s broken head. Should he find someone faithful to the Six, he feeds them to his glittering dragon if you believe the rumors the beast exists. No one has seen it and lived.” She sighed and lowered her knees. “I never had the chance to tell my family goodbye. That is my greatest regret, and my greatest pain. When love is ripped from you before your eyes, it warps you. It makes you a monster in your own right. I fear that’s all that will be left on Urum when this is said and done—monsters.”
Iron swallowed. He placed Fang across his lap and rubbed his fingers along the scabbard. Nephele’s story sounded like so many others he encountered. This world was pain and loss, suffering covered in thorns and poisoned barbs. “So much for having faith in dead gods.”
“Dead gods? You’re a silly boy, aren’t you?” Nephele shifted her attention from the falls to Iron. “Gods can never die. They’ve fallen, yes, but dead? Death is just a mortal concept.”
He twisted to her with a frown. “Sander says something similar, but Ayska says the gods are dead, and I believe her after what I’ve seen. Sol killed them with the Godfall.”
“Gods and ideas are much the same. Can you kill an idea? Can you stab it with your little sword and watch it bleed out? An idea is never truly dead. You and I might forget it, but one day, no matter the Sun, someone will remember that idea. Then, it will spread. Such is divinity.”
“You’re very wise, Nephele. I like you. I’m just not sure if I accept that. It isn’t logical.”
“Don’t like me, Iron. I’m not as nice as you think. No one who outwits a tribe of cannibals is without darkness in her heart.”
He looked to his sword again. As of yet, he hadn’t told anyone about what he learned from the alp ghost in Spineshell. He considered telling her, but the experience still rattled him. Nephele would explain it away in some faithful form and fashion, trying to convince him that the last two Suns were different, that the human Fireborn champion would save mankind when a titan or an alp couldn’t.
So what if gods couldn’t die? People certainly could. How easy it was then to be immortal. The Six burdened him with saving mankind while they—what, slept? While the spark of their faith waned, they took a nap until it reignited?
Nephele was a wise woman, but wise words that sounded pretty on practiced lips wouldn’t save the world from Sol and the demons like Caspran who served him. No, while she spoke wisely, her faith blinded her. If Iron wanted to save the world, he’d do it without the Six. After all, look at where his faith got him so far: hunted by a wicked king, charged with a task that might end humanity even if he succeeded, and witness to the brutal murders of the only friends he ever knew.
Ayska was right to turn from the gods. Sometimes, it was better to let new ideas replace old ones. The gods failed the peoples of the last two Suns. Maybe casting them aside would save the peoples of the Third.
“You look a little lost,” Nephele said.
Iron snapped out of his thoughts and tossed her a grin. “Why Nephele, I’m not lost at all. I’m on the Rosvoi Islands, chatting about philosophy with a priestess of a dead religion while cannibals are probably prowling the other shore of our little pond looking for a snack before their main course. I’d say I have an excellent idea where I am.”
She giggled and scooped a handful of nuts and berries into her mouth. After she finished chewing them like a proper lady, she wiped the corners of her lips and stood. “For a boy raised in the savage wilds, you speak quite like a well-reared politician. This master of yours has sculpted quite the leader.”
He flashed her his brows before looking to the ground. He’d never be a leader. How could he? The way the people looked at him in Ormhild, they didn’t want one. A world full of those people would never accept him.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
The Goshgonoi Drums
They came a gentle thumping at first, but with each breath Iron took the rhythm of the Goshgonoi drums grew louder. Morning light colored the sky a rusted orange. A few clouds drifted over the Rosvoi Islands, nightfall staining their bellies lavender. As always, the waterfall murmured in hushed tones.
The thump of the drums obliterated the tranquility of his sanctuary. He leapt to his feet, nearly slipping on the slick granite.
Moist beads collected on one side of his face as he turned to the cave and called for Nephele. “Do you hear them? The drums. It’s the drums!”
Nephele scrambled from the grotto and leaned toward the wilderness. Her chest heaved with her breaths as she turned an ear to the island.
Bad-dum. Bad-dum. Bad-dum.
Her eyes fixed on him and flashed a confident smile that did little to hide the fear lighting up her pupils. “The Goshgonoi drums sound off. I suppose that means we’re off as well.”
“It won’t be so bad. I can see a hero in you, Nephele.”
“Fools and heroes often walk the same path, and only once they’re dead does the world decide which they were.” She pulled her hair behind her and lifted her chin. “After you, my good sir.”
“You remind me of my master. I think you’ll like him.”
“Is he cute?”
“He’ll tell you he is.”
“Probably covered in warts then. Oh well.”
Without another word, she dove into the pool. Her wavering form slipped beneath the falls and resurfaced beyond the shimmering veil. She turned to Iron and motioned. “Are you coming? Better not to think about these things. Danger’s best approached like a drunk fool. When we know better, we avoid it.”
He crossed his arms and stared after the woman. “Coming,” he muttered, shaking his head and diving into the cool waters.
They reached the opposite end of the lagoon and climbed onto a shore of smooth rocks. Nephele wrung her hair, sending droplets splashing on the stony shore. Iron removed each boot and poured the water from them, the wall of jungle rising barely an arm’s length away.
The drums silenced any creatures living on the island. All knew the sound of evil rising and stilled within its shadow.
“Why are you doing this?” he asked, unsheathing Fang. It could cut through the vines at least even if it couldn’t do much against a real enemy. If only alps were made of lettuce, then his magical butter knife would’ve shown Caspran a lesson or two. “We’ve only known each other a few days. You could stay safe in your cave. Why come now that you’ve told me how to free my friends?”
“I’m a priestess, honey. I simply can’t abide innocents suffering. Besides, you told me your master is a Sinner’s man?”
Iron gave her a slight nod as he whacked through a stubborn vine. “He is.”
“There are so few of the faithful left these days.” She sighed a sigh to end all sighs. “I would be remiss not to save another of the Six. Our faith intertwines us. I love my gods, but…considering their most untimely diminishing from Urum, the faithful need one another more than ever.”
“A sound explanation.” Iron lifted a vine and waited for Nephele to duck beneath it before he followed. “It just seems out of character for someone like you.”
Nephele turned and batted her wide eyes. “Oh dear, I hadn’t realized a young man who’s spent his life firmly secluded from society could so easily judge another’s character after only a few days of knowing them.”
Iron’s cheeks warmed, and he looked to the ground. It was a stupid comment to make. She risked her own life to save his the day of the storm. She risked her health and safety to help him rescue his friends, and he repaid her with mistrust. “I’m sorry. I just, well, even the nice people I’ve met haven’t been very trusting.”
“Hmph. Indeed. If it’s any consolation, the people of this world usually aren’t. So do you fancy yourself some kind of shining knight? Does that mean you’ll be a good bodyguard and give your life for mine?”
“It depends on the manner of my ending.”
“I promise it will be a gloriously unexpected surprise.”
They walked on in silence, leaving Iron to his thoughts. He still needed a way to pry whatever Thrallox knew of the broken circle without bringing the tribe down on him, and he had to do it without Nephele overhearing a word of it. If only he could use his magic, he could disguise himself as a tribesman or shadow, and pry the knowledge without breaking a sweat.
A plan, stupid as it was, took shape. Calling it risky would have been a needlessly kind. Still, it was his only hope. “All you have to do is lead me to the tribe. Don’t risk your life. I’ll risk mine twice over for it.”
Nephele laughed as she motioned for another vine barring her way. “Please. This rose has some delightfully sharp thorns. Don’t let her pretty petals distract you from them. I would be remiss in my duties to the Lover if I stayed in the shadows while you did all the work. Who do you think I am, a Sinner’s man?” She winked and wagged her fingers. “Go on. Clear the way.”
Iron went to work slicing through the foliage. “But you have no weapon. What if—”
“My body is my weapon, Iron. Lovers, as you may soon find out, make the most skilled warriors. Perhaps if we survive this little escape, I’ll teach you the Gentle Dance. If you’re as good with it as you are with Loyal Stance and Shade Stride, you’ll be quite formidable.”
Her tone told him everything. “I can’t convince you otherwise, can I?”
“It’s simply out of the question. Kill Thrallox while I free your friends. A simple solution is best, but it can’t be done alone.”
“Fine. You know where they’ll be keeping the prisoners?”
“I know it all too well. Awful place.”
“Good. I need you to go there. When you see my diversion, you get them out.”
“What sort of diversion did you have in mind?”
“Well, I kind of plan on killing Thrallox.”
“That certainly will divert them. Good luck, Iron.”
“You don’t want to know how?”
She shrugged and skipped through the hole he’d cut. “I’m not one for gory details. Do the deed. Make sure this tribe doesn’t ever beat its drums again.”
“Nephele, after they’ve been freed, if we get separated, meet up at the cave.”
She nodded. “Simple. Clean. Effective. Try not to get killed.”
He followed her deeper into the island. The steady beat of tribal drums grew louder with each step. Bad-dum. Bad-dum. Bad-dum.
Iron saw smoke first. It curled in a thick finger from the base of the island’s tallest peak, splitting in half the rising blanket of green before piercing the blue sky. Nephele pushed through a squadron of ferns lining a cliff overlooking a valley. She squatted on the outcropping, careful to keep herself hidden from the people below.
He followed her lead and took up residence in the shadow of another fern. At the cliff base, patchwork leather huts dotted the basin like fungus. They spread like the virus they were from one end of the valley to another. Just where the valley met the next line of mountains, a titan’s skull rested. The mountain rose behind it, and the valley spilled before it. A single bonfire roared in the camp’s heart.
“Thrallox will be in the skull,” Nephele whispered. “That’s where he has his throne. We’ve been traveling the better part of the day. He should be good and drunk by now. All of them should be, Lover willing.”
“Luck willing. I doubt dead gods will have much to do with our success.”
Nephele clucked disapprovingly and shifted from her position toward a sloping hillside blanketed in vegetation. “Didn’t we already have this conversation about gods and death? You shouldn’t be so quick to cast them off. They’ll come back. They always do.”
She launched into the forest, swift as a bolt of lightning whipping through the trees. Iron scanned the tribe and shook his head.
They come back on the graves of those who worshipped them.
Iron darted after her, and together, they slipped into the basin. The going was slower than he liked, but knowing Ayska suffered in that cage lit a bitter fire in him. He feared they’d arrive too late. He shuddered to think what that would mean, what he would see.
The watchful sun speared itself on the peak when they reached the basin floor, shattering into a halo of blazing lances on the mountaintop. Twilight came upon the tribe, that odd time where the sky bled
and all good folk took second glances at the shadows.
Iron and Nephele crouched within the high grasses between the jungle and the tribe’s land. Most of the Goshgonoi clustered around the raging bonfire. They wore little more than leather loincloths, bones draped around their necks and clattering over their wrists. Their faces they painted in bright colors and swirling designs that Iron might have appreciated for the artistry had it not been worn by a people preparing his friends for dinner.
He placed a hand on Nephele’s shoulder and leaned to her ear. “Remember, wait for my signal.”
She kept her gaze fixed on the fire but gave him a quick nod of acknowledgement. Iron bent like a shepherd’s crook and dashed around the camp perimeter. This close, he made out the raucous laughter and rhythmic chanting complimenting the drumbeats. The Goshgonoi smiled wide, toothy grins and dipped hollow coconut shells into vats of a purplish liquid Iron assumed was the strong liquor they enjoyed before their grisly feast.
He scanned the drunken mob, searching for a cage, but the dancing, swaying mass and squat huts swallowed most of his view. Inhaling, he continued on his path. Darting behind hovels, pressing his belly flat on the high grass, inch by inch Iron crept through the village.
He bolted through two huts and slid onto the grass. Up ahead, the titan skull appeared, looming over the tribe just where the mountain met the basin. It had no lower jaw being half buried as it was. Bright swirls decorated the titan’s chalky bone while hundreds of thin torches littered the ground around the mouth, basking the yellowed teeth with the colors of a setting sun. A great ramshackle ramp ascended into the skull, and there it blended into shadow.
Fang glided from its sheath as Iron pulled the sword into the dense wetness stifling the jungle. Moisture beaded on the blade, its soft glow illuminating his arm. If anyone else could see the weapon for what it really was, he’d have a hundred cannibals swarming in a hungry state of mind. For now, he thanked Fang for its discretion.
