“Calamitous,” the apparitions echoed.
“Did not one son’s love appease storms that threatened the Earth?” Decuna snapped.
“Did not another son’s love affirm his calling as sabbat god in a way he had never before embraced?” Morta added.
“And yet your meddling has cost me a son already,” he said. “The god of Yule has abandoned the call and is forever bound to Earth.”
“And more joyous than he has ever been after serving you for generations,” Decuna said. “But then, the personal happiness of your sons has never mattered to you the way that your quest for control and punishment has.”
“Punishment?” Herne’s face darkened. “I do not seek to punish them.”
“Lies!” they hissed in unison.
“But you do admit it,” he said in a low, threatening tone. “You are responsible for the events of this year’s sabbats.”
“It is the year of the Thousand Seasons,” Morta said, drawing out the last. “A time when the universe throws off the dust of an old era and begins anew.”
“Change is ever in the wind during the Thousand Seasons,” Nona said.
“The change I sense in this season has come at your behest,” Herne said. “And now it is time to undo it.”
“Forces have been set in motion by your son’s actions during Yule,” Decuna said. “Not even the Fates, nor the great god of the forest, can hunt down and extinguish such a power. It will burn through galaxies until it has completed its work.”
His expression hardened. “You will intervene, if you do not want that great god of the forest to wage havoc upon your precious threads of fate.”
“Do not deign to threaten those who ushered you into power,” Morta said.
The three began to circle one another, in a slow cycle at first, then faster. A wind picked up in the room, and Jorandil tightened his wings against his back. The Fates twirled, intertwined, until red mist like a cyclone was all that remained.
Herne and his son staggered backward until they were pressed against the far wall. Feathers flung from Jorandil’s wings whipped through the air, though it was hard to see with his hair being lashed about his face.
“What nonsense is this?” Herne called out, though his words were soon swallowed by the melee.
The tornado ceased, and the three Fates were no more. In their place was a single red dragon, with a large head too big for its small body. Despite the ludicrous appearance, its gnashing teeth and smoking nostrils gave Jorandil no comfort.
“I defeated you in the king’s forest,” Herne said, and Jorandil heard a breathless quality, a quiver for the first time in his father’s voice. He looked over to see the wide eyes, brimming with the shine of something he would never think to find in the great god’s dark stare. The expression was more disconcerting than the appearance of the giant, sharp-clawed beast.
“You did not defeat it,” the dragon rasped. In the voice was the chorused tone of the Fates, though deeper and more resonant throughout the chamber. “You would have perished, had we not granted you the gift of immortality as reward for your bravery.”
Jorandil’s eyes widened. He knew that long ago, his father had once been human, a courageous hunter whose time had long been spent in the king’s forest. But he had never imagined that he had battled a dragon—and lost—in order to gain his godhood.
“So eons later, you believe I should have no say in my own life or the lives of my sons?” Herne asked, standing a bit straighter. “That is too high a price to exact for relief from the solitude of death.”
“Herne the hunter died long ago, and not by the blow of a dragon’s tail,” they said. “His shell carries on, but his heart is empty.”
“How many will pay the price?” the dragon added, spitting out the last. Its nails clicked on the shining floor as it stomped closer, swaying on large hind legs.
“You speak in riddles,” Herne said.
“We speak truth.”
Jorandil had no idea to what the Fates were referring, but he could see a flicker of recognition in his father’s eyes. Herne knew exactly what was going on. And somehow, the sabbat gods—Jorandil included—were being made to pay for whatever crime Herne had committed in the eyes of the Fates.
“Is this why I am here, then?” Jorandil asked the three. “Has there been some discord that has made my brothers and me pawns in your punishment of my father’s sins?”
Flame danced in the dragon’s eyes. “Your father is the one who has punished you all. He has placed you in positions to assure his own power as well as to keep you from finding the happiness he no longer believes exists.”
“I would protect my sons from the bitter sting of betrayal, if I could,” Herne said. “As would any father.”
The dragon lifted its head, shuddered, and roared. The mists came apart, diffusing into a large, red cloud, and then it settled into three shapes that returned the Fates to their separate forms.
“So you hear it for yourself, Jorandil, son of Herne,” Morta said, her long body stretched even thinner as it regained its proper proportions. “You have been done ill, but not by the Fates. We merely helped release you from the prison your father has so lovingly cast you and your brothers in.”
“What are they speaking of, Father?” he asked, turning to Herne. “What prison?”
“They speak foolishness,” he replied, but he was not meeting his son’s eyes.
“Of all Herne’s sons, Jorandil, angel god of Beltane, has taken up the mantle of responsibility with his whole being,” Decuna said. Her gnarled hands wrung each other as she floated near. “Unaware that the call of his duty is one of deceit.”
“How?” Jorandil asked.
“The sabbat gods stay celibate for a period of one month before the ritual,” she said, “a time of purity and fasting from carnal pleasure in order to release more energy to the sabbat’s call. But you,” she added, zooming close enough to his face for Jorandil to pull back from the fetid breath, “you remain without the joys of a woman’s touch year after year, without even the glimmer of love’s hope that Eradimus clung to when awaiting his lover’s return.”
He pursed his lips. “Not only I. Eradimus was bound to his lover and no other. And Archipellus, god of Samhain, also refrains from seeking a woman’s pleasures outside of his calling as sabbat keeper.”
“Because he is compelled to do so in order to control his nature,” Nona said. “There is no blood of an angel running through his incubus veins. You do not have the same restrictions he must adhere to, yet you deny yourself.”
“I see no reason to involve myself with a woman when she would have to accept my joining with others year after year.”
“Not even for the simple pleasure of satisfying a male itch?” asked Decuna. “Many women would happily accept your terms for a night in your bed—or even as a permanent mistress.”
“But that is not enough for you,” Morta said. “And that is why you would rather shun the arms of a lover than risk falling for one you would betray.”
“And what of it? If that is my choice, it is of my own free will.”
“And who brought you to this life of self-denial?” Nona asked. “It was the charge of your father, calling you to accept the mantle of duty.”
“Since when is it a crime for a father to offer his sons positions of honor and power?” Herne asked. His fists were clenched as he folded his thick forearms across his chest.
“You have locked down their hearts just as surely as you have locked down your own,” Morta said. “But no longer, god of the forest. A new season comes forth, and the universe has decided to make an end of it.”
“The universe has, or you have?” Herne said.
“So it is true, then,” Jorandil said. “What the Fates are saying. Your reasons for appointing me god of Beltane had nothing to do with my qualifications or the needs of the realm.”
“Do not listen to their poison,” his father said. “You are needed to preserve the balance bet
ween worlds.”
Jorandil eyed his father and saw something else cloud his shimmering gaze.
“Surely you already knew of the Fates’ treachery,” Herne went on. “That is why I found you here, is it not?”
“It is true, I came here to confront them about the events of recent sabbats.”
“Then there you have it.”
Jorandil shook his head. His father was diverting guilt for a reason, but there were more important issues to resolve. “There is no time to further assign blame. The Fates have shown me something I cannot ignore, and now I require their help.”
Herne’s brow wrinkled. “What sort of help?”
“I need them to send me back through the veil.”
Herne shook his head. “No. Not you as well.”
“It is not because of what my brothers succumbed to.”
“But you wish to traverse the veil in order to go back to your sabbat partner?”
“Not to pursue her as a lover. She is in mortal danger.”
Herne sucked air through his teeth. “Gods of the realm have long since stopped meddling in such matters, except in the rarest of cases.”
“And this is just such a case.” Jorandil sighed and ran a hand over his hair, which was still in disarray from the whirlwind. “It is by my own doing that she faces this danger. I would see her free of it rather than know she was harmed because she was chosen as a sabbat mate.”
“The veil is temporarily sealed by your own actions on Beltane,” his father said. “The energies are high and unstable. A crossing right now is imprudent, if not impossible.”
“The Fates can do it,” Jorandil said, turning back to them. “You can send me across without my having to step physically through the barrier.”
“No, absolutely not,” Herne said, setting his fists on his hips. “I forbid it.”
“The great god forbids usss,” the trio hissed in a mocking sing-song. “We think not.”
“You will not send him.”
Echoes of laughter bounced around the chamber. “Or what?”
“Or I will use the contents of the box you have been seeking.”
The bobbing and weaving paused, and the three stared at him.
“You,” Decuna spat in accusation. “You have taken our box?”
“To assure you can no longer alter lives at your whim,” he said. “And to gain your cooperation in leaving my sons in peace.”
“Treachery!” Decuna exclaimed.
“You cannot use what lies in the box,” Morta said. “It is a power too dangerous for any but the Fates to wield.”
“And yet you abuse that power for your own amusement.” Herne planted his fists on his hips. “I have put that at an end.”
They rushed at him, staring intently. “Where is it?”
“Do not bother seeking its location through my eyes,” he went on. “It is out of your reach. But not out of mine.”
“What box?” Jorandil asked.
“Silence!” they chorused, bobbing quickly and out of sync now. “Herne would not dare such a thing.”
“I would dare many things where my convictions and my offspring are concerned,” Herne said. “You are toying with both. Now keep your meddlesome fingers off of my son, or be prepared to deal with the consequences.”
There was silence.
“Do not let him threaten you,” Jorandil said. “You showed me Cadence’s fate. Why bother if you are not going to aid me in changing it?”
“We cannot help you, son of Herne,” they said, an acid bite to the words. “And neither can we stop what is already in motion.”
“But there is no other way. Portals and veil pendants are too unstable for the crossing. Will she be safe long enough for the energies to stabilize?”
“No,” Nona said. “Her time approaches on swift wings.”
He whirled on his father. “I must go and prevent this. Can’t you see? It would be my fault if she is harmed, as surely as if I wielded a blade against her myself.”
Herne’s brown eyes were flat, dispassionate. “Her fate is her own. It is for your own sake that I do this.”
“But why? I cannot understand how a god as yourself would allow a human woman to suffer because of your own insecurities.”
“The answer is no.”
Herne turned and left the room through a doorway Jorandil had not noticed before, set deep into the dark walls.
His son followed him. “You can’t be serious. Let me go to her, Father. Let me save her and be done with it. I swear I would not be swayed like the others. I will return to you.”
“Stop nipping at my heels like a hungry dog, Jorandil. I am weary and have other matters to attend.”
“If you will not turn aside from this decision, I will find another way.”
“There is no other way.”
Herne went out of the tower, and Jorandil stopped short in the doorway. His father turned. “Are you coming?”
“I have wings. I will leave the same way I arrived—under my own power.”
Herne sighed. “I can see you are angry. I will take my leave, and we will speak of this again later, when calmer thoughts prevail.”
With that, he took his staff and held it out, and he propelled himself out and down over the cliff face. Jorandil stood, looking at the cloudy atmosphere. What in the realms did his father have in a box that was powerful enough to sway the Fates?
Why was his father such a stubborn old stag? How could he not see that he was causing more harm than he was preventing by keeping the Fates from sending Jorandil to the other side?
He turned back. “There has to be a way,” he called out. “If you cannot help me directly, you can at least steer me to an answer.”
Nothing.
He needed their power to get him across safely. Or if not the Fates themselves, he needed someone else with sufficient magic to help him circumvent the damaging energies of the veil.
“Someone else,” he murmured aloud, and for a moment, he stood there, weighing out the thought. Father would be furious, assuming the man would even agree to see Jorandil. Assuming he would—or could—help. But the wizard did have power, and Jorandil would give him anything he could to see the old man use it. Anything except his freedom, of course. Costeros was far too dangerous to be let loose, even if Jorandil had enough pull to manage such a thing. But he had been locked away for a good while now, perhaps long enough to think of the things he’d done. Perhaps he wished for a way to make amends.
Jorandil turned from the obsidian tower and headed for the edge of the cliff, silently making plans. A puff of reddish mist appeared before him, cutting him off.
“Do not seek him out,”they warned in unison. “The price Costeros will require for his aid will be too great.”
“So he can help, then,” Jorandil said. “He can send me through.”
“But at what cost?”
“I don’t care what it costs.”
“You will.”
“Will you help me instead?”
They wavered, their gentle bobbing and floating of their misty hair out of sync with the wild winds whipping the mountaintop. “We cannot.”
“Would it work, though? Could I save her life if I pay Costeros what he wants?”
There was pause. “You could.”
“Then stay out of my way.”
He hesitated, then strode toward them. He walked right through the Fates, though he felt a shudder as the oily mists stuck to him, almost like cobwebs, pulling him back.
His wings stretched out, and he took flight from the mountain, banking his body to the left instead of straight down. He would fly to the Tower of Ruin. He would see Costeros and get him to help.
***
“Cadence.”
His voice echoed in her thoughts, along with the daydream of her angel as he stroked her cheek. Goose bumps tingled along her skin, her nipples tightened, and a tiny smile flirted with her lips. In the fantasy memory, Jorandil did not fade away until he was lost
to an invisible beyond. She was able to pull him back, and he did so willingly before slowly making love to her again.
She felt the heat creep up her neck and down her thighs, a happy little flush that toyed with her insides whenever she gave in to the need to romanticize and embellish, expand and dream about the night she had spent with a supernatural being. Time had only increased, rather than calmed, her memories and thoughts of him, consuming numerous hours, devouring her dreams whole, and even causing her physical harm. Well, sort of. She wiggled the bandaged finger, feeling the cut she’d managed to give herself. So much for lapsing into her wild fantasies while slicing a tomato.
The subway car hissed to a stop, and she imagined the doors sliding open to find him standing there, tall and muscled, with his hair falling around his face like silvery silk and wings glittering in the lights of the subway station. His eyes would find hers as though they had never left. He would hold out his hand, murmur her name, and she would go to him.
Her breath caught, and she jumped up from her seat to race for the open doors. She’d done it again and nearly missed her stop because of it.
“This psychic better have some answers,” she muttered beneath her breath as she pushed her way up the stairs and out onto Tenth Street.
Her feet stopped working the moment when she took her first look around. The street seemed to reject the sunlight, pushing it off the tops of multi-story housing and warehouse spaces, leaving behind an oily blanket of ashen light that hung heavy with tension. Most of the businesses had pulled down their security cages permanently, locking up tight. Graffiti graced cracked walls of dingy gray, and homes sitting alongside, looking worn, weary, and out of place, fared little better. The very air here felt still, as if the world in this spot held its breath, waiting for something better. Or perhaps hoping nothing bad was about to happen.
That thought propelled her feet, past a homeless man sitting against one of the caged storefronts, mumbling to himself, the wrinkled brown bag beside him not holding the expected booze bottle, but what appeared to be spare clothing. Out on the steps of some housing across the street, two women sat, one wearing a bandanna on her head, another a housecoat and scuffed slippers whose faux fur was now ratted into dirty orange spikes. They watched Cadence hustle by, and she averted her gaze while she checked the street address.
Jorandil: God of Beltane (Sons of Herne, #4) Page 4
