Reign of Gods (Sorcery and Sin Book 2)

by Justin DePaoli

  PAERTH CLAMBERED down off his dragon ungracefully.

  “My legs are too short, too fat for this dragon mounting and dismounting business.”

  Oriana remained in the saddle, face blanched and expressionless.

  “Ori?” Paerth said.

  “I’m thinking.” That wasn’t quite the truth. She was trying to think. She found her mind had been turned to mush, her thoughts scattered and shattered. This was what she’d felt like when her father had died—a sort of numbness that obscures everything. The world was foggy. Dark. A place she didn’t want to be in anymore.

  “Are we tellin’ ’em?” Paerth asked. “I vote no. It’ll just work everyone up, and we won’t have a single explanation as to why there’s an army of giants lying on the ocean floor.”

  Oriana drew in a deep breath, felt it course into her lungs and inflate her chest. She breathed it out. “No, we can’t tell them. It stays between you and me.”

  She looked toward the direction of the fallen giant. Sorcerers were prodding it. Dragon tamers and laborers were pouring in from the tip of the Pinnacle, eager to get a glimpse of the enormous mystery of stone.

  Paerth again offered Oriana his hand, and this time she took it. She rubbed her sweaty hands on her pants and told Sarpella to go fly for a while. The dragon purred and launched herself into the air, soaring toward the clouds.

  “What I wouldn’t do for that simple of a life,” Paerth said.

  Oriana trudged through wet sand. Now that she was walking and felt the humid air blowing into her cheeks, she began feeling more like herself. “We’re still going through with the dissection,” she told Paerth. “Who knows, maybe we’ll find something telling under all that rock. I doubt it, but—” She shrugged.

  Paerth stepped over a washed-up jellyfish. “Ori, this, uh—might sound a little far-fetched, but hear me out. Those giants—that’s what we’re calling them, right? The only thing that’s behind them, besides the sea, is Baelous. They had to come from there, no?”

  “You’re thinking the Conclave sent them,” Oriana suggested.

  Paerth grinned. “I guess that’s not a unique belief?”

  “Well, I’ve thought the same, and now that I know it’s on your mind too—I’m sure the others have considered it. Catali might be able to tell us, but she was supposed to be back here two months ago.”

  “Could be gathering evidence, answering big questions.”

  “Could be,” Oriana agreed. “Or she could be in trouble.” She reached out and latched onto Paerth’s wrist and pulled him back toward her. “I’m going to Baelous to find her, and—”

  Paerth pinched his eyes. “Ori. You can’t do that. Not now. Gamen’s not here anymore, neither is Brynn. We need you.”

  “They,” Oriana said, with a nod of her chin toward the mass of bodies gathering around the fallen giant, “need a leader. Gamen and Brynn were that when I wasn’t around, and I wasn’t around plenty. I need you to be that leader now.”

  Paerth tightened his lips. “I appreciate the offer, Ori. I do. But I’m not—I’m just a sorcerer, do you understand?”

  “It’s not about appreciation. You’ve been with me for many years, and I trust you. So do they. Rol will help you as he can.”

  “Rol!” Paerth said, an exuberant gesture of his hand. “He’s the perfect leader.”

  Oriana frowned. She’d hoped convincing him wouldn’t be problematic. “Rol’s not a sorcerer. They won’t respect him like they will you.” She looked away, toward the sea. Toward the haze of spires. “We may have to leave here, Paerth. If that happens, I’ll need help holding everyone together. Morale’s low. You know it. I know it. This is when rebellions break, when those pledged to fight the good fight dissent and protest and schism.”

  “I never considered myself a rebel.”

  “We’re rebelling against a world that doesn’t want us or our ideals. Sounds like you’re a rebel to me.” She smiled.

  Paerth stretched his hands high into the air and brought them down on his head. “When you put it that way… then, yeah. It sounds like I am.” His eyes fell to the sand, then darted back to Oriana. “I’ll do what I can, Ori. But I make no promises.”

  “I don’t want promises,” Oriana said. “I want action. Let’s go and chisel this giant, see if he’s hiding any secrets underneath all that stone.”

  “Well, that’s comforting,” Paerth said. “I figured you were jumping on Sarpella and heading out right away.”

  “I have some loose ends to tie up first.” She thought about Horace Dewn again and the offer he made her. He’d told her she could be queen of Haeglin if she wanted. The Grateful Throne was hers for the taking, he’d claimed.

  She needed to accept or pass on that offer before she departed for Baelous—yet another decision she dreaded.

  Life had seemed so much easier nine months ago, even in the face of dragon clutches that wanted to exterminate life on Avestas. Choices were easier then, so much more black and white: she either acted in whatever way possible to stymie the clutches, or she—and everyone she cared for and even those she didn’t—perished.

  Now she was involved in the very intricate and delicate affairs of a power struggle, one that would set her place on the world stage for years to come. One wrong move and she’d tumble off, a would-be queen turned a lonely and replaceable pawn.

  Decisions, decisions. For now, she decided to hammer her frustrations and consternation into the stone frame of the giant. Laborers brought over two wheelbarrows filled with tools ranging from chisels to mallets and iron rivets to rusted forceps. In fairness, she had told them to grab whatever looked like it could pummel and break apart hardy rock.

  The giant’s disassembling began with enthusiastic whacks to its wrists and ankles, its calves and ribs. Some sorcerers climbed atop its belly, twenty feet above the sand, and hammered away. Others went for the eyes, hopeful to pry them out with forceps and crowbars.

  Bits and pieces of whitewashed rock broke off, revealing grayer, grittier rock underneath. After taking a shard of stone right between the eyes, Oriana felt that was a sign she needed a break. She wiped an arm across her sweaty face and sauntered down to the water’s edge.

  The Glass Sea rolled itself gently into her ankles, washing over her dirty, sticky feet. She brought a cupful of the ocean up to her face and splashed herself.

  “Ori!” called a distant, muddled voice.

  She furrowed her brows. “Rol?”

  “Ori, are you in there?”

  In there? she thought. Then she remembered she’d brought a locus down. She shifted out of the locus and found Rol standing near the docks. “Did you finally wake up?” she asked, smirking.

  “Ori,” he said, “we need to talk.”

  He sounded concerned. Rol rarely sounded concerned.

  “If this is about my outburst this morning,” she said, starting his way, “I’m sorry. I really am. I shouldn’t have said those things to you.”

  “Ah, hell. You were right, girl. Farris—I was a damned idiot to trust her.”

  Instinct told Oriana to prepare herself for the worst. Bad experiences, one after another, will do that to you. She came to Rol, locked her knees. “Are the whelps okay?” she asked. Half her whelps were still in Torbinen, until the new roost was constructed at the Pinnacle. “And all of our people in the city… there’s not many, most of them are here, I think.”

  Rol laid a hand on her shoulder, stroked her soft skin with his thumb. “They’re fine,” he said reassuringly.

  Oriana nodded. She tried to smile, but what came out was weak and sad. She fell into Rol and freed herself of the immense burden she carried. She’d never thought herself a girl who’d ever swoon over a man or let him sweep her off her feet. Maybe that was what onlookers would have seen—a desperate, helpless girl retreating into the arms of her lover—but this was Oriana finally learning how to share her sufferings with the only person she could.

  As good as it felt, as right as it seemed, sh
e nonetheless felt the need to apologize. “I’m sorry,” she said, watery eyes staining Rol’s shirt. “I just—”

  Rol cupped the back of her head and pressed her face firmly into his chest. He held her there in silence, chin nestled against her forehead.

  She allowed her leaky eyes to wet the fabric of Rol’s shirt, but she refused to make sounds. No whimpers, no sobs. Just some tears. When she finally pulled away, she sucked in a big breath of salty ocean air.

  “Okay,” she said, her bottom lip quivering. “I’ve learned some things this morning that I—” She fought with her throat, her lips, her tongue. Her body seemed to be conspiring against her. She just couldn’t get the words out.

  “That you didn’t want to hear?” Rol suggested.

  Oriana nodded. “That’s why I’m in a bad place right now. I’ll tell you about it, and you can tell me about Farris, but first let’s get into the locus.”

  Rol tightened his grasp on her shoulder. “Wait. You won’t want the others to hear about this. I was lazyin’ about in the room when you left, and I heard voices. And—well, I’ll get straight to it. Farris came up with General Hastings; they were prepared to pick the lock, but the door was open, and in they strolled.”

  “Where were you?”

  “Under the bed. Got these as a welcoming gift.” He turned and pulled up his shirt, revealing thorns buried deep beneath his flesh.

  Oriana gasped. “Oh, Rol. That looks awful. We need to clean that up before infection sets in.”

  He brushed off the suggestion with a groan. “Farris came in because she knew you weren’t there. She took the master whistles, Ori. All of ’em. Except this one. It was pushed way back. It’s Grish’s.”

  Oriana had, over the years, developed a tic upon hearing bad news. She set her jaw and bit down hard on her cheek. Then she’d lower her eyes into a cold stare that made most anyone uncomfortable. Probably it was because her sister reacted to news of any sort with hysterical abandon in typical Olyssi give-me-all-the-attention sort of way, and Oriana had to distance herself from her sister’s behavior any way she could.

  Rol knew that look well. It’d unhinged him more than once, but he’d grown accustomed to it. “Be angry,” he said. “Be furious. I won’t fault you any for that.”

  Oriana switched to chewing her other cheek. She swallowed the flakes of skin. She held out her hand and said, “Hold on to me. We’re going into the locus.”

  Oriana had long been accustomed to shifting in and out of loci. Rol? Not so much. He blinked and his world shifted and voices came and went. A figment of his imagination sprawled itself out onto the sand of the Pinnacle. The figment remained even after a few more blinks, even after a pinch of his arm.

  “All right,” Rol said, “what the piss is that thing?”

  Oriana wasn’t listening. She faced the tip of the Pinnacle and looked up into the sky layered with white tufts of clouds. No signs of life moved up there, but that didn’t mean Sarpella and the others were gone. They loved flying deep within the clouds, high as they could go—they were especially fond of this when carrying their masters, who did not at all enjoy flying deep within the clouds.

  Oriana slid a finger inside the neck of her shirt. She felt her whistle, pulled it out and put it to her lips.

  I know you’re up there, she thought. And then she blew.

  A sharp squeal, not quite as piercing as the ones Click and Clack responded to, belted forth. Oriana waited, but there was no bolt of ice streaking down from the sky, no flash of brilliant blue scales reflecting in her eyes.

  She blew into the whistle again. And again and again and again, working herself up into a frenzy, until she blew one continuous breath. Every sorcerer chiseling into and prying apart the giant stopped and looked at her.

  She wheeled around. “Lamella! Use your whistle. Wurtic, you too. Everyone who has a dragon, call them now.”

  A ruinous symphony of squeals and shrieks—the kind of symphony you’d not fork over even a copper to hear, and if you did you’d demand every last coin back—filled the air.

  “Again!” Oriana screamed. “Don’t stop!”

  Rol took her by the arm. “Ori, enough. Sarpella isn’t here. None of them are, except, I’d reckon anyways, Grish.”

  Oriana took from Rol the whistle engraved with a G. She blew into it.

  Moments later, diving through the clouds came what looked like an emerald serpent, coiling and slithering in the air.

  “At least we’ve got him,” Rol said.

  Oriana set her jaw, chewed her cheek, and lowered her eyes. “I’m going to kill a queen.”

  “No—hey!” Oriana stomped off across the Pinnacle, toward Torbinen. “Oriana of Liosis, get back here!” Rol threw his head up, gave the heavens a middle finger, and trudged off after her.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Morning brought with it an unrelenting cold. Elaya sat against a wall, a fire raging before her. She’d covered herself in mountains of blankets and read the letter in her hands once more.

  I met someone last night. A Wraith Walker just like me. I have to go now, it’s for the best. Thank you for saving my life, and for being my friend. And tell Tig I am sorry for trying to hurt him. I hope we see each other again, but if not…

  Love,

  Lavery

  PS: I borrowed one of your horses. I’m sorry, but it’s very cold and I don’t think I’ll get far by walking. I promise to take care of it.

  Elaya blinked her watery eyes. Such a simple, brief message. Those were the ones that always stung the worst, weren’t they?

  She’d suspected Kaun had nodded off during his midnight watch, given his groggy, crusted eyes when he woke her. Apparently she was right. Lavery could have never placed the letter on her person if Kaun had been awake. However, the twelve-year-old would have undoubtedly found another way to give her the message—of that she had no doubt.

  He was crafty, Lavery Opsillian. Crafty and witty beyond his years, but also just as naive as you’d expect for his age. That caused her worry. She’d grown to enjoy Lavery’s company over the past year. Looking out for him, making sure she picked him up when he stumbled—those things had brought her a sense of joy she didn’t know existed within her soul.

  But now Lavery was gone, and she didn’t know who he’d met. A Wraith Walker, he claimed, but a manipulative stranger would name themselves a god if it’d give them what their heart desired.

  She neatly folded the letter and tucked it in the pocket of her tunic. Then she stared at the black kettle over the fire and listened to its whistling. A cup of tea had sounded lovely since the moment she’d awoken, but she’d have to down it fast. Time spent here in these ruins meant Lavery was slipping farther away.

  Elaya regarded Valterik. Getting those mutations of his back had been priority number one, two, and three—less so because of the danger they presented to the world if in the wrong hands, and more so because he had promised her the power to bring finality to the Twin Sisters. Her priorities had just changed.

  She kicked off her blankets, took the kettle off the fire, and roused the others.

  “Let’s go,” she said, in the merciless voice of a mother waking her sleepy child. “We’ve got unexpected work to do. And I have a feeling it’s going to involve a lot of time on the saddle.”

  “Ugh,” Tig grumbled. “Fook off, will you? Sun ain’t even creepin’ out yet.”

  Elaya jabbed the toe of her boot into Valterik’s wad of blankets. “Get up.” She waited until every set of eyes was open, or at least in the form of slits, and said, “Lavery’s gone missing. We need to get him back.”

  Adom stretched and yawned. “Probably just went out in the woods to Walk in peace.”

  “Ya,” Paya agreed, “he tried murdering Tig the last time he got taken out of a Walk too early. Those Walks of his are getting a little intense, if you ask me.”

  Elaya was wrist-deep in a brown satchel. She pulled out a small pouch and took from it several golden tea leaves. “
He wrote a letter to us,” she said, stuffing the leaves in a wooden mug and pouring scalding water from the kettle over them. “Here, have a look.”

  She passed the letter to Adom, who read it and passed it to Kaun, and on down the line it went, till Valterik came into possession of it.

  Valterik cleared his throat. “The boy was a Wraith Walker?” His head shifted slowly from left to right, taking in each mercenary. “Did you all know this?”

  “Sure,” Kaun said. “Well, not always. But since about, er, at least a year, now.”

  Valterik opened his mouth and paused. He lifted a thoughtful finger and said, “Right. Do you all know what a Wraith Walker is?”

  “He’s a big-time traveler,” Tig explained. “Goin’ into the past, venturin’ into the future.”

  “Hates having his travels interrupted, though,” said Paya. “Really hates that.”

  Valterik rubbed a hand down his bald, oily head, clearly annoyed. Or frustrated. Or, perhaps, in disbelief. “I don’t think you grasp the gravity of this situation. There aren’t any Wraith Walkers left.”

  “Tell that to Lavery,” Elaya said, bringing the mug up to her mouth and inhaling the piping-hot steam.

  “You must tell me more about him,” Valterik said.

  Elaya wrapped her belt around her waist. She unsheathed her sword, closely examining its edge. “Maybe on the way.” She took stock of their campsite. “Come on, pack your things, ready your equipment. I want these ruins to be behind us by the time the sun rises.”

  “Er,” Valterik began, “we really ought to wait until daybreak. I’ve only a faint idea of where the thieves who stole my mutations may have gone, and it will be best to split up. You cover more ground that way.”

  Elaya shot him a sidelong glance. “I know how to cover ground. The search for your mutations will have to be put on hold.” She looked to Adom and Tig and Kaun and Paya. “We first need to find our friend.”

  They all gave her a firm nod. A nod that said Lavery was one of their own, and they always looked after their own.