“Why you?” Flynn asked. “I saw the town through the windows of the tower when we were brought here. Fields of people … worshipers … as far as the eye can see.”
“There are two reasons for me,” she said. “First, my body possesses an unnatural quantity of ethereal energy, which has sustained me the way it would a Mystik, though for power I have little else. Second, I possess this energy because I am the forbidden offspring of two Mystiks … and one of them, Taryl Renivar, is my father.”
If Zella Renivar had had their attention before, they were transfixed now.
“He’s your father,” Chari echoed in disbelief. “That he would ask such sacrifice of you—”
“It is mine to give, if I am only willing,” she replied. “Until then, I am kept here. I am taken care of, provided for, and given space to meditate and think. At times, the people of Yeribelt come speak with me and sit with me. I have never once been hurried.”
“But you’re going to,” Flynn said with certainty. There was the Flynn she had known, the one that saw right through her.
She nodded. “I very soon may. I have spent my time here, weighing the sacrifices of my cousins before me, who all gave their lives to loosen his chains little by little in centuries past. My heart may soon find settlement in giving my life for the world my father wishes to create.”
*
Far from Terrias—further still from any means of knowing firsthand, of the workings at play—Airia Rousow sat and listened intently. The Mystik of Conflict had come with news. He had been in his thirties when he had been tapped, and the hard lines of his face spoke of rougher days before. She didn’t know how old he was now, and hadn’t cared to ask. He was not dressed as a god, instead clad in a ragged bomber jacket that she doubted was originally his. His sandy brown hair swung over his face as he recounted what he’d learned before coming to find her.
They had never met before, and he was poor material for a god. But he was, nonetheless, at least equal to her—superior, technically, as she was no longer a god herself. But then, he would never be a god like she had been.
“You’re certain you were not followed? If you’ve been pursued, if you led them here—”
“Wasn’t. Didn’t. Do I look like an inbred moron?”
Airia declined to reply. With that pressing concern abated, she focused on the task at hand. The news was not good.
“Then we’ve really lost track of them? After they found Poe?”
“Those pricks you hired?” he asked. “Blinked off my radar after visitin’ the chick in Death’s house. Bet you aces she had somethin’ to do with it.”
“I don’t know the current Mystik of Death … but should I not be as suspicious of your coming here?” she asked.
“Look, lady: I’m just the messenger,” Orick got defensive. “Whoever’s stupid enough to still be standing in your corner, I ain’t one of ‘em. Just a friend of a friend, okay?”
Meditating on Orick’s words, Airia nodded in reluctant acceptance. She wasn’t in a position to vet him; she just had to hope his principals were as genuine as his divinity.
“Our buddy in common sent a flunky to catch up with the Guardian once he realized you were makin’ a play,” Orick continued. “Thing is, the messenger got cut down before he ever found ‘em. Shit gets murky after that, but to keep it short? They’re gone.”
“There was grave risk in sending them,” Airia lamented, “and it was for nothing. They’re in Renivar’s clutches now, I know it.”
Standing up, Orick Daimous threw his hands in the air. “And the deal’s screwed! Might as well forget the albino bastard and find the next sorry fuck you can use.”
Airia seethed. She had waited too long, gotten too close now. She had watched Poe, in her own ways … he was rough and uncut, but perfect for what she needed: someone to murder Taryl Renivar.
“No,” she firmly stated.
“No?” Orick stepped in front of her, intending to elicit discipline. “Your plan was some deep kind of fuckin’ stupid, Rousow! Send some pissant humans to snag a potential god? Wisdom of the ancient divine, my goddamn ass.”
“Orick Daimous!” Airia’s voice bellowed. It dwarfed the man before her, who for a moment realized how small a god he really was. “Do you dare question my wisdom, here, in my sacred space?”
Quelled, Orick shook his head apologetically. “Uh, no. No, just … humans ain’t good for anything. Best thing I ever did was stop being one.”
“I’m not so pessimistic,” she told him. “Humanity may be unable to stop Renivar, but they can elevate those who can.” She succumbed to the gravity of the situation, of the centuries of waiting. She had decided. “I can’t stay here.”
“Can’t stay here? Like you’ve got a goddamned choice—?” Orick’s scoff was cut short when he caught on to what Airia intended to do. “Wait. N-no, you can’t be—”
“It’s time to go see him,” she replied. “He’ll make time for me.”
Airia trembled at what she faced, at knowing what she was versus what she intended to stand against. The prattling of a low god about the dangers she would confront did nothing to soothe her.
“Have you looked at Terrias lately?” he asked. “The man has legions of followers, Rousow! Legions!”
“And it is the cowardice of your breed that has allowed him to gain a foothold from a graveyard!” she spat back. She had only contempt now, saying, “I’ve heard the whimpers of our brothers and sisters. Those brave enough to try to strip Taryl of his power die. The rest watch, profoundly certain that their worst fears are confirmed; mistaking cowardice for caution, terror for wisdom.”
“I’m doin’ more than most!” Orick scrambled, his voice nearly breaking.
“You never fought him,” Airia said, now sick with memory. “You never saw that conviction in his eyes, that heartfelt certainty that his path was the right path. That was where it started. That is why he has followers.”
Leaving Orick behind, she marched down one of the few paths she had kept open within the sanctuary, just in case it was needed. As she advanced down the hall, she glanced back to see the Mystik of Conflict following her, and she informed him, “I can get myself to Terrias!”
Orick slowed behind her, confessing, “… You ain’t no coward.”
Airia stopped and glanced back. Hers was not the face of a gentle or benevolent deity, but of a warrior goddess who had led a thousand bloody campaigns. One who had lost the most important battle of all.
“That’s because I have fought Taryl Renivar, and lived.”
Chapter Eighteen: The Living God
Poe had been flush with sickly sweat for days. Attendants were kept close to cleanse him, hydrate him and ensure he didn’t die. The hours were long and he was granted little time for relief or rest. The Dark Sword had been kept close, if only for the sake of his health. But it was out of reach—he could see it, but cruelly, he could not touch it.
“Do you know me?” came his gravely demands. “Have you sought to craft a new worldly Hell in substitute for the one I eluded?”
They offered no response save “It’s a necessary purification,” whilst moving his weary body to and fro. He had been stripped naked, his skin rubbed raw by manacle and chain bound to arm and leg, used to suspend him over the deep hole that ran through spire’s highest point to its lowest. The silken fabric they’d wrapped his limbs with did little to soften the metal edges of his bindings. He was too weary to fight, and too unpracticed without a sword in hand. A burly man called Seeker kept Poe in check anytime he mustered the strength to strike at someone or try to run for the Dark Sword, caged under lock and key. Yet if he tried to leave, no one dared stop him from struggling free. They knew he could not go far without that blade, and saw the way it tugged back at him.
Worse still was the indignity. The light pouring down the shaft he was suspended within did no real harm, yet nicked at his flesh like sandpaper for every moment he bathed in it. The pain made for endless days and hours
that blurred and stretched. The last blow was the promise of false hope and possibility. His mind had been teased by assurances of godhood, and not more than ten minutes after, he was bound and subjected to indignities that no divine being would ever endure.
It would have been the ideal solution. Wipe all my sins away in one stroke.
Endlessly suspended over a distant body, too far below to see, he had little doubt that the stream of light washing over him ended with Taryl Renivar, the godly speck crouching below.
All that blocked the worst of the torment were thoughts of what he would do if the words of the Mystik of Love had held true. His first instinct was to revenge himself upon these torturers, all of whom conducted their business with a sickening serenity even as he grunted, wretched, and screamed. His contempt grew toward his own Dark Sword, which before now he had never been apart from for so long. Poe had set it down once, perhaps twice in his youth, before he’d known the impact it could have on him. The Guardian had kept it close ever since, yet had never anticipated how it might be used against him. Malice blossomed for Cybel, who in his boyhood days let him abandon his inherited task long enough to seek the blade. It grew more for the dark madam of distant lands, the blade’s keeper who had let it be his in lieu of malignant exchange.
If I become free and if by some madness I do become a god … I will seek her first. I will kill her first.
*
Jean chewed on a straw and watched the distant tower from the porch of her makeshift home. It was cloudy again today, which only made it easier to see the light pouring down from above like a funnel into the ivory spire built atop Borudust Castle.
Terrias was barbaric. There was more rock than soil, and nothing could be grown or farmed. Rain only barely fell, and almost never enough to fill even the bottom of a bucket. By all rights, everyone here should have been at each other’s throats. But supplies were brought in from other worlds, distributed among people who had gathered to bow before the so-called Living God. These people, who had all lived through much loss and suffering without letting it crush them, had been brought here to forget that pain.
They’re gonna fuckin’ hate me, she realized as she tossed the straw she’d been chewing aside. But Jean didn’t see any other way to handle the situation, and she didn’t know what was happening with her friends, if they were even still alive. She had resolved to bring that tower down. Whether a god was in there or not, let it all be damned. She didn’t know whether Renivar had built it or his people did, and she was sure it could be built again. But she had no problem going toe-to-toe with a god. Let them hate her. She’d been hated before.
Jean rubbed her eyes. She wouldn’t go in sick, tired, or malnourished. It had been over a week; she was ready. She would go in tonight.
*
The slurping of noodles filled the air. A few days had passed, and Zaja was back for a second helping. Vestus stood at his counter, pleased by the company of his new patron.
“By the way, Quinan? You never got to tell me what brought you here.”
Quinan. The lie Zaja would have to live with to stay here. She knew Jean wouldn’t stick around, and when she was gone, no one would remain who knew her real name. She didn’t exactly belong, but Zaja had consigned herself to Yeribelt. Just by being here, everyone assumed that she was one of them. Although she had wanted real work, to make a real contribution, the little things she could do here and there might be a good place to start. Maybe her new friend could use some help with the cooking. Being around steaming hot noodles all day would probably be good for her health.
Vestus looked at her expectantly. Did he think she hadn’t heard him? She slurped the last of her noodles and pushed the bowl away. It slid across the wooden counter, scraping as it went. Zaja took a breath, hoping the words would find their own way out. A subtle observation reached her ears, however, and the words she spoke were not the ones she’d expected to say. “When did it get so quiet?”
Vestus, noticing as well, looked around. Though a short distance from the bazaar, the Noodle Shack was not so far removed that they shouldn’t hear anything. The noise was ever-present so long as the sun was up. Yet even that isolated din had faded, leaving only the wind. They were alone.
“Must be something going on,” he said, stepping around the counter. “Come on, let’s give it a look.”
“Hey, wait,” she hopped off her stool. “What about your shop? Shouldn’t you lock up or something?”
“What for?”
Zaja smiled at the level of trust and camaraderie in Yeribelt. She followed him, and the two ran to the bazaar. The streets were empty, deserted. There were faint sounds of trembling people cowering inside their fragile homes. If there was something coming that was truly worth hiding from, Zaja knew it would take more than a tent to save them.
She and Vestus continued through to the main road leading up to the doors of Borudust Castle, where Taryl Renivar dwelt. She had not yet seen the man, but many in Yeribelt had. Instinctively, Zaja feared such an encounter, that she might be recognized at a glance and cast from this place. The crowd blocking the main road was dense, but awash with whispers.
“Is it her?” one voice asked.
“It is,” another confirmed.
“The Heartless God,” a third stated.
There was no jubilation, only vindication and fear. Zaja hopped up and down, trying to get a view. It was no good; she was too short.
“Give me a boost!” she ordered Vestus, who was happy to oblige. She clambered up, in such a hurry to see the source of the disturbance that she didn’t realize she’d climbed onto his shoulders from the front. He staggered backward into the crowd, and would have likely toppled over if some of the audience hadn’t been good enough to keep them both upright. From atop Vestus’s shoulders, Zaja could see everything.
A woman had stopped in the midst of the crowd. Five soldiers blocked her way, halberds drawn, but she didn’t seem concerned with them. Several more surrounded her, already beaten and sprawling along the path. She was tall, enviously beautiful, but in a cold way. Her robes were swatched with white marks, like strokes of paint. Her dark red hair was held in a bun by two old, dirty paintbrushes. The woman glanced at the soldiers blocking her way, surveying the end of a halberd that shook in her face. Unfazed, she reached out, placing a hand on the blade.
“Ah!” The wielder yelped in terror.
She slid her finger down the edge, leaving a thin line of blood where she’d split her skin. She didn’t react at all to the pain, simply asking the soldier, “So you know me?”
“We—we knew you were coming!” another said defiantly. “The moment you left—!”
“You most certainly did know!” she snapped. “I didn’t just expect to be noticed—I made a point of it!” She looked around to her left, to her right. She looked right at Zaja, right into her eyes, and it was a moment before she realized that the woman was connecting to every person in the crowd in that same way. “Then I suppose you all know me, in some way, in some fashion?”
A desert woman of gray complexion found the nerve to step into the open street, confronting the subject of such spectacle. “You are of the Old Order! The Pantheon of Negligence that Lord Renivar spoke of!”
This only offended the woman in red. “Lord Renivar?! Do you even know whom you pay homage to?”
“He saved us all!” the confronter passionately rebutted. “My people were dying among treacherous sands! It was more than anyone—any god—ever deigned to do for us!”
“Your lord is nothing more than an old man strangling in his own chains, too stubborn to let go of his pride and walk away!”
Is she a goddess? Zaja wondered, as the woman at last turned her attention to the soldiers, as though she had forgotten they were there.
“How many of you were ever real soldiers? Are you even real soldiers now?”
“We are Lord Renivar’s sword!” one retorted. “His followers, the Reahv’li—”
“The Blessed?!”
the woman scoffed. “He sees himself fit to again bless?” Her amusement faded. She burned to look at him. “You’re in my way.”
The soldiers held fast. “You have no right to confront the Living God!”
The could-be goddess paused for a moment, as if considering what to do. Her right hand drifted up, touching her bun, pausing for a moment on the paintbrushes that held it firm.
“Were you scared? When word first reached you that I was coming? When none could find me, as I crossed from world to world, drawing closer to this wasteland?” She shook her head with pity. “And yet you’re here.” With that, she caught the brushes, pulling them loose and letting her hair fall. Gripping both in one hand, she warned them, “You weren’t scared enough.”
The divine woman didn’t waste another moment, charging the Reahv’li soldiers, who were forced abruptly to the ready. She slipped into their midst, hooked her brushes beneath the shaft of the middle soldier’s weapon, and pulled him forward from the line as he loosed a sudden flustered scream at stumbling out of alignment. A palm strike to the face left him out cold, with four soldiers yet to handle. The crowd was tense, all too scared to intervene. Even Zaja’s breath halted. She dared not disturb the moment, lest she make herself a target of this woman’s wrath.
Another soldier bravely advanced, circling the apparent goddess, keeping her halberd drawn as she moved around to the foe’s backside. Another matched her comrade closely, until the two had her pinched from both sides. Yet the goddess only casually passed one brush to the opposing hand and waited for her opponents to strike.
“Now! Skewer her!” one ordered.
When they charged, the goddess turned in place with them, hooking their blades in the process, guiding them until they plunged into each other’s chests. Pinned between the two, the goddess did not bother taking up one of their weapons. Biting one of her brushes, she used a free hand to untangle herself from the mess she’d built around herself, and the two bodies fell to the floor. A commotion swelled in the crowd.
Outcasts of the Worlds Page 41
