“I have a way with people,” Flynn had confessed to her. He wondered if, before, she had had some suspicion. She had asked in the dead of night, when Mack and Chari were asleep. This truth was for her ears only. “I can retain, in my mind, an imprint of someone I meet. The longer I’m with them, the more I absorb. They whisper in my ears, tell me what the real person will say. How they’ll move; how they’ll act.”
As far as Flynn was concerned, it could have been anything: a child prodigy with an eroded conscience and a gift for the human mind, a disciplined talent built in a vacuum of an immoral father and an unscrupulous mother, or simply something wholly unnatural with which he had been shackled at birth. It never used to matter. But now that someone had asked, it was in his interest to answer correctly, to make her do what he wanted. If her sacrifice would equate her father’s freedom, then Zella and Flynn were enemies. If she could be turned, pulled back from the brink she knew herself to be near, then her life would be saved and she would be an ally. A resource. Something to be used.
Zella looked up as Flynn unlocked her cell, still waiting for the answer to the question asked days before: “Are you a half-human?”
“I … I don’t know what I am,” Flynn confessed. “I have no answer.”
Anything else would be a lie. He had survived as long as he had by seeming ordinary and mundane, by not letting society categorize him and put him away. For as long as he could manage, he never wanted an identity foisted upon him. Glancing back, he caught a glimpse of Zaja standing in the doorway. She hadn’t come in and wasn’t in a hurry to see anyone. He was surprised she had come back at all.
Zella rose, dusting herself off as though she had all the time in the world. As she passed him by, leaving him alone in the dark, she told him, “Whatever happens next, I think I need to see it.”
*
She had known this tower before, decades ago. Zella Renivar was older than she looked, though she didn’t feel it. Most of her kin had broken a century before making their final sacrifice. Zella, by contrast, still had decades to go.
It wasn’t very likely the six she was following would make it outside, let alone escape. Even in Yeribelt, they would stand out. But at this point, she wasn’t here to stop them, and she had no intent to follow either. A clash was swelling between Taryl Renivar and Airia Rousow—the crowd drawing near were nothing more than pawns in that game. But actions taken could be enlightening and Zella bore a keen interest in what would happen next.
Years before, there had been no cages in the room where she slept, no shackles or chains in the chamber where the ethereal lights passed through—all this was on the shoulders of her father. Had his people grown so desperate to see his will done that they would resort to such measures? Or had he ordered them himself, with a heavy heart?
The descent to ground level was dizzying. The eye drifted easily to the broad expanse of the spire’s insides, open as an unnourished belly. The stairs wrapped along the wide interior of the walls, and all that came through the chamber was the air they breathed and the light cascading down. There was no art or passion in this place. It had been built for a singular purpose and found little other use.
“Where are the guards?” Zella asked. “Or even their bodies?” She peered over the wall, expecting to see masses of broken men and women strewn along the funneled edges.
“Weren’t that many on the way,” Jean replied. “Guess most of ‘em headed off to take on the mess outside.”
There was an occasional body slumped on the steps or rolled beside the wall. Some still showed signs of life. Others … Zella was afraid to check. She had known so many of their warm and watchful faces. None of her jailers had ever borne her any malice.
Around every corner and down each new flight of stairs, she expected to see a cadre of Reahv’li arriving to stop their escape cold. But with every turn they made, miraculously, none appeared to catch up with them. When they reached the balcony overlooking Taryl Renivar, the seven stopped. Zella drifted in last, but saw what gathered their collective interest.
The massive doors had been opened, the courtyard of Borudust Castle reduced to an abattoir, many skewered and dismembered by their own weapons. Two men held Airia Rousow fast in supernatural chains—Zella did not recognize the one draped in cloaks, but the other was Arronel, who restrained Airia with such gusto one would think he had caught her himself. Zella had never seen the fallen goddess before, but she knew her at a glance. Reputation was powerful. Notoriety was damning.
“That is the fallen goddess you made mention of when first we spoke?” Poe asked Flynn.
Even for a god such as Taryl Renivar, lifting his body even a little was a labor—chains visible only in the peripheral shackled him, bearing his body down. “Airia Rousow. It was not expected that we would ever meet again.”
“The circumstances are not ideal, I agree,” she retorted. “But I always expected to see you again. I would not have you leave the world, leave this life, without grasping the damage you’ve done.”
“Damage?” he demanded, straining against his chains. “If you had only walked through that vale of lost souls stretching the distance between your sequestered temple and this burdened mountain, you would not speak to me of damage!”
Flynn had apparently seen enough. He drew back from the precipice. “The window is starting to close. We go, now.”
Zella had known a Flynn who could coax one to follow when needed, encourage them to when it seemed the choices were only life or death—but to command decisively, and with so many?
Cold condemnation and furious outbursts accompanied them as they followed those last stairs down to their conclusion. Taryl and Airia, two parts of a broken pantheon. It was hard to imagine when they had ever called one another friend.
The standoff was what Zella had come to see. Before them now were the steps descending into the original bones of Borudust Castle, and the door to Renivar’s audience chamber. If they denied the call now, she could go no further with them.
“That’s the way we came in,” Jean gestured with her mace.
Flynn signaled the others to hold and approached the stairs slowly. Each step was cautious, and he kept one hand steady on the wall. Closing his eyes, he listened, stepping halfway out of sight. Just as suddenly, he turned and marched swiftly back up.
“They’re already in there, a dozen at least. Probably more outside.”
“Huh …” Jean considered. “Must’ve noticed the new gapin’ hole in the outer wall.”
Zella smiled. Maybe she would get what she wanted after all.
“These are acceptable conditions,” Poe stated decisively.
“Wait, don’t tell me you want to fight them?” Zaja cried.
“If these pompous promises of godhood are to hold any weight, I wish to know my enemy,” he replied. “Already, Renivar does not seem a man caught unawares in the dead of night. If I am to be his assassin, he would not be an easy mark.”
As the old gods beyond the door quarreled, the lesser Mystiks on this side felt a mixed tension. Most apprehensive of all were Chari and Mack, while Jean at least masked her fear with aggressive bravado. Poe, though outwardly calm, seethed with an unspoken contempt, but it was Zaja who surprised Zella, seemingly relieved by the turn of events. The decision, however, fell on Flynn. It was the trust they held for him that she found most staggering. It was clear from what she had seen that they knew something of the man he once was, and he had not won them with lies.
“We’ll do it,” he said. “Our odds of getting out were already bleak … I think we all knew that. At least facing Renivar himself, we may find some common ground … or some trump card.”
Zella felt Flynn’s intention upon her, though he didn’t bat an eye. Moving for the doors to the audience chamber, Flynn paused, taking a deep breath. “Here goes nothing …”
*
Flynn led them in. The bickering of petty gods, broken and bound, ceased as they entered. Renivar’s guard, the Reahv’li, s
till recovering their forces, ached not to charge the party of heretics entering their god’s chamber. Arronel watched Flynn contemptuously as he struggled to hold Airia down; his cloaked counterpart watched with uncertain shared interest.
“Our honored guests have arrived,” Renivar observed.
The doors behind them closed. Barred. Chari, tailing the group, snapped back at the sound. There was no backing out. Moving to the center of the expansive hall, Flynn met his ancient nemesis for the first time. Taryl Renivar’s struggle against the ethereal tethers binding him told of an elderly god struggling just to kneel; one who would be face-down to the ground if he weren’t straining to maintain his lofty dignity.
“Flynn!” Airia still struggled against her captors. “I cannot fathom how you freed yourselves, but you must leave—”
“And where would we go?” he asked. Ceasing, she bowed her head, knowing well his meaning.
“Their escape was my error,” Aaron confessed to his god. “I should have escorted them myself. I overestimated the competency of our soldiers—”
“Or underestimated that of your captives,” his robed companion interjected. His voice carried a deep rasp, but no trace of vindictiveness or condemnation. “All is well. They are here.”
“They are,” Renivar agreed. “And I wish to speak with them.”
At first, none of the six travelers knew what was about to transpire. Zella bowed her head, clasping her hands together. Renivar’s foot shifted slightly, and then Flynn figured it out. Taryl Renivar was moving to stand. It was like watching a colossus rise, weary against gravity’s pull in conflict with his peerless majesty. Taryl’s forearms struggled as though held fast by solid ropes. His legs braced to support his weight, his back at first hunched sharply. Though that alone caused enough spectacle and awe, Taryl conjured the strength to rise entirely, and all in the room bowed to the Living God—even Airia Rousow was pulled into a bow by her captors.
All save for Flynn and his company, six heretics in a house of worship.
“Betcha he doesn’t do that for just anyone,” Jean whispered, smirking.
You’re probably not wrong, Flynn agreed silently.
“Airia’s chosen,” the god intoned. “I have wished since first knowing of you to look upon you. To see what you are, each of you.” Taryl reached out as though to touch them, “To see the tragedy in your faces. The symptoms of an existence cruel and unsympathetic.”
“Yeah, well, it’s a dog-eat-dog world, buddy,” Jean retorted, none too impressed. Renivar’s worshipers shifted and murmured at her audacity. With a gesture from Renivar’s hands, the clamor was quelled.
“I am not your enemy,” he pled. “You are the progeny of the very way of life I’ve struggled to end—one where we have played like children at slaughter, where we mutilate ourselves to gain acceptance, where we lie and are deceived in turn.” Pained, he could only shake his head and agree with Jean. “Dog eat dog, indeed.”
Sickened by the memories that Renivar’s truths invoked, Chari stepped forward, demanding, “Yet how bold you are, Saint Renivar! Dare you justify all you seek to build, when you plan to consecrate it with the blood of your own daughter?”
Taryl looked at Zella with a pity that revealed no trace of self-righteousness. “It is the only certain way to expedite an end to my inexhaustible bonds. Your life, daughter, is the blade that will finally cut these fraying tethers. We have all endured loss along the way—”
“You speak hypocrisy and lies!” Struggling violently against her subjugators, Airia shook herself almost half-free before being caught again and held in place. A paintbrush fell from her hair, leaving it uneven and disheveled. “Swap your piteous platitudes for truths!” she commanded. “Tell them of your better world! Speak on how you plan to expunge their worlds—their homes—to create your own!”
Flynn was more unnerved by the accepting silence of Renivar’s worshipers than the impact of Airia’s revelation. An eruption of shock and malice broke in whispers among his allies.
Save for Zaja. She stood on edge, straining forward for some uncollected revelation.
“I would not indignify you with lies,” he said, before returning his attention to Airia. “And think you it was an idle decision, Rousow? Even in a reality where there is no presence of divine love or that of a just Goddess?”
“Then it’s true,” Zaja whispered, defeated. She had found a haven in Yeribelt, and it was now tainted.
“And what of the divine order of this world?” Poe more loudly demanded. “What of the balance you helped sunder and let scatter to the winds?”
Weary from all it took just to remain upright, Taryl returned to kneeling. “I assure you, I helped sunder nothing.” Casting his eyes at Airia, he asked, “Need I remind you, my peer? It was you and Kayra who attacked me. Not the other way around.”
“I had no choice!” she retaliated. “Your defeat here should have marked your end, four centuries ago! A less proud man would have accepted his failure and laid down his chains, walking away from godhood forever.”
“You said he was imprisoned here,” Flynn asked. “Yet he can leave?”
“We bound not the man, but the power to which he clings.” Airia’s voice turned cold. “The wear on his ancient soul would not allow him to regain his divinity once lost—but at least he could finally take a walk outside.”
“I have held fast to my beliefs,” Renivar replied simply.
Breaking from the group, Flynn took a few cautious steps toward the old god. From the corner of his eye, he saw Aaron reach to stop him. With but a glance from Renivar, his protestations withered.
“And if we hold to ours?” Flynn asked. “If we stand by the old order and the people who can’t defend themselves from what you’re going to do? Trillions will die … and that may be a shallow estimate.” His old self would have laughed at such heroic proclamations. More than merely being ludicrous, there was little certainty he would be able to uphold these noble sentiments.
“Those whom you hold in such esteem are the same dregs of humanity who have pushed the good people of this land into the slickest mud,” Taryl replied. “I will save all whom I can when the old existence collapses completely.”
Flynn stopped, having reached the steps to the platform upon which Renivar knelt. “And who decides what constitutes a good person?”
Renivar narrowed his eyes, scrutinizing Flynn. “Certainly not you, boy,” he said. “The marks of what you once were adorn your body. You have been made something base by your acts and have no place here. I would cast you back to Earth, and leave you hoping my emancipation would not come to pass in your lifetime.”
It was an insult that dug deep, and Flynn’s hands twitched. Without realizing it, his claws had extended from his fingers. Could it be this easy? he wondered. Can this all be ended in one bloody stroke?
“Do it, boy,” Taryl Renivar urged him. “If you stand for something, at least chance to die for what you believe in.”
Climbing the steps, Flynn approached the Living God. He’d been baited, and already knew it would not end well, whatever the outcome. But his other choices were less, between simply retreating or attempting to humiliate Renivar in some petty way. At least by following through, Flynn knew he might learn something.
Bringing his claws down as he had on Rebecca Saul, Flynn expected to strike at stone or find himself deflected. But beneath the mantle and all the power, Taryl Renivar was flesh and blood—his throat opened and he clasped it, containing the outpour. A god’s blood glazed Flynn’s fingers even after he retracted his claws. The deity before him lowered his hand from his throat, showing no wound.
“Where a man falls, a god rises again. And again, if need be.” Following those words, he lashed out at Flynn, sending him flying across the room, where he skidded to a halt halfway short of his allies.
Even the most reticent among them ran up to tend him, with Zella proclaiming to Renivar, “You’ve made your point, father! You don’t need to harm th
em any more!”
“I have,” he agreed. “Arronel, tend to Rousow first, then escort these children back to their cages. We’ll take measures to see they cannot escape again before deciding what to do with them.”
“As you command, my Lord.”
At the Living God’s signal, the Reahv’li flooded the great hall and surrounded the seven. As they made ready to fight back—though they were grossly outnumbered—the sound of stone ripping from stone resounded throughout the chamber. Flynn looked up just in time to see the masses of rock torn from the ground and wall gathering into the air. They broke and reforged as a dozen steel spears, darting like javelins into the form of a cage that surrounded the seven. The transformation was nearly instantaneous, and he knew it was Renivar’s handiwork. There had been no time to react, not to a spectacle so unanticipated. The spears ran high, the steel too slick to climb. They were trapped.
Jean had had enough. She threw her mace to the ground, and proclaimed, “We go down? Then I’m taking this fucker with us!” She pressed both palms to the floor of the spire. The world all around them shook in a way Flynn had not seen before. Pieces of the spire above cracked and rained. Even the Living God took notice.
“Arronel!”
Just as quickly, Renivar drew up one more piece of stone and fashioned another spear, albeit one of more traditional size and construct. The weapon shot right at Aaron, who caught it effortlessly before dashing through the thundering chamber, sliding the spear between the bars and piercing through Jean’s right forearm.
“Son of a fuckin’ bitch!”
Aaron tried to pull the blade back violently and would have destroyed Jean’s arm entirely, but he found the pole caught by Mack, who glared daggers back at him. “You’re not hurtin’ Jeannie anymore.”
“Twice you are a nuisance, wretch,” Aaron spat, snapping the wooden pole at its base. Jean and Mack fell back as blood bubbled from the wound, still plugged with Aaron’s weapon, “Keep your shrew for yourself then.”
The quake had been stopped, but several Reahv’li had died in the midst of it. While most were tending one another, a vindictive few had turned their pole arms on the trapped party, forcing their withdrawal to the center of their cage.
Outcasts of the Worlds Page 43
