Mercy has its limits. He’ll kill you where you stand if you don’t flee.
“I’ll die in that forest all the same!” Alarick cried, his head whipping around as he fought to catch a glimpse of his old friend and companion. He saw nothing of Amara anywhere, however, though he felt her presence nearby or at least in his head—melancholy and comforting as it always had been. This time, he also felt something else edging his spectral guide’s presence. He wasn’t quite sure about it, largely perhaps it could be nothing more than his muddled senses working in a confused haze, but he thought that Amara also seemed resigned—helpless.
“What’s going to happen to me in there, Aunt?” he whispered, his gaze fixed on the blade that was inching its way to his throat.
“Your Highness,” his assassin said, his earlier grim detachment giving way to a fatherly desperation, almost. “Save yourself.”
What happens to you depends on what you’ll make of your adventures within its borders. I’m sorry, Alarick, but I can’t help you now. Be strong.
“Run!”
And Alarick did, Amara’s faint voice fading to nothing more than a soft sigh in his mind.
* * *
The sun had just reached its apex, warming the northeastern kingdoms with its golden brilliance. But it was nothing more than cold comfort for everyone who was unfortunate enough to live there.
A great war had recently devastated the land, leaving nothing more than burned rubble in its wake and only a handful of small towns standing. Rich, golden cities that once soared to the sky with their alabaster towers, staring proudly and disdainfully out into the countryside, were now reduced to crumbling piles of rocks and black smoke.
It was a war that had ultimately turned into a raging confrontation between two gods—mother against son. The balance was eventually tipped in favor of the mother, and the detested son was vanquished—but at such a price. No one quite remembered how it all began, but as it was, it involved just about the entire land, and those who survived barely made it day after day, scraping for their provisions and praying desperately to the gods for mercy.
The gods heard, but no one heeded.
Broken by the devastation, they, too, had lost several mortal favorites. Immortal passion running more deeply and yet less fixedly, the gods were barely touched by men’s prayers, their attention now centered on their own losses and the alleviation of their own grief.
The heavens mourned with them, the sky splintering just as they flew off in countless directions for their own brand of solace.
One goddess sequestered herself from her sisters and her peers, choosing to stand in the shadows of trees as she watched the others fly away and soak the winds with their laments. There was comfort to be had in hiding under a heavy veil, arms cradling the soiled and battered helmet of a beloved casualty in the battlefield.
Kummerene stood on the crest of a low hill, watching the world before her with sleepless eyes. The silence was deafening, but she sought it—embraced it. She desired nothing more than to listen to stillness and the vague, phantom voices of dead men that were carried by the wind, to be scattered throughout the world as testament of past follies—to be heeded only by those who chose to listen.
One of them, she knew, belonged to her dead lover, whose helm she held protectively against herself. He was perhaps one of the greatest generals who’d ever lived. He fought on the immortal mother’s side, but, Gier, the lover of that goddess’s son, was ever blind to everything else but her own pleasures and appeared in the battlefield as a boy soldier who curried favor with the general. In her disguise, she ultimately betrayed the man’s trust, rendering him vulnerable to enemy forces, who’d slain him without much trouble.
For her interference, her immortal lover rewarded her honeyed drinks and endless hours of pleasure, their moans of release mingling in mockery with the lamentations rising up from the mortal world they’d just destroyed.
Of all the gods, Kummerene mourned the most in spite of her silence, her heart—forever attuned to tragedy—refusing all comfort and chasing after the bitterness of lost hope. To her mortals would repair during moments of loss, in her shrine they’d place all their desperate offerings, to her ears they’d raise their voices in a horrific chorus of wails. But now was her turn to endure a loss, and great though she was, her nature was truly no better than those to whom she’d offer her black cloak on which to shed their tears.
She stared at the empty countryside. “A waste,” she said, spitting out her words as though to rid herself of their rancid effects on her tongue. “All this life—all these gifts—and no one’s left to enjoy them. Sometimes I wonder what the use of our existence is if this is all we can look forward to—barren fields left to rot.”
With a grimace of disgust, she turned away and cried, “Come!”
A few feet away, a small spiral of air lifted itself out of the grass, swirling into a barely visible pillar. She watched in silence as the pillar throbbed and pulsated, carrying an occasional leaf and small organic debris with it as it rose up, its top fading against the breeze.
A shape slowly took form within the pillar—dark and shadowy at first before its edges sharpened, and details ripened with the infusion of color.
It didn’t take long for her “creation” to complete its transformation, and when Kummerene ordered it to step forward, she was treated to the sight of a young man at the height of his youth—tall and lean, eyes bright and all-seeing, complexion darker than what one could find on Northeasterners, skin slightly scarred.
She eyed her acquisition critically. “The old fool was right,” she murmured. “This boy will suit me quite nicely.”
* * *
“He’d been in a battle before,” the old man told the goddess as he knelt before her, a desperate supplicant who’d do anything to ensure that his son and heir would somehow be cured of certain unnatural propensities.
“He’s a handsome creature,” Kummerene told the old man with a derisive little smirk while staring down her nose at the pitiful, groveling mortal. He’d shown her a miniature containing his son’s likeness to prove to her just how blessed the boy was in his parentage. “I would’ve thought that he wouldn’t be in need of willing girls to debauch.”
“Roald refuses girls,” the father, who’d identified himself as von Thiessen, replied, his face turning red as he dropped his gaze in shame. “He simply won’t touch one and has taken on another boy for his lover. That’s why I’ve come to you.”
“Roald?”
“That’s his name—a very humble one, really. Fits him well enough.”
The goddess drew herself up as she inhaled deeply, the smell of frustration and stupidity sharp and bitter in her lungs. Like jagged puffs of air, they sliced their way down, energizing her and rendering her better disposed to listen to the pleas and unholy bargains made by the sad little man before her.
“Why are you looking to me for his transformation?” she said, her eyes fluttering shut as she sighed her contentment, her body absorbing the sting of mortal weakness like sweet poison, her exhalations sounding tremulous.
“I don’t think I can give you a clearer reason why, Madam,” von Thiessen stammered as he flushed, wrung his hands, and bowed his head low, for Kummerene’s physical form blinded him with a strange, white glow that was both soft yet sharp. To a mortal’s eyes, she was simply frightening when revealed thusly.
It certainly didn’t take long for the old viscount to offer up Roald for his son’s re-education. Witches and sorcerers and all manner of holy men or clever conjurers be damned. Only a god could save Roald’s soul now, and this particular goddess, known and worshipped for the darkness that shaped her nature, was also very much a mistress of vengeance. As far as von Thiessen was concerned, converting Roald’s preferences through such intervention was revenge enough against the vile decadence of the court and the young prince who wasn’t even the proper heir to the throne. A bastard noble, conceived in a scandal, set to rule the land? The heav
ens help them all. And to think that Alarick had gladly taken on Roald for his lover…
Kummerene looked at the miniature again.
“He’s a very handsome young man,” she said, narrowing her eyes as a ghost of a smile curled her lips. “I can offer you nothing more than your son’s immortality and greatness if you were to give him to me, and I reassure you, he’ll see the errors of his ways.”
“But—but how would you manage that, if I may ask?” von Thiessen asked, the redness of his complexion deepening all the more. “Forgive me my boldness, but I—I’d like to know how he’ll be changed for the better.”
Kummerene raised a brow. Was this puny man questioning her? “What have you done to prepare him, mortal?” she asked in return.
Panic seized him for a moment, and he grimaced. “Nothing beyond a rushed spell,” he said, swallowing. Was that good or bad? It was difficult to tell, for Kummerene simply regarded him without a shred of emotion. “That is, I took him away from his lover, unconscious, and brought him to a witch who claimed to know how to clear one’s memory.”
It was a spell, all right—a rushed one, to be sure, its guarantee nothing else beyond a toothless crone’s terrified promise while someone held a sword against her quivering throat. But von Thiessen was desperate and needed Roald’s mind cleared before the boy regained consciousness, and carrying his son to the tiny, reeking cottage of a witch was, at that moment, his only hope. Suddenly a sheen of cold sweat broke out over his skin, and it was all he could do to fumble around for his handkerchief, which he used to pat his face dry though he continued to cower and tremble before the goddess.
Kummerene at length nodded, much to von Thiessen’s relief. “We’ll see,” she said as she handed him back the miniature. “I’ll find out soon enough.” She’d have to come up with ways on how to keep the boy’s mind empty—or at least keep the boy fooled into thinking he was one thing and not another. “I don’t want you back, old man. I’ve no need for you, and by making this bargain with me, you’ve just given up your place in your son’s life forever. If you still wish to say farewell to him, do it now before he regains consciousness.”
Von Thiessen, though dismayed by her terms, thought it a great honor, indeed, for his own son to be chosen for an immortal’s consort. He bowed even lower, practically begging to kiss Kummerene’s feet in gratitude, but she merely took one step away to tell him, without a word uttered, how unnecessary it was for him to do so. Had he glanced up, he’d have caught the disgusted grimace that had just darkened the goddess’s pale features.
Kneeling on the ground, pressing his lips against the cold stones of her shrine instead, von Thiessen thanked Roald’s new protector again and again.
“I suppose it’s better to be bound to her forever,” the old man had muttered, wringing his hands in part doubt, part fear, and part exhilaration, “than be partnered to a mortal with all the vices of a demon.”
He thought that the goddess couldn’t hear him, for she’d already vanished after their unnatural pact was sealed, but he was wrong. It was all she could do to suppress a burst of mocking laughter as she watched him from the safety of invisibility. Yes, mortals were incredibly stupid as a rule, and exceptions were pitifully few. This von Thiessen fellow was most certainly not one of them.
* * *
Now Roald stood before the goddess, his gaze fixed on his mentor—perhaps creator—for a few seconds in curious silence before it was averted in favor of the hills and meadows that rolled gently around him.
Kummerene continued to watch him, feeling pleased with her new acquisition. Handsome, indeed, and born into an aristocratic bloodline. He was also, at nineteen, still very young. Yes, he would do quite nicely for her purpose. His education would be a very gratifying process, she was sure.
She slowly walked around him, her gaze keen as she swept it up and down his figure, absorbing every inch of the young man before her, alternately admiring, desiring, and feeling revulsion toward a fresh-faced youth—the spoiled son of a viscount, clearly, despite the fact that Roald had served time in the battlefield and had clearly done an impressive job in not only keeping the enemy at bay but also surviving intact. He was too fresh-faced still compared to Kummerene’s lost commander, who’d been all muscle, all sweat and dirt, all roughness and coarseness that could only be born of endless wars. Kummerene would miss the man’s gruff lovemaking, but she could easily reshape this wide-eyed youth into something refreshingly new.
Yes, I can live with that, she thought, nodding slightly.
“Do you know who or what you are?” she asked after another moment of silence, startling Roald and forcing his attention back to her.
“No,” he replied quietly after a moment’s thought. He’d tried to wrack his brain for something, but all he could find were shadows and silence. He didn’t know how he got there, didn’t know where he was, didn’t know who he was. Nothing existed but the present, and it frightened him.
“You’re my…” She paused, hesitating, before carrying on. “You’re my muse.” Then she laughed lightly—dryly.
Roald regarded her and waited, a bit baffled over his lack of memory and feeling slightly uneasy being there. Something told him that he’d been stripped, not newly born, as perhaps this strange woman seemed to want him to believe. There was something definitely wrong. For all his struggles, however, he couldn’t understand what it might be, but he could feel the wrongness so keenly in his gut.
“You’re not human. Do you understand?” Kummerene said, speaking a little more slowly now as though she were speaking to a child. She wished it, however, for she needed to fool him into believing his helplessness, his complete dependence on her as a baby would a mother. “You’re a spirit to whom I’ve given human form. You’ll leave this place and wander among mortals—and there you’ll learn what you can about the blacker sides of their nature. That wouldn’t be too difficult to do. Mortals are, by nature, cruel, pernicious animals, and you shouldn’t find it too great a chore reading their hearts. You can smell the filth of their souls even before they appear on the horizon.”
She paused to catch a breath, mildly amazed at her ability to lie so easily to the baffled creature standing before her with regard to his mortality. “You’ll absorb everything that you see and hear—you’ll be re-formed by their baser instincts, and you’ll come back to me, the perfect embodiment of humanity. Only Nature can hear you speak. It’s not your business to form bonds of any strength with mortals. That’s simply not your purpose. Do you understand?”
You’ll live as I do.
Roald nodded, shivering from a sudden chill that enveloped him.
“You won’t remain in your human cloak. If you do as you’re told, I’ll allow you to choose your immortal form—consider it your reward for a job well done. You’re to represent me, my curse.” She raised a hand and gently touched his cheek with her palm.
“You know nothing but what you need to survive—you understand nothing. You’re a shell—an empty slate. On you the world will work its poison, and humanity will plant the seeds of decay. You’ll carry the burden of deprivation, sin, and death with you till you come back to me, enriched by all that you’ve absorbed. And when the moment’s ripe, you’ll be rewarded with your final form, and you’ll take your place by my side as my consort—my lover—my cupbearer—one to feed me poison, sing me dirges, write me elegies.”
She stepped back and glanced down at the battered piece of armor she held. “And this will no longer be my fortune.”
Roald nodded again, feeling the chill deepen inside him and his stomach lurch. An odd need started to gnaw in his belly, but he didn’t know what it was, didn’t understand its nature.
Kummerene regarded him steadily. “You have no need for a name, but I’ll call you Roald.” She tried not to chuckle at the little joke she’d just played on the boy and found it difficult, though she managed to suppress it well enough in the end. Her mouth curling in a smirk, she added, “Mind you, if you decide t
hat you don’t like that name, you’ll be free to choose a new one when I claim you. Go now.”
Roald felt another surge of doubt coursing through him, but he dared not speak a word of it. He knew better, even in his current state, not to challenge or correct a goddess. He turned to follow her pointed finger, and, casting one final glance in her direction, he moved off and hurried down the hill. Kummerene remained where she stood and watched him go, her figure dwindling with every step Roald took. And when he disappeared in the distance, she stood like every other mortal woman—pale and weathered and burdened by her nature, clinging resolutely to the soiled helm she held against her breast as a widow would in reverence to her lost husband.
Then she bowed to the sun before vanishing completely.
Chapter Ten
Alarick sagged against a tree, panting and tired. His mind was a jumble. His heart beat an erratic rhythm. His face now felt as though it had swollen to five times its size, and his body hurt. He’d yet to inspect himself, but he wouldn’t be surprised if he found that his injuries were far graver than they now felt. He wondered about Roald, wondered where his lover was. Worse, he wondered what those barbarians might have done with him. Alarick would gladly take the humiliation and abuse that had rained on him when those two men beat him, calling him names and clearly relishing the violence they were inflicting on him, but he wouldn’t be able to cope with the thought of Roald suffering something similar or worse.
“Calm down,” he said. “Calm down. Think.” He rallied himself after several moments and was able to look around and assess his situation. He slid down the rough trunk, sat on the tree’s hard, uncomfortable roots, and waited for the pain and exhaustion to subside to something more bearable. They did, albeit slowly. “Where am I?” Oh—the forest.
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