by Kel Kade
He tipped her head up with a finger, and she realized she hadn’t answered—and she’d been staring. “Does my body offend you?”
“Um, n-no, it’s just that h-humans usually wear clothing when meeting new people.”
“An unfortunate tradition,” he said with a smile. He stepped away and drew a small red drying cloth from atop a bench that was nestled beneath a cluster of colorful hanging plants. He wrapped the cloth about his waist and returned to her. The cloth didn’t cover much more than the important bits, and part of her wished she hadn’t said anything.
Myropa smiled at him and hooked a curl behind her ear. “I’m Myropa. I seek Trostili.”
With a nod, he said, “I am Disevy, God of Virility.” He took her hand and pressed the softest kiss to her knuckles. The spot continued to glow with a golden light after his lips departed.
She breathlessly whispered, “I didn’t know there was a god for that.”
“Of course. I am the god of strength and power. I endow men with their masculinity”—he brushed a lock of hair away from her face—“and compassion.”
“Are those not conflicting sentiments?” she said.
“Of course not.” He straightened proudly. “The strongest of men are capable of bearing the weight of others.” He then leaned in and said more softly, “I also instill within them an instinct for the proper treatment of a deserving woman.”
Myropa licked her lips anxiously, and his wanting gaze followed the path of her tongue. She said, “Who decides if they are deserving?”
A light flashed in his eyes. “They are all deserving.”
She frowned. “I think you might be failing on that point, then.” As soon as she said it, she wished she could take it back. She had never spoken to a god in such a disrespectful way. She blamed his unmatched control over his power. He did not smash her into the floor, though. Instead, he laughed. It was a hearty laugh that echoed throughout the temple.
“I try my best, but others interfere.” He lifted his chin and nodded toward something behind her. “One of the guilty parties approaches now.”
Myropa felt him before she saw him. His power suffused her being, and she struggled to remain standing as her soul begged her to wither and cower. She knew Trostili was capable of restraining his power almost as well as Disevy. He did this to torment her. She turned to watch his approach. He wore one of the many splendid sets of armor that he donned every time he left his quarters. This one had a silver breastplate and cingulum over a black tunic embroidered in gold. A golden scorpion graced the center of the breastplate, and a gold laurel wreath nestled in his dark hair. Myropa’s knees began to shake, and by the time he reached her, she was a trembling ball on the floor.
“Pull it back, Trostili.” Disevy’s tone was far more commanding than any she had previously heard directed at the God of War. Myropa was surprised when the power began to ease. After a few minutes, she was able to stand again. Thoroughly embarrassed, Myropa avoided Disevy’s gaze as she conducted a vigilant survey of the floor. Disevy brushed a finger over her cheek, and a tendril of his power suffused her flesh with a warmth that soothed her shaking nerves.
Trostili scoffed with disgust. He said, “Do not forget, Disevy, she is a reaper.”
“Yes,” Disevy drawled. “I have always felt that reapers are deserving of our care, our loving grace. I cannot help but feel that we failed them.”
“You are in the minority, then. They spurn our gifts and for that they pay.”
Disevy met Trostili’s disgruntled gaze. He said, “What have you ever gifted them, Trostili? You fill them with the need to destroy each other. If anyone is to blame for their plight, you are certainly one of them.”
“On the contrary,” said Trostili. “With my influence, they fight to live. They fight so that others will live. These”—he waved at Myropa—“pitiful creatures chose to give up.”
“You might be convincing if you only ever inspired them to protect themselves. You antagonize the aggressors as well, and they fight to destroy whatever their victims hold dear. Can you blame them for not having the strength to endure the loss?”
“Yes,” said Trostili. “They have only one responsibility in that world, and it is to exist.”
“It is our task to design the world and creatures that can thrive within it. If it is so terrible that they cannot do so, it is our fault, not theirs.”
Trostili motioned to Myropa again, and she felt as if she were shrinking inside herself. “This one was perfectly capable of living in the world we provided. She was healthy, attractive, and had all that she needed and more. She was selfish, though. She thought she was entitled to more. In pursuit of it, she hurt those she should have cared for and destroyed her own life. Her choices. Not ours.” He thrust a hand toward Disevy, holding in his palm a small, glowing orb. “Take it. Witness her self-destruction.”
Myropa squeezed her eyes shut. She would have cried with mortification if she had been capable of it, but she had to settle for covering her face with her hands.
“No,” said Disevy. “She wears the evidence of her shame openly. Still, if her sorrow and pain was so great, was it not selfish of us to require her continued existence?”
“That was between her and the Fates,” said Trostili. “Now, I want to know why she’s here.”
Myropa pulled her hands from her face and quickly described the attacks by both vights, then described them again when both gods demanded more detail.
“Axus is determined,” said Disevy, “I’ll give him that. Why the willingness to expend his power on pulling vights from their realm in the Alterworld? Is someone protesting his claim of the world?”
“Only the humans,” said Trostili.
Disevy seemed genuinely surprised. “Not even Arayallen?”
Myropa witnessed the hint of a smile on Trostili’s lips at the mention of Arayallen. He said, “She has been preoccupied.” Disevy shook his head at Trostili and then winked at Myropa, but she didn’t understand the hidden message. “Vights,” mused Trostili. “It is a strange choice. Such undependable creatures. They rarely hit the intended target. Perhaps he seeks only to seed a bit of chaos before the storm.”
“I doubt he would spend power so frivolously,” said Disevy. His gaze slid to her. “How is the Sea?”
She blinked at him. “The Sea?”
Trostili huffed with impatience. “The Sea of Transcendence, Myropa.”
Myropa was momentarily thrown by the use of her name. He rarely used it. “Um, it is calm. It looks the same as usual.”
Disevy nodded thoughtfully. He looked to Trostili. “If Axus spends power so freely, he may have found a way to pull it from the Sea.” Turning toward Myropa, he said, “Please, let me know if it changes—in any way—if the tiniest pebble looks out of place.”
Myropa’s eyes widened, and she nodded anxiously. “Of course, I will—immediately.”
“The Fates assigned her to me,” said Trostili.
Disevy’s approving gaze caressed her again. “Pity, that.”
In her heart, Myropa agreed. He grinned at her, and she wondered if he possessed the power to read minds. She had yet to meet a god who claimed such powers, but she could not discount the possibility. He took her hand again and brushed his thumb over her glowing knuckles. He said, “Have faith, fair Myropa. The Fates have a plan for you.”
She blinked up at him. “How do you know?”
“Because it is what they do.” Then he looked at Trostili. It was clear that the God of Virility would brook no argument when Disevy said, “She will report to me if the Sea changes.”
Trostili’s nostrils flared, and he looked at Myropa with a penetrating gaze. “What are the king’s plans for fighting back? Did he select a new champion?”
“No, he is ready to surrender.”
“Already?” He glanced at Disevy. “Weak. I’m going to have a talk with Arohnu about his prophecies. It seems he and Axus are trying to cheat me of my power.”
Dise
vy said, “I thought you supported Axus’s little war.”
“Precisely. His war. Where is the war in this? He attacks, they die. What’s in it for me?” He turned to Myropa. “What is the forester doing?”
“He’s trying to muster help. He’s not ready to give up.”
Looking to Disevy, he said, “At least one of them has a spine.”
“Watch yourself, Trostili. I will not abide disrespect,” replied Disevy.
“It was a compliment,” Trostili ground out between his teeth.
Myropa wasn’t convinced, and she didn’t think Disevy was either. Trostili turned back to her. “Keep an eye on that forester.” Then he spun and stalked back through the open corridor.
Myropa drew her gaze from his retreating form and realized Disevy was still holding her hand. He was perusing her with admiration. From any man, she might have felt disconcerted. From him, it felt empowering, as if his fathomless gaze was showing her how she should see herself when she looked in the mirror. She could feel that for this god to look at her with such adoration was a true blessing.
“What of women?” she said before realizing her lips were moving.
“What about women?” he said, tilting his head curiously.
“You spoke of men. What of women’s power and strength?”
“Ah, that job belongs to my sister Azeria. We had differing opinions on how the blessing should be bestowed, so we decided to split it. She thinks my ways too brutish and prefers a more delicate touch. I believe she has truly perfected the art.”
“But men are stronger.”
He nodded. “In some ways. Women excel in others. We try to maintain a balance.”
“I think your sister overlooked me when she was bestowing her blessings.”
“This from the woman who fended off two vights?” he said with a smirk.
“It was the power of the Fates—”
“Yes, they grant it, but you choose to wield it.” He tilted his head and looked at her curiously. “Do you know that not every reaper can?”
A whisper of self-approval fluttered deep within Myropa’s frozen core. “No, I didn’t. I’ve never met another reaper.”
“Of course you haven’t. Yours is meant to be a solitary existence. A dozen reapers could be standing here, and not one of them would be aware of another.”
No one had ever explained these things to her. In fact, none of the gods had ever spoken with her for so long—or treated her as a person. Myropa glanced around her uncomfortably. “Are there others here?”
He stroked her chin. “You are the only one.”
She pulled her face away. “Trostili was right. I am deserving of my punishment for my weakness.”
A slight pulse of power caused her to meet his gaze. He said, “I am the god of strength and power, so you may believe me when I say that we all are weak. Our weakness is merely the vessel that holds our strength. If you choose not to look into the vessel, all that you will see is your weakness.”
“You seem proud of the strength you have granted the humans. Do you not care what happens to them?”
He met her gaze as he pressed another kiss to her fingers. “What good is strength without adversity? Axus and Trostili have their parts to play in the humans’ evolution. Life and death, peace and war—the first would not be appreciated without the second.” He finally released her hand and said, “Do visit again.” He then strode off in the same direction that Trostili had gone.
Myropa watched until Disevy disappeared. He was a sight to admire, and she was sure he knew it. She then closed her eyes and felt for the call of the Fates. It would be easier to cross the veil if she was pulled by a tether. One suddenly snapped into place, a glowing rope at her core. She abruptly inhaled, filling her lungs with a borrowed breath of life, and stepped across the threshold.
CHAPTER 12
Brontus pulled Aaslo to the side as he stopped before the open portal to the great hall where the feast was to be served. The two royal guards stationed there did not acknowledge either of them, but Aaslo felt their gazes when he wasn’t looking.
“Sir Forester, please listen to me,” Brontus said with a hint of concern. “I will be serving you during the meal. If anyone else tries to offer you food or drink, you should politely decline. It is not customary and should be considered suspect.”
“Does that happen often?” said Aaslo.
“No, but it only takes one poison to kill you.”
“You should listen to him. At least, if you die from poisoning, they’ll know who to blame.”
“Right,” said Aaslo, glancing into the brightly lit room full of colorful characters.
“Also, do not address the royal family unless you are invited to the discussion.”
“That should be no problem,” replied Aaslo. “I have no desire to speak with anyone, much less them.” He glanced into the room again. A dozen tables were already stacked with linens, glimmering place settings, and an array of trays, bowls, pitchers, and platters nearly overflowing with food and drink. No one was sitting at the tables, though. Everyone stood in migratory clumps, most brimming with chatter and laughter. One heated group, however, looked as if they were ready to discard their finery for a sparring match in the yard.
“That is Wizard Everly,” Brontus said, following Aaslo’s gaze. “He has an opinion about everything and thinks it’s his solemn duty to put anyone who disagrees with him in his place.”
“And the other one?” said Aaslo, nodding toward the younger man with whom Everly was arguing.
“Warlock Rastiv. He’s new to Tyellí—arrived a few months ago from the Mouvilanian division of the Council of Magi. He’s one of the few around here with the power to stand up to Everly, or so I’ve heard. I have no idea what brought him here.”
“What is their point of contention?”
Brontus shrugged. “Everything. I’d suggest avoiding them both.”
A crash of cymbals sounded, and everyone began moving toward the tables. Aaslo glanced at Brontus.
“Come,” said the manservant. “You must be seated before the royal family arrives.”
Brontus led Aaslo through the crowd. Most of the people were preoccupied, but their gazes burned into his back as they settled. Passing table after table, Aaslo became increasingly discomfited. When Brontus mounted a set of steps that led to the table on a raised platform, Aaslo nearly groaned aloud.
“Ha ha! Your humiliation will be on display for all!”
Brontus indicated for him to take the seat on one side closest to the end of the table. Wizard Everly was already seated across from him. As Aaslo sat, Warlock Rastiv took the seat to his right. The rest of the chairs remained empty. Since he was facing the hall, Aaslo was graced with a view of all the people staring at him. Although he would have been more comfortable in his own clothes, he was somewhat grateful to Akirini for providing him with appropriate apparel. He wore a dark green surcoat over a honey-colored tunic and trousers. His sword was belted at his waist, and Mathias’s head was in a dark green velvet sack tied to his belt by a golden rope. His knee-high boots had a slight lift to the heel, which he knew was popular with riders, but he was more concerned with stumbling over his own feet.
Aaslo surveyed the feast, his interest only partially feigned. He avoided looking at Wizard Everly, who didn’t look like any wizard from the stories. He had short, greying hair, deep furrows across his brow, a hard stare, and a sour countenance. His dress was not unlike Aaslo’s, except that his surcoat was longer and he wore many more embellishments. Multiple gold chains hung from his neck, each finger was weighted with bulky rings, and small gold studs and gemstones dotted the rim of each of his ears. Earrings and studs were apparently a popular look with the nobles, since almost everyone in the room wore them.
“Maybe you should get some, Aaslo. You can use sticks if gold is too shiny for you. You could even grow trees from your ears.”
“That’s absurd,” he muttered.
“I agree,” said War
lock Rastiv. Aaslo looked up and followed the warlock’s gaze. A large cart was being wheeled up the aisle by four servants. Atop it was an entire roast boar dangling from a spit. Beneath it was a metal tub in which a small fire burned with blue flame. A thick rim of ice surrounded the tub, and piles of fresh fruit and vegetables framed the display.
Wizard Everly grinned at Warlock Rastiv, but it was not a friendly expression. “We like to make an impression.”
“The only impression that man is making is an appreciation for gaudiness.”
Warlock Rastiv grunted. “I’ve been here for months, and I’ve seen nothing of the sort. Who are you trying to impress?” He hooked a thumb at Aaslo. “This guy?” The warlock turned toward him. “Who are you, anyway?”
“That’s the question we should ask ourselves every day.”
Aaslo had learned from Magdelay that Mouvilanians were direct. It was an attribute he could appreciate. Before Aaslo could answer, Wizard Everly said, “It was the queen’s idea. Apparently, it is a celebration of life or some such. It probably has something to do with the king’s consort. She is expected to give birth soon. The king hopes for a daughter.”
“They don’t know it’s a wake.”
“A wake?” said Aaslo.
“To mourn the passing of life—all life—in advance, of course, since no one will be around afterward.”
Wizard Everly’s face reddened as he scowled at Aaslo. “It’s a celebration. No one has died.”
“Ha!” said Warlock Rastiv. He shook his head. “In Mouvilan, it might have been a wake, indeed, and a celebration. The queen would have the king’s mistress put on the spit, not throw her a party.”
“Our ways are different from yours. There are reasons for the way things are done. The king and queen had an arranged marriage. It is a business partnership. The queen was chosen because her character and skills balance those of King Rakith. They respect each other, rule together, and produce legitimate heirs. Beyond that, they are free to pursue their own interests. Such is the way with most of the nobility.”
