Way of Gods

by Rhett C. Bruno

  “Mahi?” he whispered, then fell on her, embracing her and crying.

  “Jumaat! What are you doing? How are you alive?”

  “Shhhh,” he warned.

  “They should be out here somewhere!” came a shout in the distance. “They went after that child with a bow.”

  Not all the Glassmen had left after all.

  Jumaat pulled himself together and grabbed her by the hand. Together, they climbed the stairs down into the cellar.

  It was a large room. The walls were hard blackwood and mud and were lined with nigh’jel lanterns of all sizes. An opaque layer of blackish gray dust permeated the cellar.

  She heard a clattering noise and looked back to see Jumaat barring the hatch behind them.

  “They won’t find us in here,” he said.

  “I did,” she said. “You can see the nigh’jels glowing through the cracks.”

  Jumaat swore, then pointed to a stack of tarps in the corner.

  “Quickly,” he said, “help me cover the shelves.”

  As quietly as they could manage, they did as he said until the room was black as pitch.

  After a few moments, Mahi laid down, experiencing the truth of her exhaustion. Jumaat sat next to her.

  “I am so sorry,” he said.

  “For what?” Mahraveh sat up and looked toward the sound of his voice, although her eyes still hadn’t adjusted enough to see his face. “You didn’t do anything. Those monsters, they…” She didn’t even have words.

  “I am such a coward. I… I saw them taking my family. I saw them. I saw it all, and I chose to hide.”

  “You chose to live, Jumaat. There is no shame in that. You could not have done anything.”

  “I could have died with honor.” She could almost sense his chin lowering to his chest.

  “That is stupid.”

  “That is what our fathers teach!” Jumaat said, louder than was smart.

  “Then what our fathers teach is stupid!” she said just as loudly. “This way you live to fight another day. Why die with them all? Who then will avenge their deaths?”

  Quiet filled the room but for the gentle lapping of water within the lanterns.

  “Lie down next to me,” she told him. “It’s cold beneath the sands. We have to stay warm. In the morning, we will decide what we will do, but for now, this is the safest place in the whole town.”

  Jumaat didn’t respond verbally, but she felt him lay down beside her. She softly stroked his hair until the soft sounds of snoring filled the room. She wasn’t sure if she was trying to comfort him or herself. Now that her adrenaline had slowed, her chest felt so tight she could barely breathe.

  “Tomorrow,” she said to herself, “the Glassmen will pay.”

  XVI

  THE MYSTIC

  Sora couldn’t say how she got where she did when her senses returned. Nor could she say what had spurred her cognizance. Every moment in her timeless, empty prison, she fought to take control. If not control, to at the very least, see. She drew on the lessons taught to her by Wetzel and Madame Jaya. Even though she no longer had the Bar Guai, or even Wetzel’s dagger to slash her skin, they had taught her how to manifest the powers of Elsewhere.

  But this was so much more than Elsewhere. Worse or better, she wasn’t sure, but it felt like Nowhere—that was the name she’d given it at least. Like she was floating it a soundless, weightless, colorless room.

  While on the Reba, on the rare occasions Sora managed to peek through her own eyes, it was easy to sense the passing of time. She could see where they were, compared to where they’d been. But this time, as she looked, she saw only ice and snow all around her.

  Drav Cra.

  Explorers said that the maps couldn’t properly capture the tundra’s enormity as no ships had ever been able to sail all the way around it without being sunk by ice-caps. And on foot was suicide. Many had tried, but none had returned. There were rumors of a vast, magical world beyond its borders, with lush vegetation and marvelous creatures—but Sora figured they were just that, rumors.

  Her body tread barefoot through the snow, Nesilia controlling the gentle pendulum swing of her legs. Cold powder sifted between her toes and the feeling was invigorating rather than deathly cold, as if she’d been reunited with a long-lost friend. Perhaps that was what had stirred her.

  She considered confronting Nesilia again, trying to regain control, but every time she did, she found herself stuffed back into Nowhere within minutes. The Buried Goddess was too powerful. So instead, Sora remained quiet and watched. She imagined Nesilia could feel her spying regardless, but she didn’t care.

  Beside her walked Freydis, the Drav Cra warlock. Sora could feel the evil emanating from the woman. It wasn’t just the magic of Elsewhere, not the power she’d felt stirring within herself so many times. It wasn’t even what she’d felt in Aihara Na or the other mystics in the Red Tower. The warlock had a darkness swirling inside—it reminded her of Redstar.

  The thought of Aihara Na and the other mystics—Madam Jaya, Master Huyshi among them—had bile roiling in Sora’s throat. She’d killed them all except Aihara Na. She’d seen the blood on her own hands. So many times, she’d tried to convince herself that the act was no different from the acts she’d performed with Gold Grin under Nesilia’s possession, but she didn’t want to sleep with Gold Grin. Somewhere, deep inside, she was glad those mystics were dead for all they’d done. She hoped they suffered in Elsewhere.

  Sora could barely remember what happened to Aihara Na before they departed on the Reba. Clear memory of the Ancient One stopped at the woman pleading for life. After that, Sora retained flashes of the mystic and Nesilia discussing quietly rebuilding the Mystic Order and seizing anyone with a strong enough connection to Elsewhere for training, with no fear of risking being caught by the Glass Kingdom. That was it. No details, just plans and glimpses of the past.

  Then, the now-familiar feeling of Nesilia’s power overwhelming Sora blocked out everything until she blinked awake aboard the Reba, sharing Gold Grin’s plush bed. But even presently, Sora felt herself taking deep breaths to fill her own lungs, and finding no relief.

  It was like the Buried Goddess knew her thoughts, relished in them. The freezing air coursed through her nostrils and into her lungs. An icy finger traced her spine.

  Sora’s head turned to regard Freydis once more, Nesilia still in control. The warlock had painted her face with the blood of the Glass soldiers they’d murdered—two stripes from the roots of her fiery-red hair to below her eyes and one long smear across her lips. Sora hadn’t seen her do it, but she knew it because Nesilia knew it.

  “It is good to walk upon these grounds once more,” Nesilia said out loud.

  “I still cannot believe it is truly you,” Freydis replied. Only then did Sora realize that Nesilia and Freydis were conversing in Drav Crava, and that she understood every word just as she had Panpingese after encountering the goddess in Elsewhere.

  “Believe,” Nesilia said. “Faith is all that has kept me from the darkness of Nowhere.”

  Sora noted how Nesilia used the term she’d invented. It seemed their shared memories and thoughts didn’t only go one way.

  Then she worried the name wasn’t her own creation but a fragment of Nesilia’s own thoughts.

  “For all my life, I have worshiped you,” Freydis said. “Strove to honor you with my very breath, and now you walk beside me, in my own land, like any other.” Then, as if she realized she’d said something wrong. “Not that you are like any other.”

  “I understand your meaning,” Nesilia said, flatly. “Curb your weakness, it will not benefit us where we go. You may accept me for who I am, but the others will not at first. They see only what they can with their eyes.” Nesilia raised Sora’s hand and examined it from both sides. “Not what lies beneath.”

  “Surely, that can’t be true. They will worship you as I have. They will hear our words and understand.”

  “And are you so sure you’
ve not just been duped by a Panpingese mystic talented in the arts of illusion?” Nesilia asked.

  Freydis thought for only a fraction of a second before saying, “Never. I have felt your presence so many times. I felt it with Redstar. I felt it with King Pi. Now, it is the same only… so much more.”

  “Good.”

  “Though I can’t understand your fascination with the pirate,” Freydis said. “He fulfilled his role. He got us here, drew the Glass off our scent by making them think their ships were attacked by mere pirates. Surely, he’s better off at the bottom of the sea now.”

  “Perhaps. Perhaps not. Only time can say. But while I inhabit this grotesque form, I should at least sample why you mortals revel in physical contact, and not a soul in this tundra would dare touch this… heathen body for pleasure unless they meant to harm it too.”

  Suddenly, Sora recalled. Gold Grin was anchored just off the coast, he and his crew had been ready to join them. He’d asked if this was where the infinite riches Sora had promised were, and Nesilia told him to wait for her return. He argued, but a kiss on his cheek and a tender stroke up his arm silenced him.

  He was a plaything for Nesilia, every bit as much as Sora was. Sora felt a twinge of pity for the man. He’d been kind to her before Nesilia took over, and now lust had caused him to chase her across the world. Dragged along like a pet dog. He could pretend he was after treasures all he wanted.

  The gleam in the man’s eye at the mention of Sora’s return was enough proof to trust he’d be anchored to that spot with no plan to move. It was more than likely Gold Grin would die there, slaughtering any crewman who even suggested they pull anchor, frozen by the cold.

  Any question that Nesilia was the beautiful, pitiful, heartbroken thing Sora had seen within the chamber beneath Lord Bokeo’s shop; any question of her being Iam’s lover, and a lover of creation, was gone.

  “There,” Nesilia said. Sora’s arm rose to point toward great, sheer cliffs rising from the ice ahead. They were cold, gray slate, bleak but so beautiful. As they approached, the walls created a natural pass that shielded them from the harsh winds and whistled a gentle melody. Black-furred dire wolves stood out against the white sky, watching from atop the cliffs, and following them from up high down the pass

  “It is the time of Earthmoot,” Freydis said after a long spell of silence. She looked up, wide-eyed, at a sky so white and bright, it appeared like daytime. “The moons are high. Celeste is full, is she not? Redstar will be replaced by a new Arch Warlock.”

  “That is precisely why we are here, daughter,” Nesilia said.

  Sora could see pride wash over the warlock’s face at the title.

  “You will claim the throne that is rightfully yours, then?” Freydis stated.

  “No. The Drav Cra needs a new, mortal Arch Warlock to serve me. It needs you.”

  Freydis was stricken to silence. Sora felt her own lip curl. Since Nesilia entered her, she’d shared thoughts, memories even. Sora had a full understanding of what had happened in the God Feud so many years ago—or at least she understood what Nesilia thought had happened. But regarding Nesilia’s plan here in Drav Cra, there was only black, empty space.

  They walked in the quiet until a soft pounding filled the air. At first, it could have been mistaken for hoofbeats in the distance, but soon, Sora noticed the rhythm. It swelled as they walked, growing ever-closer. When the cliffs tapered off to meet the ground, Sora’s breath caught in her throat. In all her years being told of the harsh, wild North, she’d always pictured it as nothing more than snow and jagged ice, but what stood before her was a beautiful forest, trees topped with fresh snow, red and blue berry bushes.

  It was… beautiful.

  Even with the limited time she’d spent around the Drav Cra people—especially Redstar—Sora expected their land to be a place of death and darkness. But the woods teemed with life. Birds chirped and soared above. Even a white-furred deer skittered into the thicket when it saw her, powder kicking up behind it.

  “Home…” Nesilia said after a long breath. As if in response to her voice, a strong gust of wind tore through, shaking boughs and sending more birds to flight.

  “The Buried Hollow,” Freydis said.

  Together, they walked beneath the canopy of the Buried Hollow, but it wasn’t dark like the Webbed Woods. Here, Sora felt a strange sensation: hope. Her body practically glided through the trees at the will of the Buried Goddess, each root and branch bending to allow her unhindered passage without her even having to exert her body’s gifts. Even those same dire wolves arrived, nestling against her thigh and letting her stroke their backs. Sora knew they wouldn’t harm her, terrifying as they might appear.

  The power—raw and unadulterated—was exhilarating. For a moment, and it was only a fleeting one, Sora had forgotten the violation being done to her. Then she wanted to scream.

  “Just enjoy it,” Nesilia said internally, feeling Sora’s torment. “Let the pleasure of this place flow over you. Eyes like yours have never fell upon this sacred place, where Iam once proclaimed his love for me before he forgot me… like Liam and so many have forgotten you. Even your friend, the thief, I can’t feel his essence anywhere.”

  “No…” Sora whimpered, then felt pressure against the back of her neck and she suddenly became weak. Although she felt her body moving, in her mind, she was curled up into a tight ball, nothing but darkness all around her. In Nowhere.

  The next thing Sora remembered, they were deeper into the woods. It was now night, but the sky was bright and colorful. She’d never seen anything like it. Celeste was there, full, and this far north, her light must have been brighter. It burned with such ferocity it felt like daytime. Loutis was also full, however, he was just as haggard as ever. Surrounding them though were all shades of green, purples, and blues, but Celeste’s orange light overpowered them all. It reminded Sora of the fireworks in Yaolin City, but these were not manmade, nor were they made of magic.

  As her eyes and ears adjusted to the world around her, the soft thumping of drums became deafening.

  Nesilia smiled and said, “Are you ready?”

  Sora began to respond until she heard Freydis.

  “For what, my Lady?” Freydis asked.

  “To become all you’re capable of being.”

  Without waiting for a response, Nesilia carried Sora’s body in long strides. Moving forward, Sora noticed the orange glow she’d mistaken for Celeste’s were, instead, massive fires burning in huge basins just beyond a jutting outcrop and a break in the forest. Once she passed the escarpment, she could see them, and beyond those, the source of the driving beat.

  In a long line, at least a hundred Northmen stood shoulder to shoulder, wrapped in furs, covered in trinkets, faces painted and pounding on drums.

  Beneath a blanket of leaf-bare branches, she saw what could only be described as a temple cresting one of the foothills. Colossal stones, old and gray, sat in a tight circle with a roof overhead that came to a sharp point. Each was entirely covered with glyphs inscribed in a language that seemed to pre-date Drav Crava.

  In addition to the six bonfires—easily rising ten meters into the canopy above—there were hundreds of smaller flames burning on torches. Little figures moving throughout the hillock came into view, each stumbling through the trees.

  Where there should have been snow, there was now dry ground, the snow melted and the waters licked up by the flames. The heat was so intense, it felt like summer in Troborough. Nesilia let her hand pass through one of the flames on her way by, the fire circling up her arm in loving embrace before puffing away in smoke and embers.

  Silver goblets were everywhere, some turned over in the throes of passion, a liquid, red as blood, leaking from them. Drav Cra men and women were engaged in sexual acts in open air, no regard to those around them, and seemingly no discrimination toward gender. Sora had never seen such wanton lust in her life. Men and women alike, exposing their most private areas, everyone moving in rhythm with t
he drums, and the sounds. Moaning, flesh slapping against flesh, made her uncomfortable, but no one else seemed in the least bit bothered.

  Some bit each other, drawing blood and drinking as if it were wine. It stole her thoughts back to Kazimir, although these were no upyr. Branches descended from the trees to wrap the many painted warlocks as they bled, lifting them into the air as if the trees were alive. Embers burst forth from their eyes when they moaned in ecstasy.

  Nesilia sauntered through the place like nothing was wrong. Where Sora would have turned her head or shut her eyes, the Buried Goddess stared intently and thus, Sora was forced to do the same. Freydis still flanked her, but drifted several times to momentarily involve herself in the surrounding revelries. Sora suddenly found herself glad everyone was otherwise preoccupied. A Panpingese woman in the midst of all these Drav Cra, dressed in nothing but sticks and leaves, would have stuck out severely.

  It soon became clear that Nesilia intended to walk directly to the top of the hill and into the circle of stones itself. For the first time, Sora longed to sink back into Nowhere. She emptied her mind, stopped resisting, but the blackness didn’t come. It was as if something was keeping her alert this time.

  “You mustn’t look away from this,” Nesilia said, answering Sora’s thoughts. “This is life as it’s meant to be. Raw. Natural.”

  “Please, Nesilia, I don’t want to be here,” Sora replied. “You said you would help me. This isn’t help.”

  “You’ve been blinded by the world Iam left behind. A world of rules, of order. Walls, with those behind them and those beyond. Everyone afraid of being watched.”

  “I thought you loved him?” Sora asked.