Way of Gods

by Rhett C. Bruno

  “I don’t mean like that.” Pi hopped to his feet, and Torsten listened as he paced through the garden, running his hand along the budding flowers. “I just mean that maybe all the wars father fought are the problem. It’s all anyone seems to think about, yet the Glintish are happy to just… live. They don’t need Iam or armies to control them. They don’t need anything.”

  “I… I’m sorry Your Grace,” Torsten said. “I don’t know what you’re trying to say.”

  “That maybe it’s time we stop fighting. If the Black Sands don’t want to serve us or Iam, then maybe we stop forcing them. Let them find light in their own way.” His voice grew softer as he spoke.

  Torsten sighed. He stood and followed the sound of Pi’s footsteps until he could rest his hand on the boy’s shoulders. “You are wise beyond your years, Your Grace, but you have seen so very little. Your father made as many mistakes as any man, but fighting to unite Pantego wasn’t one of them, and very few are like the Glintish. They resist change, even for the better, and they cannot convince with songs or pretty pictures. We had twenty years of unprecedented peace when your father’s campaigns waned, and now, there are even some dwarves who see the light of Iam.”

  “And yet, here we are, at war.” Pi moved ahead to the next patch of flowers and Torsten was left behind, speechless. The way Pi spoke of change, like it was effortless—Torsten knew it was his youth, but he also envied it. And then he wondered what would happen if he listened; if he and the Wearer of White pulled their army out of the Black Sands and let Afhem Muskigo go, let them sort things out for themselves.

  “Mother!” Pi yelled suddenly.

  “My precious boy,” Oleander replied, her smooth, sultry voice carrying across the courtyard.

  “Your Grace,” spoke Lord Jolly.

  All the thoughts bouncing around Torsten’s head were squelched when he heard the voice of Oleander Nothhelm out of her quarters for the first time in a month. He spun too fast and caught his cane on a vine, but tore it free and followed the path toward them.

  “My Queen, you’re here?” Torsten asked.

  “Why, I suppose I am.” She cackled. “Foolish Torsten, did you forget where you are?” Torsten felt a gentle slap against his chest. Then he smelled it, wine coating her breath like poison on an assassin’s blade.

  “No,” Torsten said. “You’re just… not in your room.”

  “I wanted to see my son,” she said. “You’re the one who keeps telling me to show myself. So, look at me birds! Here I am! Let the flowers turn their colorful heads and look upon my grotesque face!”

  “They see only your masquerade mask, Oleander,” Lord Jolly laughed.

  “By Iam, you’re right. Look away, my son. Sir Unger, can you please break this in half?”

  Before Torsten could answer, he felt the porcelain and crystal mask Oleander had worn to so many of the extravagant parties she’d thrown as distractions for both herself and the kingdom after Liam grew ill.

  “Go on, Torsten,” Oleander goaded.

  “Are you listening, Sir Unger?” Lord Jolly laughed again. Torsten heard the gentle sloshing of liquid as Kaviel Jolly presumably raised his glass of wine to his lips. “She said break it.”

  “Your Grace, this was your favorite mask,” Torsten said as he ran his fingers along the bumps of the crystals set along its brow. “A gift from Liam after his visit to Myen Elnoir.”

  “Yes, and now it will keep me looking beautiful forever!” Oleander was drunk enough that her words came out almost incoherently. Torsten found himself wishing Pi was far away.

  “Your beauty was never in question, Your Grace,” Lord Jolly said. Torsten then heard the pluck of the man’s lips against her fingers.

  “Mother, since you’re here, would you like to go to the stables with me like we used to?” Pi asked, tugging hard enough on her sleeve to get her attention that Torsten heard it.

  “Damn it, Pi,” she snapped. “You made me spill.”

  “I’m sorry, Mother. I—”

  “Why don’t you run on ahead yourself. You know I don’t want to visit that ghastly place now that Sora is gone.”

  Torsten found himself startled by the name at first, forgetting for a moment that the Panpingese White Oleander used to ride shared a name with Whitney Fierstown’s blood mage friend.

  “Please, Mother?” Pi insisted.

  “Your Grace, why don’t you head up to your room and continue with your studies?” Torsten interrupted. “I think whoever we select to be our new Master of Coin will be very interested in your analysis.”

  “What an idea!” Oleander exclaimed. “Yes, my sweet child. Run along, and later I’ll be up to brush your hair and tell you stories about your incredible father.” She then whispered to Lord Jolly, “I’ll leave out the good parts.”

  Whatever Pi said next was squelched when she pulled him into a tight embrace and kissed his head too many times to count. “Now run along,” she said. “Be a child for Iam’s sake!”

  Torsten wasn’t sure where the boy was, but he nodded assuredly and hoped it was in the right direction. Then he heard Pi stomp off, and the snap of a branch as he broke one off a plant or tree.

  “Oleander, do you know how long he’s been waiting for you to come downstairs?” Torsten said.

  “Oh, don’t be such a bother, Torsten,” Oleander said. “I have a lifetime to spend with him. Who knows how long I have to catch up on old times with Lord Jolly before someone else in this forsaken castle dies.”

  “I didn’t realize you two were that close.”

  “She spent a great deal of time in my castle when Liam drove back Drad Ingriztt… how long ago was that again?”

  “Too long,” Oleander said.

  “Indeed. What a rare treat it was to host a noble that enjoys the harsh, cold life of Winter’s Thumb.”

  “I was no noble yet,” Oleander said. Then she spun and clapped boisterously “Speaking of cold. Clarice!”

  “Yes, Your Grace?” said one of her young handmaidens.

  “Fetch us some more wine and bring another glass for Sir Unger here.”

  “My Queen, are you sure this is a good—”

  “Lord Kaviel said he remembers you from back then,” Oleander said. “A brave Shieldsman defending his lands against the savages. Oh, whoops.” She snickered. “My people. That you were a brown dot amongst the snow, killing anyone who got in your way. And what is it you remember saying to Sir Uriah Davies from atop the wall?”

  “That if ever there was to be a next Wearer of White, it was you,” Lord Jolly said. “Even over my own brother.”

  “And then you handed the white helm over to someone else. Sweet Torsten. When will you learn that you never hand back power when someone is foolish enough to give it to you?”

  “Perhaps when I can see again,” Torsten said, biting his tongue. This was how Oleander used to get while Liam was sick, drunk and cruel. Like the bitter cold of the place she was born. Dump a glass of wine into her, and she knew how to cut through the heart of any man.

  “Oh, Torsten, don’t be bitter,” Oleander scoffed.

  “I’m not bitter, my Queen, just blind. How is it Lord Jolly managed to convince you to visit the gardens,” he asked, changing the subject.

  “I reminded her that she needn’t care what others think when they look at her,” Lord Kaviel said. “There isn’t one of them who wouldn’t trade places to live here.”

  “They need us, Torsten,” Oleander said.

  “Who?” Torsten asked.

  “All the rabble outside these walls. We help give their lives purpose, so why should I fear what they’ll think of me?”

  Torsten lifted her mask, still in one piece. “Then you won’t need this?”

  She snatched it out of his hands. “No. I like the way it looks.” She snapped in half and flung one side halfway into the bushes. Then, Torsten listened as she fussed with her hair to secure what remained over the scorched side of her face.

  “Radiant as th
e day I met you,” Lord Jolly said.

  “Kaviel Jolly, you lie like no other.”

  He laughed. “In that regard, I think your brother was ruler of the proverbial roost. We men of Iam are honest folk. Isn’t that right, Sir Unger?” Lord Jolly nudged Torsten in the side.

  “My brother,” Oleander hissed. “Damn that man.”

  “At least now he suffers in the lowest level of Elsewhere,” Kaviel said.

  “It’s still too good for him,” Oleander said.

  “Your Grace, here you are,” Clarice said. Torsten heard the timid footsteps of the handmaiden as she approached, then the gurgle of wine filling Oleander’s glass. “Lord Jolly,” she said as she turned her attention to his glass.

  She finished and back away.

  “Aren’t you forgetting something?” Oleander said, a harsh edge to her tone. “Sir Unger would like a glass.”

  “My Queen, it’s fine,” Torsten said. “It’s hard enough to walk without a stomach full of wine.”

  “That’s because you haven’t tried it yet!” Lord Jolly slapped Torsten on the back like they’d known each other for years. Apparently, wine also transformed him from a grump to a lush. Torsten preferred the grump.

  “Please, Oleander,” Torsten implored. “You know I can’t.”

  A few moments went by in silence, with Torsten left struggling to figure out if Oleander was angry with him. Finally, she barked at Clarice, “You heard Sir Unger! Leave us. Go on! My bedchambers haven’t been washed in ages.”

  Wine splashed on the pathway as the young women hurried away.

  Oleander sighed. “Where has good help all gone?”

  “Who knows,” Lord Jolly agreed.

  A vision of Tessa swinging from the walls crossed Torsten’s mind’s eye once more. He shook it away and said, “Oleander, Lord Kaviel, I hoped I might have a chance to speak with you about something I worry cannot be ignored much longer. Valin Tehr is a scourge, and I think we should reconsider—”

  “Work, work, work,” Oleander groaned. “Is that all there is to you?” She poured what had to be the entirety of her glass down her throat. “For the first time in a month, I feel like myself again.”

  “And I couldn’t be happier seeing you down here, but—”

  “Torsten, stop. Do, you know what I want? I want to walk out of the gates and have my people look upon me and know that I’m as strong as ever.”

  “And they will see that, Your Grace,” Lord Jolly said. “For there is nothing else to see.”

  “Then, it’s time for Yarrington to witness her Queen again. Torsten, will you be joining us?”

  “I… My Q—Oleander, it’s still dangerous outside of Old Yarrington.”

  “Then have some of your men follow us,” she said. “For Iam’s sake, Torsten.”

  Torsten heard her glass shatter against the ground, then the sharp clack of her heels as she set off back toward the castle. “Are you dullards coming?” she asked, then hiccuped.

  “How much wine did you give her?” Torsten asked Lord Kaviel, sticking out his cane to slow him.

  “No more than she needed, and no less,” he replied. “Turns out, all she needed to leave her room was to be treated like a human and not a glass sculpture.”

  “I thought you said to give her time?”

  “I tried a new strategy,” Lord Kaviel said.

  Torsten tugged on his sleeve. “Did you only come here to honor your brother and serve your kingdom?”

  “Relax, Sir Unger.” Lord Kaviel patted him on the chest. “The Jollys have pledged fealty to the Nothhelms for centuries. I know where my loyalties lie. But a strong woman like Oleander doesn’t deserve to be alone for the rest of her life. And all she’s surrounded by here are weak flower-pickers—if you’ll excuse the phrase—and Shieldsmen married to God.”

  “I said let’s go!” Oleander hollered back.

  Lord Kaviel got a head start before Torsten caught up. Men from Winter’s Thumb, especially Crowfall, were a proud bunch. It came from a lifetime defending their homes against raiders and surviving winters worse than Elsewhere. It took a lot to get a noble like Kaviel Jolly to consider moving south, but now Torsten knew what he really had his sights set on, and it made his skin crawl.

  Valin Tehr wanted to own the Crown’s coffers, Lord Jolly the Crown’s mother, and all without a voice of Iam to be found.

  XIX

  THE THIEF

  Fettingborough didn’t look much better off than Grambling, though that had nothing to do with the storm overhead. It wasn’t as destructive, leveling buildings and felling trees, but in the Wildlands, trees, rocks, and buildings were like lightning rods. Bolts flashed in every direction, striking near the same point multiple times. Which meant that tall, iron posts rose at intervals throughout the large town, absorbing the strikes.

  The troupe took up temporary shelter in the stables outside of town. Modera slid her legs off the carriage, her husband a bulbous shadow behind her.

  “Where are we going to set up, Modera?” Conmonoc asked.

  “Set up?” Whitney said. “Here? This season? We’ll be cooked before breakfast.”

  “What’re you scared?” Conmonoc said.

  “No, I just have a brain.”

  Lucindur glared at the two of them, but to Modera said. “I know you hate staying in the same place there’s money to be made.”

  “It ruins the mystery,” Fadra remarked. “The allure.”

  “Yes, but, I have to agree with Mr. Fierstown on this one,” Lucindur said, “especially with so many supplies needed.”

  “I agree as well,” Talwyn said softly.

  “Same,” said Gentry. A few others also agreed, especially those who, like Whitney, had the luxury of the troupe’s worst tents.

  Modera pursed her lips, then said, “Fine, but I expect everyone to cover the cost of lodging.”

  There was a quiet grumbling throughout the group.

  “Mr. Fierstown,” Modera said.

  “Uh… yeah?” Whitney stuttered, amazed that his proposal went over so well. That was one of the first things he’d learned about the troupe: how the Pompares’ loved to camp outside of the towns they passed through, and send performers in one at a time, as if they’d suddenly appeared out of Elsewhere.

  “You seem to like inns,” she said. “Find the best one and get us a deal. I could use a night outside of a carriage.”

  “My specialty,” Whitney replied, neglecting to mention that a night in the Pompares’ luxurious carriage was nothing to complain about.

  “How many specialties do you have?” Talwyn giggled.

  A witty, inappropriate response died on the tip of his tongue upon realizing who’d said it. “I’m still finding out,” he said instead.

  “Conmonoc,” Modera said.

  “Yes, Modera,” the big oaf replied, hurrying to her side like a hungry, stray dog.

  “Head to the markets with Lucindur and start replacing what we lost back in Grambling.”

  His features darkened at the task and said, “Yes, Modera.”

  “And do try to look intimidating, so she gets better deals. The rest of you, get to work! We’ve got a long night ahead to make things even after buying new supplies. A town like this, just north of the war, they’ll be desperate for a few smiles.”

  “Yes, Modera,” everyone chanted.

  Whitney motioned for Gentry to follow him and set off into town. Aquira swooped down from the roof of the stables and landed on Whitney’s shoulder. He scratched her neck with his knuckles.

  “You know, for a fire-breather, you sure like rain,” he said.

  She screeched in approval.

  “Though, I guess you do have scales,” Whitney added.

  Whitney and Gentry walked the town’s unimpressive streets, more mud than cobbles with all the rain. The place was quaint and not too busy. Despite what Modera said, making a killing would be as easy here as it was in Grambling. The town was filled with mostly the elderly, and mothers wi
th too many children to deal with alone. Here too, war had robbed the place of most of its working-age men.

  They better win at least, Whitney thought. He hadn’t a care for the wars waged by nobles and greedy men, but the Shesaitju deserved it for what they’d done to Troborough and Winde Port, not to mention all the other little villages like Oxgate. Slaughtering so many innocent people like sheep—savages.

  Whitney searched for the best of several inns—which, again, wasn’t saying much. The Grasslands were a place for country bumpkins, like Troborough spread across an entire region.

  The Five Round Trousers had ten rooms available—more than sufficient accommodations for the troupe. After confirming with the Pompares that it would meet their posh standards and negotiating a rate by promising that Whitney and Aquira would only perform in that inn, Whitney procured the rooms and had the owner prepare food. The long-bearded fellow’s eyes lit up like he hadn’t served so many paying customers in years.

  Whitney took off water-logged boots and plopped down at a table by the inn’s hearth. The place was almost entirely empty save for a few haggard, toothless old-timers yammering about better days. Even though it wasn’t evening yet, Whitney didn’t expect it to get much better. Aquira curled up in a ball by his feet, nearly inside the fire.

  “Shouldn’t we find spots to start earning?” Gentry said.

  “We’ve been on the move for days, kid,” Whitney said. He slapped the table. “Take a load off; eat a bit. Modera loves me after all.”

  Gentry’s eyes darted nervously from side to side as if the Pompares were watching. They weren’t. They were too busy in their luxurious carriage by the stables counting the gold Whitney’d saved them.

  “C’mon, we’ll make a killing tonight,” Whitney said. “Work together again.”

  “Fine,” Gentry said. “But no more ale.”

  It didn’t take long for the rest of the troupe to file into the tavern since they weren’t always under the watch of the Pompares in a camp. Even performers needed some time to unwind. It was still early.

  Whitney turned toward the hearth and breathed in the hot air. It felt good, drying Whitney after day’s worth of rain. As he turned away, he realized that they all smelled like mud and sweat after traveling. They all needed a hot bath, though, this wouldn’t be the kind of place they’d find one. They’d barely get hot food.