Way of Gods

by Rhett C. Bruno

  “There’s no way I could show Sora to you if she is in the Red Tower.”

  “A red tower? Who said anything about a red tower?” Whitney asked.

  “Not a red tower, the Red Tower,” Lucindur clarified. “Where you saw her… she was in the mystic’s hold. The Red Tower on Lake Yaolin.”

  “That dilapidated old sundial?” Whitney asked, having been to Yaolin City many times in his travels. “I’ve heard Liam had that place locked up decades ago.”

  “It may look rundown from the outside, but I assure you, the Tower is filled with powers unknown anywhere else in Pantego. There’s no way I can show Sora to you if she is still in that place.”

  Whitney’s head drooped. It might have been the ale, but he finally gave in to his emotions. “So, I’m right where we started.” Tears welled in the corners of his eyes, and he allowed one to dribble down his check for the first time in as long as he could remember.

  “I am sorry, Whitney. Truly, I am.”

  “It’s fine.” He hiccoughed. “At least someone believes what happened.”

  “Come on, let me help you upstairs. We can discuss this again at a more sober time.” Lucindur circled the table and wrapped her arm around his to help him.

  “No, you’ve done enough.” He pulled free and stumbled into the next table.

  “Watch it!” A dwarf in a hooded cloak glared up at him, having spilled some ale onto his red beard.

  “Sorry, my tiny friend,” Whitney slurred. He attempted to perform a flourished bow but stumbled again, and Lucindur helped him stand. He smiled up at her, straightened his collar, then patted her on the shoulders. “Thank you, but this isn’t my first drunken night.”

  “Sleep well, then, and know that hope is not yet lost. I will spend the night looking for Sora.”

  “You’re as sweet as your daughter.” Whitney pecked her on the cheek before she could get out of the way, then made his way to the stairs.

  “Are you okay?” Gentry whispered, pausing his performance.

  “I’m fine, kid,” Whitney said. “You’re doing great.”

  “Whitney, you need to earn.”

  Whitney slapped his hand over the handrail of the stairs up to the rooms. Aquira landed atop the post at the same time, causes him to yelp in fright. He clutched his chest and chuckled nervously.

  “Aquira will earn for me,” Whitney said as he pulled himself up the first stair. Aquira started to follow. “No,” he said. “Stay with him.”

  Aquira’s eyes narrowed, but as Whitney continued pulling himself up, she didn’t follow. He knew it was probably the alcohol, but he wanted to be alone, and that included her. After telling his story, he needed a break from everything that reminded him of Sora and Elsewhere.

  The same dwarf shoved past Whitney on the stairs.

  “Hey, you watch it!” Whitney slurred, stumbling down a step or three.

  Gentry shouted something after him, though he wasn’t sure what. And he heard Lucindur calming the boy before he rounded into the top of the hall. He tripped on the top stair and caught himself on a wall painting depicting five fat men in the largest pairs of trousers he’d ever seen.

  “So that’s where the name comes from, eh?” he said. He laughed at himself, then staggered over to the door of his room and fumbled to find the key.

  “A lightmancer, right,” Whitney scoffed. “What a joke. That’s about as likely as…”

  Whitney found the rest of his words muffled as blackness closed in around his head. He found the taste and texture of dirty cloth against his mouth. Then something hard smashed against the back of his head.

  “Got ye, thief,” someone whispered in his ear before he passed out.

  XX

  THE MYSTIC

  Despite Freydis’ attempts to dissuade the crowd, and Sora’s own insistence that she was, in fact, the Buried Goddess, she and Freydis now stood before Oracle Rathgorah and the other warlocks. Kotlkel sidled up to Rathgorah and whispered something to him. Even Nesilia knew little of the man beyond what he and Freydis had discussed since he was so young, but it didn’t take a reservoir of memories to know that his past vocal opposition of Redstar gave him sway over the other warlocks and that he was favored to claim Redstar’s title.

  They stood in the place where the Earthmoot would take place in mere hours, which Sora knew because Nesilia knew. A circular pit, east of the temple and beyond the revelers and orgies was filled with soil, four log benches bordering it. Strung high above, hanging from ropes tied to branches, were the carcasses of a hundred hoofed animals. From some, blood still leaked out and into the muddy dirt below. Others were bone dry. The steady dripping sounded like a gentle rain.

  “Oracle Rathgorah, please listen to reason,” Freydis said.

  “What you are asking us to believe,” Kotlkel Dagson interrupted, “is that this Panpingese woman is our Lady? That’s preposterous in every form of the word. What happened to you under the possession of the Glassmen?”

  Freydis regarded Oracle Rathgorah. He returned a look that said, “Answer the question.” Freydis then looked to Sora, who she still believed to be Nesilia.

  “Go on,” Sora said, feigning the confidence of the Buried Goddess. Inside, she could feel the goddess’s anger brewing and hoped Nesilia had been just as uncomfortable feeling Sora’s every emotion. Being out of control. “Tell them exactly what had happened in Yarrington.”

  Freydis recounted the story of Redstar’s thought-to-have-been-failed attempt to bring Nesilia back to the physical plane. She told of how she’d been caught and brought for trial, explained that she’d escaped by biting off her own tongue.

  Rathgorah laughed, then said, “You speak well for one without a tongue.”

  “The Lady… she restored it,” Freydis said. “As I’ve already told you.”

  “The Panpingese mystic performed magics of her pantheon of lesser gods, you mean,” Kotlkel offered. “Those shunned by both Iam and Nesilia.”

  Freydis sighed and looked to Sora again, who offered a smug grin, trying her best to mimic the exact facial expression she’d felt Nesilia make. It was disturbing to know that someone else could make a face so foreign to Sora using her own muscles. Having never seen it, she hoped it was right.

  “I am no fool,” Freydis spat. “I have felt the presence of our Lady, just as each of you has. It has carried on the wind, saturated our furs in the rain. I have tasted her in the dirt of the field, and in the blood of my enemies. Never before have I been so sure of anything. This vessel… it is just that—an empty husk but within that frail form is Lady Nesilia in all her glory.”

  Kotlkel clapped slowly. “Beautiful words, Freydis. Convincing. Just like Redstar was before he got so many faithful killed. It is time we worry only about our own lands.”

  “They are more than mere words. You are not Arch Warlock yet, Kotlkel Dagson. Don’t you dare presume to lecture me like I’m some child. I am Freydis of the Ruuhar Clan, and Arch Warlock is my destiny.”

  “No one is questioning who you are, but it is clear the ways you’ve learned are not the best for our people. Death, bringing foreigners here—what might you do next?”

  “Kill you for starters,” Freydis hissed.

  There will be no Drav Cra blood spilled in this sacred place,” Oracle Rathgorah said. “We should be preparing for the Earthmoot instead of listening to this insane babbling.”

  “Just as I am saying, Oracle. It is clear she might have been… tainted. We all felt it on the air as she entered the forest. And it is clear Redstar’s mission was a farce. All that time spent—for what?”

  “You waste their time.” Freydis spun and pointed to all the gathering warlocks and Drav Cra men and woman. Sora hadn’t realized how many had gathered around the temple by then. “We all know the Earthmoot is a formality. Redstar chose me as his second because he knew my power. The same reason he rejected you as a child, Kotlkel. Are you still bitter?” “Bitter?” he scoffed. “I’m glad I wasn’t manipulated as you wh
en my mind was weak as you’d been.”

  “I followed because I have faith. You indwelled me yourself when my time came, Oracle. I am a warlock, chosen by Redstar. Perhaps I might die, but you cannot keep me from the earth.”

  “This is nothing to take lightly. Even if the Lady speaks—” Oracle Rathgorah said before Freydis cut him off.

  “If? Kotlkel Dagson is a boy! Has he ever looked into the eyes of our enemies and burned them out? All of these…” She motioned to the other warlocks prepared for indwelling. “Children! You would trust a child to rule us all? Who are we—the Glass? Are we no better than those fools?”

  “If this is our Lady, tell me: why does she just stand there?” Kotlkel asked.

  It was a good question. Sora had so many memories to dig through to try and figure out what was going on. She couldn’t help but watch. So few in the world knew anything of the Drav Cra’s ways.

  “Why not call forth the mountains to rise from the sea?” Kotlkel went on. “Why does she not demand the gallers return from their migration and blot out the sky with their flapping wings?”

  “I do not hold power over the Buried Goddess,” Freydis said.

  “Ah, yes. Of course. Well, you’ve been away, Freydis. You do not understand. With all that has happened in Yarrington and beyond—”

  “I don’t understand? I was in Yarrington. Or did you forget that while you and your ilk were here dreaming of flowers and warm winters, I was there? I saw the Goddess rise from her dirt tomb. Watched as all of Elsewhere responded to her voice. She has called me to this. And she will not—I will not be denied.”

  “Ah, a bit of truth in her words,” Kotlkel said to the gathering. “So concerned she is with her own position. Why should we not believe this to be some kind of trick?”

  “I’ve heard her voice—”

  “Freydis,” Oracle Rathgorah leaned in, his eyes drifting to Sora, and whispered, “I am not convinced the foreigner’s voice can be trusted.”

  “That is blasphemy,” Freydis said taking a stride toward the man. Near a dozen hands grabbed her and pulled her back.

  “Redstar failed. It’s time to move on.”

  “If he were here, he would separate your head from your shoulders, that smug face and all. You say he failed, but I—who was there—not only tell you he didn’t, but bring proof of it.”

  “I’ve heard enough,” Rathgorah said. “Without an Arch Warlock, we have no one to make this decision. Never in all my centuries have I been so perplexed. I’m sorry Freydis, but in past, present, or future there is no precedence for this. The risk of giving you power when you may be a spy for the enemy is too great.”

  “I’m not—“

  “I propose she be locked up and bound until the Earthmoot is complete. Maybe then we will receive an answer from our Lady.”

  “So, you would deny me my right as a warlock?” Freydis could no longer restrain her voice. The veins on her throat.

  “If the Light of Iam has tainted her, we risk tainting the whole ceremony. This is not right.”

  Oracle Rathgorah scratched his chin with the top of his staff. Then he turned to the gathering of warlocks. “What say you, people of this holy tundra?”

  There was a mixture of responses ranging from moderate support to outright refusal.

  “Oracle, may I?” one of the female warlocks said, stepping forward.

  Rathgorah motioned in affirmation.

  The woman had wild hair and clothes even sloppier, like the mad witches in storybooks the mothers of Troborough used to read to children. Of course… the witches in Wetzel’s stories were real and horrifying. She stepped so close to Freydis’ their noses touched. It was difficult to tell her age with her face covered in chipped paint, but she was clearly older than Freydis.

  “Freydis?” the woman said quietly.

  “Sahades, it is me,” Freydis replied. “I am not crazy, nor am I tainted. It is I who you held as a girl.”

  Sora watched as the warlock called Sahades lifted her hand and placed it behind Freydis’ neck. She stared into them a moment, then their lips met. They stayed that way several seconds before Sahades pulled away, panting. Her eyes went wide, and she said, “Freydis,” again—softer this time.

  Sahades turned to the Oracle Rathgorah and Kotlkel Dagson and said, “She’s not tainted.” Then to the other warlocks, she said, “This is the Freydis we all knew. Of that, I have no doubt. She must indwell.”

  More arguing broke out. Sora could hardly keep track of it, and she realized as she watched, that her life depended on how convincing Freydis could be—of all people, a woman who served as Redstar’s own right hand.

  “Even in control, you are out of it,” Nesilia said to her within. “Why bother trying?”

  Sora squeezed her temples between her thumb and index finger. Holding Nesilia back was draining on her. Her head pounded. Her muscles stung under the strain.

  Oracle Rathgorah paced around his stone table. He had his eyes closed as if listening to the tune of the rattling bones around him. He ran his finger around the rim of the blood-filled bowl. Bring it to his lips, he chanted in Drav Crava and swept his hands across the air.

  Specs of pure darkness exploded from his mouth, swirling about above him before taking the shape of Freydis herself in shadow. Seeing the display cast silence upon nearly everyone but a few. Shadow Freydis shot through the air, plunging through real Freydis’ chest. The warlock lurched as if struck by a club, then gasped for air. The blackness spewed from her mouth, then vanished.

  “Skorravik has spoken,” Rathgorah said finally, listening to the spirits. “Freydis will indwell. If the Lady has chosen her, she will rise like any other. If not, she will perish, and with her, this one she claims to be our Lady will die as well.”

  “And if she is our Lady, she cannot die,” Sahades added.

  Rathgorah looked into Sora’s eyes, expecting a response. She wanted to say “No,” but she couldn’t. Nesilia resisted and held her mouth shut. And before she gained back total control of her muscles, Nesilia forced a nod.

  “Look what you’ve done now,” Nesilia said within. “Put our life in the hands of… what do you think of them? Savages… So cruel, from a girl with enough scars to compete with any of them.”

  “Is it agreed?” Rathgorah said.

  “This quim licker kisses her, and suddenly all our minds are changed?” Kotlkel said, gesturing to Sahades.

  “This quim licker has served the will of the Lady twice as long as you have,” Sahades said.

  “She is a liar like Redstar!” Kotlkel said. “The Ruuhars cannot be trusted.”

  “Enough,” Oracle Rathgorah said. “It is decided by those who came before, for we in the present are shortsighted. We should celebrate the return of our sister from the dead until she forces us not to.”

  “Bareese mista u lafe!” Kotlkel swore and flapped his robes as he stomped off. A warrior at his back greeted him, and they exchanged a few heated words. She was a woman, gray of hair, but the largest woman Sora had ever seen. She wore fur armor and had an axe on her back.

  “That is Haral, Dradengor of the Dagson clan,” Nesilia informed Sora. “She is Kotlkel’s mother, and one of the greatest warriors in all the tundra. Why do you fight us? Here, a woman can be anything… even king. Better than being forgotten.”

  “Quiet!” Sora whispered to herself, earning a few confused glares from those nearby.

  “Let him go,” Rathgorah said. “He will cool down before the Earthmoot, or he will be the first to breathe in the dirt and enter into death. Either way, the Lady will have spoken.”

  “If she even speaks at all,” said one of the warlocks eliciting several grunts of agreement.

  “On this, the day marking when her Lady gave her life only to be forgotten beneath the holy soil, you dare question her?” Freydis said.

  “It is okay,” Sora said, once again doing her best to mimic Nesilia’s tone and cadence. “They will learn the truth.”

  Or
acle Rathgorah stepped forward and placed his hand on Freydis’ shoulder. “Freydis, go. Prepare yourself with the others. You’re right. I buried you here when it was your time to siphon the Lady’ power from the earth into your blood. I should have given you the benefit of the doubt. We all should have. Don’t make a fool of us.”

  “I won’t, Oracle,” Freydis said. “But what of her?” She nodded toward Sora.

  “I will be bound,” Nesilia said out loud. Sora was so focused on figuring out her surroundings, she hadn’t even noticed Nesilia had gained control again. Sora pushed but failed. “If you do not rise,” she said to Freydis, “they will crucify me just as they would any other foreign intruder.”

  Sora screamed, “No!” but Nesilia’s smirk had already returned. Her voice never emerged, echoing endlessly in Nowhere. Sora’s heart sank. She knew Nesilia’s heart, and now it was clear. Nesilia had never intended to kill Rathgorah, the keeper of legend in the Buried Forest. She teased Sora with control, merely to show her how out of control she truly was.

  Freydis’ turned to Rathgorah for an answer.

  “She speaks the truth. She will be bound, and if you fail, she will join the Glassmen in Exile. Her blood shall wet the earth, feeding our new warlocks. Her power will become our power.”

  Freydis glanced back at Nesilia. Concern twisted her features.

  “Any of them can suffocate down there,” Sora said within. “She can die.”

  “Not if she’s worthy,” Nesilia replied to Sora alone. “You think I don’t want this body? I assure you, my dear. There’s nothing I do without reason. Freydis is nothing compared to you, daughter of Kings and Ancients.

  Rathgorah turned back to his stone table and hunched over it. He seemed exhausted from all the arguing and exhaustion. “Whether this Panpingese woman truly is touched by our Lady is yet to be determined,” he said to Freydis without looking back, “but one thing is true: she believes in you.”

  XXI

  THE DAUGHTER