Way of Gods

by Rhett C. Bruno

  She could not.

  The God of Sand and Sea was with her. The Siren had practically blessed her, and as her new army became clearer, Mahraveh daydreamed of little, pink-skinned heads on the sharp ends of blackwood spears.

  XL

  THE KNIGHT

  Torsten stood before the gates of the Glass Castle, left open so any man or woman of the kingdom might bid farewell to a member of the royal family. He’d expected that custom might be abandoned in consideration of how Oleander died, but it was better not to show fear. He only hoped Pi was adequately protected.

  Shieldsmen at the gate watched who came and went. There were few visitors compared to other royal wakes. Most citizens passed by and offered little more than a cursory glance toward the castle. Braver ones entered the bailey for a better view but went no further. At least they were honest.

  As Torsten delved across the open grounds and into the Great Hall, he felt sick. It seemed any noble who hadn’t been there in Valin’s playpen was filing in, appearing jovial and without a care. They picked at the food offered by castle handmaidens and gossiped amongst each other and with members of the Royal Council.

  Torsten had guarded enough of Oleander’s parties and other royal funerals to know the faces. Very few among them came from beyond Yarrington for this momentous and solemn occasion. Lord Eveliss, Duke of Fort Marimount, was there and some others Torsten knew to be loyal houses of the Crown, but most were like the Darkingses or the Jollys. Landowning families with respected names, sycophants waiting for their time to rise up the ladder, or those eager to earn enough favor to sit comfortably right where they already were for the rest of time, growing fat.

  “Torsten?” a gruff voice asked. Torsten spun and saw Lord Kaviel Jolly approaching. An empty sleeve hung from his left shoulder, no arm there to fill it. “Torsten, where in Elsewhere have you been?” he asked.

  Torsten leaned up on the balls of his toes to see if Lord Jolly was alone. “Busy,” he muttered as he continued toward the castle entry.

  “Busy?” Lord Jolly sounded appalled. “We were forced to plan the public viewing entirely without you. Sir Mulliner was left to handle all of your affairs. He may be the most experienced Shieldsman here, but he has little experience securing events like this.”

  Torsten paid him no attention, still craning his neck, scanning the crowd.

  “Torsten.” Lord Jolly pulled on Torsten’s shoulder and turned him around. “I understand grief, but as a member of the Royal Council I must remind you of our duty to the King and his family.”

  “Don’t dare talk to me about duty!” Torsten seized him by the collar. Lord Jolly winced, and Torsten quickly loosened his grip. “That’s all I’m thinking about. Where is Sir Mulliner?”

  “Beside the King; at the throne,” Lord Jolly said. “Where you should be.”

  Torsten grunted in frustration. He pushed Lord Jolly aside and stormed toward the grand, arched entry of the Throne Room.

  “Master Unger,” Lord Jolly implored, moving back in front of him. “You smell like you slept in a sewer. Please, if you cared for Oleander like I thought you did, go to your quarters. Draw a bath, clean yourself up and look presentable. There’s… is that blood on your blindfold?”

  Torsten stopped and regarded the West Tower. Lord Jolly was right. Torsten did look and smell like he belonged in a dungeon. More importantly, lying on his bed was Salvation—the sword Liam had carried into battle so many times—the sword which had slain Redstar.

  There’s nothing clean about what I must do, he reminded himself.

  “No, Lord Jolly,” Torsten said. “If you care for Oleander as much as you claim you did. If you truly moved down here to honor your brother and serve your king, then you will step aside so I can do what must be done.”

  Lord Jolly went to say something, then his throat caught. Torsten took it as an invitation to shove by him and into the Throne Room. Oleander petals were sprinkled around the Queen’s coffin, still right where he’d left it. Citizens cycled through, stopping beside her to pay their respects, or curse her cold corpse. They were meant to offer prayers, though most stopped to stare like she was a curiosity. They wanted a chance to see their shrew of a queen up close and find out if her beauty was overstated.

  It wasn’t.

  Last time Torsten couldn’t see her, but now he did. She wore her favorite azure dress, the bottom draping down from her pedestal and across the floor like cascading water. Even with his limited sight, Torsten could perceive the frilled ends, coated in flecks of diamond. Her long, silvery hair tumbled over her shoulders the way it would when she’d made Torsten check the back of her dress, or clasp one of her many necklaces though she had handmaidens to do it. A milky, crystalline mask covered the burnt half of her face, skin powdered at the edge, so it was impossible to see where she’d been damaged.

  Torsten’s heart began to race. He had to lean against a column to gather himself. He hadn’t seen her in a month, and now she looked like a porcelain doll.

  This is all too perfect for her.

  He drew a deep breath, then pushed his way through the line of citizens, earning scowls and grunts of disapproval. He struggled to merely glance at her as he passed by, struggled not to kneel by her side and remember all those times he was appalled by her, or feared her, until the moment he saw the true Oleander atop Mount Lister. The lioness who would do anything to protect her cub.

  “I’m glad you made it,” a familiar voice said. Father Morningweg stood by the Queen’s head, tracing his burned-out eyes in prayer with each passer-by. Torsten hadn’t noticed him before he’d spoken. The man actually looked like a real priest, with his head shaved, an Eye of Iam pendant hanging from his neck atop a white robe.

  Father Morningweg flicked his nose, face aimed straight at Torsten. “I could smell you coming from the entry,” he said.

  Torsten offered him a nod, wondering if the man could still see, and continued along. The Glass Throne lay ahead, fit for a king twice Pi’s size. Shieldsmen lined the exquisite carpet which unfurled from its dais. Members of the Royal Council were its foot, including Lord Jolly. Among them was none other than Valin Tehr—the apparently-already-appointed Master of Coin. He whispered something into Pi’s ear while the boy sat, chin in his palm, a thousand-meter gaze aimed toward his mother’s corpse.

  “Sir Unger,” one of the Shieldsmen saluted. Then another. None of them stopped him as he approached, and he was only a few meters away by the time Valin looked up, and the subtle grin was wiped off his face.

  “Torsten?” Pi said, sitting up. He slid to the edge of the oversized throne. “Torsten, where have you been?”

  All the color left Valin’s cheeks. “S… Sir Unger, we’ve missed you,” he said.

  Torsten bit back a response. He fell to a knee before the throne and lowered his head. “Your Grace, I’m so sorry I wasn’t here for you,” he said.

  “Mother trusted you,” Pi said. “I trusted you, and… and you weren’t here.”

  “A mistake only Iam can forgive.”

  “Have you been drinking, Sir Unger?” Valin said. “This isn’t the—”

  “You will be silent, snake!” Torsten roared. His voice echoed down the hall, casting a hush upon the crowd. He looked toward Valin, through the blessed blindfold that gave him sight. Valin couldn’t have known Torsten’s eyes now saw and were focused on him, but the way he squirmed and shifted his cane from one hand to the other was satisfaction enough.

  “Torsten, that is enough,” Pi said. “This isn’t the time. Lord Tehr provided all of this for mother, and I’m grateful.”

  “Your Grace, it’s clear Sir Unger is still in too much pain,” Valin addressed Pi. “We should fetch someone to escort him to his quarters quietly.”

  “Your Grace.” Torsten turned his attention directly toward Pi. The king’s head tilted as if he too felt that he was being looked at. “Do you remember the dream you told me about?” he said. “Of peace unlike even that which your father dreame
d of.”

  Pi nodded meekly.

  “It’s never too late,” Torsten said. “It wasn’t for your mother. It wasn’t for your father. He’d just… he’d lost the truth of Iam’s light. I don’t know when it happened, but we shouldn’t have let him lose sight.”

  “Your Grace, I know you care for Sir Unger, but he’s rambling like a drunkard,” Valin said. “Please, I insist we have him removed and finish this discussion later. This is your mother’s funeral, not a council meeting.”

  “I warned him of the same,” Lord Jolly said.

  Torsten could tell Pi wanted to say something, but he didn’t. He couldn’t.

  “Sir Mulliner, come here,” Torsten requested. The Shieldsman stood directly behind Pi, with a watch over the entire room. He looked from side to side, confused. “Please, I need your help getting up.”

  Pi and the rest remained still and silent for a long moment until Pi raised his hand and offered a slight wave. His expression showed pity for Torsten, the man he’d thought was his mentor—for what he now believed to be a cripple without a real place any longer.

  “I don’t know what happened to you, Sir Unger,” Mulliner said. “But you look worse than you did after Winde Port.” He took Torsten by the arm and lifted him. Torsten clutched his arm in return.

  “Si… Austun. Do you trust me?” he asked.

  “I thought I did.”

  “Humor me one last time.”

  “What is it?” Mulliner asked.

  Torsten exhaled slowly through his teeth. He knew there would be no going back. It was now or never, and he couldn’t allow himself to make the same mistakes he’d made in the past. Redstar lived and brought ruin to the Glass. Torsten could not allow Valin to do the same.

  “Iam forgive me,” he said. Then he tore the longsword from Mulliner’s sheath and pushed him aside. Lord Jolly threw himself in front of Pi, whose eyes went wide with fright. But not as wide as Valin’s.

  Torsten didn’t give him a chance to say anything and spread his poison. With one fluid swipe, Torsten slashed the blade and cleaved the head of South Corner’s biggest and only crime lord clean from his shoulders. Valin’s cane fell first, clanking against the marble even as his body dropped. Then his head landed with a thud and rolled to a stop at Torsten’s feet, tongue hanging out like he’d just missed his chance to get a last word in.

  An instant later, Mulliner tackled Torsten to the ground as he had too many times before. Swords and spears of a dozen Shieldsmen pointed at his neck. Torsten didn’t fight this time. He just looked up at the king, who gaped in horror at Valin’s headless body. Lord Jolly tried to shield him, but Pi didn’t let him. Then, the fray caused Torsten’s blindfold to be ripped off his head, and his world went dark again.

  “It was him, Your Grace,” Torsten said, calm as a lamb to the slaughter although he had to speak loudly for his voice to carry over the terror of Oleander’s crowd. “Rand, the Caleef, the Dom Nohzi… he was behind it all. I couldn’t let another deceiver steal your ear, no matter how rich.”

  “You’ve truly lost it this time!” Mulliner shouted. “Take this traitor away to the dungeons for good.”

  “There is proof, Your Grace!” Torsten said. His previous calm allowed a quick movement to free him for a second so he could breathe. “I saw it myself.”

  “For Iam’s sake, you can’t see,” Mulliner said. “Get him in cuffs before he murders someone else!”

  “I’ve never seen more clearly. Your Grace, I would never betray you. I swear it on your mother and father. I swear it on my own life.” Torsten wrestled free again, removed the shred of Valin’s letter, with Yuri Darkings’ signature emblazoned across the parchment, and slapped it down on the floor.

  Mulliner and the others then yanked Torsten backward, gaining full control of him. He’d somehow managed to find the blindfold and struggled to get it over his seared flesh. Through the mess of legs and limbs, Torsten saw Pi leap off his throne and pick up the fragile piece of paper.

  “Wait!” Pi said. Torsten heard the boy’s light footsteps near him, then the sound of fabric creasing as he knelt before him. “What is this?”

  “The truth,” Torsten fought to say.

  Torsten found himself staring into the eyes of the king. He couldn’t see color, but he knew how they matched Liam’s. Only, now that he wasn’t blinded by the brilliant shades of amber, he now saw Oleander’s in them too. Fierce and unyielding as the wild tundra from whence she came.

  Torsten reached out and grasped both sides of Pi’s face. “I see them both in you so clearly.”

  Pi patted Torsten’s scorched eyes over the blindfold. He appeared dumbfounded at first. Then his confusion turned to marvel. Torsten knew Wren and other priests long enough to understand how it was different when a blind man faced you, how no matter how close they were to looking at you, they were always slightly off. But Torsten’s focus never wavered.

  “How?” Pi whispered.

  “Iam is with us again,” Torsten replied. “Perhaps, he never left. We only needed to close our eyes and let him in.”

  XLI

  THE MYSTIC

  A day and a half had passed since Freydis descended below the muddy, bloody soil. Sora still found herself chained to a tree in the Buried Hollow. Her wrists burned and ached from the restraints, but Nesilia didn’t seem to care. She’d slept there, eaten there, relieved herself just beyond the borders of the pit—which was more than most of the savages did.

  The ceremony, which was supposed to be something sacred and beautiful, had turned into an orgy some time ago, and the Drav Cra had only become more drunk and belligerent. Sprouts rose from the dirt as warlocks surrendered and used their magic to send themselves up. They were then yanked to the surface by their ropes, and not punished, but celebrated. Dragged into unspeakable celebrations of their people.

  Listeners called out when they no longer heard heartbeats underground, their warlocks having pushed too far and suffocated alone. Nobody dug those failures up to check; they merely trusted the Listeners and sliced the rope. The dead were left to feed the earth and the maggots until they were no more than pale bone.

  By now, of the many who went under, only four remained buried and alive. Kotlkel, Sahades, Freydis, and young Wvenweigard were all beneath the plot of dirt Tihabat had listened to from the start, though now all the other listeners were in a circle around her, ears to the ground. Their ropes had tangled by then, now making it impossible to tell which line belonged to which warlock.

  Presently, a vine sprouted from the earth. It took a handful of Listeners to grab it and heave. Nesilia perked up to watch the body surface, and Sora couldn’t help but watch from Nowhere with great interest. Wvenweigard coughed on dirt and was revealed. He lasted long for one so young and was greeted with congratulations.

  Like he did with all those indwelling for the first time and becoming warlocks, Rathgorah greeted him personally.

  “You have lain with the Lady, and now drink of the blood of her first creation,” Oracle Rathgorah said. He held the bowl filled with his own blood and dripped a bit of it onto Wvenweigard’s tongue. “You are her warlock. Her hand upon this realm.”

  More cheers sounded. Other surviving warlocks, young and old, greeted Wvenweigard, bringing him food and drink. He smiled, but Sora could tell it was forced. Out of the corner of his eye, he watched Sora—no, not Sora, Sora’s body. He seemed glum when he should’ve been ecstatic.

  “He could’ve lasted longer,” Nesilia said within, as if Sora were asking. “But he believes.”

  “Then he’s a fool,” Sora answered. She said, but she couldn’t deny the anxiousness she now felt. Nesilia wasn’t feeling it alone. Only three remained, and only one could ensure nearly everybody in this forest wasn’t slaughtered by their own goddess for doubting her.

  “Unhand me, scallywag!” shouted a gruff voice. It was in such opposition to the overwhelmingly celebratory sounds surrounding the pit, impossible not to hear.

  A m
oment later, a towering figure stumbled through the dark of the woods and into the clearing: Grisham “Gold Grin” Gale, wearing half of King Liam’s Glass Crown stolen by Whitney what seemed like ages ago. A dire wolf walked at his back, snarling and keeping him briskly moving forward. He was an infamous pirate, scourge of all the seas, and his eyes were bright with terror. It was an unnerving sight. Behind them were what remained of the other pirates from his ship and a small army of Drav Cra warriors.

  “What is the meaning of this!” Oracle Rathgorah exclaimed. He was still weary, requiring his staff to stand. “On this most sacred of days!”

  Haral, dradinengor of the Dagson clan stepped in front of Gold Grin. She was now dressed like a proper warrior. Her hair was a nest of golden sunshine. Tight leathers hugged her massive frame beneath furs, and she carried a long spear.

  Nesilia shifted in a way that spoke of discomfort or confusion—not an emotion Sora was used to feeling from the goddess. Sora, however, felt hope rise.

  “That quim licker lied to us,” Haral said, pointing to Sora. “Just as Warlock Kotlkel prophesied.”

  “Haral, explain yourself.” Oracle Rathgorah rose to his full height, which had somehow become impressive. He trod across the filled pit. The Listeners didn’t flinch, didn’t even move from their spots listening to the soil, but nearly every man and woman present had stirred from their carnal revelries, lurking in the shadows of the trees, wearing furs or nothing but blood and dirt, the risen warlocks among them.

  “Before Kotlkel Dagson indwelled, he gave orders for us to find out what the Panpingese witch was up to,” Haral said. “He suspected there was foul play afoot, that the Glass were unsatisfied with driving us out of Yarrington and slaughtering our great, unified army, but sought to taint this sacred place as well.”

  “Seize her!” Haral shouted. Immediately, the warriors with her began to approach Sora.

  “Stop,” Rathgorah said softly. They all did. “She is chained to a tree and bound at the wrists and feet. What more do you want?”