A Painted Goddess

by Victor Gischler

  Alem tugged on some of the thicker vines. They held. He began climbing.

  It was slow work, and often he had to switch to another vine or climb sideways for a while until he found the best way up. Sweat ran into his eyes and down his back. The need for water would soon outweigh everything else, but he tried to put that thought out of his mind.

  At the top, he discovered the vines and weeds had obscured the crenellation design. He pulled the weeds out, removed the vines, and heaved himself between two battlements. He sprawled on his back and gulped air, arms and legs sore.

  A few minutes later—or maybe it was an hour—he heaved himself to his feet and began to explore the top of the tower. It was carpeted with a mix of dead vines and live ones. He walked carefully. He wasn’t sure, but it felt like solid stone under all the vines. When he reached the far side of the tower, the floor beneath his feet sagged and creaked. He stepped back abruptly.

  With one foot he prodded the area. Three feet by three feet. He went to his hands and knees and clawed at the accumulation of vines. He wondered how often a really big storm blew through and cleared out the foliage. It was sweaty work, and his shirt was soaked through by the time he was finished.

  He stood, hands on hips, looking down at what he’d found.

  A wooden hatch. The same sort you might find at the top of any other tower. Much of the wood was rotten, and the hinges were completely rusted.

  But it was a door. He could get inside.

  And why in Dumo’s name would you want to do that, thicko?

  Because if he were just running away from something, he could have stopped in Kern, found a job, and had his safe little life. But he’d taken to the sea with Tosh and Maurizan and the others. Had gone all the way to Sherrik, all the way to the Red City. He’d come a long way to find something—admittedly he wasn’t sure what exactly—but he wasn’t about to back down now. They’d been close to the spot on Maurizan’s map when he and the gypsy had gone overboard in the storm. Maybe this was the place they’d been looking for.

  Really there was no choice at all.

  He bent, grabbed the iron ring, and pulled. The rusty hinges moaned and creaked. Halfway open, the ring came loose from the rotted wood and the hinges crumbled to dust. The hatch and the remnants of the hinges fell and clanged and clinked down into the opening. It seemed to go on forever, bouncing and falling down the stone steps, the clamor echoing back up to him.

  Alem stood, held his breath, waited.

  If the racket had disturbed any ghosts below, they didn’t swarm up to confront him. He looked over the edge and down into the dark opening. Stone stairs spiraling down and down and down.

  Things he didn’t have: A torch. A lantern.

  Even if he could fashion a torch from some of the dried vines, how would he light it? He didn’t have flint. He wouldn’t get far if he couldn’t see. He didn’t like the idea of climbing back down the outside of the tower, but if he couldn’t figure out how to—

  Thicko. You have a light.

  Alem drew the sword.

  It glowed, not as bright as a lantern, but in complete darkness it would be more than enough.

  He took a deep breath and began his descent, blade out in front of him to fend off the darkness.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  In through the nose. Out through the mouth.

  Empress Mee Hra’Lito sat cross-legged and focused on her breathing, eyes closed. She was afraid all the time. Afraid for the fleet she’d sent to Helva under Thorn’s command. Afraid it wouldn’t come back. Afraid what would happen while they were gone. The fate of the entire Perranese Empire hinged on her decisions, yet she’d never felt so helpless. The fear might paralyze her if she let it.

  Meditation helped only a little.

  In through the nose. Out through the mouth.

  A knock at the door.

  These were her personal apartments. Any knock on the door—disturbing her—meant trouble. She was not prepared to receive. She wore only a loose gown and slippers. No ceremonial makeup. Her hair was loose. It was all highly inappropriate.

  Mee had the sick feeling the proprieties no longer mattered.

  The knock again.

  “Come in,” said the empress.

  The door swung open, and a man entered. It took her a moment to recall his name. Bel’Fre Logan. Third steward. At least two ranks below anyone who should be in the imperial apartments.

  This was bad.

  Bel’Fre Logan fell to his knees and bent forward, his forehead touching the floor. “Abject apologies for disturbing you, your imperial majesty.”

  Mee forced her voice to be calm, even icy. “Why are you here, Bel’Fre Logan? Where are the first and second stewards?”

  “It is with great regret that I report their demise,” said the third steward.

  “Explain.”

  “The first and second stewards led a mutiny within the palace,” Bel’Fre Logan said. “When it was put down, they were slain. Order has been restored.”

  Fear rose within her. She smashed it down. The empress offered the outward appearance of calm. “Please tell me what instigated the mutiny.”

  “The city is lost, your majesty,” reported the third steward. “The city watch is gone, and the citizens have stormed the outer wall. Your personal guard has retreated to the palace and sealed themselves within. Some felt the situation desperate and . . . elected to effect a change in leadership.”

  Mee thought about that.

  In through the nose. Out through the mouth.

  “My compliments to those who remained loyal.”

  “Thank you,” the third steward said.

  “How long can we hold out?” she asked.

  “The palace is sealed, and we have provisions for many weeks.”

  Provisions. It was a lack of provisions that had caused the riots in the city in the first place. A hungry population would be coming for those provisions. How long her personal guard could keep them out remained to be seen.

  The city was lost. Perhaps the Empire too.

  A slim thread of hope remained. That the fleet would conquer Helva and return victorious.

  “Good work, Bel’Fre Logan,” she said. “Please see to the palace’s defenses and keep me informed.”

  Bremmer had dreamed often since slaying Glex during the Great Reconstitution and bringing Mordis back from the realm of the gods. Nightmares vague but heavy with dread.

  But this dream was so vivid and realistic that when Bremmer awoke, he thought he was still on the island. He saw through the eyes of some unknown pilgrim. A temple being torn asunder by some great conflict. One in spiked armor, circled in flame. The other looked like a woman, a bright glow about her. Powerful but losing the struggle.

  Debris fell all around him, the temple shaking apart. Bremmer screamed, threw up his arms to protect his head from the falling rubble. He blinked, drew in a sharp breath.

  He was in his own room, on the floor next to his bed, his nightshirt soaked with sweat, hair matted.

  The door flew open, and a figure stood there holding a lantern, flooding the room with light. “Abbot Bremmer? We heard a scream.”

  “It’s . . . it’s okay.” Bremmer staggered to his feet. “Get my robes, acolyte. Help me get dressed.”

  “At this hour?”

  “Now,” Bremmer snapped. “I must consult with Mordis.”

  The acolyte blanched and swallowed hard. “M-Mordis?”

  “Stop wasting time, fool. Get me dressed.”

  Moments later, he had his robes and furs on. Even the short walk from the abbot’s lodge to the great temple was too bitterly cold to go without the furs. The Mother Temple of Mordis was located high in the frozen wastes.

  Probably some sort of test, building the temple here, Bremmer thought. Pilgrimages up to the mother temple wouldn’t mean so much if the road were lined with cozy taverns and warm inns.

  The acolytes with him paused at the temple door.

  “Go back to
the lodge,” Bremmer said. “I’m going in alone.”

  Their relief was palpable. They bowed quickly, then scampered back along the path to the lodge, stepping and looking back to see if the abbot would actually enter.

  Bremmer paused, took a deep breath, then went inside.

  Even prepared for it, the presence of a god almost knocked him to his knees. The entire temple vibrated with raw power.

  Mordis sat on the altar as if it were a throne. He hadn’t moved from that spot since arriving via the Great Reconstitution. He sat with the blur of heat around him, skin glowing red, fire pulsing below the surface like lava. The heat coming off him made it hard to breathe. Bremmer felt like his lungs were being seared.

  None of the other priests could endure Mordis’s presence for more than a few seconds. Since Bremmer had been the one to initiate the Great Reconstitution, he thought it possible the ritual had created some bond with Mordis that let them communicate.

  Not that Mordis had been very talkative. All Bremmer knew was that something big was coming, and Mordis was waiting.

  But the dream was different. Some instinct told Bremmer to come to Mordis.

  Bremmer bowed low. “Exalted One.”

  “I did not summon you.” Mordis’s voice was a rumble that filled the temple. It felt like a thousand horses stampeded past him, the vibration coming up through the soles of his feet and into his bones.

  “Your pardon, Exalted One,” Bremmer said. “But I’ve had a dream.”

  He realized how feeble it sounded as soon as it was out of his mouth. A dream. So what?

  But Mordis didn’t smash him flat like the insect he was. He simply said, “Tell me,” and again the deep rumble.

  So Bremmer told him. A temple on an island in a lake. Two gods locked in battle. The beautiful woman and the monstrosity in the spiked armor.

  “Zereen—goddess of clouds, mists, and fogs—is dead,” Mordis intoned.

  Bremmer felt his heart twist with the news. He had no special feelings for Zereen, had never even met any of her worshippers.

  But a goddess slain? That’s unheard of. If the world is ending, is this how it starts?

  “What do we do now?”

  Bremmer hadn’t really meant it as a question. He’d simply spoken his fear out loud. What do they do now? What can be done? If gods are killing each other, how can simple men like Bremmer possibly live through such times?

  But Mordis chose to answer. “A great change is coming.”

  Mordis’s voice was like a great weight placed on Bremmer’s shoulders. He went to one knee, gritting his teeth, bones vibrating with each syllable. Surely the temple was about to shake apart.

  “The battle for dominion has begun,” Mordis boomed. “And it will come to our very doorstep.”

  Before Bremmer could even form a question, his mind filled with understanding. Mordis poured the knowledge of what was to come directly into Bremmer, as if he were an empty vessel waiting to be filled. Bremmer went blind, vision flaring white as he fell to the steps before the altar, writhed there as Mordis opened his consciousness to the cosmos.

  Bremmer filled to bursting with knowledge no mortal should ever glimpse. This was the price to be the chosen of Mordis.

  When he finally blinked his eyes clear, Bremmer was staggering down the steps in front of the temple. He had no recollection of how he’d gotten there. Had Mordis dismissed him, or had Bremmer fled?

  His knees went watery, and he pitched forward down the stairs, landing face-first in the deep snow.

  A moment later, he felt himself being lifted. The acolytes had decided to wait for him after all. They had him under each arm, dragging him back toward the lodge. Bless their stupid, dogged loyalty.

  “Abbot Bremmer, are you okay?”

  Bremmer tried to talk. His mouth felt swollen and numb. His whole face pulsed with his heartbeat. He still wasn’t sure what had just happened to him. He was alive, and a part of him found that miraculous. What had Mordis done? Bremmer knew things he couldn’t put into words.

  “It’s happening.” Bremmer panted, felt dizzy. “It’s all changing. He’s coming. I tell you, he’s coming!”

  The acolytes exchanged puzzled looks. One asked, “Who’s coming?”

  “Akram!” Bremmer shouted. “The god of war!”

  “The god of what?” Brasley asked impatiently.

  “The god of grass and clover, Baron Hammish.”

  Brasley frowned and massaged his temples. “Look, I have a blistering hangover, and if that’s your idea of a joke, I’m not in the mood.”

  “A joke?” Olgen’s face was blank with noncomprehension.

  “Why in blazes would grass need a god? I thought you were going to tell me about this blasted mural.” Brasley gestured at the artwork in front of him.

  The mural took up the entire wall between Olgen’s bedroom door and Brasley’s. It was exquisite and detailed work, and after passing it a number of times, Brasley finally decided to pause and have a look. It was a scene in a garden, a lot of gods and goddesses—a lot of them—all standing in admiration of a single goddess elevated on a glowing throne. When Olgen saw Brasley admiring the illustration, he volunteered to hold forth, at length, on the historical significance of the depiction.

  Brasley admitted he didn’t realize there were so many gods and goddesses. The mural was practically overflowing with them. Olgen pointed out that not all gods and goddesses were popular enough to have temples and worshippers but did agree there did seem to be an absurd number of them. It was then that Olgen had begun to list a number of the lesser deities, including Elizir, the god of grass and clover.

  “I mean, yes, he’s literally the god of grass,” Olgen explained. “But it’s more than that. It’s what grass represents. That’s how it is with all the gods.”

  “And what, pray tell, is grass supposed to represent?” Brasley asked.

  Olgen shrugged. “Well, I don’t quite know really. Not my field.”

  “Grass is not your field?” Brasley scolded. “Is that another bad joke?”

  “I just mean, I only know the basics from a historical context,” Olgen said. “I’m no theologian. Grass might mean a carefree stroll on the lawn on a spring morning. I don’t know. But I’m told all of the gods and goddesses represent something literal but also something more abstract.”

  Brasley scoffed. “How do you know these are even gods and goddesses at all? Could just be a random bunch of poncy overdressed bastards flitting about a garden.”

  “Well, Dumo’s throne is clearly rising on a wave of heavenly light.”

  “Okay, that’s a fair point.”

  “Also, this is one of the most famous scenes in religious history,” Olgen said.

  Brasley shuffled his feet and cleared his throat. “Of course it is. It’s obviously the . . . the scene of . . . It’s on the tip of my tongue.”

  “The crowning of Dumo,” Olgen said.

  “The crowning of Dumo,” Brasley repeated quickly. “I was just about to say that.”

  “It’s fanciful, of course,” Olgen said. “We have no way to know if the gods actually crowned Dumo per se. How they work out their hierarchy among themselves is a mystery and has been debated by scholars for years.”

  “And also, why would they crown a goddess who’s already in charge, eh?”

  Olgen looked confused. “Baron Hammish?”

  “Dumo has always been supreme,” Brasley said. “Sort of redundant to crown her.”

  Olgen looked slightly embarrassed. “That’s not quite true, milord.”

  Brasley blinked. “It’s not?”

  “Each epoch marks the ascendance of a new god or goddess as supreme,” Olgen explained. “But Dumo has been dominant for so many centuries, it certainly can seem to the layperson as if she’s always been that way.”

  “That’s what I meant,” Brasley said. “That such a painting might be confusing to the layperson. Who do you suppose was supreme before Dumo?”

  Olge
n looked genuinely perplexed. “You know . . . I don’t know actually.”

  “Perhaps the god of grass.”

  “Probably not,” Olgen said.

  No, probably not.

  Brasley leaned forward, squinted at the mural. There certainly were a lot of them. He supposed if they had a god for grass, then they could have a god or goddess for any old thing, and that would explain why there was such a mob of them. The turtle god? The goddess of dusty cupboards? The god of missing socks? There might be no end to them.

  “At least they all look like they’re having a good time,” Brasley said.

  “Of course, milord,” Olgen said. “It is a celebration of Dumo’s ascension.”

  “All except for that guy?”

  One of Olgen’s eyebrows shot up. “Milord?”

  “That one all the way on the far end,” Brasley said. “There’s always one. Every party has that one fellow whose job it is to sour everything. Probably because he can’t get a girl.”

  Now Olgen leaned forward, scanning the mural. “Milord, I don’t . . . I’m not sure I see . . .”

  “Right there.” Brasley pointed to the extreme right of the mural. “Skulking in the shadows. Probably the god of being an asshole or something.”

  Brasley stepped closer. Pointed directly at a figure standing under the low-hanging branches of a gnarled tree. The artist, Brasley suddenly realized, had been far more skilled than Brasley had originally thought. A quick glance at that section of the mural, and one saw only a shadowed area. A closer examination revealed the vague shape of some looming figure. The more Brasley stared at it, the more it came into focus, a hulking man in spiked armor, red eyes glowing from the depths of a great helm.

  Brasley saw Olgen’s eyes widen and knew the young man had at last seen the god he was talking about. “Oh my.”

  “Indeed. A party pooper if I’ve ever seen one.”

  Talbun approached from behind, looking over their shoulders at the mural. “Is this where you two have been? Gawking at the artwork?”

  Olgen pointed at the intimidating figure in spiked armor. “I believe I know who that is. The god of war. Akram. He’s often depicted in such armor.”