“What did it mean?” Zaja asked.
“Conflict’s natural complement was gone,” Zella explained before returning to Orick. “Without Harmony, your aura has no impediment, and Keltia … this world is the heart of your sphere of influence, isn’t it?”
“What’s that mean?” Shea asked.
“As I’ve come to understand it, these so-called gods hold sway throughout different branches of the universe,” Chari replied. “Their power is strongest in the place tied to their origins, but it spreads beyond, rippling out.”
“Ripple starts here?” Shea confirmed. She looked appalled as she tried to grasp the implications of it all. She turned on Orick, frustrated with the incomplete puzzle. “You’re to blame? You and some dead bint? All the death, the dead … my family, my home?”
Orick was unmoved by her accusations. Instead, he chided her. “Off my back, you fuckin’ crybaby. Yer watchin’ all this through a window. Some of us only get the big picture.” Shea gritted her teeth, ready to pull her gun on him. “Go ahead,” he baited her. “Do it. It’ll sting for half a minute tops before we’re right back where we started.”
Flynn placed a hand on Shea’s, gently consoling her. “What good are you?” she snapped at Orick. “Self-centered, pissant god of war’s all I see.”
“That’s all you think I am?”
“Isn’t it?” Jean asked. “From what I see, you’re doin’ more harm than good, Orick. Why the fuck don’t you step down?”
“Ya know what the fuck would happen to you people if I did?” Orick demanded. “Conflict ain’t just about war, and that’s not what I’m the god of! Take away conflict, and we’d all just sit and rot, drowning in apathy and indifference without those urges to fuck and fight and kill to keep us runnin’.”
Zella cringed at the implication. “We are so much more than that—”
“We are,” Orick agreed. “But the impulse of conflict drives us to challenge every moment we live in, to take the things we want and need. And yeah, at its worst, it drives us to war. At its best?” he looked at Flynn and Jean. “Lets us decide that where we are just ain’t good enough.”
“Well … what if you just gave up being a god for a little while?” Zaja asked. “Let things cool down on Keltia for a bit without your influence?”
“There’s another reason,” he said, looking at Zella. “You’re Renivar’s brat, ain’t ya?” She nodded affirmation, but Orick just shook his head. “Oughta break yer fuckin’ neck. If I hadn’t swore to stay out of this shit. Even then…”
Flynn fought the urge to act, and saw his friends similarly tensing up. It may have been the threat to Zella’s well-being, or the insidious nature of Orick Daimous’s aura driving this impulse. Flynn clenched his hands and drove his nails into his palms to stave off the tension.
“You have to have seen it,” he said. “Taryl and Airia … me an’ Roxy. We all came from the same sources. We’re grouped together because we’re tied together.”
“I recall now! It was as Airia told us.” Chari turned to Flynn and Jean with a bright expression. “The power she shared with Taryl Renivar and Kayra Kwarla stems from a single source: a goddess she identified as Ukriasa.”
“All these orders, these messes of gods,” Orick explained. “They were one, once. Dunno why, but the fucks got it in their heads to divide what they had an’ pass it down in pieces. Ya get where I’m goin’ with this?”
Flynn was beginning to put the clues together in his head, but it was Zella, raised nearest these matters, who understood first.
“Your divinity is tied to theirs. Even in their absence, some remnant of your fellow god and goddesses stays with you.”
Orick gave Shea a condescending told-you-so look as he followed up. “And that scrap is the one thing keepin’ all yer tin soldiers from goin’ completely ape shit on each other. I step down, and their influence is first to go, meanin’ half the planet is dead before just givin’ up.”
“Then it’s been the same with Taryl Renivar,” Flynn realized. “Airia and Kayra bound him to Terrias when they thought they’d have the chance to pass their responsibilities on. But the goddesses of Eternity and Fate have been out of play for centuries, meaning Renivar’s power has become a load-bearing pillar for existence.”
“A burden that will fall on me once I strike him down,” Poe realized.
“Which is why you’d better be fuckin’ ready when you do,” Orick pointed out. “There’s a strain that comes with tryin’ to work a power that was never yours. Like tryin’ to play a piano when you can barely touch the keys.”
“Does your present counsel bely intent to aid us?” Chari asked.
Orick faltered. His attitude had improved from his initial hostilities, but he still seemed unwilling to commit.
“We know where we need to go,” Flynn said as he stepped up. “We just need help getting there. The Essence of Eternity is in the care of a woman named Einré Maraius, the—”
“Growth,” Orick interrupted. His tone quickly turned bitter. “Rousow, you bitch. Tellin’ these sorry mortals what you couldn’t tell—”
“Oi!” Shea snapped. “Sod the pity party. You to help us or not?”
Orick shook his head, looking strained. “Can’t. I open a way for you sorry fucks, and they’ll know. How they got here the first time, I still can’t…”
“First time?”
“They never broke the wall,” Orick said, haunted by the memory. “Prigs didn’t fly in either. They just … showed up. Pinned Lorian down in a crowd and the fucks who bowed to us just watched like slack-jawed morons as they killed him right there.”
“That’s why Thoris is abandoned now, isn’t it?” Zella asked. “The people, they … they lost faith. They gave up hope.”
Flynn had what he needed. Orick’s fears were laid bare, and his admission of the consequences of helping them meant he had the means.
“From what you’ve told us, Orick, there’s no reason not to help us.”
“You been listenin’ to a word I’ve said, dumbass?” Orick snarled back. “If I go down—”
“You won’t,” Flynn assured him. “It’s like you said: you’re the last man standing.” Orick pursed his lips, waiting impatiently for Flynn’s reasoning. “Taryl Renivar doesn’t want everyone dead—he’s too intent on saving those he deems worthy to let so many of them get slaughtered in a bloodbath.”
“If I let them notice me—”
“They can’t do anything,” Flynn promised. “They’ve probably been keeping tabs on you the whole time. The God of Neutrality was hiding in a cave over a hundred miles south of here, and they had spies on him for months. And you, Orick—you strike me as a man who has his old haunts, places you think are safe. If they wanted you out of the picture, you would be already.”
Orick Daimous clenched his fists in frustration as he looked away. Nothing Flynn had said were things he could know for sure; he knew enlisting the man’s aid was exposing him to risk, but they were too close now to permit the only one who could help to turn away. As the gears in Orick’s head turned, his resolve softened.
“We need your help,” Zella implored, and this was the final straw.
At first he gave only one quick nod, but several rapid ones quickly followed. “Fine. Fine, ya … gods, I hate you bastards already.”
*
All around him, Orick Daimous saw scars. They were etched into the walls; they rippled in the air. They blanketed the seven stragglers who now obediently followed, some more than others. Nothing they wore could hide these scars, from the gouge on the back of the priestess’s leg to the holes in the Guardian’s shoulder. Every scar had a story, and it was as true for the ones on them as for those in the air itself.
They had begun a gradual descent to ground level. Orick lent no hand with the chains; to do as much would be beneath him, but what was curious was that their self-appointed leader was standing alongside Orick, as if he held similar importance.
“What can
you tell me about her?” Flynn asked. The tilt of his head made it clear he was referring to the statue of the Goddess of Harmony.
“Roxy?” Orick replied. There was so little to remember; he’d known her for only a couple of years, and that was over a century back now. “Had a lot of heart. Didn’t like seein’ people fight, so, you know, natural choice for Harmony, I guess. Still had the guts to take a stand when things seemed wrong.”
“And that’s what got her killed,” Flynn concluded.
“Supported me when I first took Conflict’s post,” he said. “Lady who handed me this kind of insane power promised Roxanne Santiaga would be there for me. Didn’t warn me about the shit that was brewin’ on Terrias. Likely didn’t think it important.” It angered Orick oftentimes to recall his lot in life, how little he had to work with, and the question of whether his predecessor knew what she was getting him into when she handed him the duties of a god. “Shortsighted bitch.”
Orick shared nothing more during their trip to ground level, and was the first to step off the elevator platform when it touched down. The air here was better—there were rifts everywhere, forgotten ways that had healed right, but could still be split by an able hand. He approached the first one he saw, rupturing it momentarily with a swipe. It disappointed, and he abandoned it without another thought.
“What are you seeking?” Poe asked.
Orick was tempted to ignore him, but knew the stupid questions would keep coming until he got them out of his life.
“Rousow said you’d been jumpin’ worlds via rifts that connect ’em,” he replied. “I know where Maraius lives on TseTsu: it’s called the Isle of the Howling Moor, and somewhere around here—nope, not that one—there’s a way in.”
“The Isle of…?” Chari echoed in quiet disbelief.
“You possess the powers of a god,” Poe challenged Orick. “Why not just will us there?”
“Don’t work that way, fucktard.”
“You really aren’t trying to win any friends here, are you?” Zaja asked.
“I’m a god. Don’t need any friends,” Orick growled. “Can’t open ways to new worlds—only will myself to places where powerful conflicts are beginning or have broken out.”
“Pretty quiet around here. How’d you come back?”
“That’s my business,” he said simply. He stopped before one of the scars in the air. He’d found what he was looking for, and glanced back. “I can’t make new ways, but I can see the ones others opened, the ones that closed like they were supposed to.”
Orick thrust his hands forward and applied all his will, and a rift to TseTsu opened before him. He could sense the urgency it once held, that which had driven then-goddess Airia Rousow to find her way to Thoris.
“Now get the fuck outta here,” he ordered, stepping aside.
Orick did not spare eye contact for any of them as they walked through the rift and vanished. The Trynan soldier, the only local of the bunch, approached it with some trepidation, but with Flynn’s urging, she stepped through.
Flynn was the last, and he stopped long enough to glance at Orick. “Roxanne Santiaga is alive.” And then he vanished from Thoris forever.
“The fuck was that?!” he sputtered with impotent fury as the rift closed. He had half a mind to force open it again, drag Flynn back, and demand answers.
Orick tried to shake the idea off and walked away, but something in Flynn’s tone convinced him it was more than just a cold joke. Yet he’d felt it when Roxanne had died—the longstanding void the absence of her power had left.
Before he could explore any thoughts of investigation, a new sense of awareness fired within him. For a moment, he thought it was a fellow god, but the sensation wasn’t right. Whoever it was, they were beneath his level. But Orick knew they were of the Reahv’li, and that was enough reason to panic, to consider running before he remembered what Flynn had told him. In all probability, they had been keeping an eye on him for some time. They also had too many reasons not to kill him for Orick to truly be afraid.
They were on his home turf and there were a thousand war zones he could disappear to. Emboldened, he walked alone toward the vast, creaking doors leading outside.
“Better see what the assholes want…”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN: Living in the Past
The twin moons in the night sky drifted like familiar, watchful eyes; Chari knew in an instant they’d come to TseTsu, and hoping for anything less would be childlike.But still, she had hoped.
They had landed on bedrock, surrounded by a curtain of vines so thick they could see nothing beyond. Chari pulled a bunch aside and forced her way through. She was looking south, and recognized Cordom in the distance. It was there she’d learned as a young maiden to hide her true self within a priestess’s frock. It served to confirm their location: the Isle of the Howling Moor, miles from the city’s northern port.
“Orick has not led us astray,” she confirmed upon returning. “We’ve arrived.”
“This journey’s end,” Poe murmured contemplatively.
“Einré Maraius is here,” Flynn said. “At least … someone of her magnitude is.”
“Flynn…?” Chari asked reluctantly. “Many months before, when we first met, did you not … sense her, then?”
He shook his head. “My senses are improving all the time. Before we met, Death herself stood before me and I did not know her. Now, I feel so much more.”
“So she coulda been here all along?” Jean asked. “Seems fuckin’ roundabout if ya ask me.”
“We weren’t part of all this when we came here the first time,” Flynn said. “We were just trying to find a place where the world would let us be.”
Chari noticed Zaja, who was walking about the bedrock as if looking for something. “Have you lost something?”
“No, just … listening,” Zaja replied faintly. She turned to Chari, clearly a little agitated. “Why is it called the Isle of the Howling Moor? I don’t hear any howling, and I don’t see any moors, for that matter, either.”
Chari reached out and tugged at one of the numerous vines walling off their surroundings. “It’s an old name, from when this island had a role in TseTsuan history. It’s said a great many things happened here. Important things, that shaped my world.” She released the vine, and turned back to Zaja. “I suspect it was also less overgrown then.”
“Can you lead us to her?”
Poe’s question snapped their attention back to the others. He was addressing Flynn, who nodded without reservation. “I can. But there’s no path—”
“Point the way,” Poe replied. He glanced at Shea as he drew one of his swords. “We shall create one.”
Flynn pointed, and Poe and Shea began hacking a path.
“We’ll find no ease in traversing this place,” Chari warned. “Crusaders have sought to take this island, only to be led out as quickly as they enter.”
“Led out?” Zella asked.
“The Isle’s growths are said to be subtle and cunning, blossoming quickly until the intruders are confused beyond hope. Those who try to cut their way through are lost forever to the bramble.”
“Those holier-than-thou fucks don’t got a livin’ compass,” Jean said, patting Flynn roughly on the shoulder. “No chance of goin’ in circles with you, yeah Flynn?”
While Jean set off after the others, Flynn glanced at Chari. “If there’s anything to take from that story, it’s that there’s an intelligence protecting this island. I think it’s time we meet her.”
Flynn’s confidence did little to help Chari’s unease. After the behavior of previous gods they’d met, she expected little better from Einré Maraius. Given her position as Mystik of Growth, it was impossible to deny the likelihood of her involvement. But this did not give way to trust, for she noticed quickly that nothing that had been cut away remained so, and new sprouts formed underfoot the moment she lifted her feet.
As they crossed the hilly breadth of the island, they did so in silence, punct
uated only by the grunts of Poe and Shea as they hacked away at the foliage. Flynn had done nothing to correct their course, and for a moment Chari thought they’d simply managed to stay in the right direction before she realized, with new horror, that they were being guided.
Then the foliage opened up, the earth sloped down, and they could see the Isle’s northern vista. The overgrowth continued to run rampant, but there was also the silhouette of something dark and looming.
“Looks better than Yetinau’s shitty mountain,” Jean said.
The silhouette was that of a castle, millennia old. It had been nearly devoured by the island, with bunches of vines strung between the lesser towers, bridging them together. To its rear, a single spire rose above the others, unrecognizable to all but the most studious eyes.
It seemed unlikely that anything of note was contained within. The growth was so rampant that it had flooded out the windows.
*
By the time they reached the castle, it was nearly sunrise. Einré Maraius stood at the gates, waiting for them.
She showed no pleasure in meeting them, and conveyed only irritation at having waited for so long. Like Chari, her hair was of a violet hue, and she wore a crest of thorny vines like a boa to complement it. Einré appeared ten years Chari’s senior, and was in truth many times more than that. She looked across the group, and Flynn felt her gaze pierce him before she looked past and settled on Poe.
“You’ve come late,” she said.
“Late by what standard?” Chari inquired. “From our arrival on this island, or by one that reaches centuries back?”
Einré’s features softened as she smiled in surrender. “When you’ve waited as long as I have, such differences feel indistinguishable.” She grasped her velvet dress and curtsied. “I am Einré Maraius, youngest of the sister-goddesses.”
“Youngest?” Zella almost choked. “Who is the eldest?”
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