The Godless Page 15

  The witch winced. “For the first time in over a decade,” she said. “I will find a boat there that will take me to Gogair, at least.”

  “Drop by Faise, will you?” Ayae took a step back from the cart. “Tell her I’ll be by soon.”

  Olcea’s grin was without mirth. “I would have said no too,” she said. “But I will visit. I will tell her that—but do not wait long. Even Samuel Orlan cannot protect you from the powers that are gathering in this city now.”

  Ayae watched her ride away, the black ox disappearing into the night, the witch following, the cart last. For a while, she heard the wheels move along the paved stone, but soon, she could no longer hear that. For a moment, Ayae felt her frustration rise, her anger with it but it did not peak; instead, it fell in her, and left her standing alone beside the silent, old shape of Olcea’s house.

  A house that was hollow inside.

  8.

  Scratching awoke Zaifyr, a low, dull noise that bled into the final fragments of his dream. He sat upon the edge of a trail, short grass spread out beneath him. Above, the sun was singular and sat high in the empty blue sky. He had no destination, was waiting for no one and suffered from neither situation until the noise began behind him. A scratching. Faint, but persistent. He rose, but could see nothing and the sound grew and grew until the sharp claws felt like they were beneath his skin.

  When he opened his eyes, there was a large raven on the windowsill, its wide, glossy back presented to him.

  Reaching for the cloth trousers at the side of the bed, he pulled them on and grabbed the glass of water from the table beside him. Outside the window, the morning’s sun had just begun to rise.

  At the window, he rinsed his mouth and spat past the raven onto the garden below. “Good morning, Jae’le,” he said, placing the glass down.

  “And to you, brother.” The raven’s voice was harsh, unnatural, its vocal cords forced into positions uncommon to it. “How do you find the Spine of Ger?”

  “Interesting.”

  “Oh?”

  “There are two Keepers here.” He reached for the chair Orlan had sat on the night before and occupied it himself. “Fo and Bau, the Disease and the Healer. We can assume that the Enclave does not think of this as a simple war.”

  “Our sister has long ago abandoned any notions of simplicity.”

  “You turn bitter, brother.”

  The raven’s feathers ruffled. “You accuse the wrong one of us. Aelyn has become jealous of her corner of the world and seeks to establish firm lines.”

  Zaifyr frowned. “Is that why you asked me to come here? For her?”

  “No, brother. I am, as I said, merely interested in the new power arising here. Did Samuel Orlan talk to you about that as well?”

  He met the raven’s black gaze. “You smell too much.”

  “Why would he visit you?”

  “His apprentice was attacked by a Quor’lo.”

  The raven’s beak dug suddenly into its wing, tearing out a black feather, signaling that Jae’le had relaxed his grip on the animal for a moment. Zaifyr imagined the lean man in his cushioned chair over half a world away, twisting the long, dark beard that he had grown over the last century. The raven—more itself than it had been for weeks—was trying to dig him out by pulling at its body like it might a tick or a loose feather, searching for its annoyance. Then, as quickly as it began, the raven went still, its head rising.

  “Perhaps,” Jae’le said, “you are right that this is not a simple war.”

  “There is also a City of Ger beneath this city.”

  “That’s hardly surprising. The remains of those cities are all through the mountains.”

  “I thought you wanted to hear what was interesting?”

  “And I found Samuel Orlan’s visit—”

  “I know what you are going to say.” Zaifyr reached for the glass of warm water. “I am not interested in being chastised.”

  “I was not about to do so.”

  “You were,” he said firmly, ending the topic before it could reach other, older areas, where Asila could be brought up. He had done enough of that, himself. “Now, instead, ask me about this city you have no interest in and how it links to this rising power you sent me to examine.”

  Quietly, the raven said, “Very well.”

  “It is a holy war. The first in a long time, brother. The Quor’lo hinted at that and not lightly, either, which can only mean that the intention of those marching on the Spine is not meant to be a secret. We—and by we, I mean the Enclave and every other person with a touch of a god’s power in them—will no doubt be their enemies, just as Mireea is for being on Ger’s remains. The attack on Orlan’s apprentice was most likely a chance attack on one of us—a new one without much risk, at least in the mind of the attacker. As for the city above—” Zaifyr placed his feet on the window seal “—Mireea cannot hold against a large army and my belief is that the city is preparing for siege while also preparing to retreat. In my ride up here, the roads from Yeflam were clear, many with rebuilt bridges. I didn’t venture to the other side of the Spine, but I’ve heard that the mining settlements that the Spine can’t protect have been forcibly shut down and the people moved. They’re living in two camps on the trail when you approach the city from Yeflam, though I wouldn’t say there was more than a thousand people there currently. That’s Heast’s work.”

  “How long do you think they can hold?”

  “I don’t think he plans to hold, honestly. Whether the Leeran Army and those in charge of it will think the same, I don’t know.”

  “The priests.” Jae’le hesitated, the dark feathers on the raven ruffling. “Do you think they are like the old ones?”

  “I never saw a priest possess a dead man before.”

  “The old ones had power, brother.”

  “Not from blood.”

  The raven’s head shook. “In this, your birth fails you. The original servants of the gods were not to be underestimated.”

  Zaifyr tipped back in the chair, quiet. His brother, in this, was right: he had met none of the priests that had both terrified and inspired much of the world. Meihir had been his only connection to such figures, and she, he knew, had been a pale candle compared to the servants of other gods, or so he had gathered from Jae’le’s descriptions of them. Once, the thought of meeting such figures would have driven him out of Mireea, to find them, question them and fight, but of late he struggled to recall such emotions.

  In truth, he had grown tired with the intricate puzzle boxes of theories that peppered the conversations of his family since his release, conversations that he used to take part in, used to enjoy. They would begin with the idea of theft and inheritance—both theirs—but had no conclusion. The quest to know who and what they were was all that mattered to his brothers and sisters, but he was unable to share it now. It was not helped by the fact that Aelyn had not spoken to him since his release, and that the others—all but Jae’le, in truth—had been distant, managing only a handful of words. There were laws, now, and he had to admit that he did not have any interest in them, just as he had no interest in their arguments and debates any more. He could forgive them the time he had spent locked in the tower, understood it even, and agreed. He knew what he had become and the madness that lay at the center of him … but there was no denying that since the door opened, he had been different: cured, yes, but changed through that, driven away by their very actions.

  For all that, he had come to Mireea at his brother’s request.

  “The City of Ger,” Jae’le said, finally. “Could you return to it?”

  “If I wanted,” he replied, carefully.

  “Would you?”

  “Are you asking—”

  “Yes.”

  Zaifyr hesitated, then said, “He may be protected.”

  “He will.” The raven shifted, its claws scratching lightly as it did. “But perhaps we should know in what condition Ger lies, before these priests arrive.”

>   “What do you think they will do?”

  “I do not know, but we will learn soon enough. You need not be here for that.”

  Zaifyr hesitated, then said quietly, “I might stay. For a while.”

  “People will die, brother.”

  “I know.”

  Unnaturally still now, as if the body of the raven were being gripped tightly by a man who had once remade the world in the image he so desired, Jae’le said, “What did Samuel Orlan say to you?”

  “Nothing that I care to share, brother.”

  A SMALL KINDNESS

  The last?

  The last of the gods to die was the Leviathan.

  She died from despair, it is said; she killed herself from the trauma of witnessing so many of her brothers and sisters at war.

  Her death was witnessed by only a few, but widely reported. It was said that she sank into the ocean, turning the water black and raising the sea level permanently. For a century, only the descendants of her holy men and women traveled upon the blood of the last god. It was said that only they knew how to navigate the vast graveyard of her rot and decay safely.

  —Qian, The Godless

  1.

  Though he was not given to ill omens, the morning the exiled Baron of Kein and Dark left Mireea, a deep certainty settled in him that he would not return to the city. It was a feeling that he alone had, he knew, for the lightness and ease that had settled into Dark the evening before remained, and their spirits were high as the Spine shrank behind them, despite the presence of Samuel Orlan. It was the presence of the old man that was the cause of much of Bueralan’s concern. The weight of his reputation and presence sat awkwardly with the subtlety required for the job at hand—try as he might, the saboteur had not come to the view that the presence of the cartographer was a gain—and he considered briefly taking a new road with Dark and leaving the Spine to whatever fate lay at its feet after the Keepers and the Leeran Army had finished with it.

  “I appreciate you allowing me to come.”

  Bueralan’s heels nudged his horse’s flanks and he glanced at the cartographer beside him, the thought still in his head. “That pony looks older than the sky.”

  Orlan rubbed the ancient, gray beast’s neck. “You’ll hurt her feelings, Baron. Age does not stop one from being useful.”

  “You have to stop calling me that.” It was the third time since they had met in the early hours of the morning, outside the stables. “And age does stop a man from running his fastest.”

  “If we have to run,” the other replied, meeting his gaze, “then we have larger problems than an old pony.”

  Bueralan grunted, said nothing.

  Orlan continued: “Still, I thank you for the opportunity, and the chance to meet your friends.” He turned in his saddle, taking in all of Dark but Aerala, who rode at the front of the column as a lone sentry to guard against the raiders that had no doubt peppered the mountain with bolt-holes that the Mireean soldiers had not found. “Usually mercenary groups are linked through a heritage—which makes sense, given that most are armies who have lost wars or are soldiers loyal to generals who have fallen out of favor. But not so Dark, I have noticed. You are a more modern group, a more eclectic collection—a reflection of the changes in our world I think. Your two sisters, Aerala and Liaya, are from the City of Marble Palaces, are they not?”

  “I met them in a different city,” Bueralan replied guardedly.

  “I imagine you did,” the cartographer replied. “Men of your color are not welcome in that part of the world. But I would argue that that is where they are from, the sharpness of their rs and es, you see. What is more, it appears that Liaya is a trained alchemist, if I am to believe the bags I see on her horse, the herbs I smell and the clink of glass when the ground becomes uneven.”

  “I did not to ask for credentials,” Bueralan replied. “Perhaps I should have you interview anyone I take on next?”

  “It costs a fortune to enter the alchemist colleges there,” the other continued, without rising to the bait. “Only the wealthy can even begin to dream to sit the entrance exams.”

  “People don’t like questions about their past, Orlan.”

  “But it is so rich!” Turning, the cartographer focused on Kae, who rode next to Zean, his back as straight as the twin swords strapped to the side of his horse. “Here is a man from the Melian Isles who is missing two fingers on his left hand. If I was a betting man, I would say he had removed them himself fourteen years ago, one of the few soldiers to leave the ruins of Samar owned by a militant group who, adhering to the last words of the goddess Aeisha, took a vow of silence.”

  The aforementioned man smiled faintly. “Very astute, cartographer.”

  The other man inclined his head. “Next to him is a man from Ilatte.” Zean looked as if he had fallen asleep on his brown mount, but Bueralan knew otherwise. “No real surprises there, given that Ilatte has long been the occupied territory of the Ooila, seized during the reign of the Five Queens three hundred years ago and held since then. It is quite common for young men and women upon their birth to be taken away from their parents by nobles from Ooila and raised with one of their children as a blood brother or sister, a bodyguard and whipping post, where he or she is told that their soul will be taken into the family after a life of servitude. And you, my dear, exiled B—”

  “What is your point?” interrupted Bueralan.

  “What you saw this morning was an old man on an old pony.” Beneath him, as if it knew it was the focus of conversation, the pony flicked its ears. “It would be a mistake to continue to think of me in that fashion. I am not a killer, it is true. Nor do I run fast. But I am a man who has seen more of the world than any of you here present. I have seen it without a sword and I have survived every moment.”

  “Well, I thank you for the lesson,” the saboteur said evenly. “But—”

  “Wait, wait,” interrupted Ruk from behind Zean and Kae. “Now wait just a moment.”

  Bueralan frowned. “What?”

  “The old man didn’t say where I was from.”

  Lips straightening—it was not a game—Bueralan turned to Orlan who, spreading his hands out, said, “I have no idea where you are from, sir. Was your mother a whore?”

  “And a fine woman,” Ruk replied hotly.

  The others laughed and, despite his reservations, Bueralan allowed his horse to continue along the trail to Leera, its path unchanged.

  2.

  Zaifyr’s second descent into the mineshaft was worse.

  He had focused on the light that burned dimly like a piece of the sun the first time, allowing it to navigate the unknown as if he were in a dream, the dark cold around him a murky promise of threat from the Quor’lo that he could ignore with the light. This time he had no globes. He was alone, having instead broken through the seal the two old men had placed over the mine entrance. Minutes before he dropped into the shaft, with the two suns warming his back, Zaifyr crouched and picked the lock securing the heavy wooden covering in place. He could have lifted it or broken it, if he were honest with himself; he certainly could have spared himself the fumbling and inaccurate pushes and twists of a skill he had not used in centuries, but he wanted to keep his second trip a secret.

  His failure to quickly pop the lock spoke of a distraction in his mind, a loss of focus that would become even more apparent the moment he let go of the rotting wooden ladder he clung to. The cold, murky water was a shock, but the sudden appearance of haunts, swarming around him as he submerged was more so. Tiny and spectral, each a faint burning glow, they swarmed around him, the haunts of insects trying to catch his eye in the filthy water. Focusing on his downward strokes, Zaifyr pushed them from his mind, succeeding only as the murky dark closed over him and his hands navigated the filthy tunnel to the second ladder.

  The reprieve did not last long. Out of nowhere a drowned haunt appeared in a white burn of melted, waterlogged skin, crying out in a waterlogged voice.

  Zaifyr
emerged with a mouthful of awful water, the haunt beneath him, its voice trapped beneath the fetid surface.

  Pulling himself out, he sat on the edge of the hole and tried to regain his focus and shut out the haunt from his vision. It was Jae’le’s fault. The mix of concern and chiding brought back memories, both good and bad, and undid much of the self-control he had relearned while being locked up. He had been able to command his sight, but now he was forced to wait trying to gather his focus neatly and concisely, as a fisher might drew together nets of fish. It was also why, when he stepped through the green-lit crack thinking he had done just that, he was assaulted by layers of haunts. They were a thick, burning glow: generations of men and women packed tightly together, their individual limbs merging and overlapping with others, their bodies morphing into each and every one of them in an awful tapestry of loss and sin.

  Zaifyr closed his eyes.

  He had not seen the sheer mass of haunts the first time he entered the City of Ger because of his focus. He needed to return to that if he did not want to be overwhelmed. He knew, from past experiences, that if he allowed that to happen, it would take him weeks, perhaps even months, to get to the point where he would not hear their entreaties to him. The solution was to focus on one of the dead, to focus his attention and power on that one so that it would overwhelm the others, and leave him with but one haunt that he could rebuild a fuller concentration around, before dismissing it from his sight.

  At first he struggled to distinguish the voices, the whispering complaints of cold and hunger blurring so that it took him time to identify one that was different, that had an inflection, a sound that he could separate from the others. He had not struggled to find that edge of a voice for years and he had to return to his earliest memories on how to pick up an inflection, how to search for the roll of a vowel in a haunt’s voice, an accent that they had carried in life and, now, in death. The voice he found was that of a woman. She paused between whispering the word cold and the word hunger, as if another thought persisted, as if she were trying to find a way to articulate the two constants in her world.