Rogue Soul (The Mythean Arcana Series Book 3) (11 page)

Panic streaked through her. She’d never been without her bow. “I need my bow!”

No matter how she begged, they wouldn’t give it back to her. She’d even cried, which she despised, but she couldn’t control herself. Being without her bow made her feel helpless. Worthless.
 

After a long night of tossing and turning on her pallet without her bow on the floor next to her, she woke to a quiet dawn and grim brothers. The men filed out of the house, silent and stern.

Caedmon, almost the last to leave, turned to her and hugged her. Against the top of her head, he whispered, “I’m sorry. But this is safest for you.”

She watched him walk out the door through blurry vision, her throat tight with loss and loneliness.
 

“Andrasta.”

She turned to see Marrek standing behind her.

“I thought you’d gone.”

“No, you were just busy staring forlornly after the others.”

She gave a watery chuckle, but there was no joy in the sound. He was the youngest, and as such had been with her the longest before he too moved onto training with their brothers. Whenever she was sad, he was usually the one to comfort her.

“Wait a moment.” He grinned, then turned and walked to the far side of the room.

Her jaw dropped when she saw him pull one of the huge benches closer to the wall, right beneath the high shelf where they’d stored her bow. She’d never have been able to pull that weight, or reach that high even with the bench.

But Marrek had her bow down before she could fully process what he was doing.

He pushed the bench back in place, then returned and handed the bow to her. “Here. Keep it hidden from the others.”

“Thank you, Marrek!”

“You’d just make another eventually. But I know you love this one best. And I’m not saying you can go back to the clearing. I’ll break your bow before I let you put yourself in danger like that. But this bow is everything to you, and I respect your judgment. And your skill. So practice near the house. If you see the god again, tell me and I’ll stay with you.”

Andrasta threw her arms around Marrek. “Thank you, thank you, thank you.”

Camulos waited in the forest for Andrasta, his hand clenched around the shaft of his bow. She was late. Hours late. The same fear that had dogged him every other day that he’d waited for her was nipping at his heels.
 

He was afraid she wouldn’t come, because he wanted to see her so damned badly. And he was afraid that she
would
come, because eventually the gods would come down upon their heads.
 

Every day when he returned to Otherworld, that bastard Cernowain was there, watching him. His eyes asked if Camulos had done it yet. When it was clear he hadn’t, Cernowain’s expression darkened. Not with anger, because the gods didn’t feel anger through their cold logic. And not with sorrow, though if Cernowain had felt emotion, Camulos had a feeling that’s what would have been on his face.

Because there was no way for this to continue, not without the death of one of them—or both. Every day, the pressure of the gods’ threat weighed upon him. If he didn’t fall in line and do what was expected, things would become far worse.
 

“They’ve gone to see her.” The voice that carried through the trees was masculine, and distinctly unwelcome.
 

Camulos turned to see Cernowain, who stood with his boar, white snowflakes glinting from the hair of both.
 

“What?” Camulos asked.

“Hafgan and his close council have gone to see Andrasta. You’ve run out of time. And so has she.”

Helpless rage filled Camulos’ chest, pushing at his ribs until he thought they’d break. He’d welcome the pain—anything to distract from this powerlessness.

“Do it, Camulos. If you still have the chance. Send her to Otherworld rather than leave her to face the machinations and tortures of the gods.”

“What do they plan?”

“What does it matter? You’ll both be dead, lucky if you have your souls to go to Otherworld. They could destroy her. Who knows the whims of gods?” He laughed, bitterness and irony in the sound. “Do it, Camulos.”

Cernowain disappeared. Camulos wanted to roar his rage to the sky. Kill her to save her from a worse fate? She’d go to Otherworld to live out her days, but take her from earth to the cold nothingness of their afterworld?

 
She’d awakened something in him these last days, something he couldn’t describe but he couldn’t get enough of. As he couldn’t get enough of her. And now he had no choice but to take her life from her to save her from something more terrible?

Andrasta paced in front of the doorway to her house, wearing a path through the snow until it was nothing but mud. She shivered and pulled her woolen cloak tighter, fiddling with the bronze pin that held the top closed.
 

She should go see Camulos in the clearing.
 

No.

It was too dangerous. She’d been stupid to trust him. What did she know of the goals and desires of gods? He had to have a motivation in continuing to see her. She’d thought he’d liked her. That he’d cared for her, even.

But if what her brothers said was true, then he couldn’t possibly. She’d put herself at risk—and worse, far worse, she’d put her brothers at risk.
 

She continued to pace, weighing the sheer stupidity of going to the clearing against her desire to see Camulos. Maybe he did care for her. Or maybe she was being crazy.

With him, she’d leapt before she’d ever considered looking, just as her brothers always accused her of doing. And even though she regretted the danger she was putting her family in by dallying with a god, she couldn’t help but want to keep doing it.
 

She was too brave to be cowering like this. She gripped her bow tighter and turned toward the clearing. She’d go to him and demand to know his intentions.

She took a step off her well-beaten path, but suddenly four people stood before her.

No. Not people.
Gods.
They’d appeared out of the air and were dressed nothing like Camulos had been.
 
He’d been clothed for battle, whereas these gods, two males and two females, were draped in gold. The torcs around their necks, the sparkling brooches on their cloaks, and the weapons hanging from their belts were all made of the precious metal.

Shock rooted her in place, her breath coming short and fast. Drawing the attention of four gods could only be bad. Her hand tightened around the smooth, comforting wood of her bow.

“Andrasta,” the dark-haired goddess said. She was extraordinarily beautiful, with sparkling blue eyes and cream-colored skin. A red cloak finer than any Andrasta had ever seen was draped around her.

Andrasta debated shaking her head. But they were gods. They knew exactly who she was. So she nodded and squared her shoulders, even though they could kill her before she saw it coming.

“You have a problem,” the dark-haired goddess said.

Indeed.

“Camulos is going to kill you.”

Her heart clutched. So it was most definitely true. “I know. Why are you here?”

“To make an arrangement with you. Camulos should have killed you weeks ago, the first time he saw you. Yet he didn’t. We don’t know why, but it’s dangerous. He’s dangerous. He’s no longer obeying the rules. Otherworld exists only because of our rules. Without them, we are lost."

“How does this concern me?”

“We want you to kill him.”

Andrasta's head snapped back. “What?”

“His behavior is erratic and has become dangerous. He’s too powerful. We want him gone.”

There was no way she could kill him. Nor was she willing to. “Why can’t you kill him?”
 

“We are forbidden from killing other gods. You aren’t. And your skill with the bow matches his. You’re the only mortal capable of killing Camulos. When you kill him, we’ll raise you to godhood in his stead.”

All sound, from the whistling wind to the lowing cows, faded as Andrasta swayed on her feet.
Her
,
a goddess? No, that wasn’t possible. And not if she had to kill Camulos to become so.

“Why?” The words strangled in her throat.

“We must have a god of war. Merely killing him would create an imbalance. If you defeat him, you will become the goddess of victory, a war goddess.”

“You think I’ll be weaker than he is. Easier to control.” She wasn’t stupid. This was a chess game for them and she was but a pawn.

The goddess shrugged elegantly. “True, we’ve decided that you’ll be less trouble than he. You’re young, not yet tainted by godhood. And just think.” The goddess’ voice sweetened. “You’ll be the goddess of victory. Far greater than even the warrior you’d hoped to be.”

She gripped her bow tighter, recalling the long walks with Camulos. His smile. His kiss. No one had ever been interested in her in such a way. She could finally prove herself as a warrior, but at the expense of Camulos’ life.

But if she had to become a goddess to do so, she’d have to leave her brothers. A pang shot through her chest. She didn’t want to leave them. She wanted to be one of them. More than she wanted to prove herself, even.

“You don’t have a choice in this!” the goddess yelled. “Camulos is dangerous. Eventually he will try to kill you, because he knows that not doing so is against our laws. There will be repercussions for him that he won’t want to face. Take your chance. Save yourself from him and receive godhood in exchange.”

“He wouldn’t hurt me,” Andrasta said, certain of it. But was she? He’d threatened her back in the forest a week ago and raised his bow against her brother when he’d come searching for her. She’d known there was something more than what was on the surface between them, something darker. Had it been this fate? “No. I don’t believe it.”

“Fine.” The goddess’ voice whipped across her skin, harsh as a blade. “Then we’ll slay your family—seven brothers, isn’t it?—if you do not do as we tell you.”

Her stomach dropped. “What?”
 

“You’ll do this.”

The threat, and the command, snapped some of the strength back into her. She gripped her bow and said, “You want to get rid of Camulos because he’s trouble. Your threats don’t endear you to me.
I
could be trouble.”

“You can’t play our games.” The goddess’ voice was harsh. She raised her hands and snow swirled, flying fast on the wind until it was dense white in front of her. Images formed on the snow, and soon her brothers appeared. They practiced at their training field, swords and pikes flying through the air.

“What is this?” she asked, shock at the magic stealing her breath.
 

“Your brothers,” the goddess said. “Look closer and you’ll see Hafgan, the god who stood to my left.”

Andrasta squinted at the image in the snow and saw the towering form of the god standing at the edge of the field, apparently invisible to her brothers. She glanced away from the image toward where Hafgan had been standing.
 

He was gone.

“He went there?” Andrasta asked, knowing it was true even as she said it.

“Yes. And he’ll kill one of your brothers for every hour you delay.”

“No, he can’t—” Andrasta cried out when she saw Hafgan throw a short spear at Marrek. The blade pierced Marrek’s side and he fell, his blood soaking into the snow. “Stop!”

“When you’ve done what we’ve requested,” the goddess said. “Do it, or he’ll throw another spear.”

Andrasta’s eyes raced over the image in the snow. Bradan fell to Marrek’s side, trying to stanch the bleeding, while the rest of her brothers surrounded them, searching the practice field for the threat.

“They’ll never see him coming,” the goddess said. “You have an hour before he throws the spear again.”

A sob tore free of Andrasta’s throat. “Marrek must live!”

“He will. Perhaps. As long as Hafgan doesn’t throw another spear.”

Andrasta felt the sting of tears freezing on her cheeks as she watched Bradan try to comfort Marrek and keep his life’s blood from flowing out.
 

“Fine.” The words were ragged. She met the goddess’ eyes. “Promise that they will live if I do this.”