‘We’ll find out when he gets here,’ Emin said eventually. ‘For the moment, could you give me a moment’s peace? Perhaps go and see to our guests’ needs?’
Sir Creyl left without a word, recognising the order easily enough. When Daratin returned with a stack of honeyed flat-breads he set the plate on the table and exited quickly himself. Emin picked at the food, his appetite pretty nonexistent. He was just about to give up and ring for his tea when there was a knock at the door.
‘What now?’ he sighed before calling for the person to enter.
He frowned, not immediately recognising the woman in the long dress with a green scarf half-covering her face. When he did he almost fell off his chair as he scrambled up, reaching for a sword he’d forgotten to buckle to his hip.
‘Oh, that’s not very friendly,’ said the young woman, pointing a slender finger at him and making a sharp downward motion. ‘Sit.’
Emin felt an irresistible weight appear on his shoulders and drive him back down into his seat. She stepped forward and gave him a fond smile, one he recognised all too well.
‘This can’t be,’ he muttered. ‘It’s impossible! What sort of trick is this?’
‘Aren’t you pleased to see me?’ she asked, shutting the door behind her and walking to the centre of the room. Her dress was elegant but old-fashioned, twenty years out of date. She was no more than twenty-five summers old, with bright yellow eyes and auburn hair hanging in a plait over her left shoulder.
‘If you really were my sister,’ Emin growled with mounting anger, ‘then yes, I would be delighted. But she’s dead. If you’re looking to make an enemy of me you’re going about it in the right way.’
The woman sat at the table, still smiling. ‘You have a life-size painting of her in your throne room and one of the finest buildings in Narkang bears her name, yet you’re not glad to see her in all her beauty before you. You humans are fickle.’
Emin didn’t reply. His mind was racing, frantically trying to work out who or what would be so casually callous as to wear Gennay’s face. After a moment he realised the impersonation was not perfect; Gennay Thonal’s eyes had been a glittering ice-blue, like her younger brother’s.
It’s a God, it must be
—
and if my guess is right, one not usually clothed in female flesh.
‘Another wager won,’ Emin said grimly. ‘Morghien told me I was being arrogant when I suggested one of you would make me an offer.’
‘But did you expect me?’ asked the yellow-eyed God, unperturbed that its guessing game was already over.
‘The list of suspects wasn’t long. Few of the Pantheon would deign to visit me nowadays.’ Emin took a breath to regain his composure. ‘If you want a Mortal-Aspect, your best bet is the man who was here a few nights past.’
‘Daken?’ she said, laughing. ‘Oh please; the man is useful for getting rid of inconveniences, but you insult me by suggesting it.’ She tilted her head in thought. ‘At any rate the man bears something of a grudge. I don’t believe he’s suitably grateful for the gifts bestowed upon him.’
Emin gaped. ‘He’s aligned to your Trickster Aspect, Larat! I can’t believe Litania has an agreeable influence on anyone’s life, but to be her plaything . . . ?’
The God of Magic and Manipulation shrugged. ‘He thrives, what more does a white-eye wish for? It smacks of ingratitude. Nevertheless, to link myself to that oaf? I would prefer a Mortal-Aspect to complement my intellect, not muddy the waters.’
‘He’s no fool,’ Emin countered, ‘and if you think to win me by flattering my intelligence — ’
Larat raised a hand to cut him off. ‘Your intelligence is what it is; your ego equally so. Concerning Mortal-Aspects, let us say I remain unconvinced. A bold move, perhaps, but as I see it, one yet to bear fruit.’
‘Then why are you here?’ asked Emin, mystified. ‘Your Lord has made His feelings towards me most clear. You could find few breakfast companions more out of favour with Lord Death. I am barred from His temples; I will not receive any aid from Him or His followers . . .’
‘How you must be weeping into your pillow,’ Larat broke in. ‘Are your feelings stung? Let me offer this salve; Death is lord of us all and as we are assailed, so He bears the brunt of it. He has lost many followers and Aspects — one of whom has bloomed in the meantime — so do not imagine you are so special in His treatment of you.’
‘Why are you here?’ Emin repeated. He didn’t really expect a straight answer — that was not in Larat’s nature — but he’d had an uneasy night and his patience was worn thin.
‘Can I not enjoy the company of mortals? As you can imagine, Lord Tsatach’s sense of humour is somewhat limited. After a few centuries one has heard them all.’
Despite his ill temper Emin pictured the few Chetse he’d known in his life and almost smiled at the image. Then he caught himself and realised it was the God’s attempt to manipulate his mood. He dug his thumbnail into his finger as hard as he could, something Morghien had taught him. Pain sharpened the mind, just as the glamour of the Gods dulled it.
‘Might I suggest you pay your social calls on someone with a little less to do? I have guests I must speak to.’
‘Ah yes, the intriguing Legana, that shadow of herself. One of many interesting new flavours to this Land. Still, when things get desperate and down to the bone I find it is ancient methods that serve us best.’
Emin’s eyes narrowed, sensing the significance of what he was being told, without understanding it. ‘The ancient isn’t really my domain; I leave that to others.’
The God wearing his sister’s face smiled indulgently. ‘Time you paid it a little more attention. This kingdom of yours isn’t what we planned for humanity, but some of us appreciate that change comes to all things. Mild impieties and direct threats to the greatest of Gods aside, it stands as a better future for the Land than others.’
‘Please, enough of the flattery,’ Emin said. ‘My queen would be upset if I started getting a high opinion of myself.’
‘I can remind you of your inadequacies easily enough,’ Larat said, ‘but I see no profit in doing so at present.’
Larat leaned forward and put one elbow on the table, resting her chin on one hand with a fluid motion that no mortal beyond a Harlequin could achieve.
Emin recognised the pose, from the painting of Gennay, but the gesture only hardened his resolve.
‘The Farlan are in chaos,’ Larat continued, ‘something that will only increase in the years to come. Lord Styrax is building himself an empire and collecting artefacts powerful enough to kill Gods. It is only a matter of time before he crosses your borders.’
‘That I know. I’m already making preparations.’
‘But have you yet realised why he is collecting these artefacts?’
‘I don’t know enough about them to deduce that.’
Larat’s young face was now stern and serious. ‘The Skulls are objects from the dawn of time. Aryn Bwr found them and reforged them to their present form, but they are far older, and the last king’s changes were not extensive, however ingenious.’
‘But what is their significance? Did Aryn Bwr upset the balance of the Land by reforging them?’
‘In unison there is very little they cannot do. It is no coincidence that they number twelve.’
‘Twelve?’ Emin hesitated. ‘The Upper Circle of the Pantheon? That little detail has been omitted from every scripture I’ve ever read. And does it go further than that? Are you aligned to a specific Skull, bound to it, even?’
‘The bearer of each is permitted to ask a question of the one aligned to it. Some knowledge should not be shared — the very act
would
upset the balance of the Land.’
‘I don’t understand what you are telling me, what you’re asking of me.’
‘There are forces in this Land that would like the balance to be upset, things to come undone.’
‘Who? The Vukotic family?’
‘Among others. What I am telling you is to survive — to keep the Land a place where the Gods are still welcome. It is the natural order of things; without it you will find this world far less of a paradise than it is at present.
‘Lord Styrax was a mistake of ours — when Aryn Bwr’s soul did not find its way to Ghenna we knew he had prepared some sort of contingency plan.’
‘If you’re so concerned,’ Emin broke in, ‘why not take a stand? Damned by Death or not, I’m not as powerful as a God of the Upper Circle. And somehow I suspect you’re not here to announce the Gods will march with me against Lord Styrax.’
Emin felt the room grow cold as Larat stiffened in her seat. ‘We have learned that lesson already.’
‘To let others do the killing for you?’
‘To not allow others to murder the divine,’ Larat said, a warning look in her eyes. ‘One of our kin has already died in this war; we do not intend others to run that risk.’
‘You would run such risks to avoid even one of your kin dying? This is a war you could win — if you were willing to accept losses.’
‘Losses are unacceptable,’ Larat snapped, ‘as are too many of the Upper Circle being weakened. None of our own will ally against the Upper Circle, but do not think we are so united that the victors in any war wouldn’t risk being turned on by their own kind. The majority rule of the Upper Circle prevents lesser Gods falling like jackals upon each other, but with losses — or more weakened, as Ilit was at the Last Battle — a new war might be sparked.’
Emin was silent a while as he tried to digest what Larat had told him. These were truths unacknowledged in the mortal Land. Just as kings kept secrets from their own people, some things even a king should not know too much about. The fact that a God was sharing secrets was a worrying development.
The king nodded, having to clear his throat before he could speak. ‘I understand — it is safer to use mortals than to walk the Land and become a target for your own kind — and daemons too, perhaps?’
So completely was his last comment ignored that Emin guessed he had scored a hit.
‘Kastan Styrax was intended to be the Saviour of the tribes of man, the leader to defeat Aryn Bwr when he returned. Our mistake was to make the man too powerful, too skilled, and he turned against us.’ For a moment Larat’s expression fell blank, further reminding Emin that the God only wore his sister’s image. Gennay had been an animated, passionate girl. Her face had never been so blank until death.
‘Aryn Bwr was only defeated when we forced a decisive confrontation; until then he had avoided large-scale battle because he knew Death and Karkarn in particular were too powerful for him. Follow his example; history’s lessons should be learned well.’
Larat stood. ‘And now it is time for you to wake up,’ the God said with a snap of the fingers.
Emin’s head jerked up from the table. He looked around, bleary-eyed and dizzy, his senses trying to resolve the conflict as he moved into a position he thought he was already occupying. He was at the small table where Daratin’s porridge was still cooling, a waxy film on its surface. He pushed himself to his feet, groaning at a building ache in his head. It felt like he had a hangover as bad as any he remembered, a crown of thorns within his skull that scratched and scraped.
‘Damn Gods,’ he muttered, heading for his bedroom to find appropriate clothes for the rest of the castle, ‘like frisky old spinsters. The more you run from them, the more interested they are in you.’
She waited all day, barely moving from her concealed hollow, while the Elves fussed and prepared at the stream below. Unused to feelings of any kind, the Wither Queen found time to savour what ran through her now: a strange sense of anticipation and excitement, coupled with an innate apprehension.
They are inventive, these mortals. How their hatred has driven them!
The small camp had been at the stream for weeks preparing the ground, but now a team of slaves had arrived and were readying the ground upstream for the final stage. It was fascinating — and horrifying. When the Wither Queen had come across the camp, deep in the empty forest and far from prying Farlan eyes, she had been about to scour it clean when her spirits had noticed a strange shrine.
She had probed the ground with infinite patience and care, careful to avoid the notice of the two mages who were there so she could watch them at her leisure. They would all die soon enough, that was beyond doubt, but their actions had intrigued her. The shrine had awakened some sense of curiosity she had not known she possessed. That flicker had grown stronger when she found a second shrine not far downstream.
Two shrines? But Elves do not pray.
The entire race had been cursed, cast out after the Great War, so what were they doing playing with shrines? She sent her darting spirits out to watch and listen, before some innocuous comment had allowed the truth to flower in her mind.
They were farming
.
Astonishingly — born of desperation, and a hunger for any small measure of revenge — the Elves were farming Gods.
The Wither Queen fought to control the screaming rage inside her when she realised, but it hadn’t taken long for her fury to be eclipsed by something else: the desire for power, the recognition of an opportunity there for the taking.