Ch7.44 Revelations

“Focus, Alma!” Sharia’s voice is harsh, acidic. Old.

Funny how one’s idea of someone affects perception so completely. How the same old bent goddess can seem so grandmotherly, almost worthy of that pitiful benevolence usually directed at those whose physical or mental capabilities are fleeing, or so twisted, so malevolently dry. How an amusing cackle turns to harsh gravel when emotion and knowledge turn a quaint family member into a shameless fraud. Alma listens to Sharia’s rambled instructions with only half a mind’s worth of attention. It all seems…ridiculous.

Maybe not ridiculous as such. What word better describes the absurdity of a whole school of knowledge built over and around a fallacy? Can anyone call beliefs ridiculous, even when being in possession of the truth? But then, what to do with all this supposed knowledge? Throw it away and start over? Try to save something of what has been a whole world’s truth for centuries?

It is frustrating. Alma has spent her life believing in a number of premises: 1) souls are neither created nor destroyed but continuously recycled; 2) souls have two states – embodied and disembodied; 3) disembodied souls are (with the exception of ‘ghosts’ and the like) drawn into the Wheel, where they stay until recycled; 4) it is a death god’s calling to release souls from their bodies and open the gateways which facilitate passage into the Wheel; 5) it is a Spinner’s task to spin the Wheel, accelerating their cleansing and transition into readiness for new life.

And all of this remains true. All of this is still compatible with the new things she has recently learned. But then, things stop adding up. Like the Spinning Wheel ceremony, that one moment in the year during which the Wheel can be spun, and only if a particular sun shines over the chamber in the Death Clan estate, at a particular time and on a specific angle. A single moment in time and place which mobilizes hundreds of gods all over the Insula to gather around a life goddess – always a life goddess, celibate and drained continuously by such incredible efforts – who stands as the fulcrum of the Wheel where it must spin.

It is just not true. It cannot be. Because Alma has spun the Wheel for a single soul and it wasn’t even all that difficult either. It did not leave her exhausted. She knows she will need to learn how to spin thousands of souls at once, but Sharia’s truth no longer fits with her own.

And so Alma stands listening with half an ear to Sharia’s gibberish while the memories of being in the Wheel, of speaking to the Shan’doir, of spinning the Wheel, minutely, for Nasheena run through her mind. Sharia does not mention the Shan’doir. She does not mention the inside of the Wheel. Every piece of the scarce knowledge she shares – only a part of the whole of the knowledge the old goddess holds, Alma has no doubt – is like a tale being told by someone who saw things happening from far away, not from the center of the action. And while in some cases this may be good for perspective, in this case, it is like being led by a blind guide over the edge of the abyss.

And the Shan’doir do not recognize Sharia as a Spinner or even as someone they have seen before in the Wheel. What has Sharia been doing for centuries? How has she been spinning the Wheel from the outside?

“Focus!” Sharia shrieks at her for the tenth time. “How did you manage to survive so long in your wretched Clan if you can’t even manage to get through a short lesson?”

“I’m sorry, Sharia,” Alma replies yet again. “The damage my soul sustained recently makes it difficult to concentrate. Did you ask me a question?”

“Yes. Have you tried to spin the Wheel since the ceremony?” Sharia asks, huffing slightly.

Alma considers before answering. Sharia should know the answer to that question. Being the Spinner, she should be able to sense its movements. She should know Alma has spun the Wheel recently, for Nasheena’s soul. So why ask? Is this a test? Or is Sharia’s dwindling power leaving those cloudy eyes truly blind to the Wheel?

She decides to risk it. “No. I’m not really sure how I did it in the first place.”

She does what she can to sound convincing but Sharia’s reply is silence. Long, staring silence, those greying eyes looking deep into the swirling vortex of Alma’s as if they were a window of the truth. But no one does deadpan like a death god. Alma holds her gaze steady, waiting for the moment of being confronted with her own lie.

And it never comes. Sharia harrumphs, nods and holds a finger to Alma’s face. “That’s right, you don’t. Never try to spin the Wheel alone, little girl. Not until I say you’re ready. Until then, I’ll guide your every incursion into it.”

Alma nods, putting serious effort into not letting her eyebrow rise in suspicion. She can feel the hairs on the back of her neck rise, that long-honed sense of ‘something is not right’ that has been so useful to her in the Guardia tingling against her nerves. She swallows, feeling suddenly sick to her stomach without knowing exactly why.

“What should I do in this lesson?” Alma asks.

“Lie down on that bed,” Sharia orders her.

Though Sharia’s living quarters are in a separate building located in the Life Clan temple estate, the lesson is taking place in Death’s house, apparently due to a demand made by Alma’s father himself, that the lessons happen where Alma can easily be assisted by the people who have seen her through the countless health crises of her youth, if need be. Sharia had not looked happy about this but she had eventually accepted it with a grumble. So Alma is now in her childhood bedroom, surrounded by the sights and scents of her youth, the doorless chamber making her feel only marginally secure for being in her father’s house. She lies down on her bed as ordered and watches as Sharia sits on the edge of the bed and places a gnarled hand on Alma’s forehead.

“I am going to show you how it’s done,” Sharia says. “Open up your essence to me. It’s the only way to teach you the paths.”

Alma hesitates before nodding. Opening her essence, the pathways of energy flow that connect the various layers of her soul to someone else is not just an incredibly intimate experience but something that no god has the right to demand of another god or mortal. It is a deep, deep level of nakedness before another and a special kind of vulnerability before someone Alma is beginning to feel is deeply, deeply…off. And she does not even know why.

Her gut demands her to stop. To rise from her bed and run, run at full speed, out of the house, into the public portal, back to Three Rats, to the station, among her children, to children’s arms. To real safety.

But what would that accomplish? Running would only get her a scolding, as if she were a child again. Running is the way of children, who are too weak to fight back. And she is not a child anymore. If only to find out why this feels so wrong, she must go ahead with the charade. So she opens herself to Sharia, letting her manipulate Alma’s energy, feeling her trigger strange pathways, convoluted and strenuous, unnatural almost. For a moment, it seems like it won’t happen, like the Wheel won’t open that way, no matter how much they try. Alma feels strained, pulled in a multitude of different directions, stretched nearly to the point of breaking. She endures it until she can endure it no more, until she feels as if she is going to die from the strain. It triggers her memories of that horrible pain, of being nearly bound to her own sword, and she cannot resist any longer. The path into the Wheel is so clear… at all times. She can run there instead, beyond Sharia’s painful touch, beyond the agony of this world.

She curses herself for her weakness. But she runs.

神兎神兎神兎神兎神兎神兎神兎

“Little soul?” the voice is calm. Gentle.

Alma opens her eyes to find she doesn’t have them. Not in this form. Not in this place. The Wheel. She welcomes the timeless coolness, the peaceful absence of all physical sensation. Of pain.

“Shan’doir?” she calls out.

“We are here,” the voice replies. “We are always here. Have you come to visit?”

“I am…” What was she supposed to be doing? Her mind feels jumbled. She feels sleepy. How can she want to sleep with no body to rest? “I am…someone…is with me?”

“Little soul, why are you so weak now?” the voice asks.

“I…I don’t know.” Alma searches her memories. “I am being taught…how to spin the Wheel.”

“Taught? You have spun the Wheel,” the voice says. “You are Shan’doir. You know.”

“Can you feel anyone with me?” Alma asks, feeling dread creep into the fore of her mind.

There is silence for a moment. How long it lasts is anyone’s guess – There is no time here. But there is still agony in waiting.

“You need to go back, little soul,” the voice says suddenly, though without urgency.

“Back? Why?” Alma asks, confused. “Have you detected Sharia? She is our Spinner. She has been spinning the Wheel for centuries.”

“The Wheel spins of its own will, little soul. Of its own heart,” the voice explains, patiently. “The Spinner is the heart of the Wheel. Without the Spinner, it can only be forced to spin through sacrifice.”

Alma’s confusion only grows. “Sacrifice of what?”

“Go back, little soul,” the voice says. “Before you find out.”

Returning to her body is like being pushed back – or pulled back maybe – by a strong elastic, or sucked by an enormous vortex. She feels the pull, for a moment seeming like it is her body calling her soul back but the pulling sensation doesn’t end, even after she returns to the boundaries of her body. The pulling feels stronger now that she is in her body, actually, draining her, as if something or someone is stealing away her life-force, sucking it as one would suck the contents of an egg through a hole in its shell.

Dread creeps up Alma’s spine, a cold dawning realization that chills her blood, now that she can feel it.

Sharia. Sharia is sacrificing her!

She can still feel the old goddess’ hand on her forehead. She can feel her life-force drain away through that touch, physical and spiritual and she acts immediately, cutting the connection with Sharia, curling herself into a little metaphysical ball, protecting her core. Too weak to move her body, it is all she can do to protect herself. But it is enough to make Sharia shriek in frustration.

“What are you doing, silly child?” the old goddess protests, trying to force the connection with her to reestablish. “The first session is nearly done. How do you expect anything if you won’t let me teach you?”

“Gg—gg—“ Alma tries to speak but she can’t force her throat to make the sounds.

“Shut up, child. Let me in again,” Sharia scolds her. “You are my worst student yet.”

“Nnn—nn—nnooOOOO!” The word is mostly a cry, primal and animalistic, pure sheer panic in a scream she can’t quite control.

And though it can do nothing against Sharia, it does the necessary. From every hallway and room nearby, people start pouring in, looking to see what is making Alma scream. Gods and mortals, all gather in the room, asking questions, looking at Sharia in suspicion. And suddenly, Alma is being lifted in protective arms against Sharia’s protests. There is a scent of sweat, of blood, of elemental fear in the air, but Alma feels safe now. The scent is welcome. The arms, familiar.

Melinor.

Alma looks up at her brother’s face, that duet of beauty and decay contorted in anger, glaring a threat at Sharia that gets the seasoned goddess to shut up, glaring back but not without a hint of concern. Alma struggles with her tongue, wanting to ask her brother to crush Sharia’s skull in his powerful hand, to destroy her for having tried to drain Alma. But the words don’t come and Melinor simply turns away from Sharia, and takes Alma away to her mother’s garden.

神兎神兎神兎神兎神兎神兎神兎

“Here, have some more tea,” Lyria insists gently, pushing another steaming glass into Alma’s hands.

“I already had two glasses, Mother,” Alma protests. “There is only so much that tea can do. And you have already examined me five times.”

“Well, at least it does not hurt,” Lyria notes, glancing toward Death, who is currently seated on a garden bench across from Alma. “I would rather keep you here for observation but if you insist on going back today, at least have the tea.”

“You are sure she was draining you,” Death says with that subtle intonation that turns a statement into a question.

Alma nods, serious, holding his gaze. “At first I did not notice it. It just felt…painful. Like being pulled in a thousand different directions. It was somewhat similar to the first time I spun the Wheel but the whole thing felt off from the start. It felt like too much effort. It was nothing like when I spun it for Nasheena. Nothing like when I entered it. But I guess…I thought she used alternate routes. And then I realized it. I felt her draining me.” She carefully avoids mentioning the Shan’doir. For some reason she cannot quite understand, the idea of sharing that knowledge with her parents seems inconceivable. “I guess she thought I wouldn’t know what she was doing. And she became greedy.”

“She must have been desperate to try something like that on you,” Lyria says.

“She may not have planned on taking such risks at first,” Death says. “But perhaps the energy of a young goddess with a Spinner’s gift was too seductive to just ease into draining through multiple sessions. And I gave her no option when I refused to let her lessons take place in her own sanctum. I wonder now how many young deities with even a hint of talent have been sacrificed in this fashion.”

“I do not know how many,” Alma says, measuring her words. “But I suspect she has been doing it for centuries. She may have used her own energy at first but once it became too much of an effort… Would anyone really suspect it?”

“If they have, they made sure to cover the tracks,” Lyria says, shaking her head. “So many life gods… It is just as difficult to keep track of them as it is to track death gods. With the exception that life gods are less organized. And Sharia is nearly untouchable in the Life Clan. None can deny her. But to just do something like this after the last Year’s End ceremony…such a great risk.”

“She trusted her experience would make her irreplaceable and unquestionable,” Death says. “Presumption and worthiness, to each their chosen measure.” He stands, his right hand adjusting his left cuff. “Is she irreplaceable, Alma?”

“No, Father,” Alma replies, holding her glass tighter in her hands to help steel her nerves. “And please, do not ask me to take any more lessons from her. I won’t. I will learn, one way or another, but not from her. I want her as far away from me as I can possibly have her.”

Death pierces her with his gaze. He knows. She knows he knows she is withholding information. And he knows she knows she is not fooling him. Still, Death does not need to press to get what he wants. He just needs to be patient. Eventually, all things are brought his way. And both of them know it. So none of them mentions it.

“At this point, I suspect the place would be your elected ward of exile,” Death says. “Melinor will see you there. I look forward to your progress.”

Ch7.43 Revelations

“Why don’t we withdraw to the salon for drinks and…a change of mood?”

Though Math keeps his tone light, he cannot be sure there is no hint of a strain in it, an external reflection of the internal turmoil he is experiencing. All this talk of what might have been, what could have been, what was and will never be again, never, never…

He feels as if he might explode at any moment, might literally shatter into sharp-edged fragments that blast and shred his guests. How could Lyria do this to him? How could she torture him like this, in his own home, especially when she is here only because he agreed to it, giving into her pleading for a chance to see and talk to her daughter. He had feared it could ruin the dinner, but this? Does she wish to destroy him?

Hearing no objections, Math stands, determined to leave the room and its painful conversation behind. Lyria stands with him and moves to follow. Alma and Gwydion stand as well, but Math senses that, behind him, they pause in the hallway. He does not look, but he does not have to – nothing on this estate can escape his attention if he stretches it in that direction. It is, in a sense, his sanctum: half a day’s walk in every direction, holy land dedicated to the Archon Math. A village’s worth of mortals living there, raising families, praying to him every morning and evening, and a thousand times that number scattered across the Insula who give him prayers before making the first move in a game, or when trying to manipulate a business rival into making a subtle mistake, or when trying to learn a spell. And there are Guardia who give him a prayer as well, though that is certainly not required or even encouraged. Not many are even aware that he exists. He is not a famous god at all, not among the public nor among the Guardia, and he prefers it that way. He may be a patron god of the Insula’s police force, but he is glad that most have never heard of him. Let sun gods and moon goddesses and rainbringers and healers and gods of grain and of cattle and of hearth and of love, let them receive the attention, lazy and drunk with mana in their temples, too distracted to accomplish anything, really, other than bless their worshippers with a smidgen of luck in thanks for their prayers.

Math has more than enough mana, thank you, and plenty of work to do.

And so as Alma holds his nephew in her arms, letting him nuzzle her hair and cling to her as if she were a boulder in a rushing river, clearly intending to stay behind for the moment in order to speak privately, Math enters the salon, holding the door for Lyria, and then lets it shut behind her. He goes to the bar and fetches a pair of crystal glasses and a bottle of his best ambrosia.

Lyria is looking around the room, taking in the understated luxury and comfort of it, the wallpaper in blue geometric patterns, the sofas of dark, soft leather. She is looking everywhere but at Math. Of course.

“Well that put a different tone on dinner,” he says in a flat voice. Then, before Lyria can respond, he deflects to conversation onto another track by asking, “And that was a new look for Alma, was it not? I had not realized the clan mark was optional now.”

Lyria looks at him, the beginnings of an apologetic expression transforming into reproach. “Did you not vote against it? Why should it bother you?” But something in her weary voice tells him she is not upset at him per se.

He pours the ambrosia, and the rich aroma drifts up and enters his nostrils. “Which way I voted centuries ago is immaterial if it means others will vote against your husband’s ascension to the Council now.” He peers at her, tilting his head. “Did you not know of this before tonight?”

Her silent regard tells him the answer. He raises his bushy eyebrows. “Oh… That is worrying.” He clenches his jaw, making his beard bristle like a nervous dog’s neck at the sight of a stranger. “What could he possibly be thinking?”

“You are his ally, are you not?” she retorts, throwing her hands up as she approaches the bar. “He just ripped it away. Poor thing was afraid she was being shunned.” She sounds perfectly miserable, and gratefully accepts the drink he offers.

“And he hasn’t even told her why,” Math murmurs. The dangerous, explosive feeling he was experiencing before has long passed, replaced by analysis, which always helps him detach. Emotional distance is necessary for clear thinking. “So that is why she seemed to be working so hard to maintain her balance. And I thought your pale complexion was due to bringing up the past.”

“What would happen, if he shunned her?” Lyria breathes. She ignores or does not notice the subtle remonstration. “If she was without her clan? With so many in the Council seething over her accusations…”

“If that is his plan…but he has already shunned her,” Math points out. He shakes his head. “And just so recently stepped forward for her again. No, it makes no sense. This is something else.”

“But if he did shun her,” she insists, looking him in the eye over the rim of her drink. “What then?”

Math looks back at her, considering. A small part of his mind notes that neither of them has taken so much as a sip yet, the drinks nothing more than props in their hands, excuses not to fling their arms about dramatically. “She would be seen as anathema to some, prey to others,” he says, finally. “At least normally, I should say. But now that she is the Spinner – she could claim the right to independence. In a sense, she is neither of the House of Death nor of Life. There would be those who would try to make her theirs, but others who would demand her freedom from influence. A true Spinner would be too valuable a prize to let anyone control.”

Lyria nods, as if the same thoughts had occurred to her. “And you? What would you do?”

Math finally takes a mouthful of ambrosia, letting it roll slowly over his tongue, allowing sheer pleasure take the place of analysis for just a moment. Ah, the symphony of flavors. He swallows, feeling its languorous warmth drop down to his belly. Then he returns to cool thought. “I would guarantee her independence from others’ influence. Though of course, she would be welcome to consider me family, via Gwydion.”

Lyria nods again, locking her eyes onto Math’s. “Poor young Gwydion does need a family.”

This stream of conversation is unavoidable. Math marshals his strength. He will need it to avoid losing control of his emotions. “He does. But he does not need to be tortured by the past.”

“Oh but he does need to know who they were,” Lyria insists. “They are a part of who he is!” She sighs, setting her glass down and looking at him apologetically. “It was not my idea. I am afraid my child has been taught all too well to play a game she refuses to play until her mother is in need of her forgiveness.”

Math grimaces. He too has no desire to imbibe this wonderful liqueur while his feelings are so unsettled. “Is it any wonder? We treat them as pieces on a board. When they have the opportunity, they play us as we played them. We should be proud. But it is bitter nonetheless.”

“We don’t play them for pleasure!” Lyria argues, but continues before he can point out that he never said they did. “They have no idea how worse off the world would have been if anyone else were using them. And they are not yet ready to be independent. They are too idealistic, too innocent…” She sighs again. “But yes, I cannot say she has no reason to treat me this way. Did you not see how Gwydion reacted to those simple, little inconsequential tidbits?”

“I saw him falling to pieces, is what I saw,” Math grouses, his anger rising. “I saw him in agony. Is that what he needs?”

“Agony?” Lyria gives him a quizzical look, her lovely green eyes searching his face. “Dear, the pain he was going through was just as sweet as it was bitter. He would have killed for it, I am certain. He would have stayed there all night, listening to whatever I might have to say. It was you who clammed up with a grimace on your face.”

He glares at her, feeling his jaw set in opposition, as firm as if it were made of iron. He almost speaks through his teeth. “There is a reason I have avoided dwelling on the past. It is useless. And it is painful. I see no reason to dredge it up now, except for the limited utility of uncovering secrets that will assist with Gwydion’s development now. He must be prepared for his role as Devil Hammer. Beyond that…he is better off without sentimentalities weighing him down.”

“But why? Why should he not know that his parents were good, loving people?” Lyria’s shoulders slump and she shakes her head, her lovely curls bouncing. “That they loved him and each other so much? Or other things about them?”

Math turns suddenly away. The detachment, the analysis, the anger, none of it is working to stave off the feeling of a poisoned sword piercing his guts. “Please, Lyria… Please don’t…” He crosses his arms, gripping his elbows as if trying to squeeze the pain away.

He sees her face. His sister’s face. He sees her small, a child, begging him to play with her. Teasing him. Making him laugh. Oh how she could make him laugh.

He hears a rustling behind him and Lyria is there before him, reaching to touch the whiskers on his cheek. “Oh, my friend… I know. I know it still hurts just as much as it did back then. It hurts me as well. She was one of my closest friends.”

“And there is nothing,” he hisses through his clenched teeth, his eyes shut tight, “nothing we can do to help them. To save them.” He opens his eyes, his vision momentarily blurred, but he blinks away the moisture that threatens to overspill. “And the same fate nearly befell Gwydion. And your Alma as well.”

Lyria’s hand falls to Math’s upper arm, squeezing it. “I was there, dear. I saw what they looked like. I saw my child unconscious and cold. I heard her scream in agony when she finally woke up. And I saw the wounds on Gwydion. I watched him weep in fear and relief when she spoke and he was sure she was herself. And the memories are horrible. Terrifying. What could have been and what was. But, dear, they are here. They are alive. Why treat them as if they were better off dead?”

Despite the gentle tone, her words feel like a slap in the face. “I…I have never treated them as better off dead! Whatever do you mean by that?”

Lyria lets her hand fall as he steps back. She looks mildly exasperated. “You keep him at arm’s length, never opening your heart to him. He survived demons, a terrible attack, the loss of his parents. He needed you but where were you, my friend?” She holds her hands out, pleading. “Where was the warmth, the love he lost? He is practically your son but look where he had to go to find a family again.”

“I never expected him to stay with Alma,” Math mutters as he half-turns, putting his hands on the bar again. “He certainly confounded me there. And this friendship with a devil!” He bangs the bar with his fist, making the ambrosia in his barely touched glass ripple. “Most of my calculations indicated he would kill Tuma-Sukai, solving several problems at once. He’s never shown such consideration. Emotions…more unpredictable than anything else.”

“So you mistook him for a heartless rich thug with no empathy. I guess that shows just how much you don’t know him.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Math can see Lyria’s frown. Her usual playful coquetry is absent, and as much as they are in disagreement at the moment, as sharp as her words are, he appreciates her unmasked honesty. But there is only so much he can stand in one evening, and he tacks back to an earlier point.

He looks over at her and asks, “So you have not clearly said: Did he disown her? Do you know one way or the other?”

She looks at him with a steadfast confidence, or at least hope, shining in her eyes. “No…not her. Not his little girl.”

“And what would you have done, if he had?” He turns toward her and unconsciously takes her hand. It is not until after he has done so that he realizes this is the first time in a great while, in many many years, that he has been the one to instigate physical contact with her in any but the most public and proper ways.

She is such an affectionate goddess, always reaching out to stroke a cheek, squeeze a hand. There was a time when he hoped…when he thought… But again, the past is the past, and best left there to dry up, crumble, and blow away. They are friends. There is no possibility for more – he has known that for centuries. He could never be what she needs in a lover. He cannot even understand what she needs.

She moves closer, a sad smile on her face. “I do not think we will ever know.”

She is so close that he can smell the springlike air of her breath, feel the invigorating effect of her life sphere making his heart race. Her breast is almost touching his. Does she know the way she affects him still? Of course she does. And he cannot hate her for that. Though he may have cursed her a thousand times for being a manipulative bitch, he is no better. He knows himself. He knows what he is, faults and strengths. He loves her. He can barely remember a time when he did not. It may have mellowed into friendship, but the desire for more will never completely disappear, no matter how clinically he observes it within him.

“And what is it about my child that makes her so unfit for yours?” she asks, but before either of them can say more, the knob is turning. Lyria turns so that she is now leaning with her back against the bar, but she still holds his hand. “Oh, they have finally decided to join us. Look at that adorable couple.”

Her voice is loud enough for the couple to hear as they enter, Alma looking a little surprised to see the two older deities so close, so friendly, but Gwydion’s eyes are fixed on Lyria in hope. Math knows that more stories are to follow. He steels himself, and, releasing Lyria’s warm hand, sets up two more long-stemmed crystal glasses on the bar.

神兎神兎神兎神兎神兎神兎神兎

After more shared tales and considerably more emotional earthquakes on everyone’s part, Lyria has gone home, and Gwydion and Alma have opted, not without some persuasion on Math’s part, to stay the night. Travel downslope via the public portal system would take hours and drain a considerable portion of their mana. Math could, of course, simply transport them directly home – one does not become an Archon without prodigious magical talents. But he too is worn out from this fraught evening, and perhaps in pity at the strain he allowed himself to show, the fatigued couple agreed to accept his offer of a bed.

Pity is not something that Math welcomes in the slightest. But if he has made himself pitiable in their eyes, then he has no one to blame but himself. He pours himself another glass of ambrosia and, running a finger along the rim to produce a chime of exquisite beauty, he looks into the red-peach surface of the distilled nectar and sees the image that forms there.

He has few qualms against spying. Without spying, he would not be where he is today. Without spying, the Insula would be a blazing ruin ruled over by the most hideous beings in the cosmos.

With more spying, perhaps he could have prevented a great deal of the misfortune that has plagued him for the past century and a half.

Steam billows, water ceases falling like a downpour of rain from the entire ceiling of the shower. A wavering shadowy shape obscured within the vapor raises his arms, and a pair of playful sylphs, elemental beings of air, dive into the warm humidity, dashing the clouds away as they whisk their bodies – momentarily visible as young, lithe, and female – against their guest. Water vapor hits the walls hard enough to condense instantly, running down the intricately painted tiles in rivulets, and Dion, revealed now, cannot help but grin at the friskiness of the girlish spirits.

Math must make a slight effort to remember if they are the same ones who have dried Gwydion off since he was a child. Indeed, they appear to be. He recalls that their mystical contract is for three hundred sixty years, and he summoned and bound them a good eighty-two years before Gwydion came to live here, his home after the tragedy. He has never really given the sylphs much thought since then. He himself prefers towels, but he had had a special guest, and though it would have been far easier to have summoned them only for his fellow Archon’s week-long stay, he had been in the mood for a challenge. Binding a pair of elementals to thirty-six decades of service was certainly a challenge. They had made quite extravagant demands, capricious beings that they are, and negotiations had taken an entire night. But in the end they were satisfied, as was he, and who else could boast such a contract? Not many.

He briefly wonders what they do in the long periods when there are no guests. Since these rooms became Gwydion’s, he is the only one to have lived in this part of the mansion, and the only guests have been his nephew’s, usually young goddesses that Dion did not bother introducing to his uncle. And then the young playboy god was gone for long stretches, decades. The nymphs, left alone…did they miss him?

It is not something that would normally come to mind, Math realizes. But they seem so happy tonight, as they dry Gwydion and even style his hair with puffs and strokes of comfortably warm air, and even lift a robe, letting it fall so that his upraised arms enter the sleeves.

The joy or loneliness of elementals is not something that Math has much considered before. Nor, it seems, the joy or loneliness of his nephew.

…practically your son…

Lyria’s words, though they swept past him earlier, come ringing back.

Leaving the sylphs behind, tying the belt of his thick, soft bathrobe, Gwydion emerges from the shower to find Alma sitting on a bench in a gable window, looking absently outside at the dark silhouettes of Math’s peach trees. He crosses the room and puts his hands on her shoulders.

“That…was an interesting dinner.”

She looks up at him, reaching to lay a hand on his. “I feel like the invitation should have come with a disclaimer: ‘Some tears might be shed, bring tissues.’ How are you feeling?”

The vision within the glass of ambrosia shifts point-of-view constantly, the spell designed to be ‘intelligent’, as they say, showing Math what he most needs to see at any given moment. Sometimes it focuses on Alma’s face, sometimes on Gwydion’s. Sometimes it pulls back to show them both at once, and sometimes it shows each from different angles. In truth, it is ‘seeing’ everything in the room at the same time from every angle. And hearing everything as well. It would not be possible for the whispered breath of a mouse to escape his notice, should Math focus on it.

So when Gwydion takes a breath, Math can hear its ragged edge. The tremulous joy brought on by the delightful wind-spirits clearly coexists with still-troubled thoughts. “Torn apart and stitched roughly back together,” he says. “These revelations, coming so fast, amid so much else that is hammering our lives.” A brief laugh, with no humor in it. “I hope the Fates are enjoying the show.”

Alma looks down and away from him. “I’m afraid the Fates are not to blame for most of tonight,” she admits. “My mother wanted to patch things up with me. I demanded she tell you about your parents in return for forgiveness. I’m sorry, I just…” She shakes her head. “It was a bad idea.”

Math nods, but stops his own thoughts on the matter. He wants to focus on this.

Dion squeezes her shoulders, begins to knead her trapezius muscles. “No. It wasn’t. It needed to come out. It all needs to come out. Their secrets about us, my parents, everything. We can’t go on without knowing. Without being able to trust them.” He leans forward so that he can look over the top her her head, and sensing this, she lifts her gaze again, looking at him upside down. “I know there is much to love in your mother. And in my uncle. I am sick to death of hating him, of not being able to trust him. I want to know it all. I want to know my parents.”

Gwydion’s words do not stab at Math’s guts. No more than a pinprick, really. It’s not as if he were unaware that his nephew sometimes feels hatred for him. Perfectly normal, surely.

Alma scooches closer to the window to make room for Gwydion, and he sits half-behind, half-beside her and puts his arms around her. “I could see it in his face,” she says. “The whole issue of your parents hurts him deeply. I think part of this secrecy has to do with that pain. He’s been shielding himself from it as much as he was protecting you from becoming a target to Hell.”

“I know. And it helps me resist the urge to grab him by the throat. But I will also always know that his desire to protect me has gone hand-in-hand with his web of plans and schemes. And that is something I will have to come to terms with, because that is who he is.”

“Are we ever going to become these people?” she asks, settling into his arms, leaning her weight against him. “I can’t remember a moment… I can’t remember a single game from my childhood that wasn’t meant as a lesson in politics. I know I had friends who would come and visit but I can’t remember just being a child with other children, entertaining a friend of the family who wasn’t conveniently placed on some high perch. I don’t want to find myself doing that to a child of mine in a century. The chips in these games…they’re our lives. How can they gamble with our fates and still sleep at night?”

Gwydion tightens his hold on her. “I do not understand it, either. Uncle always said, ‘Either you are one of the players or one of the played. If you think you are neither, you are the latter.’ I hate that. But there is a truth to it. Still, there must be some middle way. I do not want to have a child in my arms, thinking, ‘How will I turn this to my benefit?’ And yet, could I leave that child unprepared for these things?”

Math feels heartened that the youngster is beginning to grow up, to accept that this is how the world works. Middle way? No, but it is a step on the path to realism.

“Mother said nearly the same thing. It helps that you don’t want a child, period,” Alma points out. Is that a questioning note in her voice? “But it’s a fine balance, yes.”

Gwydion is silent so long that Math, still listening, wonders that Alma says nothing about it. But she sense his need to consider his words, and when he speaks, his voice is soft and slow. “I am not certain what I might think in the future. For now, I only want you.”

She turns her head and twists her upper body a little to look at his face, very close to her own. At first she does not reply, and when she does, it is with a kiss rather than words. “I’m yours. And I will do all I can to help you find out more about your parents. They sound like wonderful people. I’m sorry I can’t meet them.”

He rests his forehead against hers as she turns to more easily face him. “My memories of them are so fragmentary. I don’t know what is real and what is fantasy I have created to fill in the gaps.”

She strokes his cheek with one hand, the other reaching behind to rest on his back. “You were four years old, over a century and a half ago. It’s normal not to remember. It’s not something to be ashamed of.”

Not something for Dion to be ashamed of, Math tells himself.

“Nonetheless, it feels like a betrayal. I want everything, every fragment. No matter how painful.” Dion’s voice is rough, and he pauses, as if another word will transform into a sob. After taking a little time to regroup, he continues. “Growing up, I was so used to mention of them being taboo that I never really talked about them with anyone. I thought that if I didn’t think about it, then…” Again he pauses, and the image ripples as the glass trembles in Math’s hand. “But I’ve always wanted to know what they were like. If they loved me. Why they had left me behind.”

“They didn’t have a choice, my love,” Alma breathes, putting her other arm around him know, embracing him as he embraces her.

“Yes, but I didn’t know that. I assumed they were dead but even that was just…” His head sinks against her shoulder. “I did not want to think they had willingly sent me away.” His voice is so thick now that Math knows Gwydion is weeping.

Math’s fingers claw at the leather armrest. He cannot avoid the knowledge that this pain is nobody’s fault but his own.

Alma cradles his head, her forehead resting against the side of his face. “I understand. And I wish I could do something to take that pain away.”

“Oh, you have done more than I ever could just to find some answers. And you were there for me at the estate. Have I ever thanked you for that?” He nuzzles her neck.

She nods, smiling a little. “I’m sure you have.”

“Probably not enough.” He raises his head, looking into her eyes, his own bright with moisture. He swallows and leans his head back, looking up as if trying to spot a memory. “I remember a song. Her voice. But…not the words.”

“Oh…” She falls silent for a moment, watching him. “Perhaps… If I learn to hum it, maybe a feminine voice would help you remember?”

He tries. He hums, a tune sweet and lilting, a tune of spring, of life. Three brief stanzas. As he does, runs her hand along his forearm and touches the living bracelet he wears on his wrist. When he is done, Dion sighs, his shoulders slumping, but with another touch of the bracelet, the tune plays back, the sound recorded within it.

They both listen. And one more listens with them. One who can hear his sister, gone forever, singing that very song.

And then Alma sings it wordlessly, trying to copy it, looking at Gwydion for clues as to whether she is doing it correctly.

Her voice is not the same. But it is not so very different.

The surface of the ambrosia ripples again. But this time it is not from a trembling hand.

A droplet has fallen from an ancient eye.

Gwydion smiles at her. “Perhaps we can ask Uncle about it tomorrow. He may know it.”

“Maybe if we ask nicely. Over something sweet for breakfast.” Her smile is encouraging. “For now…it’s been a long night after a long day.”

He puts his hand on the back of her neck. “That I can begin that day with you, and end that night with you, and know that tomorrow I will once again wake and the first thing I will see is you…that is a greater blessing than I have dared to hope for in all my memory.”

Has any goddess ever looked at Math the way Alma is looking at Gwydion now? Her heart seems to be melting within her. “You are not the only one who’s blessed. My days and nights with you are a kind of happiness I don’t remember ever feeling. And I am hoping for many more still to come.”

He rises, one hand taking hers, and he leads her to the bed. “I promise you this: I am not going anywhere. Even the Council wants us together, it seems.” His smile is replaced by a serious expression as he stands with her next to the bed, his hands on her slender waist. “I cannot imagine being without you.”

She tilts her head, playful. “Just imagine a lot more parties and a lot fewer trials… and not even half the fun.” She cups his cheeks with both her hands. “Let’s just enjoy the Council’s obviously poor judgment in sentencing us to serve side by side where we can keep getting in trouble.”

The smile returns to Gwydion’s face. “Perhaps we can ease off on the speed at which we dive into that trouble, however. For now, let us dive into a nice, safe bed. Though…” Ah, there it is, that devilish grin. The rogue. But it has more life behind it than most of the times Math has seen it on his face. It reaches his eyes. “Maybe we can find a little trouble in it before sleep.”

Alma’s shoulders shake as she chuckles, and she shakes an admonishing finger at him. “You’ve been planning on getting me into your teenage bed this whole time, admit it.”

“And knowing now that we were supposed to have grown up as brother and sister, that might be very naughty indeed.” His kiss is deep, and he pulls her against him until his calves hit the side of the bed and he falls back with her on top of him.

Math whispers a word of power beneath his breath, and the image disappears. He reaches up one hand to wipe his wet face, but his thoughts are on what he has learned. He has no doubt any longer about how serious Gwydion is in his intentions for Alma. Nor does he doubt her feelings. Data with which to plan…

The memory of a song derails his calculations. He hears her voice. Stop hiding, Math! Come out!

Eidon. He could always hide from her. She could never find him if he didn’t want her to.

It’s not fair! Come out!

He can see her face. The tears are about to start. Tears he has brought on.

He steps out from behind the tall, thin sapling, no bigger around than his wrist. Hide and seek with gods makes for a greater variety of places of concealment.

“It is all right.” His voice, here and now, old and deep and breaking, is loud in his ears as he speaks. “I am here…”

The glass of ambrosia tumbles, forgotten, to the floor, splashing its contents across the carpet, as he bends, his face sinking into his palms.

Ch7.42 Revelations

That Math’s home is a luxurious estate is no secret to those who know him. It is a place of rich marbles and rare fabrics, of rugs woven by the childish hands of the Pigmea Virgin people of the remote Zunkee Archipelago, halfway between the skirts of the Insula and the surf at the edge where the ocean fades into the Void. It is not lavish but it is, without a doubt, expensive and carefully planned not to overwhelm the eye, to be elegant without losing its utilitarian, almost military feel. But it is not, in fact, a family home. There is no sensation to it that it might welcome children running through its hallways, chasing each other and the family pets, filling the air with laughter and warmth. It is, at the end of the day, a comfortable temple made for the individual solitude of its primary occupant.

To spend weeks here awaiting trial had been physically comfortable but emotionally wrecking for Alma. To be invited here now for dinner with Math is a bit of a strange experience, positive but colored by that memory of being stuck here, nearly isolated from Three Rats and the world in general, unable to leave without escort, uncertain about when the sentence exiling her to Hell would come.

She squeezes Gwydion’s fingers, nestled around her own as the doors to the mansion proper open before them at the hand of one of the many mortal servants.

“Good evening, Master Lord Gwydion.” The servant, a young-looking male, is dressed in an impeccable white shirt-and-pants ensemble, lined in Math’s royal blue, the same his patronage has lent to the Guardia. The man’s shaved head and toned torso make him look like the type of waiter who could knock out a mal-behaved guest at a meaningful look from his employer. “Lady Alma, welcome back.”

“Good evening, Cyrius,” Alma greets him back. “How go your carpentry projects?”

Cyrius smiles his polished, yellow-diamond-tooth grin at her in pleasure. Although it is customary in the First (and to some level in the Second) Ring to mostly ignore servants even as they hand their masters drink or food – and an almost scandalous faux pas to be found conversing with them other than to give orders – it is Alma’s family tradition to get to know and remember people as they appear in one’s life. Some are just fleeting encounters, yes, but considering how many of the people a death god meets end up being souls jy must later collect, it is an act of kindness and professionalism to spare them at least a little bit of acknowledgement. And though many are surprised and slightly unnerved by the fact that a death goddess is taking an interest in them, Alma has always found that people react positively to being treated as…well, people. “As slowly as ever but perfection takes time. It is good to see you again. Master Lord Math is waiting in the private dining room.”

“Thank you, Cyrius,” Gwydion says to the servant. He looks slightly uncomfortable in the presence of the man and Alma wonders for a moment if the god had ever bothered to learn the Cyrius’ name. Of course, Gwydion has not lived here for some years. “And a good evening to you too.”

Gwydion turns his gaze to Alma and smiles at her reassuringly, though with as much a look of uncertainty in his eyes as she, and leads her in, through the many hallways and rooms until they reach the small dining room. Not the one reserved for large entourages and glamorous parties, but the one reserved to smaller meals to be had in a more intimate setting. Math awaits them there, standing by the door with an air of breathlessness about him as if he has just rushed to meet them at the news of their arrival. Highly unlikely.

“Hello! What a delight to host you both!” the Archon greets them. “And for the great reason of celebrating, tonight, your glorious success over those less-favorable elements of the Council. Please, sit.”

He looks joyous, outgoing, the hairs of his white beard bristled with the happy grin on his face. Such a different expression from the frustrated, outraged Archon just after the trial. Even as he toasted with them then, as he held Alma’s hand and squeezed it gently, he had been tense, restrained. What had been going through the old god’s mind to share such affection with her when he was barely capable of being affectionate with his nephew? Now, however, he seems on the verge of celebrating the conquest of the secrets to paving the Void toward new worlds. Alma shares a look of surprise with Gwydion, one which is a double-sided interrogation and ignorant reply, neither of them abiding the request to sit.

“Thank you for the invitation, Uncle,” Gwydion says, failing to smile and taking refuge in formality. “Though I must say I was not expecting you to be so…well-disposed after the last time we spoke.”

“Oh you must forgive a god of long experience and power,” Math replies, waving it off as if it were nothing but a minorly inconvenient story. “I am used to ordering everything just so. The fact that you are now barred from living at the estate is incredibly tiresome, but you got what you wanted. How can I fault loyalty to friends?” He pauses, seemingly needing a moment to remember to add, “Or to family.”

His head turns toward the door just to the right of Gwydion and his eyes and grin widen to a most dramatic effect of welcome astonishment. “Oh! And speaking of family…welcome to my humble home, Lady of Life.”

And just like a carefully choreographed ballet, the door opens and there she is, Lyria, Alma’s mother, smiling and dressed for an intimate gala dinner, her flaxen hair, wavy from being usually held in a braid, flowing and draping over her shoulders, free from bindings except for a small hairpin on the left side of her hair. The older goddess looks surprised to see her daughter and Gwydion in the room, as if she had dressed this beautifully to have dinner alone with Math. “Well! What a delightful turn of events to see two of my favorite people in all of Reality here.”

Alma raises an eyebrow at the overly-played, overly-sold coincidence, unable to believe any of it and annoyed at what she should have expected to be a likely turn of events for the evening. “Mother, you are…here.”

“Lady Lyria, such a pleasure to see you again,” Gwydion says smoothly, though with a hint of hesitation.

“And you as well, my dear,” Lyria responds, her smile flickering to uncertainty for a moment at their hesitation. “Congratulations on your win.” Her elegant eyebrows crease in a frown as she adds, “But how sad that you are restricted to your ward. It was such a delight picking out clothes for my grandchildren, and decorations for their rooms. Did they enjoy them?”

The mention makes both of Alma’s and Dion’s expressions darken slightly. A confirmation of a carefully woven plan, with at least Math and Lyria as players. Another scheme over a scheme, tiresome and corrosive. Clingy old gods, addicts of the Game, unable to stop playing even if they know each move undermines their children’s trust in them.

“They loved them, Mother,” Alma says dryly, straining to maintain decorum. “Especially Rosemary and Tulip. They had a little show, modelling their new clothes.”

Lyria puts her hands together, beaming with self satisfaction, seemingly failing to notice the displeasure in Alma’s tone. “I do wish I could have seen that. And how did the two of you enjoy your stay there?”

“It was rather enjoyable, though…a little of an emotionally charged experience,” Alma replies, her fingers still entwined with Gwydion’s and softly squeezing his hand as she looks at her beloved.

“Yes, for quite a number of reasons. That house holds memories that I am still trying to understand,” he adds to her reply. “And secrets. Many secrets. But mostly things to be explored little by little.”

Lyria looks honestly sympathetic towards him, her smile fading into compassion, her tone lower, less jovial. “It must have been difficult. Fortunately you had Alma beside you.”

“Indeed,” Math adds, trying to participate in a conversation that has swiftly run away from him.

The look Gwydion exchanges with Alma is one of affection and gratitude and she cannot help but smile at him in return. “It’s certainly not a journey I would have wanted to take alone. We needed to share it. Especially after…everything we have been through lately.”

If Gwydion’s first words bring a smile to Lyria’s face, his last bring sadness to her eyes. She almost seems to shrink, so bleak her aura becomes for a moment. “I am glad that you are both safe. The pain you have been put through…” She breathes in deeply and suddenly, it is as if nothing bad ever happened in the whole of creation. “But it is in your past now. Tonight, perhaps we can celebrate the present and the future.”

“The future, Mother?” Alma looks quizzically from Lyria to Math at the mention of this mysterious ‘future.’ Considering how much these two like to plan, she would not be surprised if they had already written a script for her and Gwydion to follow. “Is there any part of it that we should know about?”

This actually manages to make her mother look a bit out of step. Lyria looks at Math, who chuckles as if caught planning something naughty. “Well I must admit,” he says, “I had a future planned out for you both. Now that that is gone, I’m afraid the future is wide open. But we can toast it as a possibility.”

“Of course,” Gwydion agrees with a nod, though his tone and expression are dark and he does not look completely convinced of the innocence of his uncle’s words.

Alma nods too. “It will be a pleasure to toast with you again, my Lord Archon.”

“Oh!” Lyria looks at Math, her mouth drawing a perfect ‘O’ as her voice turns sardonic. “And when will the wine be poured, my Lord Archon?”

The title is so pompously announced, with an almost physical flourish, that Math actually looks uncomfortable at it. “You only ever call me that to poke fun at me, Lyria.”

“Well, I wonder if my daughter is doing that as well,” Lyria replies archly, crossing her arms in front of her chest.

“Oh…is she calling me that?” Math looks confused, turning to Alma as if to look for confirmation of something he had, so far, not paid any mind to. “I hadn’t noticed.”

As Lyria rolls her eyes in mild irritation, Alma finds herself uncomfortable, suddenly brought into the middle of what looks like an old argument, now being applied to her. She may have been a guest in Math’s estate for weeks before and she may be courting his nephew but what else would she be expected to call Math? Uncle?

“Forgive me…” she murmurs, bowing her head. “I was only trying to observe politeness…”

“I don’t think my uncle even notices what people call him, anymore,” Gwydion tells her, conciliatory. “Don’t worry.”

“Oh yes,” Math hastens to agree, raising a hand, palm forward in atonement at first, then turning palm up in invitation. “Please, Alma, call me Math. I never pay much attention to such things, but I would rather you call me by my name.”

“Never pay attention unless you hear someone use a form of address that you consider beneath you,” Lyria mutters, one eyebrow raised.

“I will call you by whichever name you prefer,” Alma says respectfully, shooting a scolding glance at her mother, who pretends not to see it.

“Perhaps…we should move on to the toasting,” Gwydion suggests, speaking quickly as he tries to cut this particular line of discussion short.

As he says this, servants appear, silent and discreet, nearly unnoticeable as they hand each god and goddess a glass and fill it with sweet-smelling Ambrosia. Like any traditional house master, Math picks up his glass without seeming to acknowledge even the need for servants, let alone their presence. “Yes, let’s toast. To our dear young gods – may you find your way to joy together.”

Lyria merely smiles at the young girl pouring her drink while Alma and Gwydion, used to the Three Rats way, thank the servants for their drinks before raising their glasses in toast. They glance at each other and then at the older gods, neither of them looking very certain of what to think of all this and feeling caught in a strange alternate reality where somehow they seem to have arrived into this particular story a few chapters after the start of the book.

Lyria drinks, looking at them both over the rim of her cup, her expression moving progressively from the usual smile to one of dark resignation. She sighs silently and puts her glass down on the table. “Alma, may I have a word with you on the balcony? You two don’t mind, do you, Math and Gwydion?”

“Of course not,” Gwydion replies, glancing at Alma for confirmation.

She nods, turning to her mother and likewise placing her glass on the table before gesturing toward a glass door that she can see leads to a balcony outside. “After you, Mother.”

Lyria follows her out through the balcony doors, closing them and sealing them with a spell to prevent eavesdropping. The elder goddess stands with her back to the doors, her lower lip gracefully pinched under her upper teeth. “Alma…please. Forgive me, will you? I…I miss you.”

“Forgive you?” Alma tilts her head, furrowing her brow and smiling like a predator looking at a rebellious prey. The nerve… “You ask me for forgiveness and yet you keep committing the same sins. After I scold you for plotting out my life and doing all you can to keep me as your toy, you go picking clothes and decorations to make sure your plan and Math’s to entice Gwydion back to the Inner Rings works?” Her voice rises as anger boils in her. “Using me and my children to reel him in? To get us under your sight again? Did the two of you even consider what that estate means to Gwydion? How difficult it was for him to see that place again and stay there?”

“Of course we did!” Lyria cries, spreading her hands in a display of anguish. “I’ve been asking Math for over a century when he was going to give it to Gwydion. I would have helped him out with preparing it in any case, but to have my daughter there, and her children…how could I resist doing those things that were going to slip Math’s mind?” She points to herself, her eyes wide as she says to Alma, “I wanted you and them to like it there – I wanted you to love it! But I was not trying to tempt you to stay…I knew there was little chance of that. I told Math – you can ask him! I told him to cast aside any thought of tempting you and just give poor Gwydion his birthright.”

“Why did you want me to love it? What does it matter if I love it?” Alma insists. “It is Gwydion’s home, not mine. I would not dream to sway him one way or another about staying there.”

“But you would not let him stay there all by himself, would you?” Lyria asks, smooth-tongued and incisive. “I have seen you two together, you cannot possibly tell me that it is just a thing in passing. You are a matched set and wherever one goes the other is sure to follow suit. So why not make his childhood home agreeable to you and your Bunnies? That place needed a family in it again.”

“A family you failed to tell me about, just as you never told me of the child you almost adopted, who you never introduced me to or even mentioned in passing but mysteriously appeared in my life more than a century later?” Alma retorts just as smoothly.

Lyria looks chagrined at this, glancing at Math and Gwydion through the window seemingly chatting and oblivious of the goddesses. “I am afraid Math and I had had a falling out some time before. I came to him, offering to take in Gwydion, hoping to heal the rift. I thought at first he would agree – he seemed mightily tempted. But in the end he elected to raise Gwydion himself, and he made me swear to keep the child’s past a secret. He was convinced that the same fate awaited Gwydion as had fallen upon Eidon and Giffleu. He wanted the boy to be forgotten by the enemies who stole his parents.” She takes a step toward Alma. “But I knew he would never completely leave our lives. And I have always kept an eye on him.”

“It was you who threw us into Three Rats together, wasn’t it?” Alma breathes, feeling tired of these people who rationalize abuse so easily. “You planned this all as an alternative to Arion.”

Lyria’s eyes widen, then shut tightly and she shakes her head as if expelling some insufferable thought. “No, no… That is not right at all! Do you think I would send you to the Fourth Ring, right into the path of all this danger?” she cries, gesturing wildly in frustration. “When I heard you were going, I went to Math and demanded that your orders be changed. Then he pointed out that Gwydion was going too. And Tuma-Sukai as well. So I sought out Nevieve and I waited to see how things would unfold. It was not long before I had to step in and help. And I will continue to take every chance given me to help you, Alma.” She looks down, suddenly quiet and subdued, her left hand holding her right upper arm. “I have not always done the best thing. But I have always done what I thought was the best thing.”

“But I have not asked for your help, Mother. Other than to help Nevieve, when in the last few years have I asked for your help?” Alma leans back against the balcony, rubbing her eyes and shaking her head. She knows this won’t get anywhere. It won’t change anything. Ever. “I just want to stop being a piece in all your games. Yours, Father’s, Fencer’s, Math’s, anyone’s. Everyone’s! Just…why does helping always mean making decisions for me or trying to change my mind about something?”

Her mother crosses her arms, tilting her head and pursing her lips in irritation, like a teacher dealing with a particularly stubborn student. “My dearest, if you are not part of our games, you will be taken and made a part of another’s. In fact there are constant attempts to do so. Or even to remove you from the board entirely. The only other choice is to become a player and so far you have been unwilling to do that. In this world, my daughter, you play, or you are played. Your father has spent quite a long time teaching you that.”

“Becoming a player means being willing to gamble anything at any time without remorse,” Alma says, too used to this conversation. “And I have too much precious to me and seven children who do not need to feel like pawns in my game. I don’t want them to grow to expect that to be normal.”

Lyria sighs and looks up at the heavens as if praying for patience. “Then if you are determined to follow your own path with nothing by way of help from or to me or your father or any of the others…you are apt to be snapped up by someone like Nekh.” She raises a hand, palm forward, just as Alma opens her mouth to protest. “And I know…I know he was my fault. I was a fool to have trusted him. Alma, I have made mistakes. But I want you kept safer than you have been of late. I want your children to be safer. I am willing to give you as much freedom as I can but please do not ask me to entirely forego helping. And please…do not cut me out of your life. I could not bear that.”

“I have never cut you out of my life, Mother,” Alma replies. “I have never said you could not visit me or my children. I just don’t want to be a prisoner in my own life.”

“You are not,” Lyria says softly. “At least you are not mine. I want things to be well between us again, little one. I want us to be at ease with one another. And I am sorry for my actions before. You nearly…” She makes a show of blinking away tears. “You were nearly lost in the worst possible way. The oblivion of the Void would have been preferable. The thought of it still freezes my heart. Can you blame me if I say something stupid in the face of that?”

Alma is silent for a long moment, thinking. She is tired of this conversation, frustrated that no matter how loud she yells or how many times she tries to reason a way out of this oppression there will never be a change, never be an end to the schemes and plans. Tired of being called naive and accused of refusing to grow up and be who she is expected to be. A player. A manipulator. A gambler of lives and fates over the next deal, the next little crumb of benefit or progress in a dream that isn’t hers. It is not a future she wants for herself. But the Game can be played in more than one way and if she must be manipulative, then she can at least get something from the ones who keep urging her to play.

And so she nods and says calmly, “I understand, Mother. But if you truly want to help, then tell Gwydion about his parents. Share with him what you know of them. That would help. Him and myself.”

Lyria swallows, hesitating for a moment before nodding. “Math has agreed to free me from my vow of silence on this matter. I will answer any question he has and provide him with all the records we have.”

“That is a good start. He deserves it,” Alma says, delivering the next blow without warning, “You can begin tonight.”

Lyria looks surprised, but takes it in stride. “Do you already have a request in mind, or do you mean…” She trails off as realization dawns and her eyes widen, her mouth open in shock. “You want me to sit and talk with him, telling him of all that comes to memory? With Math in the room?”

Alma nods, cold and level. “Yes, that is exactly what I want. Shall we go back inside?”

Lyria swallows again but finally assents. “Very well. I am glad to see you pushing hard for what you want, my dear one.”

She hesitates before reaching forward to stroke Alma’s hair. The sudden memory of the clan mark that is no longer on her ear makes the young goddess flinch reflexively away from the touch. Her long hair, which she has worn loose and draping over her shoulders to hide the lack of her earring out of fear that anyone will notice, has so far worked in her favor and she has been avoiding abrupt movements of her head to keep from revealing her secrets. What will her mother say when she finds out that the clan mark is gone?

Her flinch, however, makes Lyria pull her hand back as if it were being struck at by a snake. The older goddess looks down in pain at the perceived rejection. Lovely…

Alma sighs. She won’t be able to hide it forever, anyway. “There is something…you should know.” 

She brushes her hair back behind her left ear, letting the truth show. It takes Lyria a moment to see the change but soon her eyes widen in confusion and horror at the sight of Alma’s unblemished, unladen ear. “What…what have you…?”

“It was Father, not I who did it,” Alma replies quickly to avoid misunderstandings.

Her mother turns pale, the blood draining from her face. “No… No… Why would he do something like this?” She tears her eyes from Alma’s earlobe to look into her daughter’s eyes. “He told me nothing! What does it mean?”

“I don’t know,” Alma replies, shaking her head. “I asked if he was disowning me but he said no. And…no more than that.”

This time, Lyria doesn’t hesitate for fear of rejection. She grasps her daughter’s hands, her eyes wild. “Infuriating god! I will…I will speak to him about this! Alma…” 

She closes her eyes and takes a deep breath. Alma has never seen her so deeply shaken, not even in the Oracle’s cave after the whole ordeal with the Necromancer. Lyria has always made a show of letting worries roll off her shoulders as if they weighed nothing and to see this demonstration of concern is a measure of how important the clan marks are, of how much they mean to the family. Only Gwydion has known so far about the disappearance of her clan mark and his gentle treatment of the issue, his constant compliments and reassurances have made her feel better about this change. But he is an outsider to the clan who could not care less if she stepped on every family rule, especially if it meant her staying with him. Seeing how her own mother reacts, though…

But Lyria calms herself and opens her eyes. Her grip eases slightly. “I will speak to him. I know you do not wish me to do so now, or you would not have asked me to tell Gwydion about his parents. But I am fighting hard not to wing my way toward him immediately. You will hear from me soon, regarding his response.” Her brow creases momentarily, in an expression of annoyance that does not fail to look adorable. “Though it will probably be infuriating.”

“He will tell you nothing,” Alma says, resigned, knowing that when her father wishes to keep something to himself no one stands a chance of ripping it from him. He probably already told Alma much more than he will even tell his wife. “He never tells people his plans. Do you…know of anyone he might have done this too?”

Lyria shakes her head. “I have never heard of it. This is a terrible risk to take at this moment, as well. It could dash his delicate balancing act to pieces.” She considers this for a moment. “He must have some plan in mind for it. Once he is an Archon, he will easily be able to remove the marks from every ear in the family.” She looks back into Alma’s eyes. “But you…you are the Spinner. He is making some sort of statement.”

Alma nods, wondering if her father has shared how close he is to achieving his goal with her mother. With any of his wives, for that matter. She cannot help but feel special and favored at the thought that maybe, just maybe he confided that secret in her and just her. “I just don’t know what it is. And it’s not like I needed the uncertainty right now. He was actually…happy.”

“Happy?” Lyria breathes. Then she smiles at Alma, uncertain but hopeful. “Then let us trust in that, for the moment. Soon, I shall get it out of him, and trying to guess at his mind is nothing more than trying to read the stars when one is blind.” She lets go of Alma’s hands and turns to glance inside, at Math and Gwydion. “For now…let us focus on young Gwydion. You want me to give him a gift. It will be a painful one, but for your love, I will love him as well, and if I can I shall make certain he knows how much I loved his parents, and that I share his pain.”

神兎神兎神兎神兎神兎神兎神兎

“…and really, it was a difficult thing to convince them to change the traditional pigments but it yielded a much better result,” Math goes on in his lecture about his newest acquisition in dinnerware, a complete set of plates and bowls made of a type of translucent stone mined somewhere in the Setting Quadrant of the Fourth Ring, so light that it feels almost like wood but unbreakable and virtually everlasting, regardless of wear and tear. It is so light, in fact that it requires a hardwood base to steady it, carved specifically to fit each piece individually.

Dion looks at the intricate, culturally significant designs with a detached, polite interest. He has asked no questions about, has asked no questions, period. It was Math who started this line of conversation, probably for the sake of something to say, and now it has turned into a monologue, with Dion pretending to care about some stupid plates while Math goes on and on, too invested in this technique of ‘breaking the ice between them’ to just shut up and let the whole thing drop.

What Dion is actually interested in, is the conversation going on outside, between Alma and Lyria. He cannot hear anything, of course, thanks to Lyria’s spell which bars his attempts at eavesdropping like a lead curtain fallen between them, but he can see the two goddesses and their faces, which have gone through restrained frustration and outright anger, are now settled into worry. He has seen Alma brush her hair back and, though he could not at the time see Lyria’s face, he could see his beloved’s response to her mother’s reaction. Has he underestimated the meaning and severity of Death’s move in removing the earring? Dion has been concealing his worry at it, trying to remain positive and supportive at the removal of something he never quite thought fair. Alma does look better, freer for the absence of her clan mark. But did he miscalculate what that might bring her in the future?

As Math starts going into detail about the silverware this time, Dion cuts him off, tired of the nonsense and emptiness of it all. “Why did you invite her?”

“Who?” Math asks, as if the question has brought his train of thought to a skidding halt.

“Lyria,” Dion replies, refusing to fall for the confused uncle act. “You must have known Alma had quite a big fight with her.”

“Well, she may have mentioned it…” Math concedes, dismissing the issue with a wave of his hand. “But you know these mother and daughter quarrels. They never last. Best to just get it over and settled.”

“That was not up to you to decide,” Dion scolds him, growling through his teeth. “Couldn’t you possibly, just for once do something with an ulterior–”

“Ah!” Math exclaims, raising his voice above Dion’s as the door to the balcony reopens and Alma and Lyria return to the room. There is a clear note of relief in his voice, Dion can tell and a certain look of ‘finally’ exchanged between the Archon and Lyria. “And beauty is restored to our party. Shall we sit to dinner?”

The life goddess, looking slightly pale, her eyes robbed of some of their usual light, replies with a smile that affects nothing but her lips. “Why I think it is about time we do so. Don’t you think, Gwydion?” She looks at the young god with a quizzical expression, certainly noticing how upset he looked just as she walked back into the room.

He takes a moment to school his face from the frown he was wearing before into a blank, pleasant smile, glancing at Alma, before saying to Lyria, “Yes…it would be good to eat before the food is cold…” 

“It is best, yes,” Alma agrees, moving closer to him and touching his hand reassuringly. She looks a question at him.

“Everything all right?” he whispers, wrapping his fingers around hers.

She shrugs so subtly that it would be easy to miss if he weren’t looking at her face and holding her hand. “Just more of the same,” she whispers back. “But it’ll be all right. You looked upset.”

His smile softens at her worry. “Just worried about you. I’m fine now.” 

He walks with her to the table, hand in hand, to where seats have been placed for the two of them, Math and Lyria politely standing in wait by their own chairs. Dion pulls Alma’s chair back for her and adjusts it for her as she sits, glancing through the corner of his eye to see Math doing the same for Lyria. The sight mildly amuses him for some reason but he doesn’t make any more of it as he takes his own seat.

Silently as ever, the servants pour into the room, moving with efficiency and a certain elegant smoothness that makes them almost invisible as the food is placed on the table and the drink is poured and useless decorations are removed to make dining more practical and comfortable. Dion thanks the young man serving his food, looking up the find the fellow looking almost shocked that he has been spoken to. As the servant moves to attend to Alma, he catches a whispered exchange, quiet but friendly between her and the young man. The servant is not at all disturbed that she is speaking to him and seems to be welcoming her back, taking his time serving her food and making sure her plate is culinary perfection.

A cold feeling of mild shame starts creeping down Dion’s spine. Has he truly ignored all the servants who have waited on him during his stay at his uncle’s house? The younger ones would not remember him from childhood and he has been gone for decades, living the Guardia life, but can he remember the names of the older ones? And what about the ones who served him during his stay here pending trial for Nekh’s death? Cyrius…did he forget the man’s name or did he simply never bother learning it? He makes a mental note to start paying more attention to such things. Servants in the First Ring are no less people than everyday civilians in Three Rats.

He comes back to reality just in time to hear Alma propose to Math and Lyria, “Perhaps we can exchange some stories about the estate? New and old?”

Math turns pale almost immediately. “Old? We should not stir up–”

“Oh please..” Lyria cuts him off, waving his protest away as if it were silliness. “There is no harm in sharing good moments. And that estate is full of them, for sure. I have spent many wonderful afternoons there, chatting with Eidon, listening to the garden grow…”

Dion’s eyes widen as he realizes what is happening. What is actually happening. The mention of his mother’s name, a name he had never heard just a few months ago, so casually being dropped at the dinner table with the promise of stories about the time when the estate was inhabited by his parents. He looks at Lyria as if he could rip every last bit of knowledge out of her with his mind alone but his voice is hesitant as he fears she will stop talking if he looks too eager. “What…what did you talk of?”

“Oh, this and that,” Lyria replies with a little shrug as she cuts a piece of the succulent portion of mutton in her plate. “She did not talk much about her work but you know Inner Ring society. Always a story to tell.” She pauses, looking up for a moment as if visiting her memories. “Although Eidon was not really the kind to bother with gossip. Such a simple girl… And of course for quite a few years, we would talk about our dreams of having children. Letting them play together and grow up as friends.” She smiles nostalgically. “It was a lovely dream.”

“Lovely indeed,” Math mutters under his breath. He has yet to touch his food and gives no indication that he might ever touch it. 

Dion ignores him, too determined to grab hold of this precious opportunity that might slip away at any moment. “Did she…how did she meet my father?” 

Lyria giggles, looking at him as if sharing some secret gossip. “That was a nice story. Complete accident. Giffleu was not exactly a star of the social circles. Could not dance to save his life. Too clumsy. But I think one day Eidon attended a reading of this new book that was just coming out – about…” She looks like she is struggling to remember something she was didn’t bother much to assimilate in the first place. “Chimeras? Well, something of the sort. And just as she was coming out of the store to meet me, she bumps into your father. Thought he was a store clerk, poor thing looked so familiarized with where everything was. And in all the chaos, she ended up picking up one of his books and leaving her own behind. Needless to say, the next few days were all about going back to that same store to see if she could return him his book.”

Dion can almost see it in his mind, the two figures from the portraits at the estate playing out the events Lyria is describing like actors in a novella. His mind races to capture every detail of it and commit it to memory. “But wasn’t there some way to contact him, magically?”

“You know, I kept asking her that…” Lyria replies, pausing to bring a forkful of leafy vegetables into her mouth, chew and swallow them. “Frankly, I think she found the book so interesting, she did not want to give it back before finishing reading it first. And you know, he did show up just a few days later.”

By Dion’s side, Alma eats in silence, listening but not making any comments. Math, on the other hand, has so far refused to eat, fallen into a sullen, worried silence that has his eyes looking at some distant point in space, while his hands grip the edge of the table. 

Dion doesn’t care. He is rapt, fascinated and wants nothing more than to listen to Lyria finish the story. “Did she really wait for him all that time? Did he return her things?”

Lyria nods. She must know how strongly gripped by her words he is and she smiles at him, a mixture of sympathy and nostalgia and even – dare he say it? – a hint of malevolence in her eyes. Though perhaps not directed at him. “She mostly wanted her book back. It was signed by the author, after all. And she only had to wait about four or five days, really. When he finally missed his book and contacted her magically, she was again at the store and completely fascinated with his studies. They were very much inseparable after that.” She looks into the distance for a moment. “But not exactly in love. Not for a few years, at least. Just very close friends…until they weren’t just friends anymore.”

If she had been weaving a spell, she could not have captivated and charmed Dion more effectively. He leans forward, a million questions sparking in his mind. “And their studies? Are the records on the estate somewhere? Or have they been taken away?”

Lyria leans back a little, as if the intensity of his inquiry is intimidating her. “Oh, I would not know about that… All I know is that they kept everything sealed away and protected. After all, with a toddler running around, they were scared of any… accidents.” She looks to Math. “What do you think? Are the records still there?”

Math glares back at her, his beard standing on end almost like a porcupine facing a threat. “If they were there in the first place. I searched for them but I never found them. I thought if they are already that well locked away, it is best to leave them well enough alone. ”

“I guess it was best,” Lyria concedes, looking apologetically at Dion as if she has just failed him. “They waited so long to have you…years, until they had a moment of peace. It was a dream come true when you were born. Eidon had so much fun painting your bedroom with all the knights and dragons, and preparing that little nook in their bedroom to make a safe bed for you. She wanted more children. But she was ecstatic with her baby.”

As Lyria speaks, her image becomes blurry before Dion’s eyes. He feels a hand on his and squeezes it even before he realizes it is Alma’s. He allows himself to break eye contact with Lyria for the first time to look at his beloved, his partner sitting beside him and looking at him with such compassion that for a moment he fears he will collapse into a heaving, sobbing heap lying against her shoulder. His parents…the missing, ever-absent figures, whom he knew, always knew belonged in his life but could not be a part of it. Whom he feared for so long had abandoned him, decided they no longer wanted him or that he might be an obstacle to their life plans. Whom he is just beginning to remember and know that they loved him dearly, had waited for a good moment to have him and dreamed of a whole life with him. He can barely see Alma for the tears but the touch of her hand to his face as she gently wipes his cheeks with a napkin is welcome and soothing, helping him to regain control of his emotions.

“Should I stop talking about them now?” Lyria asks, her voice soft. “This must be very difficult for you, little one.”

“No!” He cries, shutting his mouth immediately after his outburst, his eyes, wide and pleading, fixed on her. “No, please…I want to know…”

“You don’t have to learn it all tonight, dear,” Lyria insists. “You have barely touched your food and you look so upset…”

Math’s voice is rough as he adds to her insistence, “She is right. You must learn all, yes. But take it slowly. Do not drown yourself in sorrow.” His voice nearly breaks with the final word.

Dion is about to object again, when Alma’s touch to his shoulder makes him look again at her. “How about we take just a little break while we eat and then learn a little more later?” she suggests, her voice low, so soft he doubts any of the other two gods can hear it, her hand still holding his. “We can take this like we took the estate. Baby steps. I won’t let them avoid it.”

Dion feels torn for a moment but finally, he nods assent to the one who was there with him through the rush of emotion and memory that was exploring the estate. He trusts her judgement. Looking back at Lyria, he says, his voice cracked with contained tears. “I do appreciate this, Lady Lyria.”

“Oh, just call me Lyria,” she replies, smiling. “Imagine, for a while there, you nearly called me Mother!”

The statement does not shock him as much as she probably intended it to. Leave it to Death to rob his wife of surprises like that. “And how is it I did not?” 

All eyes turn on Math, as it was his decision to keep Dion here with him which forever sealed the young god’s fate. Math looks back at the three of them, his skin ashen, his eyes dull. “Could this…be a matter reserved for another time? It is something that is intensely painful for me.”

Lyria reaches to pat the Archon’s hand, looking sympathetic but not too much. “I imagine it must be. It is painful to me too, remembering that she is not here.” She looks back at Dion. “Maybe another day, all right, dear? Just know that I would have happily taken you in.”

Dion breaks off from staring at Math to tell her, “I believe it. And I cannot say how that would have been.” He glances at Alma, whose hand feels cool wrapped around his, reminding him that she is still there, supporting him. For a moment, the fantasy of having her beside him for a lifetime, to grow up together and be an inseparable duo amidst a family so large they cannot possibly know who everyone is, teases his imagination, making him smile. “But I believe it would have been truly wonderful.”

Ch7.13 Revelations

There is no bottom to the Ocean which surrounds the Insula, the continent-sized volcano on which is built the Urbis Caelestis, the City of Heaven, the City of the Gods. And so in the depths of that ocean there are no deep-sea trenches filled with blind worms and the skeletons of whales and unimaginable pressure and a cold that bears no memory of warmth. It simply gradually fades from Reality into Void, as one crosses the border of the sphere-shaped universe in which the Insula exists with only itself and the Ocean for company.

And so the dream which Azzageddi dreams, of sitting, crushed by the weight of the ocean, frozen and trapped forever in utter darkness, is a dream of another world, a much larger world that knows multiple cities and vast continents, entire ranges of mountains – though none even approaching the size of the Insula – and plains and forests that could cloak the slopes of the Insula, filled with a variety of life that would astonish any resident, mortal or immortal, of the great mountain-city.

Azzageddi, in his dream, fights to remember his name. His other name. The name he was given by gentle, welcoming mortals as he rose from the surf on that other world, certain currents of the Ocean having carried him past the Void. For how else is the Ocean to be renewed, but by finding its way to a thousand other oceans on a thousand other worlds?

What was that name? He was not the first owner of it. That was a tall god, weakened by the low intensity of magic in this world, but still immortal and powerful. A bully who ruled the people of this island valley as if they were his slaves, this god found Azzageddi where he, in the shape of a weak, pale human, lay recovering from his journey in the care of beautiful dark maidens.

Tuma-Sukai. The Dark Ocean Wave. Tall and strong and full of rage.

He destroyed the hut, frightened off the young women, and did his best to kill what he saw as a usurping god. Azzageddi fled, and Tuma-Sukai followed. Their battle raged all over the island until, at the peak of the central mountain, it ended. And down from the slopes came Tuma-Sukai, the Dark Ocean Wave, bloody and exhausted, and changed. Forever changed. No longer a despot, not longer cruel, but a kindly god, a caring god, a god whose rage was only ever directed at that which threatened harm to his people.

And when a year later some bones washed down from the mountain-top, bones which bore the marks of large sharp teeth like no land-animal they were familiar with, they wrapped them and hid them away so that their dear Tuma-Sukai would not be disturbed by them.

And thus his life on Earth began with a lie. With slaughter. With cannibalism. Just as his life on the Insula had. And on Earth he always tried to make up for that, always tried to do good. But when he ventured out to explore the world in an attempt to understand his mortals’ place in it, he returned to find them nearly wiped out by colonial slavers, those few left behind maimed and diseased, their spirits broken.

There, at the bottom of the sea, the water pressing him down, down into the mud, he can remember only the mistakes. Leaving unprotected those who trusted him. Joining sides in war after war. Participating in battle after battle, killing again and again, his arm tiring as he uses his empty rifle like a war club to shatter skulls. The quiet knife between the ribs, to assassinate a dangerous advisor. The sudden murderous reaction to a friend’s betrayal, a blood spray across his new officer’s uniform. The crack of fingerbones as he breaks them, one by one, to learn something that later turned out to have no importance in the unpredictable shifts of fate. His team, all dead, because he took them in too early in a futile attempt to save a life, and he, gasping for air, paralyzed after taking eight musket balls to the torso, his divine healing barely managing to keep him alive, to finally roll over and crawl to a river, to float like a corpse to the gulf and sink away from all who knew him.

Leaving the ones he loved – what were their names? – to fight again. Why? Missing births, first loves, stories, returning to be a brooding stranger, haunted and silent and still, inexplicably, loved. But he does not remember the love, not now. He remembers no faces of those he loved. Only the faces of the corpses appear in this dream, and he would groan, scream, beg, if it were not that the ocean is pressing him down, down, the bootheel of a titan, crushing him.

Her laugh. The laugh of his summoner, his owner, his lover. She whips him. She cuts him. She makes the ones he loves scream. She murders them after slow torture, and then tortures them again. She tells him what he must do to a young girl, or she will hurt the girl much worse. And he does it.

He does it.

And he screams. And in his scream the ocean shatters into splinters that cut him, and a voice cries out.

“Oh, would you please stop that, little demon? You could have just as easily said you don’t like this color!”

Sky’s roar cuts off in a squeak. It takes a moment for his eyes to adjust to waking, the dim phosphor glow of the lichens outlining a shape, lithe and lovely but with matronly curves in her verdant dress, and his glowing devil-eyes widen to saucers as he realizes who it is.

The goddess Lyria uncovers her ears and lowers her arms, walking toward him, waving her hands at the deep shadows he cloaks himself in, wafting them away as if they were nothing but smoke. She ignores his profane hellish form, holding her hands out in offer of a touch, a friendly embrace. “Ah, much better! Good morning, little one. You look terrible.”

Sky cringes from her, hunching, ashamed for her to see him in this hated form. “Lyrrrrrrrriaaaa…” Though he pitches his voice as quietly as he can, still it vibrates through the room, shaking dust from the walls.

The goddess pays no mind to his attempt to pull away, putting her arms around his huge, heavy head, cradling it against her breast. She strokes his muzzle. “I can feel your voice in my bones, little one. In my teeth. Were you having a bad dream?”

He finds himself pressing his head against her, his entire body relaxing, his heart moved almost painfully at her kindness. He strains to modulate the tone of his voice into something less disturbing. “I was. I wish I could forget it.”

“There, there,” she murmurs, cuddling him, paying no attention to the spikes pressing against her soft flesh and the feverish heat coming off him. “It is over now.” He feels her fresh, life-giving power reach into him, permeating through him as she extends her senses to examine him. Her voice is worried when she says, “You look no better than the last time I saw you. How are you doing?”

“I…am in constant pain. The physical wounds are healed. Those of the soul…go deep.” That psychic pain feels like rips into universes from which flow every recrimination for all he has done wrong, every memory of torture and loss and betrayal – and with them neverending whispers of how worthless he is, how he ruins all he touches, how everyone and everything would be better off if he went away, or simply died.

As if hearing his thoughts, Lyria whispers, “Do you want to live, Tuma-Sukai?”

Carefully, so as not to tear her lovely dress with his horns and little spikes, he pulls away and looks into her eyes. He wants to say, simply, ‘yes’. That is what he would say to the others, and it would not be a lie. Not entirely. But this is Lyria, Alma’s mother, someone who has known his secret longer, who has kept it, who has always shown him affection and yet who has treated him as a game piece. He knows she will not feel personal pain at his honesty, as would Alma or Gwydion, or even Somrak.

After a moment he says, “Sometimes, I am unsure. But my friends suffered greatly to keep me alive. I could not let them down now.”

The goddess tilts her head. “So you are living for them. Such a heavy sacrifice if pain is constant.” She strokes his red-black skin, her eyes sorrowful. “We must find a way to help you heal. Have they been visiting?”

“They have,” Sky replies. “Somrak was almost living here, before receiving his new orders. He came by just yesterday. Alma and Gwydion have been coming when they can. Without me they have been quite busy, of course.”

Lyria looks around and, tucking her skirt around her, sits beside the curled-up devil. “You have held this ward through a war, all on your own, little one. There are two of them, and the times are much more peaceful now due to all your efforts, are they not? They can make it. And now they are far away, taking their little vacation.” She looks to him for understanding, as if she is the one who needs his compassion. “They are challenging their families by staying here in Three Rats, you know? And they may yet face heavy consequences for their rebellion against higher powers.”

He looks down. “I know. I have put them in danger.”

“They knew what they were doing,” she reminds him. “And they did it for you.” She closes her eyes, seeming to enjoy sitting with him, and he recalls with pleasure their previous conversations at the station. He shifts to allow her to be more comfortable.

“Will you visit them, during their time away from Three Rats?” he asks, after a moment of hesitation. He knows something happened between Lyria and her daughter, from hints and evasions dropped by Alma and Gwydion on their visits. He does not wish to pry into it, but mother and daughter both seem to be suffering over it.

She shakes her head slowly, as she strokes his head. “Alma does not wish to see me at the moment.” She opens her eyes and puts on a smile. “I hope she will not be angry at the little gift I left there, however. The Bunnies will enjoy the closets full of clothes, I’m sure.”

“They will. They always enjoy your presents. But I believe they would enjoy seeing their grandmother more. Whatever argument you have had with Alma, I cannot believe she loves you any less.”  

The goddess favors him with a small smile. “The love between parents and their children is a complicated thing. Too much of a battle of wills. We are fated to want their best but also to be thwarted by their own ideas about what is best.” Her smile grows but is still sad, and her eyes glance to Sky’s face, chest, and shoulders as he shifts position again, for her comfort and his own. “My daughter has never had to raise a sickly child or come to terms with the possibility of watching helplessly as her daughter dies. Such things are difficult to forget. She was always very strong, you see. But her weakness was also overwhelmingly evident.” She suppresses a giggle. “And you…you are looking better by the moment.”

Sky looks down at his hands and sees they are no longer taloned. He sees the color of his skin is changing into a familiar deep brown, the color of the second human shape he took, or rather the divine shape of the minor sea god, Tuma-Sukai.

He almost sobs in relief. The change has occurred without his notice, after days of trying, trying to reattain this form. And that it is this one, and not the other, the form of the pale man, the one that Nua first forced him to murder and devour when she summoned him from Hell two hundred years ago, and forced him to assume again in order to…to do what she commanded her body. No, not hers. The body of her master Margrave’s niece.

At this hateful memory he does sob, and Lyria turns to hold and rock him. She does not know what he did, and he cannot bring himself to tell her. But she knows he was hurt, again and again, in the most despicable ways. And though he feels unworthy of her touch and of her kindness, he lets her hold him, and lies down on the blankets that make his nest, and lays his head on her thigh.

“There, you see? You can heal. You will. And you are not alone, little one. Your friends will be strong for you for as long as you need them to be. And you must be strong for them as well. They did not think twice before risking everything for you, knowing full well your origins. And what of those origins? No matter your shape, I know your heart, Tuma-Sukai. You are no devil. How could a devil inspire such boundless loyalty, pray tell?”

Sky sits up, legs folded under him. His face wet with tears, he says to her, “It means a great deal to know you believe in the possibility that I can…become something other than what I was. And for you to come here to let me know. You know better than I, I think, whether I can heal. What will you tell them? Those who must decide what is to be done with me?”

“What should I tell them?” Lyria asks, her head tilted in inquiry.

“What you believe to be true,” he says. “But I will try to come back from this. I will try with all my strength. If only because there are those who would be saddened if I do not.”

Lyria smiles. “There are many, little one. How I do wish we could fill this awful cave with warmth and light and the cheerful chatter of those who miss you! At least I can take care of the first two, if you do not mind?” And without asking for further permission, she manipulates the cave lichens into putting forth blossoms that shine with toasty orange light rather than their previously heatless blue-green.

“There, now you won’t shiver in the dark,” she says.

Sky looks around at them, wondering what the Oracle will think. “This is perfectly balmy. Will the lichens be able to survive here?” He absently wonders that Doria has not shown up. Perhaps the priestess is out on her own business at the moment. And if anyone can come and go at will here in the Oracle’s sanctum, it would be the Oracle’s friend Lyria.

“They’ll just need more water than they’ve been getting from the wall-dripping,” Lyria says, unworried. “Splash some on them twice a day, from that rather milky-looking pool a couple of chambers down. It has a concentration of the minerals these plants need.” She leans against him and lets him now put his arms around her. “Just as you need more company in order to bloom.” She closes her eyes, leaning against his chest, trusting him completely. “You miss them, don’t you?”

“I do,” he says. “But I told you, they visit.” He strokes her hair, enjoying the feeling of holding someone, anyone, who cares for him. The ability to give care, not simply be cared for, is more healing than anything.

But he cannot help but think of those who cannot visit.

“Not the Bunnies,” Lyria contradicts his words, as if she could read his thoughts. “They want you home.”

Ah, the manipulation. She may be a master at it, but then she’s not really trying to hide it right now, he thinks. It is nothing he would take offense at, after all. She just wants him to do his best to get better quickly.

“And I want to be home with them. It preys on my mind that I cannot be there to protect them. When you last visited me at the station, before…all this…it might have seemed that watching over the Bunnies was just one more burden during that hectic time when Alma and Dion were away in the First Ring. But no, reading to Tulip, shouting at the younger boys to get to bed, the small kindnesses that Sage and Merri and Cherry showered upon me at random, just because they knew I was exhausted and barely holding on and that an out-of-the-blue hug or a pastry quietly left on the desk would cheer me immensely.” He realizes he has failed to mention one Bunny in particular, away from all the others at the Academy.

“And Mayumi?” Again, Lyria seems to read his thoughts. He knows she is not actually doing so. His defenses against that are formidable, but he knows she has no need. She simply knows him that well.

He cannot reply at first. Among all the pain, thoughts of her should have been a balm, but instead they have brought only more pain. The longer he fails to write to her, the harder it will be to do so, but how can he write anything truthful to her? He cannot tell her of his suffering. He cannot tell her of his secrets. It would derail her studies, and far worse, it would place her in danger. If the Council decides to expunge all knowledge of Tuma-Sukai from the Insula, they will have little compunction against ridding the world of a single Bunny.

How can he have ever imagined they could have an intimate relationship? The degree to which he was fooling himself is now crushingly clear. He is a monster, and a secret. And she should be free of all that. But…

“I don’t know what to tell Mayumi,” he says, his voice heavy with heartache.

After waiting a moment for him to say more, Lyria reaches up and squeezes his hand. “As long as you know what you cannot tell her. Would you like me to stay awhile longer?”

“I would love you to stay,” Sky says, returning her smile, and thinking how wonderful it is to smile, something his devil’s face has not the flexibility to do. How long he can hold this shape – this stolen shape that he wishes were his only one – he does not know. “I will make tea. But first I had better put on some clothes.”

The echo of Lyria’s laughter fills the chamber, and the lichens glow brighter at her joy. “Oh, feel free to walk about in whatever condition you find more comfortable. I live in a harem, after all. Very little in the way of doors.”

“Does Lord Death have men in his harem as well, then? I was unaware…” Sky ignores the slight rankle he always feels at calling Death a Lord. As much as he adores Alma and Lyria, as much as he respects the death gods Melinor and the Fencer, it is Senator Death, Lord Death, perhaps Archon Death someday, that Sky cannot bring himself to admire.

She giggles. “Oh, he has many sons that I have watched grow from the time they were just babies. Such a delightful sound, that of children running around the house. Most people take the Clan for a dreadful assembly of gods. They could not be much more wrong than that.” She sighs in contentment, whether at the memory or at being held, he is not sure. But when she speaks again, her voice has an edge of sorrow. “Can you tell me how they are doing, those rebellious godlings? Are they healing?”

“I hope so,” Sky says, stroking her hair again. There is something wonderfully intimate in this moment, yet nothing sexual in the slightest. “They do not tell me if they are doing badly. I suspect they don’t want to burden me. But Somrak is not so kind, thank goodness. He says they have, of course, been through a traumatic ordeal. They are recovering, but he feels responsible. We’re all…wounded.”

“Yes,” Lyria says, not making any indication that she wants to be anywhere else but in his comforting arms. “We all are.”

Ch7.09 Revelations

Intermission in the Teatro Imperial, surrounded by an opulence that has long since gone out of style here in the First Ring, gold leaf and intricate paintings everywhere the eye can look, overwhelming and yet somehow managing to be tasteful and perfectly balanced. Math himself has preferred simplicity since long before it became in vogue, but this old, traditional style has endured for millennia, since the dark days of the God-Emperor, before the establishment of the Council of Archons. Even the name of the opera house echoes that time, and it has refused to change despite the fact that there is, and never will be as long as Math lives, an Emperor ruling the City of Gods.

Yet still he finds himself taking it in and enjoying the complexity and skill. Part of his mind is taking it all apart, analyzing how the effect is achieved so that it never inundates the senses. What mastery!

But now it is time for refreshment. Math stops at the bar, and the other gods who are attending the opera – a druidic production about the creation of the One Tree, fascinating in concept but not entirely captivating in production – move aside when they see him. Math does not allow them to see that he notices this at all, merely moving to the bar and requesting his favorite libation on these occasions, a mix of several nearly flavorless alcohols that, with the addition of a long, curling strip of fresh lemon peel and a pickled plum on a sliver of bamboo, become an exquisite symphony of flavors to rival the operatic productions staged here. Although he knows he could replicate it, he has never attempted to do so. Watching Vilmar, the bartender, go through the intricate ceremony of making the drink is a crucial part of the experience, and the lesser gods, gods who would never come within spitting distance of the Council’s inner chamber, fall to a hush as they watch the Archon so focused on the drink being constructed for him.

Vilmar is well aware of the importance his client places on all this, but resists the urge to amp up the showmanship. He already is quite the showman when it comes to preparing a drink. The ice, the perfectly sliced length of lemon rind, the painting of the glass rim with acrid juice from the peel, the perfect balance of different liquors, are all accompanied by the relaxed yet fluttering hand movements.

All the while music from the first act is playing, the second-string musicians of the orchestra allowed to play as the audience mills about. Math accepts the stemmed glass, swirls the mixture once, and takes a sip, his eyes closed.

There is a hush, then Archon Math opens his eyes and smiles, his beard rising along with the muscles of his cheeks. “Perfection,” he says, and Vilmar bows.

One of the watching gods claps for a moment before his partner stops him. Math turns away so as not to look at the foolish applauder, thinking just for a moment of his nephew, Gwydion, and how he must be faring at the moment. He has two bartenders with him, Math remembers, picturing the mortal Bunnies and chuckling. Perhaps he should arrange a day of instruction from Vilmar…

“Well, isn’t this a nice surprise?”

The voice is the epitome of vivaciousness, making listeners feel younger, more lively just from the sound. And the mellifluous tone, oh my, she should be on stage, singing an aria. Every god in the First and Second Rings would vie to buy a ticket to hear the effervescent voice of Lyria, his longtime friend and often his greatest opponent.

He smiles again, focusing on her face, a sun-kissed brown framed by golden curls and waves of hair in contrast, living vines sprouting tiny blue flowers woven through it today, flowers that release a scent that belies their size, a scent that goes directly to his memory, a memory of centuries ago, when he, beardless, spent an evening being beguiled in conversation with this very goddess, not at all matronly as she is now but no less enchanting. Oh when she laid her fingers on his forearm to make a point, the electric thrill he felt was as good as a kiss.

How did it never happen, that kiss? He spent so long thinking of it, wishing for it, but it was never to be, was it? To her, he was destined to be a friend, a foil, a tool, and a master adversary all in their turn, often more than one at a time.

Lyria bats her eyes at him. “Finally I find you away from those horribly boring meetings and paperwork.”

“I attend social functions and performing arts,” Math insists, allowing himself to fall into her verdant eyes. “Once in awhile.” But he only indulges himself for a moment. For beside her is her polar opposite, the sepulchrally white Death, her husband, his midnight hair pulled back tight from his pale forehead, and Math must, with a nod, acknowledge the ambitious Senator.

“A while…” Lyria looks at him in mock disbelief and criticism and tsks. “Well, I am glad to have bumped into you. And on such a pleasant evening, too, considering all the unpleasantness that has been going around.”

Math knows this encounter is no accident, any more than Lyria’s choice of hair adornment is an accident. She knows perfectly well the effect the scent will have on him, just as she knew perfectly well that the touch of her fingers so long ago would set off an obsession that would last many mortal lifetimes, an obsession she could use. She is here to ensure that her plans come to fruition.

“There is never any shortage of unpleasantness,” Math says aloud. “It’s just more easily noticed when it happens to a loved one.” In the last few words, his voice falls into a mild sadness. But then he brightens. “And what did you have to tell me?”

“Oh, nothing of consequence…” Lyria begins.

“Lyria has a standing project to return her daughter to the Inner Rings,” Death states, cutting through the pretense in his voice that, to those who do not know him, may seem bereft of humor.

“And I have no help with it,” Lyria scolds, looking at Death with the mild annoyance of a long-suffering wife. “That ward is just not a proper place for the children of our families.”

“Even if they do wish to stay there,” Death jabs. His pleasant smile seems perfectly designed for getting on Lyria’s nerves.

Math wonders at this public ‘old married couple’ act. How much of it is an act? What must things be like between them after all this time, in private? His own life has always been solitary. There have been other goddesses who have drawn his fancy, though none who have kept it for as long as Lyria did.

With the conversation moving into areas that could become sensitive, Math makes the tiniest of gestures, almost without thought putting up a shield of silence around them, which also stops any attempts at spying from afar. “I’ve been trying the same with Gwydion,” he says, matching Death’s mild jocularity with his own. “Today, in fact, they are going to an estate in the Second Ring. They will be seduced by its comfort and security. Soon there will be no more talk of Three Rats.”

Lyria’s face lights up and she puts her hands together in delight. Math is unsurprised to feel a kindling of that old desire. Happens every time, even after so long. He pays it no mind.

“Oh, do you mean Eidon’s place?” she asks in that breathless, alluring voice. “That was such a lovely estate… They will adore it. Though it will be quite the sentimental journey for young Gwydion, no?”

“Most likely,” Math says, bringing his drink to his lips with a self-satisfied smile. “But they will surely love it there. So many secrets to beguile Dion.”

Lyria turns to Death and gives him an arch look, as if this were some continuation of a disagreement they had been having. “See? A plan worthy of a great strategist.” She looks rather excited and grips Death’s bicep. “Oh, they could start thinking of the next step in their relationship!”

Death’s mouth curves into a thin smile. “The existence of a next step depends on their relationship lasting until that time, dear.”

“It seems quite possible to me,” Math insists. That Lyria is talking him up means she is trying to maneuver her husband into some position or other. “Dion is quite enamored of Alma, more than I’ve ever seen him. If only they weren’t so tied down by unwise friendships.”

“Alma has inherited Lyria’s love for strays,” Death agrees conversationally.

“Oh, as if, Azreh…” Lyria wrinkles her nose at her husband.

Not a name often spoken aloud, Math muses. Is there anyone in his family other than Lyria who calls him that? Perhaps Subcommander Varah, the Fencer, might have the temerity, but not in public. Always Senator Death, Lord Death, the Pale One, the Peacemaker – that last always made Math smile. The simplicity of ‘Death’ is also its gravity. What more title is needed?

Though the couple are gently yanking at each other’s strings, they are enjoying the game, like a pair of wise old cats who still enjoy swatting at a wriggling length of yarn. “And I would not call the friendships unwise,” Lyria continues. “They have quite loyal friends.”

“Friends who drag them into great danger, and then prevent them from leaving a dangerous locale for the comforts of a real home,” Math grumbles. He begins to brood once again on how best to remove the offblue agents, Somrak and Tuma-Sukai, from the board. The latter in particular needs culling. Just too many complications there. But simply disposing of them will cause more problems, what with the affection that Alma and Gwydion have formed for them.

“And may I ask how you plan to brush this latest episode aside?” Death asks. “Surely my daughter and your nephew are not without fault.”

Lyria releases his arm and looks at him, looking and sounding truly worried. “Oh, please do not tell me that above it all there will be a punishment to burden them! The poor things were completely broken at the end of the fight with that…creature.” She sounds positively ill at the thought of the necromancer. No surprise. A goddess of Life, long loyal to the Clan of Death? Hard to imagine anyone more diametrically opposed to dabblers in undeath. Her voice softens in sympathy with her daughter and her friends. “It will take them years just to recover from the shallowest of their wounds.”

Math, meanwhile, feels annoyed by the checks on his own power. “Unfortunately I must give them something that will seem like a punishment to other members of the Council. It’s a damned nuisance. A great deal hinges on whether the devil and his hot-headed former partner can recover enough to be valuable.”

“Well…” Lyria tilts her head in that coquettish manner that never fails to bring a response from anyone she uses it on, even those with no attraction to females, as far as Math can tell. And it really does not matter that he knows how artful it is, does it? It still works. “I was planning on checking on them myself. If you would like an expert opinion…”

Math feels his eyebrows twitch involuntarily. “Can you determine if Tuma-Sukai can pull through? That is, still function in polite and impolite society?”

Lyria pauses, glancing down and to the left, thinking, before she raises her emerald eyes back to him, serious. “I can only make an educated guess. After all, healing is not a linear event. But I will make as objective an evaluation as possible and let you know my opinion. Now that he has had some time to process events, it will be easier, possibly, to tell how things should go.”

Math returns her look, dark. “If he cannot recover…it will not be easy to convince them. And I no longer trust his former partner to carry out the necessary deed – look at how far he went to avoid being ordered to do it. If I order it done, by whomever, I’ll be hated and any plans with the estate will be ruined.”

“Surely it is not your decision alone,” Death notes, his voice still bearing that hint of amusement that most would never detect. “Which begs the question, who will be called to speak and who will be interested in listening?”

“I could simply make it a trial of Somrak,” Math says. “And by proxy, Tuma-Sukai. Gwydion and Alma were misled, according to Somrak’s report. As for listeners, I don’t know if you can call most of the Council very good at that.”

Death nods. “They will be inclined to do what would have been done four decades ago if a use had not been found for Tuma-Sukai. But if being hated is what worries you, why not give them a chance to defend their friends? If they fail, the onus of sentencing will not be on you.”

Math considers this – or rather reconsiders it. He went through it a few times in the many iterations of planning all this out. “They would welcome the chance, I am sure. And they can have an opportunity to see what sort of people I have to deal with. It should be quite illuminating for them, and they do need to wake up to adult life sooner or later.”

“Illuminating both to them and to you, considering they were not allowed the same luxury when their own necks were on the proverbial chopping block,” Death agrees, poking with his verbal knife.

Math narrows his eyes over the rim of his glass as he finishes his drink and sets the empty glass aside. “Just you wait. You’ll soon regret your long-term scheming. You’ll get everything you’ve pushed for, and you’ll think it was all a waste of time.”

Lyria’s gasp makes him realize that his came out more bitter than he realized. Death, however, betrays no change of expression, though the disappearance of that tiny hint of amusement lends his voice a dangerous edge. “Perhaps I will find other things to push for and people to push for them with me.”

“Oh don’t be so offended,” Math grouses at him. He gestures to the bar, signalling for three drinks to be brought over. “I was merely warning you that being on the Council is the ultimate bore. Archons are so petty… Honestly, it will be good having you there. You’ll shake things up nicely.”

“I hope I do,” Death replies, nodding, the slight sardonic smile once again looking amused rather than hard and deadly. Then he pretends to remember something. “Oh… Surely you must know this but the necromancer’s soul has yet to be surrendered to…anyone.”

Math smiles a little. Of course he had not been certain that Alma had not turned it over to her father yet, but knowing Alma, and knowing she had not given it to the Commander nor his Subcommander ex-wife, he was reasonably sure she still had it. “You’ve raised her well. If it were anyone else, I’d expect her to bargain for an inspectorship. But she will bargain for her friends. She’ll get their punishments reduced. But if she’s going to ask for our devil’s freedom, she’ll need to be responsible for it.”

“Like I said,” Death replies, receiving his drink from a servant, “she has a soft spot for strays. It should be an amusing show, considering it has not even been a year since the prophecy was apparently fulfilled.”

“Oh, you two!” Lyria scolds them after giving the servant a smile and letting her depart. “You speak of our children as if they were fighters on a boxing ring. Shame on you!”

“But they are fighters,” Math says, raising his own glass and prompting the Duo of Life and Death to raise theirs. “I quite admire that in them. They fight with every ounce of their spirit. If only we can make sure they fight for the right thing. And that they are not wasted in struggle with something inconsequential.” He takes a sip and closes his eyes, enjoying the interplay of flavors.

“Well, I will drink to that,” Lyria says, and she does. “Oh, delicious… I just wish they would fight less and live more. There has been enough fighting already. They need peace and quiet to recover. And perhaps plan on a little godling grandchild for us all.”

“A grandchild!” Math exclaims. The privacy shield he erected without a thought earlier shivers from the impact of his voice. He has his own ability to tease. “They’ve barely started, and you’re already planning the baby clothes?”

Death moves his eyes in a way that might be described as the merest suggestion of rolling. He leans slightly toward Math in a confiding manner. “She gets bored whenever she is not planning for world domination.”

“Oh…” Lyria looks at Death with a small frown that is mostly just adorable and soon turns to affection. She places her hand on the crook of his arm. “At least let me dream of simple and pleasant things.” She looks around and sees that the lounge has emptied out. “Oh, I think the performance restarted while we were speaking.”

“We shall have to be rude and noticeable as we return,” Math states, unconcerned. “Hurray.” To Lyria, he smiles. “Thank you for visiting Three Rats. It will be most useful.”

“Hopefully it will be a pleasure as well,” Lyria says. She pauses and looks into her cocktail. “We could just wait for the next intermission here in the lounge. It would be such a shame to leave these lovely concoctions unfinished.”

“The music is the best part,” Math agrees, “and we can hear it almost as well out here.” He walks with them, canceling the privacy shield so that the music comes to them without muffling, and leads them to some comfortable, ornate chairs.

Death lays a hand on the back of one chair, standing behind it like a valet as Lyria sits, then moving to sit in the chair beside hers. “Anything to keep us from the horrifying view of all those druids performing their tales of us through interpretive dancing.”

Math takes a seat himself, and enjoys another delightful sip. The pleasures coming in at the ear in the form of a soaring soprano’s voice; the tongue, via the liquid filling his mouth; the nose, from Lyria’s flowers; and finally the eye, as he allows himself to take in her beauty – all combine to make this a moment to savor. He does his best to banish the stray thought, But what of the pleasures of the flesh, foolish old god? Bah. Touch is overrated.

Ch6.99 Trust

“Okay y’all, cookies are ready!”

The plate is heavy in Cherry’s hands, but the cookies – chocolate chip, almond, and peanut butter – smell heavenly. Serving baked goods out to everyone lends Cherry some slight distraction from the worries that plague her mind.

There has been no news. Not since hours ago when Grandmamma Lyria left them in the care of the Twins, Uncle Imset and Uncle Lum. All they know is that their mother, Alma, along with Dion, is out on a mission to rescue Sky. And that their enemies can send squads of demons. And that those demons were supposed to kill or capture the Bunnies, and they would’ve done it, too, if Grandmamma hadn’t shown up. They would’ve killed us all, she thinks. They would’ve done worse than that…

She stops where she is and shuts her eyes tight. Stop it! You’re gonna break down and scare the younger ones! Just…stop thinking about it.

She takes a breath and opens her eyes and, to her dismay, Chime is looking right at her. It doesn’t look like anyone else saw her freeze up, but sweet little Chime, with those long dirty-blonde bangs hanging half over his eyes, is staring at her. It can be hard to tell what Chime is feeling when he’s not playing music. He wakes up when playing with Kori, too – his big brother is a hero to him, even though Kori wins pretty much every race, every wrestling match, every whatever. But a lot of the time, Chime is sort of dreaming, “seeing music everywhere” he told her once. She’d been reading a novel on the bed in her and Merri’s room, and he’d just come in and lay down next to her. She’d put an arm around him, not even really thinking about it, and asked him what was on his mind. When he told her, she’d asked, “Don’t you mean hearin’ music everywhere, sweetie?” He’d shaken his head on her shoulder. “Seeing.” Then he’d fallen asleep.

But Cherry knows him well enough to know that he’s pretty scared too, and the sight of her just freezing like that is not helping, no way. So she puts a fragile smile on her face and makes sure everyone gets cookies. All the Bunnies, except of course May who is away, take at least one – Kori takes three, though rejecting the peanut butter as “gross,” and Merri insists on calling them “biscuits,” which is just silly – and Geryon, who loves chocolate chip, and the Twins, instant uncles, just add Bunnies. Aliyah has gone back to the station next door for a little while, even though she’s not technically on duty. They just got hit by demons, after all. Must be some form for reporting that.

Just as Imset is taking his cookie, he and his brother both look past everyone else. Cherry feels the fur on the back of her neck stand on end, and she turns, almost sagging in relief to see it’s Lyria, next to the huge, foreboding figure of Melinor. Melinor might be kind of scary, but he’s scary to other people, not to the Bunnies. He might not think of them as family, but they are Alma’s, and that’s good enough for him. At least that’s how it seems.

But in Melinor’s arms is a shrouded form, a human form, wrapped tight in a white sheet that covers it completely. The world seems to contract, going dark at the edges of her vision, and sound becomes muffled. There’s a part of her mind that just observes this, surprised that she hasn’t dropped the plate with the remaining cookies, but somehow she automatically sets it down on the table beside her. She watches as Sage and Merri approach Melinor, looking at that white-shrouded shape, and they turn to look at her as they catch the scent and realize who it is. Cherry is too far away for the smell to hit her yet, but they turn and look at her, right at Cherry, and she knows, from that.

It’s not Sky, of course. He’s about the same size as Melinor, which would make carrying the body a lot more awkward. And it’s not Mama. If it were, Lyria and Mel would both be shattered, and Merri and Sage too. Dion is bigger, more muscular than that shape, and Somrak, well, they wouldn’t be singling out Cherry to look at with concern and sorrow, now would they?

So she knows. She shakes her head, trying to refuse it, but she knows. She takes a step forward, then another. Then she passes into the scent as it wafts outward. Even though the body has been cleaned up, the smell of death is there along with some foul poison, but there it is. Saira. That’s definitely Saira.

Scent triggers memory so easily, and bam, it hits Cherry hard: massaging Saira’s back, the muscles twitching after an attack. In the bath together, Saira looking at her, smiling, all comfortable and happy, saying “I like you, Fluffy Ears.”

Cherry starts to tremble, and as Merri wraps her arms around her, Cherry sags and moans into her embrace. She just lets Merri take over. That little part of her mind that’s observing all this says, Yeah, that’s heartbreak, all right.

The following few minutes are just a blur to her. Sage asking after Mama, and the others. “They are safe,” Lyria says immediately. “Alive. But little ones, I need you to listen and understand. They cannot return tonight.”

“What happened to Mom? And Dion and Sky? Uncle Som? Why’s Saira…?” Tulip’s voice trails off, shaken by tears. “What’s going on? Where’s our Mom?” Kori demands. Imset talking with Melinor in a strange language, their voices low but heavy. Merri’s loving voice whispering to her, telling her it’ll be all right.

But it won’t.

Yeah, but what are you gonna do, huh? There’s that voice again, Cherry’s own. Gonna just be a sack of potatoes in Merri’s arms? There’s Tulip cryin’. They’re scared. Pull it together!

Cherry grips Merri’s shoulder and literally pulls herself upright, standing up on her own two feet. She takes a long glance into Merri’s eyes, marveling at that deep, amazing green, then lets her go and turns to see to the kids. She still feels as if the floor has disappeared, as if she’s falling through the air, but she can’t ignore the younger ones. Tulip is already in Lyria’s arms, but Kori is standing, fists clenched, looking frightened and furious at once. She puts her arms around him, gently, and though he’s stiff and resistant at first, he can tell how much she’s hurting, and he lets go of his anger and holds her, affected as much by her pain as by his own need for comfort.

Past Kori’s shoulder, she sees Chime still sitting on the sofa, all alone. Cherry holds out and arm to him, and he comes, pale and scared, and just grabs onto both her and Kori, holding them tightly.

All she can offer for the moment is physical contact. The words just won’t come.

But Merri is telling them, “She’ll be home soon.” Then to Lyria, she asks, “Won’t she?”

“Tomorrow morning,” Lyria says after a moment. “She asked me to tell you she will be back by tomorrow and not to leave your side until then.”

“How bad is it?” Geryon asks. Cherry lifts her head from her embrace of the two younger boys and sees that he is near Melinor, who is laying Saira’s body on the bar with Merri’s help, the only place other than the floor or the sofa that is long enough to lay her out.

Lyria exhales deeply. “Not as bad as it could be but…” She looks back at the Bunnies, “Children, your mother and her friends went against a necromancer and a dangerous demon summoner to rescue Tuma-Sukai. They have defeated the criminals and found Sky but they have all been injured. Deeply.” She raises a hand at their alarmed expressions. “None of them is at risk and their bodies have been healed. But there are deeper wounds. And those will take a long time to heal. They will require your patience and understanding.”

“We’ll be strong for them,” Merri says. “But…can we not go see them? Or…” She trails off.

“They need peace, little ones. Time to regain some of their strength,” Lyria explains. She touches Merri’s head. “And you must know… Tuma-Sukai cannot return tomorrow. His wounds require the most care and he will need to stay confined to his healer’s home for a long while. Most likely without visitors.” Her voice is gentle but pained.

Cherry clenches her jaw shut, shuts her eyes tight, and holds onto Kori, grateful for his strong arms. She just knows if she were to start asking the questions she wants to ask, What do you mean, we can’t see him? He needs us! What the Hell is goin’ on?! she will end up screaming. So she just stays silent.

“Can they heal, Lady?” Geryon asks quietly.

Lyria nods. “I believe so. Though… I have no way of knowing how long that will take. Their bodies are healed. The rest…”

“And how much trouble are they in?” the gryphon insists. Trouble? Cherry thinks. Oh no…no no no, not again…

Lyria sighs. “That remains to be seen. But I will see to it that not too much comes to pass.”

Imset moves closer to Lyria, whispering to her in that other language. They exchange a swift but somewhat heated argument, then Lyria nods in defeat. Imset kneels by Cherry. “She is alive, all right? I can sense her soul. We’ll drop by and see her before we return home. Don’t worry about anything.” He smiles reassuringly.

Cherry lets go of Kori and puts her hands on Imset’s shoulders. They’ve just met these new uncles, one silent, one talkative. She looks him in his strange, shadowy face and feels an almost overwhelming gratitude at his acceptance of her, of all of Alma’s children “Thank you…” she whispers. “Tell her…tell her we all love her, and, and all of ‘em, and…”

Then words fail her, and she puts her arms around Imset’s neck and holds on tight. All of it, blows coming one after another – almost losing their mother, and Dion, and Sky, and now Saira’s death, which she just cannot bear to think about – combined with all of these Death Clan gods here, most of them showing so much kindness when they’re in the middle of their own crisis, and even Melinor taking this time to be here, this is really something, no matter how much he might seem not to care, all of this is just clashing in pain and healing that she can’t speak.

Imset holds her and strokes her hair. Merri soon comes and gently pulls her away, kissing Imset’s cheek and murmuring her thanks, telling the Twins to go with grace and to return soon. Imset replies quietly, then rises and, with a look at Luminus, both gods vanish.

As Cherry walks to the bar, she hears Melinor ask, “Do you require me to stay?”

“No, little one,” Lyria says. “All the enemies are defeated. I don’t expect any counterattacks tonight. Go. Tell your father I will be busy awhile.”

Cherry feels Melinor vanish. There’s no need for special senses for that. The god of violent death radiates an aura of dread that is hard to ignore sometimes. But though that aura is gone, dread remains, brought in other ways. Cherry touches the sheet where it covers Saira’s face, and carefully pulls it back.

So pale. So still. All life gone. That life that Mama nurtured and healed, that Cherry helped in her own way, lesser but more constant, fled forever. Cherry touches the cool cheek. Saira was so beautiful, so deadly. Frightening, really, but full of life at the same time.

And now there is nothing but a corpse.

“Oh baby,” Cherry whispers, running her finger along the soft, short hair of Saira’s eyebrow.

Behind her, Cherry hears Lyria whispering to the younger Bunnies, “It will be all right. I am here to take care of you.” The door of the bar opens, and footsteps approach. A gasp. Aliyah is on one side of Cherry, staring at Saira’s face, and Cala is on the other, silent and somber. Aliyah puts her hands to her face and sobs.

Cherry steps back. She knows a little of the history there. Aliyah and Cala were childhood friends with Saira, a friendship ruptured and only repaired recently and partially. Cala reaches a hand out to rub Aliyah’s back.

In stepping back, Cherry nearly steps on Sage, who holds her hand, looking at her, his beautiful dark features so empathetic. But at the sound of Tulip’s plaintive voice, they turn.

“Mom can come home!” Tulip insists. “We’ll let her sleep. We’ll just hug her and let her sleep. You can go get her.”

“You can hug her tomorrow, little Tulip,” Lyria insists. “She will need all of your hugs tomorrow. But she is probably already asleep and I cannot go disturb her now.”

“Let us hope she is asleep,” Sage says, stroking Tulip’s white hair. “We will welcome her home soon enough.”

Cherry asks, her voice low, “Grandmama, what about… Is Saira…her…soul? Is it okay?”

“She is at peace,” Lyria explains, her eyes on Cherry’s, compassionate. “Her soul has been released by Varah, the goddess you met earlier. It will return to the Wheel.”

“So she’ll be reborn.” Cherry nods to herself. “What…what now?” Cherry asks. “Do we…bury her?”

“Is that her custom? I am not sure about burial rites…” Lyria seems genuinely unsure what to do. “I could join her body with the Insula, of course. Return it to the great cycle of things so it can feed new life.”

The tall Guardia cop Aliyah, her face wet but recovered, approaches and puts her hands on Sage’s shoulders. She clears her throat. “Saira didn’t have religious feelings one way or the other. Just always said her body would be worm food soon enough. I guess…makin’ that comes true, in a nice way, that’d be somethin’ she could get behind.” Cala, coming to stand beside her friend and colleague, nods.

“Well, maybe we can consider a little patch of garden? A tree to remember her by?” Lyria suggests.

Cherry considers this. “Out back? There’s that tree in the corner, sickly little thing. Maybe she can give it some strength if she was under that.” She smiles, just a little. “I know it ain’t her no more but it’d be like havin’ her nearby.”

Lyria nods. “I will let you say your goodbyes tonight, and tomorrow morning, as early as possible, we will take care of that. All right? The little ones should get to bed for now.”

It takes some time, but soon everyone has gone away. Lyria and the others are in Alma’s sanctum, preparing for bed, all planning to sleep together in safety and warmth. Aliyah and Cala have both said quiet prayers over the body to their faraway god, and after a little while Cala returns to work while Aliyah, off-shift, returns to her family.

In the quiet of the bar, most of the lights extinguished, Cherry once more goes to Saira’s body. She smooths the hair back from the corpse’s forehead, and stares at that settled expression. Is that the slightest hint of a smile on Saira’s face? Did she finally achieve what she wanted?

“You never knew peace in your life, baby,” Cherry whispers to her. “Wish you coulda found it with us. I will never, ever forget you.” She leans over and presses her lips to the cool skin of Saira’s forehead.

Then straightening, she carefully rearranges the sheet to cover Saira’s face, and turns to descend the stairs, toward her family, and life, and love.

Ch6.97 Trust

In a shadowy chamber, water running down one wall, phosphorescent lichen and albino geckos on the rough stone, Somrak sits, his back to a table. Table – well, formerly a thick stalagmite that had broken off and was then cut and smoothed to a useful surface. The bench on which Somrak sits is a natural ridge of stone as well, shaped dexterously into a comfortable seat. Somrak does not make use of its legroom between the table and itself, instead stretching his legs away from the table, resting his back against the edge of it, his arms crossed over his bare chest, staring at nothing. Thinking, over and over, of what he could have done differently.

The mission had been a success. Technically. They got Sky out alive. None of the gods had died. But Saira… Saira died. For a moment he rages at her, in his mind. You weren’t even on our mission, were you? You were on your personal vendetta. I told you! Alma told you! Fates, I knocked you unconscious to keep you from meeting your death! Still you came…

None of this shows on his face. It remains impassive, as calm as the drops of water, as the slow breathing of a huge, dangerous beast in the deeper shadows further into the chamber.

But you kept your target immobilized, Somrak tells the dead woman he holds in his mind. He had to devote every trick he had to trying to survive, and still he failed at that. You did it, girl. You got him. You killed him. You laid your ghosts to rest, and yourself as well.

And in response, he hears her voice – no ghost, unless a desire to speak again just one more time can be called a ghost. Still as dumb as ever, Ponytail. Thinkin’ you have me figured out. Gods, but you gods are stupid.

He twists and brings his legs around, facing the table. On it, laid out like the main guest at a wake, is a body. The filthy cloth he had wrapped her in has been replaced by a clean white winding-cloth of soft cotton, the same material as these white trousers he is wearing, a magical gift from the Oracle. Much of the damage to the body has been repaired, as well. At least, with the face visible, Somrak can see no sign of trauma on Saira’s calm, cool mien.

He brushes a lock of her brown hair with his fingertips. “You got him,” he whispers.

Beyond him, where no lichen illuminates, a pair of eyes, glowing blue-green, open. They look at Somrak and Saira, then the head bearing them turns, ponderous, to the doorway. The illumination behind Somrak increases, throwing a shadow across Saira’s face. He turns to see Lyria at the doorway, a soft verdant light surrounding her, the aura of her Life sphere highlighting her maternal beauty. Behind her is a dark, hulking shape – Melinor, Alma’s brother. And passing her to enter the chamber is Alma herself, followed closely by Gwydion, bare-chested and white-breeched like Somrak.

Alma goes directly to Somrak, her eyes on his face. He can see the pain and anguish from the ordeal she has been through. Forcibly possessed by a twisted, evil soul. Trapped in a desperate fight for control of her own body. Made to witness Gwydion’s torture at the hands that same body. And Somrak’s own torture as well, let’s not forget that. And what else? What else did Nua put Alma through in there? He is certain it was far worse that the scourging Somrak himself suffered.

But before she speaks to him, her eyes – those strangely beautiful pearlescent eyes – move to Saira. She puts a hand on the corpse’s forehead for a moment, a stoic sorrow passing across Alma’s face. It lasts but a moment. Alma is a goddess of the House of Death. Cold lifeless bodies are not the focus of her sorrow. Or so Somrak assumes.

Then she lays that same hand on his cheek, turning his face up to hers. “Somrak?” Her voice is a plea for reassurance that he has come out of that little slice of Hell, not left himself behind somehow.

He looks into her eyes. Her touch is not as cool as it normally is. He suspects it is because his own fire is nothing but ashes, his body no warmer than a mortal’s. He opens his mouth, and out of it comes a voice barely above a whisper, but on the verge of becoming a wail. “I am sorry… Alma, I am so sorry…”

She puts her arms around his neck, pulling his head to her shoulder as she sits on the bench next to him. “Shh,” she whispers in his ear. “We all knew. And we’re safe now.”

After a brief hesitation, he holds her tightly, his hands on her lower back and shoulder blade. “I thought we were all lost. I almost–” He cuts himself off. He can’t. He just can’t tell her that at the moment before they were rescued, he was on the verge of killing her unconscious body in the hope that at least her soul might escape being pulled into Hell. Instead he asks, “Saira? Her soul?”

“Varah saw to it,” Melinor replies from the doorway, his voice low. “Personally.”

Over Alma’s shoulder, Somrak looks at him through locks of the goddess’ snowy white hair. He nods at Melinor. “Thank you.”

From the shadows comes a rumble of agreement, a sound like misshapen lava stones grinding in the stygian trenches of the ocean. “You pulled us from Hell, Melinor,” Sky says, pitching his voice as close to human as he can. “You saved us.” The glowing blue-green eyes blink.

“It was necessary,” Melinor says simply. He seems unused to being regarded with such gratitude.

Alma looks at Melinor, the edges of her mouth twitching into a tentative smile. She speaks as if just for Somrak, “Melinor has always been my protector. I learned much of my strength from him.” Then she rises, swaying as she tries to stand, hand reaching for the edge of the table.

Somrak puts a hand on her elbow and shifts to catch her, but Gwydion is at her side, his hand on her waist and the other clasping hers. “You should sit,” he says. His voice is gentle, but also strained from pain.

Somrak surprises himself with the flare of jealousy he feels. And in his memory he hears Saira’s derisive laughter. Still? he castigates himself. After you and Dion have saved each other’s lives, after all both he and she have been through with you, you’re still envious? You all nearly died, you were tortured together, you saw the face of a Prince of Hell, and still the teenage boy in you cannot resist crashing into the middle of everything. He lets go of Alma’s arm and sinks back onto the bench.

Seeming not to have noticed Somrak’s assistance, Alma looks at Gwydion with empathy and sadness and reaches to stroke his cheek, as she did Somrak’s but with, perhaps, more tenderness. Or maybe that is Somrak’s imagination. “I just wanted to see Sky before I do so.” She looks toward the darkness.

The glowing eyes dip, and the darkness intensifies, becoming palpable. “Stop trying to hide,” Somrak mutters in Sky’s direction. “She’s already seen your ugly mug. Fates know it’s looking better now that it was then.”

Sky narrows his eyes as Somrak. Then, slowly, the darkness fades to become merely the natural dim light of the cavern chamber. Sky’s true form, hulking and winged, becomes more and more visible, though its red-black coloration still fades into the shadows where he huddles. The diabolic aura of fear suppressed, he is merely ugly, dangerous in appearance, but not radiating a terror-inducing cloak of gloom.

He raises his vulpine head slightly as Alma approaches, the heavy horns that sweep back from his skull looking as if he is straining to against them to meet her gaze. His blinded eye is healed, scars removed from his face.

For a long moment, the two simply look at each other. Dion stands less than an arm’s length behind Alma, looking ready to snatch her away if Sky makes any sudden moves. Somrak aches for them. He has an inkling of how attached Sky is to the goddess, and how much she has come to trust and rely upon Sky.

Then Alma hesitantly reaches to touch Sky’s muzzle, stopping a few inches from it. Waiting. Hoping.

But Sky does not move toward her, instead pulling back slightly, cringing away. “I was going…to tell you,” he croaks softly. His voice is deeper, rumbling, but it is recognizably Sky’s. Somrak, who has heard the devil’s voice before when Sky was in this form, realizes that it lacks the disturbing abyssal, grinding quality that it normally carries. “You fell asleep. I was ready. And then you had to leave and I…I decided to wait. Alma…” He closes his eyes and turns his head away, ashamed. “If I had only told you then…”

In a whisper that Somrak barely catches, Alma says, “I know what she did to you. She showed me.”

He looks back at her, eyes wide. He does not speak, but pulls into himself, moving his wings to cover his head.

And after a moment, she sighs and drops her hand, her head hanging. “I am too tired,” she says, her voice louder but softened by sorrow and exhaustion, “in too much pain to be angry, Sky. I have risked too much to turn my back now. We will…find a way somehow.” There is no coldness or resentment in her words. She turns.

Somrak cannot stop himself from shouting at Sky, “Stop being such an idiot! She knows what you are! Dion knows!” He stomps to Sky’s side, not sure if he is going to strike the devil or not. “We have been through all that, together! Saira died! And now we’re all here! We’re alive! You are alive! And you are not hiding away anymore! I won’t have it!”

“Somrak…” Alma’s voice is quiet and soft but it cuts through the echoes of his shouts like a knife. “Please, be kind.”

Somrak falls silent, feeling embarrassed and sick to his stomach. Dion speaks up in the moment of silence. “Sky? Can you…change back?”

A leathery rustle of wings precedes Sky’s bestial face once again revealing itself. He shakes his ponderous head. “I cannot.” His voice is a whisper, and tracks of moisture lend the skin below his eyes, trailing down the sides of his muzzle, glisten in the dim light.

Somrak feels even more ill at this news. He turns away from Sky, clenching his teeth, then leans against the wall. Long tasked with the job of being Sky’s keeper and, potentially, executioner, he knows what orders may come from up high if Sky can no longer assume a divine form. Somrak takes a moment to find his voice without shouting. “You’ll have to,” he says. “It’s good that we all know, but you can’t go out of here until you can change.”

Then he hears a soft, wondering comment from Dion. “I thought…devils could not weep. That’s what all the accounts say.”

Somrak and Alma both turn back to see Sky looking shocked. He raises a taloned hand to touch the tears on his face. “I…cannot,” he whispers. “There are those who can, but…in this form, I cannot.”

“Well you’re doing it now,” Somrak says. “Maybe you just never had reason to?”

Sky shakes his head. “I would have given much to have been able to weep in that torture chamber. How…how can I be doing it now?”

Alma steps toward him, both hands out, and cups his face. Her pale hands are so small where the palms curve against the massive jaw muscles. Her thumbs slide gently across the tracks of tears. Her lips curved in a wavering smile, she says, “Perhaps you can change forms after all. When I look at you, my friend, it’s not a devil’s soul I see. And though I am not sure what it is, I know it is no hellish thing. Have you pretended to be a god so long that you have become one? Or are you something in between?”

Though he would tower over her at his full height, he must look up at her from his crouched position. “I didn’t want to…to do what she made me…”

“Shh.” Alma strokes his muzzle. “I know. I know you never would. Now rest. You must heal.”

“Luckily, we are in no hurry to cast him out,” Nevieve says from the door, standing next to Lyria. “You can stay here, Tuma-Sukai, for as long as you take to recover.”

“And you should all stay here tonight,” Lyria says, beside her. Her voice is subdued, but she sounds confident in her opinion. “Your physical wounds are healed. But you all have deeper wounds. Tonight, at least, you need peace. And each other.”

“No…Mother,” Alma argues, who has released Sky and moved again closer to Dion. “The Bunnies will already be worried sick. They’ll be frightened after being attacked by demons like you said. And they’ll have to know about Saira and mourn her. And we’ll have to tell them…something about Sky and…” As she speaks, she sounds more and more overwhelmed by the weight of it all.

Lyria looks sad, but her green eyes carry a hint of amusement. “You make my case for me, little one. It is all too much for now. Was this Saira important to them?”

“She was,” Alma says. “To Cherry, particularly, but to all of them in some way. They nursed her back to health once…” She glances at the body. “They will be crushed to see her dead.”

“Then let me take Saira’s body to them so that they may mourn her,” Lyria says, walking closer and laying a hand on the corpse, “and I shall tell them as much as they need to know for now. They can get past the initial shock with me and begin their mourning. When you return, they will be ready to give and take comfort without burdening you with excessive emotion. Please, my dear one, let me do this for you.”

Alma looks uncertain, and she touches Dion’s hand for comfort. He takes it, and Somrak, watching them, rests a hand on one of Sky’s horns.

Dion looks from Alma to Lyria and back again. “If we are welcome to stay…” He looks at Sky, still partially huddled, and at Somrak. Their eyes lock for a moment, and Somrak nods to Dion, lending his vote to the ‘stay’ camp. “It might be well for those of us who understand what we have been through to stay here for a little longer.”

Nevieve favors them with her detached, ancient smile. “Doria is preparing your rooms as we speak. All close by. Sky will need some time for private rest soon enough, I imagine. And so will you three.”

Alma looks at her, at Dion, at Lyria, then looks down and nods in defeat. “Very well. Thank you, Oracle. Thank you, Mother.”

Lyria puts both her hands on Alma’s upper arms. “I will do what I can to comfort them.” She looks at her daughter with sad contrition, then slowly, giving Alma the chance to push her away, embraces her in relief. Lyria looks around at the others. “Do not despair. But do not imagine that your healing will be swift. Lean on each other. As Gwydion says, only you understand what you have been through.”

She releases Alma, then goes to Sky. “Oh, little soul.” Lyria caresses his face. “You have yet a great part to play in the lives of those you love. Do not think for a moment that this is the end of all that. Have I ever shrunk from you?” She strokes the wetness on his face in wonder. “A crying devil. To think I should have seen this.” Then she looks at Somrak and pats his chest affectionately. She turns to leave, signaling a request for Melinor to pick up Saira’s body.

“Tell my children…” Alma says, “that we’ll be back tomorrow. Please.”

Lyria pauses to say, “I will. And I will not leave them until your return. They will be safe under my watch.” She leaves, Melinor following her.

Alma embraces Dion, holding him tightly, hiding her face against his shoulder. She shivers with silent sobs. He holds her, whispering, “We are safe now. We are all safe.”

Somrak, his chest still tingling from Lyria’s touch, listens to Dion’s comforting words. He hopes Alma believes them. He hopes Dion does as well. But as he looks at Sky, trapped in a form that would get him killed the moment he shows himself in public, a form that could cause a scandal to bring down the Council itself, he knows they are anything but safe.

Still, no point in mentioning that now.

Ch6.96 Trust

Warmth over the skin. Freshness below. The scent of grass on her nostrils, of earth still drying from the wetness of morning dew. And a distant sound of flowing, splashing water.

Alma opens her eyes to a bed of green grass stretching over a hill lined with trees that slopes down toward a bank of pebbles and a natural pool. A blue sky spreads above her, lit by the still not too warm sun of a lazy day of late Spring. She blinks and sits up, recognizing hill and pool in that detached, hazy way of a reality the mind is prepared to accept in spite of its inconsistencies. The grass is green, the trees are tall and rich with foliage, the water blue and crystalline. And she sees all this without effort, without the ever-competing fore-image of the sparkling souls of each and every being, of plants and animals big and small that has become her regular sight for the past few days. The waterfall which should feed into the pool is nowhere to be found; the ledge from which her children have taken turns jumping into the water is gone.

And in the water, four furry creatures swim. Otters, three brown and one white, frolic happily, swimming, grooming themselves and each other, diving and surfacing with crabs and small fish in their mouths. Two of them float gently, belly up, holding each other by the front paws so as to not float away. Alma watches the scene, feeling her heart warm to it, incapable of smiling but touched, deeply touched and holding onto the sweetness and peace that so starkly contrasts with what she knows is her reality in the Wakenworld. For she has visited this reality enough times to know that this is a dream and that it will collapse if she allows her conscious mind to refuse it.

Of all the things I miss about life on the Insula, a day like this is very near the top of the list, she hears the calm voice in her head.

She turns her head to find him sitting by her side, in his humanoid form, his legs bent at the knees and elbows resting on his thighs, hands hidden between his legs in a position that reminds her of a sitting foal. She is not in the least surprised to recall that he was not there just a few seconds ago. Arion…

The god of reality and keeper of dreams nods, his eyes still looking at the pool. You were drifting in slumber, mind wide open to anything that might take an interest in it. I had no difficulty finding you. And bringing you here.

It has been awhile since we met in dreams, she notes. Her mind feels vacant, numb. But at the edge of her awareness, she can sense it. The pain that bides in waiting for her to acknowledge it.

Oblivious to it, Arion smiles softly. I am not surprised. Your heart has turned its affections elsewhere and thus your mind followed. He looks at her with mild amusement, perhaps catching the change in her expression, the way she hesitates in discussing such issues now that her world is so full of other, more pressing worries. Oh, please… Why that guilt? My time in the Insula may very well have been and gone, Alma. To expect you to remain alone and, worse, lonely in an attempt to be faithful to our love would be rather selfish of me, don’t you think? In time, you might even grow to resent me for expecting such sacrifice of you while I spend my eternity anything but alone. He shakes his head in dismissal and looks at the happily swimming otters again. If I could somehow trade places with young Gwydion, enjoy his good fortune for holding you in his arms and spending his days in your company, you would not find me hesitating. But as it is, my love for you can live only in my wishes that you will find happiness. Even if it is not by my side.

Alma is quiet for a moment, feeling the sadness of her memories of years waiting for his return to the Insula, alone and with the Bunnies hidden away in their stasis bubbles, return to her mind. She had come to let go of it, lately, slowly finding relief in a present shared with a lover whose mind and her heart she feels closer to her own. But bitter as it may be, she knows Arion deserves the dignity and consideration of having this discussion with her, to her speak of what has happened, of what her heart dictates for her future. Even if it is merely to say goodbye.

 

This easiness with which you let go of something you want has always baffled me, she says, leaning against him, feeling tired even though she knows that at least a part of her is currently sleeping. Fate knows I am not capable of it. And how strange is it to hear you speaking of my choices in romantic partners.

Arion puts an arm around her, holding her close to him in that caring, protective way of his that has always felt so soothing to her. I know… But who else knows your heart this well, my dear? He leans and presses his lips to her head, stretching the kiss as he speaks with the easiness of one who does not require a mouth to converse. I assure you that there is nothing easy about it.

A touch of his hand to the line of her jaw and she looks up at him, into those black eyes and their silvery lines that seem to hold the whole of the infinite Void. I love you, he says. As I have always loved you. Today or in a thousand years, this will not change. And though there is pain in letting go now, I would rather let my love be generous and live on in whatever form we find for it. His lips curl in a smile. Besides, I like young Gwydion. He has a long and difficult path ahead of him but he will rise to it. As will you by his side – Alma?

She throws her arms around him, her tears rolling freely, released by his words, by the feeling of finality that is this ending of their romance, a love which had been dwindling, fading into time and distance but that nonetheless was there, like an umbilical cord attached to her past, to her growth. The sadness in saying goodbye to it, for as much as this is not a goodbye to Arion and the affection he holds for her, is enough to break the dams of the dream, to awake the slumbering pain of her conscience, of her knowledge of the Wakenworld, of her present, of Nua and her torture. Of Gwydion and the way his soul looked ripped to shreds as if attacked by the claws of some vicious spectral beast. Pain over pain over pain, wave over wave of it mounts and crashes against Alma’s mind, stealing her breath, threatening her sanity. She holds Arion as if he could save her from falling into madness with his touch alone.

Alma, what happened? he asks, concerned, his arms folding to wrap around her. None of this can be making you suffer so. We both felt it coming. Speak to me. Why is your mind in such poor condition?

We went after Sky, Alma replies before she remembers that Arion may not recall one dream in millions. After my friend that you found being tortured and told Gwydion about. And it–

She hides her face against him, the fact that he can read her mind the only thing making their conversation possible through her convulsive sobbing. They did terrible things. To all of us.

He holds her, quietly, letting her cry freely until the strong and reliable affection of his embrace wins over her momentary burst of anguish and grief. Eventually, he says. You are safe here. Do you need help in the Waken World?

Alma shakes her head against his chest. No… We made it out though I don’t know how. She feels her throat well up with the excess water that her eyes are draining into her nose. She…she gave them terrible dreams. Stole my body. Tried to bind my soul to my sword.

The dreams must have been the disturbance I sensed, Arion notes absentmindedly. But by the time I reached it, it was gone. He strokes her hair reassuringly when a whimper escapes her lips. Now, now… It is over. It is all over. And you are safe.

She straightens to look at him, feeling her eyes burning and swollen from the tears. Can you…can you sense them? Any of them?

The question makes Arion look up, at the sky, his ears twitching slightly as if he is listening to the sounds of every dream being dreamt. Gwydion sleeps. The others are beyond my reach.

Please, spare him from nightmares, she pleads.

The humble, heartfelt request has Arion looking down at her again, a small and sad smile on his face. He sleeps in a blissful void of thought. No dreams good or bad will disturb him. The Void Rider kisses Alma’s forehead, gently, lovingly. And no nightmares will disturb you. I will keep watch over your mind and theirs. And whenever they are open to my influence, you will dream of nothing but peaceful days like this. Though I cannot promise that this will be the case every night.

The goddess closes her eyes at his kiss. Thank you, nonetheless. That you would take care of them… It means the world to me. She shakes her head, breathing a sigh. I don’t know… how we will heal from this.

I knew when I met you, Arion tells her, his cheek grazing the ridge of her brow, that within the subdued young lady hid an untameable strength. I gave my heart to it. And still, my love, it amazes me how very nearly indestructible you are. She feels his cheek rise with the gentle curling of his sips. You will heal. There will be pain and anger and fear. But you will rise again. And you will be just as strong as they need you to be.

It hurts so badly, Arion. All of it, she confesses, too tired and overwhelmed to be ashamed at her weakness. In this place within their embrace, there has never been space for such fears.

Then stay here for now. He strokes her hair, holding her, and for the moment she is grateful that he is simply everything she needs him to be. Cry as much as you want. Rest as much as you like. And I will hold you until you are strong enough to return to them.

神兎神兎神兎神兎神兎神兎神兎

Time goes by. She does not know how long. All she knows is that the dream with Arion slowly fades away into the darkness before wakening, the memory of tears still searing her throat (and screams…she remembers screams) as she feels the touch of an arm around her, a familiar, soothing scent teasing her nose. Voices speaking.

“…no good reason for her to continue this…this folly! She has nearly been killed multiple times, nearly lost her soul, nearly condemned to Hell! And all because her children were not accepted. Well they are accepted now! Or they will be – I will see to that. It is time for her to come home and take her rightful place within the Clan!”

Lyria’s voice. Her mother’s voice. Alma catches the concern, the distress in the older goddess’ tone and grimaces at it as she tries to remember how to command her eyes to open.

“She must leave Three Rats, yes,” Varah’s rough voice, this time. Anger with a strange hint of fear in her words, alien to the fearsome goddess Alma has come to know. “But not to go back to your lady-in-waiting little games. She was raised to be a warrior for the Clan and that is what she will keep being. And she will remain Guardia.”

Ah… Of course, eyelids fold up. She opens her eyes to see Gwydion, or better said, his soul. His beautiful, vibrant soul, damaged and ravaged by Nua’s efforts. She instinctively reaches to cup his cheek with her hand and cringes internally at the lazy way her arm responds to her command, muscles contracting at their own leisure, making her movements slow and clumsy. Still, she manages to touch Gwydion’s face without slapping him and he turns his head just enough to brush his lips against her wrist, breathing a little sigh against her skin.

“Why?” Lyria cries, her voice pitched higher this time. “You have led her down this path of danger and misery and bloodshed, when she is a mother, a healer. And now she is our Spinner. We need her safe or the Wheel will have no living soul to connect us to it!”

Gwydion is lying full length beside Alma, his arm draped over her side, holding her to him. He pulls away a little, his head turning downward, in the direction of his feet. In the direction of the voices, Alma realizes. She rolls slightly and looks toward them as well.

Fencer’s soul is as crimson as her hair, as her eyes, swirling and bubbling like blood flowing from an open wound or coating a slashed windpipe. Her growling tone, tainted as it is with nervousness, is still filled with the determination and steadfastness that is the hallmark of the warrior goddess. “Just because your Clan’s weaklings cannot handle more than that one task it does not mean all Spinners must act that way. It takes strength and certainty and we all know the cost of acquiring such things. She’s stronger now than ever before. We just have to dial it back, return her to safer environments.”

“That at least we can agree on,” Lyria concedes. “But I resent your insinuation regarding my clan. The last I checked, my Clan is the same as yours, dear sister!”

Bickering… Endless bickering while they discuss Alma’s future for her. As if she weren’t capable of making her own decisions. As if she weren’t even in the room. More of the same. More of the usual. Their plans drawn over her life, over her pain. Blind to her will. To her suffering. What is it to them, but an excuse to do as they please, an argument to throw over the table and justify their choices?

More of the same…

“Enough…” Alma croaks, cursing herself for how weak and inaudible her voice sounds to her.

“Were your clan the same as mine, your child would not have grown amidst fevers and illness,” Fencer goes on, mindless of her niece’s words. “Had she been a full death goddess, she never would have faced the Council’s wrath in the first place!”

Again…try again. With all you have now.

“ENOUGH!”

It is not by far the strong, confident bellow she would have liked it to be. Her cry comes out like a harsh, half-drawn out screech. But it does the job of capturing their attention. Alma struggles to rise to her feet but her legs are not yet fully responsive, and even her arms have difficulty bearing her weight. It takes the support of Gwydion’s strong arms to get her to a sort of uncomfortable sitting position. It will have to do.

“How dare you?” she hisses at the two older goddesses. “How dare you see our pain and act like it is yours? Do you have any idea what we have been through?! How can you entertain yourselves blaming each other and planning my future like that?!”

The goddesses stand still, looking – or Alma hopes they are looking, curse these changed eyes that make it so difficult for her to see into the material planes – at her.

Lyria is the first to speak, her voice still high-pitched with bewilderment. “Alma, I just want what’s best for you–”

“Because you wanted the best for me,” Alma interrupts her, feeling the lines of her face contort into a growl, “I was practically a prisoner in my own house for over a century! A century of being called weak and worthless.” She glares at Varah, remembering a long-gone fencing lesson and being accused of being on track to becoming a burden to her family. “How many of my brothers and cousins still bother to even acknowledge my existence? How many of them have placed bets over how long it would take me to die?”

But it is Lyria, not Fencer, who speaks. Stutters. “I never… You were…”

The words die in the throat of the goddess of life, sentence interrupted before it reaches its all-too-predictable finale.

“Weak?” Alma bitterly completes it for her. “Yes, I was. The only place I could hope to be strong in that house was in Varah’s practice room.” She gestures toward the Fencer’s red soul. “And still, I wasn’t. I was always too slow, too crude, too…everything! Nothing I did was ever enough, for any of you! Not you, not to my father, not to anyone!”

Her fist hits the mat beside her, not with any of the force she would have liked to infuse into the gesture but still with a certain level of assertiveness. She looks down and spreads her fingers, breathing in deeply, the texture of the woven material taking over her sense of touch as tears of frustration and a century of self-loathing well up in her eyes. “And I accepted it all because that was all I knew. I believed every word, every last cruel comment for the truth.” She raises her eyes to her mother and aunt. “But then Arion happened and it all went wrong for you, didn’t it? Even he sought to guide me in his one way. But at least he was kind!”

“Kindness is an invitation to slack off,” Fencer grunts.

“Kindness also validates a person’s path!” Alma nearly spits out. “It softens a hard life. I did not learn that until my children were released. That being kind can be more important than being right. I tried to treat them the way you treated me! But which of you even tried to guide me the day I went to you for advice with Rosemary and Cherry in my arms?”

“I did try to help you!” Lyria argues.

“You sent me straight to Nekh,” Alma hisses, cold and final, lip curled in a sneer.

Silence falls in the room. Only the soft hummings of breath vibrate the air, Alma’s breathing feeling too harsh and loud to her own ears. She lets it stretch, lets the awkwardness and guilt grow and spread their roots in this absence of arguments, of excuses. Allowing her elders’ imagination fill in the blanks and spin accusations in their minds far more damning than anything she could possibly find the heart to say.

And when she can no longer bear the weight of this pregnant pause, she speaks again. “You lost your claim to my future that day. You don’t get to decide whether I stay or return with you. I made my choices. Calling Somrak, staying quiet, going in, in spite of the danger, they were my choices. We all chose. Any of us could have refused to go in, refused to go against orders. We’ve been through Hell in there. There isn’t much more the Council could throw at us that would even make a dent now.”

“But Alma, this place, it’s a life of constant danger,” Lyria somehow finds the nerve to insist. “Your children were attacked by demons! We fought them off, but we’d never even have known if I hadn’t come by for a surprise visit. Please…come home.” Her voice breaks, fighting for control. “Bring them home.”

At Lyria’s words, Alma freezes, her eyes wide, spine frozen in a solid block with fear and fury. And even though Lyria immediately assures her that the Bunnies are alive and unharmed, Alma cannot make herself move or speak. Numbly she feels Gwydion’s arm wrap around her back, pull her unresisting to lean against him.

“They are safe,” he whispers in her ear. “We prepared for such an event, remember? Geryon was there.” He strokes her head, soothingly, holding her close to him. “I’m free to go as I please. I won’t leave your side if you want to go with your mother. I just want you to be safe.”

She takes solace in his touch, feeling her body relax into his embrace, her mind running at full speed even though she feels exhausted. Defeated. “I am so tired… I’ve been running for over twenty years with those Bunnies. I thought…I had made a home for them here. That this was home for them. For us.”

She feels him nod against her head. “It certainly feels that way, most of the time.”

“And besides, the Council wants me down here,” Alma adds.

“We can change that,” Lyria says pleadingly, barging in on their whispered conversation to push her point. “Surely we can.”

“Stop pushing. She’s made her choice,” Varah grunts almost immediately. “I have to go report this in. I’ll release the mortal’s soul before you kill yourself trying to do it in the condition you’re in.”

“The mortal?” Alma asks, confused. “Do you mean…?”

“Saira,” Gwydion explains. “The last I saw her, Margrave’s demons were attacking her viciously. It seems the wounds were too much for her to handle. We have her body. And her soul.”

Saira…

Alma closes her eyes, lowers her head. She knew. She knew that the chances of Saira making it out of that Hell alive were nearly non-existent. She accepted that, the moment the woman insisted on accompanying them. And yet, a part of her had hoped, a part of her blames herself for not being there to heal the woman – the young woman with a whole life ahead of her – and save her from the jaws of the death she had long sought.

From the call of the very Wheel that Alma serves.

A soft thud and a sudden feeling of contact and pressure against her legs snaps Alma out of her grim thoughts, making her reach for the vale formed by the adjoining of her legs, stretched full length in front of her. She grabs what feels like a small, round stone that she is surprised to see glowing faintly and fitfully against the background of her own soul.

“Your catch,” Varah says by way of explanation. “Good job, Sergeant.”

And then the goddess is gone, the echoes of her words, spoken as if they were nothing important, ringing in Alma’s ears. Her jaw drops in disbelief.

“Did she really say…?” she asks to no one in particular.

Good job… She had never heard Fencer say those words before. To anyone! And oh, how she had longed for those words, she realizes… From so many people. But from Fencer, her mentor and role model for so long in all things concerning strength and courage, more than most.

“She did,” Melinor says beside her, making her look to her left.

She is not surprised to find him there. A part of her knew he was here in the room, by her side the whole time. His soul flares before her eyes and, though she cannot see his expression, she can almost feel the radiance of his pride. Of his empathy. She wonders if this is how he has expressed himself all along, emotions confined to his soul, revealed now by her newfound ease at soulscrying. Though her lips refuse to curl in a smile, Alma nods and stretches an arm toward him, her hand closed tightly around what she now realizes is a soulstone, a prison for Nua’s demented soul as it awaits trial, her aunt’s present of a bargaining chip.

She feels Gwydion’s embrace loosen, allowing her to tilt toward her brother, who takes the initiative of embracing her, for once in so many years. “I will have to leave soon, but I am here until you no longer need me.”

“Thank you for all you did,” Gwydion says, voice filled with heartfelt sincerity.

“She is my sister,” Melinor replies to him. His embrace tightens a little around Alma, his deep voice sculpting the words into something of a justification, a blessing and a warning, all put together.

On any other occasion, Alma would chuckle at the rare demonstration of brotherly protectiveness. As it is, she simply leans back toward Gwydion when Melinor releases her and gently pushes his sister toward the arms of the god of magic, who holds her just as closely.

“I want to see the others,” she says after a moment.

“Of course,” Gwydion replies. “Let us just figure out how to get you on your feet.”

Ch6.95 Trust

It was excruciating. Excruciating to separate herself from the sword threatening to engulf her, to imprison her. To fight the pull, to move in the opposite direction. Away and away. Back into a body. A living body. Into herself.

But she welcomed the pain, embraced it, traveled on it. Anything, everything was less painful than the agony of being bound. And Nua’s momentary distraction was all that Alma needed to re-enter her body, to grab hold of flesh that is hers, of muscles, nerves, bones and organs that are hers by nature and origin. And though Nua fights viciously, Alma is winning.

“Death Clan bitch, do you really think you can throw me out?” Nua taunts her. “There’s no pain you can inflict on me that I haven’t felt a hundred-fold already! Even if you win over control of this body, I’ll stay here forever! I’ll be in you forever.”

“Necromancer filth,” Alma retorts, throwing her life force against Nua’s. “This is my body! Mine! You have no roots to spread here!”

Nua’s laughter is a vibration of energy against the goddess’ soul. “Really? It wasn’t that hard stealing this body from you in the first place. And learning to control it. I wear it so much better than you. Weakling.”

“We’ll see who is weak. I will not let you use this body to hurt my family!” Alma promises.

“Can I use it to hurt you?”

Suddenly, sharp pain fills Alma’s senses. Physical pain. Nua has managed to gain control of one of her arms. Pain and wetness. Blood. It is the stabbing of a blade to her own flank that Alma feels.

Nua takes the chance to wrap tendrils of spectral energy around Alma’s soul, pushing the goddess deeper into herself. “You have no idea of what I can do. But let me show you what I’ve done already to your precious family.”

The images move so quickly across Alma, thrown as they are directly from one soul to another. A devil, summoned from Hell, bound by Nua herself. Sky… And a terrified mortal, begging for his life even as the devil kills him at Nua’s command. Even as the devil eats him and then takes his shape.

“That was his first body,” Nua purrs against Alma’s awareness. “The one I gave him.”

And the memories continue, of Sky, Alma’s Sky as she knows him, bound in chains and bleeding, lunging in anger, transforming back into a devil and roaring threats. Begging… Sobbing…Weeping. As he is forced to watch Gwydion’s horrible death, as Nua thrusts a dagger under Alma’s own skirt. Except…none of these images could be true. Are they lies? Predictions?

“I found some mortals willing to play along,” Nua explains. “I just had to give them a little makeover and he fell for it like a day-old chick.”

“MONSTER!” Alma bellows, discharging her powers in a wave around her core that makes Nua hiss and recoil in pain.

And still, the necromancer laughs. “I cut his tongue out, too! For saying ugly things to me when he saw you lying on that gurney.”

More images, memories of Sky – not the form, the face she knows as Sky’s but the very certain knowledge that it is him – on top of someone, a notion of being pinned down by him. Of feeling him move inside her, endlessly, with the mechanical rhythm of an automaton, his eyes tightly shut, grief and disgust on his face. And a voice pleading to him, begging him to stop. Trocia…

Alma tries to look away but she cannot. The memory fills her whole.

“Is that what you came to save?” Nua teases her. “He is mine!”

Nua launches herself at Alma, with the recklessness of the insane. Anger and power drive her but her soul has only a fraction of the energy of Alma’s. The goddess holds her ground and drives Nua back, striking immediately to counterattack.

And the memory hits her. Gwydion destroying a pair of demons that stand before him and his parents, his face a mask of anger and joy. And grief. And disappointment. His mother calling his name, crying, and screaming. Mad.

Somrak atop a stone fortification, alone, watching an army move toward him, with Alma – no… Nua in Alma’s body heading the attack in a chariot driven by Gwydion and pulled by Sky in devil form. Helplessness and hopelessness.

The images break her focus. Her attack loses strength.

“Do you like the nightmares I made for them?” Nua asks. “What about the real thing?”

Nua strikes again, stabbing again at Alma’s body. Making her scream with the pain.

And forcing her to relive Nua’s memories of holding Gwydion’s chained body, of kissing his lips. Of mocking him as he roars in anger, struggling against his bindings, demanding to know where Alma is. Of whipping him with a whip made of Nasheena’s vertebrae and infused with her very soul. Of whipping Somrak. And Sky.

Images of Alma’s cousin screaming and begging surface in the throng of demented memorabilia.

“I WILL ERASE YOU!” Alma roars in hatred. “HELL IS NOTHING COMPARED TO WHAT I WILL DO TO YOU!”

She forgets all reason, wavers all sense. All of her, all of her power, of her essence, of her rage, of her love, life, death and everything in between. All that she is, she throws at Nua, tearing at the mortal’s soul mercilessly, exploding against its core, damaging it without the slightest hesitation.

She wants it gone.

Even as she sees Somrak falling from the top of the castle wall, his limp body a ball of fire. Even as she sees Gwydion kneeling in a circle of dead Bunnies half eaten by demons, holding her body and sobbing in grief. Even as she sees Stathos’ daughters held by Whisper thugs, crying and screaming as their throats are slit before their kneeling, bound father, their blood gushing to stain Luís’ tear-drenched face.

She attacks Nua, holding on to the necromancer, reveling at her screams of pain and confusion now at this sudden defeat. Yes… Nua is hurting. This is how it should be.

But then… something happens. Forces intervene, familiar but unexpected. Grabbing Alma, grabbing Nua. Pulling them apart. Alma resists. She isn’t done yet with Nua. She is nowhere near done.

But she is tired. And Nua is taken away.

神兎神兎神兎神兎神兎神兎神兎

Darkness. Such quiet, unyielding darkness. A welcome change from the screaming, the bursting of energy, the pure rage coursing through his body. Gateways opening into horrible, unhallowed places. A million howling souls crashing against him and bellowing at him in terror and hatred. Him, the gatekeeper.

The enemy at the gate.

Light pours into his place of rest, cleansing, healing. A mildly welcomed light. But not the one he yearns for. He refuses to let it wake him, shuts his eyes tighter against it. His body feels more relaxed at its touch, less torn. But his spirit suffers still. He does not want to follow this greenish light that courses through him without regard for his privacy, without care for his boundaries. It violates his pain, healing with the force of a great tidal wave crashing over him. He turns away from it and dreams of the blue twilight that has once enveloped him in a nurturing haze.

But though the light eventually leaves him alone, another comes to disturb him. Liquid and wavering, softer and deeper. Almost the one he is waiting for but no…the scent is not right. Seaweed and low tides, not the lilac and willow of his desires. It speaks to him.

Wake up, Gwydion. You are needed.

He does not want to wake up. The last time he woke up, nothing good happened. He frowns at the memories that try to creep into his conscience.

She needs you, Gwydion. They all do. Wake up.

Within him, his essence rouses, looks up. It calls out.

Mate?

But the light is gone. He is alone again in the darkness. And though he wants nothing more than to hide in it for the rest of time, he feels his mind surface, his eyelids open.

And the world pours in.

Voices. Sobs. The watery light hurts his eyes at first, makes Dion groan. But soon the blurs resolve into images. The muscles of his arms and legs begin to respond. He rolls onto his side, looking around to recognize the familiar setting of the Oracle’s grotto. One of its myriad chambers, that he had never seen before. Chairs. He is lying on the floor. On the side he can see for now, he finds Somrak, sitting on the floor, looking up at the glowering, looming figure of Fencer.

Fencer…why is she even here? And how did they get here in the first place? The last he remembers, they were–

He shuts his eyes and shakes his head violently to dislodge the image before it forms. And when he is sure that he has succeeded in defeating his memories, he opens them again. By Somrak, a dirty sheet covers a lying body. Dion tenses, dread climbing over his spine at who this might be. He can only see a basic outline and the feet poking out. Narrow, feminine feet.

He struggles to sit up and the movement captures Somrak’s and Fencer’s attention. With a sorrowful look at Dion, the fire god glances down at the corpse by his side and lifts a corner of the sheet to reveal light brown hair, a young but hardened female face.

Saira.

Relief washes over Dion before regret finds its way in. He remembers her hanging off Margrave’s neck, being attacked by demons left and right, and feels sorry that she has paid for their escape with her life.

He notices Somrak jerking his head toward another corner of the room, urging Dion to look in that direction. And there he sees her, Alma, lying on the floor, in her family’s black clothing, gashes on her thigh and flank. Her brother, Dion recognizes him from before, and Nevieve are tending to her. Alma’s wounds are slowly disappearing as Nevieve works her magic on the goddess.

Mate!

And at the edge of his sight, he notices the elephant in the room for the first time. Or better said, the devil. Right there, by his side, but curled up and surrounded by that same light Dion experienced before, a light he now sees belongs to Lyria. So much of it that it had numbed Dion’s senses to the devil’s proximity. He instinctively tries to rise to his feet and leap against the devil only to feel a hand push him back down. “Status, Sergeant.”

Fencer’s hand. Fencer’s voice. Dion looks at her with all the hatred and violence he was about to discharge at the devil. He nearly attacks her instead of him, stopping only at the burst of pure, old and piercing power that she projects against him in a warning. Her eyes narrow, her one seeing, crimson eye glaring a challenge at him.

It forces Dion to stop and think, his mind to make sense of all he is seeing. His brain to remember that the devil he was about to attack is in fact Sky. Sky, his commanding officer. Sky, his friend.

Dion lowers his eyes, ashamed at what his instincts yell at him to feel and do. “We accomplished the mission, it seems,” he answers quietly, looking toward Alma. “Though I’m not quite clear on the details.”

“She’s going to be all right, Dion,” Somrak says from where he sits. “She’s fighting but she’s going to win.”

“At least we managed to get that…thing out of her.” Fencer’s disgust is palpable and there is no doubt of who she is referring to as a thing.

The necromancer. Nua. Dion breathes deeply in still not completely certain relief, hoping for it to be true. He looks back to the reclining goddess, her white-haired head on Nevieve’s lap. The last time he saw Alma, there was a war raging in her body for control of her flesh. She was trying to hurt herself…or someone in her was trying to hurt her, perhaps Nua, perhaps Alma herself. How could he tell? He had attacked her. Not her, Alma, but her, Nua. He just wanted the necromancer’s soul out of his beloved’s body, to rip it out with his bare hands as if that was even possible. He wasn’t thinking then. All there was was rage and hatred.

And fear.

“It is done,” Nevieve announces. “Now we wait.”

The wounds, the ripped and plastered black clothes made shiny by blood are gone. In a single, seemingly effortless twist of her magic, the Oracle has not only healed Alma’s body but cleaned it and replaced her fighting, Death Clan outfit with a simple, flowing turquoise-blue dress. No shoes. A worshipper’s humble vest.

Dion glances down to find his own clothes changed, his uniform trousers replaced by simple pure-white linen ones, tied at the waist with a cord. He is barefoot as well and, as far he can tell, clean and healed. For a moment he is surprised to find himself shirtless, armored jacket gone along with his sword. Then memory kicks in and he remembers again: Nua. She had removed his protective clothing, probably so that nothing would dull the bite of her whip. He shudders at the memory, feeling the pain of the wounds inflicted on his soul sharpen, defeating his natural defenses.

And it is not just his soul that is in pain. His body is healed but his mind, his emotions…he feels them raw, stripped of their fortifications like a tree stripped of its bark. The soft, vulnerable pulp exposed. Inside him, his core whimpers and begs for him to do something about the pain, about the helplessness and despair. About the missing half of him that currently lies on the floor of the grotto, motionless, flanked by the Oracle and by her brother. Melinor.

Dion rises to his feet, unsteady and stumbling, his body accusing a too-swift and draining healing, along with the exhaustion of the day’s harshness and probably the leftovers of having been poisoned just a couple of days ago. Or maybe just one day. Maybe a week. He cannot be certain of how long they were in the pocket universe or even how long he has been knocked senseless. Truly, he doesn’t care.

As Nevieve raises her head and looks at him with a beatific smile, he reaches Alma’s supine body. Carefully, the Oracle lays the goddess’ head back down on the floor and rises herself, her supporting hand reaching to touch Dion’s back as he kneels by Alma, on the side opposite to Melinor’s. He does not dispense any words to either of the gods. He cannot find anything to say. His eyes focus on the peaceful, pale-skinned face that looks to all the world to be sleeping in eternal slumber and his mind locks on the moment when the whip cut through his chest and his hope for the very first time.

A croaking voice, low and echoing fills his ears. “Thannnk you,” It says. “Thaaaaaank youuu…”

The tone of it is enough to raise the hairs on the back of Dion’s neck, to make him turn to look at its source with almost enough speed to snap his spine. Though it speaks with sorrow and misery in its voice, though the memory of its lupine maw dripping with demon blood to save Dion’s own life reminds the god of who this devil is, he cannot help but glare at the… devil in the room, the Hellish beast spreading its corruption around it, teasing Dion’s sphere awake. Anything is better to feel than the shattering pain ravaging through him at the moment. And rage will do just fine.

And suddenly, Sky isn’t there anymore. Somrak isn’t there. Saira’s cooling body is gone. The room itself has changed. The older gods, all gone. A different chamber, altogether, smaller than the other one, glowing softly with a liquid light that projects its dancing glow on the walls and ceiling and reminds him of soft moments of bliss spent in a lush, green sanctum. Dion finds himself alone, kneeling in a depression of the stoney floor of the grotto that the years of erosion have filled with fine sand and someone’s careful consideration has covered with a woven banana leaf mat to make for a soft, dry bed, Alma lying by him.

He looks down at her, forgetting anger, forgetting threat. He strokes Alma’s hair, imagination painting all of the familiar expressions he has seen on her face. Every different smile, every hint of sadness, passion, rage. The ghosts of Nua’s disgusting, terrifying smile creep into his memory but he tries to sweep them away. At least for now. At least for now he wants to believe Fencer’s words that Nua is gone from Alma’s body. She would know, wouldn’t she? Her own niece? How many times has Fencer seen Alma’s soul? She would know.

Unable to endure another instant of distance, he shifts, gently putting an arm under Alma’s shoulders and lifting her to his chest, her lower back propped against his thigh. He cradles her, his eyes closed, straining to hear her gentle breathing, to detect her weak pulse. Why isn’t she waking up? Why won’t she come back to him?

He nearly shouts in fright when he opens his eyes to the dark, sitting figure of Melinor, watching, just before him. He has only seen Melinor once, at the Curia. The god had refused to approach him, Alma or the Bunnies then. And though Alma speaks of her brother with a tenderness that has had Dion wistfully wondering how sweet it might be to have a beloved sibling fawning over him, the impressive, powerful figure of the god of death, with his aura of violence and lingering scent of slaughter, does not exactly conjure up the friendliest of first impressions. What must Melinor think of Dion, with his fame and manner, romantically involved with the god’s younger and only sister? With Melinor’s beloved sister. There is no mistaking the concern in those slanted rusty-ochre eyes.

Eyes that he raises to look at Dion, without the slightest hint of displeasure or condemnation, in spite of Melinor’s overall look of a constant, chronic, cold, simmering rage. Empathy. There is empathy in that look. A shared pain. Dion casts his worries about the grim god’s blessing away. For now, they are both merely suffering with uncertainty over Alma’s recovery.

“It is…” Dion trails off, feeling his throat dry and cracked. He swallows and tries again. “It is her. Just her. You are certain?”

Melinor nods. “I know my sister’s soul.” His voice is just as low-pitched as his looks lead one to anticipate, and rough besides. But not as aggressive as might be expected. “The invader is captured elsewhere.” He touches Alma’s head, releases a stray lock of hair from her earring. “She needs time to regain control.”

Dion nods, holding her a little closer, lowering his head to kiss her forehead, to rest his own forehead against hers. He waits, feeling her skin against his, the coolness of her, the scent that, yes, faintly smells of her after Nevieve’s cleansing spell. His senses focus on her and just her, pained and relieved and hopeful and dreading.

“Alma… Come on, darling. Where are you?” He hears himself whispering to her.

Can he even reach her with simple words, wherever she is? His eyes are shut tightly against the tears that threaten to spill. Inside him, his essence howls its longing at the ether, like a lone whale calling for its mate across the oceans. Begging, searching, despairing for a reply.

Answer us. Return to us.

“Come back to us, Alma. Come back to me…”

Come back to us, mate. We are calling.

“I promised I wouldn’t leave you. Don’t leave me…”

Come back. Ours…

Mine.

A small eternity seems to pass. Dion whispers her name, incessantly calling her to him. He is mildly aware of other, new presences in the room, of his body gently rocking back and forth in that self-soothing movement of people in shock. Is this the fate that awaits him? To lose all those he allows himself to love? To be alone. Always alone. The world is suffering. The world is grief. The whole of him holds the living treasure in his arms as if she were the hope for his cure, the rock to save him from the gale raging within his soul. But she won’t wake up. She won’t wake up…

And he is so frightened to face the world without her.

Please, wake up. Please…

And then he senses it. Just a weak spark at the edge of his senses, at first, then a stronger flare against him. His own essence roars with joyful relief.

Here!

Here…

He pulls away a little just in time to feel Alma’s chest rise with a deeper breath, her eyes open wide, flaring with color and light. Her mouth gapes open, her back arches as the air fills with her scream. A scream of pure rage, of hatred, of anguish and pain and fear. It rises to almost unbearable intensity, echoes off the walls and almost seems to burst through them. Her body contorts in almost tetanic convulsion, her eyes wide open and filled with terror.

“Alma!” Dion calls to her, squeezing her against him. “Alma, it’s all right!”

He holds her, rocks her until the screams die in her throat. Until her lips slacken and her muscles relax just past the point of painful contraction. “It’s all right,” he tells her, his gentle voice sounding almost like a whisper after all the screaming. “You’re safe now. You’re safe.”

“Gwydion?” Alma’s eyes dart this way and that, seemingly unable to focus. “Gwydion!”

“I’m here. I’m here, darling,” he assures her. Is she blind? And why isn’t she moving her arms and legs?

Her eyes finally lock on him. “I had her!” she cries with urgency before a strong exhalation seems to rob her of her strength. “I had her… she disappeared.”

“We have her,” he tells her, hoping that Melinor did not deceive him. Even if he has, Dion refuses to think about it now. “We captured her. Rest now.”

He is so relieved. He feels the knot that his heart had become untangle in one single, twanging movement that courses through him, stealing his breath, making his body contract, then relax, his core expand with sudden glee, almost about to explode. She is here. His love is here, in his arms. He needs to believe it. He needs to believe that her brother and her aunt cannot be fooled into accepting a stranger. That his nightmare is over.

“You look so hurt…” Alma says, her voice half choked. She is looking at him, straight at him, grief in her features. Light and color swirling lazily in her irises. Yes, her eyes. Her tear-filled eyes.

“I’m all healed now. I’m fine,” he lies, stroking her hair.

Her lower lip trembles, her chin drawing in a little. “No… you’re not.”

She knows. Of course, she knows. Because this is Alma and her eyes look straight at him, into his soul. And they can see the damage that Nua inflicted on it. And they are crying in sorrow at it. “I will be,” he insists, summoning a tremulous smile to his own lips. It is so painful to smile…but he cannot bear her tears. “You’re here now.”

His smile falters, he holds her tightly to him, kissing her forehead, swaying again, feeling his cheeks burn, his throat dry, sniffling excess water from his eyes that will soon bathe his face in tears. “You scared me, darling. You scared me so much…”

“I’m sorry,” she whispers. “I’m sorry…”

He whimpers, a thousand words pouring into his mouth and dying there. How afraid he was. How desperate. How broken and crushed. How glad he is now. How much all of it hurts, pleasure and pain. “It’s all right,” is all he manages to say. “It’s all right.”

Memory is tossed aside. Fear is tossed aside. Trauma. Suspicion. He wavers them all. Inside him, the whimpering, begging giant that immediately knew that Alma was possessed before Dion even managed to reason his way to that conclusion, howls for its mate. For his love. It grovels and cries for her, kept away for too long. Too hopelessly.

He cups her cheek in his palm and kisses her. Deeply, intermittently as their tears force them to break away to swallow and breathe. But he feels it, the blossoming of her spheres opening up to him, vividly, in that sharing of essence and mana that has been growing since their first kiss, barely more than physical pleasure at first, now nearly a full union of selves without even the need for the full physical contact of sex. She is so close…so close to him. Wrapped around his core.

A heavy hand lands on Dion’s shoulder, not a painful slap but just enough to startle him and make him look up.

Melinor looks at him with a grimace, shaking his head. “Not that,” the god warns him and for a moment Dion fears that Melinor will pose an obstacle to the relationship. “She has to stay in herself to rebuild the bond.”

The words are much more frightening than any condemnation of the love affair. With the sudden, icy touch of a bucket of cold water to the spine, realization dawns in Dion’s mind. Alma’s bond with her own body is still unstable and frail. And he was at the verge of breaking it with a simple, selfish kiss. Would he have assimilated her, he wonders with growing fear.

“Shouldn’t she take to her own body naturally?” he asks, alarmed. “Why isn’t she moving?”

“Her soul took serious damage,” replies Fencer’s rough voice. Dion jolts, instinctively firming his grip around Alma and turning his head to look at the Guardia Dei Subcommander, who says, “I’m surprised she’s even able to speak.”

Only then does Dion notice the other gods in the room. Lyria and Nevieve have both joined them as well, standing silent for now, their eyes on Alma. How long have they been watching? How much have they witnessed of his misery? Lyria looks at him with such sorrowful empathy that he is suddenly very aware of the drying tracks of tears on his cheeks, of the burning in his eyes. So many years of keeping his emotions concealed, his thoughts and concerns hidden under a mask of nonchalance… He swallows and looks away from the older goddess, unsure of how to feel about this. For now, he feels nothing. He is numbed by exhaustion and grief and relief, the extremes of so many emotions that none cries louder than the others. He has been stripped and skinned alive and he is so small, now. So helpless. Like a child. He lacks the willpower to even beg them to leave. And what right does he have to ask that of people worrying about a loved one?

“Mel?” Alma is asking, her head turning to look at her brother. “And Fencer. What – what are you doing here?” Her eyes widen, her face contorts into panic, head rising from Dion’s cradling arm with effort, since she seems unable to move any voluntary muscles below her neck. “Where are the others? Where are we?”

“We are in the Oracle’s grotto and they are here at my call, Alma,” Lyria replies in quiet tones. “Later, we will explain.”

“Mother?” Alma calls, her voice pitched higher with fear. “Sky? Sky!”

“He’s here,” Fencer barks with annoyance at her niece’s loud cry for her friend. “Now rest or you’ll never have the full control of that body back.”

“Somrak… Saira…?” Alma asks, her head turning this way and that, straining to see.

With a soft touch that would seem impossible for such an fearsome, violence-attuned god, Melinor places his hand on Alma’s forehead and gently, but firmly, pushes her down against Dion’s arm. “Later,” he says simply.

Alma looks at her brother, only her eyes moving in their sockets, and quiets in defeat. Still, she turns her gaze to Dion, a questioning whimper escaping her lips. “Gwydion?”

He almost tells her the truth. About Saira’s death, Sky’s and Somrak’s injuries. He decides against it. It would be too cruel, he he thinks, to burden her with such loss and suffering when she is barely holding on to her own body. And yet, he does not want to lie. Not to her. He does not know how much she has seen before the failed binding and during the fight with Nua and even if she has seen nothing, he cannot stand to tell her anything less than the truth.

So he keeps his words short as he reaches to hold her hand and bring it to his sternum. “They’re here. Now rest…please.”

She looks at him for a long, silent moment, then blinks and tilts her head against his chest, snuggling against him in a movement that involves only her head and neck. To his surprise and great solace, her fingers react to his touch, weakly curling around and squeezing his own. He kisses her brow, the room so empty of sound that he can hear her minute sigh of contentment at the caress. She almost seems to be sleeping with her eyes half open before she breathes, her voice calmer now, “I am so very tired…”

“Then sleep,” he whispers against the bridge of her nose. “Just sleep. I’ll be right here. I’m not letting you go.”

A tiny dimming of light announces the drop of her eyelids. “I guess… your pocket didn’t make it again.”

The nonsensical comment makes him pause. His pocket? He pulls away, looking at her peaceful, slumbering face in befuddlement, wondering what she meant by her words. And then it hits him. His pocket! His jacket pocket. The one that keeps being torn off regardless of how much Dion tries to reinforce it. And yes, it has not survived this time either. The whole of his jacket has disappeared in fact. The sudden realization makes him chuckle, then laugh, laugh uncontrollably at the joke that only Alma, the real Alma would know to make. “Oh, I’m never letting you go.”

Movement at the edge of his vision makes him look up to see Lyria kneeling by Melinor’s side. She smiles at the death god, a little smile that seems to request as much comfort as it tries to give. Melinor simply nods and Lyria turns her head to look at Alma, one hand reaching to affectionately stroke her daughter’s hair.

“She is asleep already,” she says to Dion. “And you should rest too, little one.”

“I’m fine,” Dion assures her, laughter fading to a blank smile. “I don’t want to sleep.”

Lyria’s voice is soft, quiet, sounding almost distant as she replies, “No, but you should.” She reaches to stroke his cheek, a gentle touch that is strikingly similar to her daughter’s. “You are exhausted. How you are even awake is a mystery to me.”

Whether it is a mere observation or a veiled incantation, Dion cannot tell. All he knows is that at the sound of her words, sleepiness creeps in, exhaustion takes over. He blinks against sleep like a child trying to fight off an afternoon nap.

“I…” His mouth opens in a yawn before he can finish his sentence.

And though he has not noticed her moving, he feels Lyria’s hands land on his shoulders and carefully tilt him to the left, nudging him to lie down on the mat. He follows her touch, unresisting, legs unfolding so that he lies fully on the makeshift but surprisingly comfortable bed.

“That is it…” Lyria says in a whisper. “Just a little rest. You can hold her while you sleep.”

Dion nods, arms still wrapped around Alma’s sleeping form, holding her close to him as his eyes begin to shut.

Tender fingers run through his hair, a motherly touch that he has not felt in over a century. Alma’s mother breathing a soft scolding. “The things you children get yourselves into…”

Ch6.93 Trust

“No, no, no, come on, hold on, hold on!”

The blood is pumping from Saira. Somrak tries to heal one wound, but healing does not come naturally to him. He is a god of fire, and fire destroys. Unable to draw upon his sphere for healing, he makes do with the same sort of magic that mortal wizards learn. And the abyssal poison in Saira’s wounds defeats such pitiful effort. He cannot even slow the bleeding.

Multiple punctures, deep and ragged, make him want to scream just from looking at what Margrave’s bound demons have done to her. And there is nothing he can do. He sees her eyes barely open, unfocused, but flicking toward him. Instead of screaming, he whispers, “Saira, please, stay with me… Alma’s gonna wake up, she’s going to be all right, she’s going to heal you.”

Saira’s body convulses in what is probably intended to be a laugh. “Quit it, Ponytail… I said…I wouldn’t–” She coughs up a gout of blood that runs down her chin, blood that stinks of demonic venom. “Wouldn’t survive. Stupid gods… Look after them.”

Som holds her tighter and whispers to her, “You got him. You got him. The Devil’s Right Hand. You got him.”

Somrak sets her down, then leans over Dion, grabbing his forearm and pulling him closer. “Come on, Prettyboy! Wake up! We need magic. You can put her in stasis or something, right?” He smacks Dion’s cheeks, but the god, his mana spent, remains unconscious. Somrak raises a hand to give him a good slap.

A huge hoof plants itself near Somrak’s knee, spreading out slightly to bear Sky’s massive weight, and a big taloned hand grasps Somrak’s arm. The devil squats, balancing easily with his tail and outspread wings. He looks at Saira. His face seems sad, pained – really, there’s no telling. That hairless canine muzzle is ripped from the whipping he has received, one eye put out. And it’s not as if Somrak has seen this face of Sky’s more than a handful of times in forty years. Sky has no desire to show it.

The room groans. The walls begin to bleed some kind of sap. Sky releases Somrak, who takes hold of Saira’s limp body and, with effort, stands. He is wounded himself. The whiplashes are nothing to scoff at. The damage to flesh is survivable for a god – at the worst, the wounds across his chest are only bone-deep. But the pain to his soul goes on and on, weakening him. He looks at Margrave – dead, his head wrenched backwards, the black-bone whip wrapped around his neck, buried in his throat. At Alma – unconscious, whatever is happening there unknown to the outside world. At Dion – unconscious as well.

And the woman that Alma was put into for a time, the girl really, is gone. In all the confusion of unbound demons, she disappeared. Slipped out. Glancing at the pile of weapons, spilled from a cart, Somrak notes that Saira’s crossbow is missing. Clever girl. Grabbed the best weapon.

Though how she got out… The door is hanging open, but beyond it is puckered flesh, pulsating. It looks for all the world like a tight-shut sphincter.

“The sword,” Somrak says to Sky. “Might need it. If Nua managed to bind Alma’s soul to it even a little…” He hopes Sky can understand.

The devil looks, spots the fine weapon, and hands it over to Somrak, who hooks two fingers around the guard to hold it while still carrying Saira. Then Sky looks at the blocked door. He flexes his claws, as if intending to rip his way through, but then he looks down at Margrave. The summoner is a corpse, or nearly so, and Sky brings one leg back and kicks him at the doorway, sliding his body across the floor.

The sphincter opens. To Somrak’s relief, nothing comes out. It simply reveals a passageway that looks distinctly intestinal.

There is a dull boom in the distance, behind the wall opposite the passage. Then another, closer. Somrak feels chilled. It sounds like the steps of a giant, walking. Another boom, closer.

We are come, to claim our soul…

It is a moan of doom, triumphant and dolorous, issuing from the world itself, this tiny pocket universe. Sky grunts at Somrak. He seizes Margrave’s body and tosses it onto his back, pinning it there by folding his wings up tight. Then he lifts Alma and Dion with great care.

“Come on!” Somrak urges him. “Let’s go!” Sky grunts at Somrak again, jerking his horned head at the corridor. Somrak looks to make sure the two unconscious gods are being held securely, then he rushes into the pulsating passage.

It is not open very far ahead, only a few strides, but as Sky follows from behind, bearing Margrave’s corpse, the passage keeps opening before them. And those world-shaking footsteps keep following from behind.

Sky is a devil, Somrak knows. And what is coming is, in all likelihood, a devil as well. It certainly feels more powerful than any demon, of another category entirely, as of a god compared to a mortal. And more powerful than Sky. Vastly so. A rot emanates from that direction, racing along the corridor, putrefying as fast as they can run. Faster. Somrak pushes harder. Saira… For a moment Somrak allows the thought to exist, that she is already dead, that it’s too late. He thrusts that away. Too late or not, she’s not remaining behind here. Hell itself is devouring this miniature world. Hell is claiming it as territory. Alive or dead, her soul may still be attached to her body. He’s not sure how that works, but he knows that no death goddess has sent it on its way. He will not let her be stuck here in any form.

And there it is: the portal. Well, the blank wall that held the portal. At the moment, it holds nothing. Somrak nearly crashes into it. He shifts Saira and slaps a hand against it, giving the wall a jolt of mana and sending the mental command for it to open.

Nothing.

Somrak realizes how terrified he is. He is never frightened in battle. Never! It is only in repose, after or before, or captured or otherwise unable to fight, that he feels fear. Battle? He’s too busy fighting to be afraid. And usually too busy laughing.

But not now. Now he is afraid that Sky and Dion and Saira and…Alma, afraid that they will all end up in Hell. That he’s led them to this. And he must admit that he is nearly paralyzed with fear at the thought of himself in Hell. Eternity of endless torture, ever-renewed, never numbed to it, always and ever screaming for mercy, in utter abjection. No dignity, no hope, no love. With every thought he feels more beaten down. Is this the approaching devil infecting his mind with despair? Or is he simply falling prey to his own cowardice at last?

With a thud, Margrave’s body falls to the floor. Sky has laid down Alma and Dion, carefully, and roughly dumped Margrave. He jerks his head at the corpse, then holds out a hand toward the door. It takes Somrak a moment of wondering why Sky isn’t speaking to catch his meaning. Somrak lays down Saira, grabs Margrave’s hand, and places it against the portal wall. He channels mana through it.

And nothing happens. The portal makes not the slightest hint of appearing.

Somrak feels his guts clench. He does what he has been avoiding: he turns to look behind them. He nearly vomits at the sight. The entire pocket universe, Margrave’s little sanctum, has been flayed open. It looks like exploded strips of flesh, gangrenous and full of tumors, undulating in some cosmic wind. The only spot of stability is where they stand now. The rest is claimed by Hell.

And beyond it? Only a vague shape in the darkness, something squatting, waiting to spring, something larger than any living creature Somrak has ever seen. That he cannot see it clearly is a mercy, the final mercy. For he knows that when it does show itself, all is over. All happiness, that is, all joy.

Once again, kneeling, he tries to wake Dion, shaking him in desperation. Still nothing, the Sergeant knocked cold by his earlier efforts. Not even a flicker of an eyelid.

Somrak stands and readies Alma’s sword. He will strike at it. He tells himself this, though he is not sure he believes it. But he cannot look at it. Instead he looks down, at Alma’s face. He will take that with him, into Hell. He will cling to that memory for as long as he can.

Beside him, Sky roars defiance. He spreads arms and wings wide. In one hand he holds the vertebral whip, the soul-shredding godbound weapon that was used to torture him and Somrak and Dion. He recognizes the feel of it, that of a god’s soul torn from its body and forced to commit evils. Unending pain, a miniature of Hell, driving the soul insane quickly.

In the other hand, Sky holds Margrave’s limp, broken, ragdoll body by one leg. He draws his arm back and hurls it at the devil, sending it spinning, cartwheeling at its master. Sky’s roar this time is of rage, hate, and unending refusal to submit. Somrak takes heart. At least he and Sky, partners for so long, are together at the end. But the guilt at having brought the others to this nearly consumes the fire god.

This is worse than death. All of them will find their souls in Hell. All of them will suffer, forever. But perhaps their souls can escape to the Wheel if their bodies die now. Somrak holds the sword, pointed toward Alma’s breast. Freed of her flesh, can Alma lead Dion’s and Saira’s souls to safety? Can he kill her, then Dion, in time?

And then two large, hard hands grab him from behind by the shoulders and pull him through the portal. Somrak flies through the air and lands on the floor of the basement in Little Falls, the sword clanging away into darkness, the world blessedly normal, the Insula, home, a place where gods belong. The air is knocked out of him, but tears of relief spring to his eyes.

As he pushes himself up onto his elbows, he sees other figures in the dark room. “Give her to me!” cries a voice more suited to songs of life and love than to fear, and yes, he did recognize it, for there is Lyria, Alma’s mother, cradling her daughter. Then the hulking shape that must have pulled Somrak through is now tossing Gwydion toward Fencer, who quickly sets him down.

And now the big one – ah, it must be Melinor, a god Somrak has heard about and has even seen striding a battlefield more than once, harvesting those slain in combat – Melinor is struggling, pulling a shape too big to fit easily through the human-sized portal. And yet, with a crack of bone, the god manages, hurling Sky behind him with a twist of his hips, forcing Somrak to roll out of the way to avoid being crushed. Sky falls heavily against a wall, one wing limp, and the devil starts to his feet, snarling at Alma’s brother.

“You two can solve your differences later!” Fencer snaps. “All right, girl, seal that portal!”

Somrak sees Trocia then, the formerly unconscious vessel for Alma’s soul, doing her best to stay unnoticed as long as possible. Pale, traumatized, she moves to obey.

“Wait!” Somrak cries. He springs to his feet and dashes for the portal, pushing past the girl. Fencer’s objection is cut off as he pushes his head and one arm through. His hand grasps Saira’s ankle, and he looks –

Oh, he shouldn’t have looked.

That face. That… He has seen Sky in his devil form. He has fought numerous demons. Undead. Other horrors, too many to count. He has seen the worst that anyone with sufficient lust for power and too little empathy can do to fellow creatures, things he feels ashamed even to know about.

All that is nothing compared to this, the face of a true Prince of Hell.

It is the end of all hope. It is the death of the heart.

And then he is pulled back through. And with him, hand locked on her ankle, comes Saira.

“NOW!” cries Fencer. Somrak could swear she has fear in her voice.

She should.

Trocia places her palms on the portal. It bulges. Something is pushing from the other side. But then it is gone. It disappears. But could it be reactivated from the other side?

Sky snarls again, leaning forward, muscles bunching. Is he preparing to launch himself at Melinor, or at the surface through which the more powerful devil can come? Somrak slaps Sky’s shoulder, trying to bring him to his senses.

Melinor ignores Sky. He brushes the girl aside and places his fingertips on the wall. It turns to dust in a great circle, dust that slides to the floor in a soft avalanche. With the destruction of the surface it was created on, the portal is forever gone.

Somrak pulls Saira to him. He tries to drive away memory of that face, and indeed it fades like a nightmare. Though it will return, he knows, in the dark, in sleep. He will not escape it so easily.

But for now he touches Saira’s slack face. Her skin is cold. He knows death.

A boot beside his face. He looks up. Fencer, glaring down at him.

“Now give me a good reason to let you live,” she growls.