Chapter 3
Chapter
Three
Of course, Beira and unhappiness seemed to be constant companions, but then, she was a very old, very powerful goddess now confined to what she labeled as an “unsatisfactory and inconvenient meat suit.”
It could also be due to the fact that she was just a short-tempered old woman with little patience for those she was forced to work with.
Which didn’t mean I didn’t like her. I actually did. I just wasn’t sure my migraine could cope with her presence right now.
“It’s about fucking time you got here,” she growled, in a voice so grating fingernails down a blackboard were sweet by comparison. “I’ve been sitting here for nigh on three hours. I’ve other things to do than wait for your ass to appear.”
“Said ass has been in Liadon’s domain for the last three hours talking to my father, and I now have the mother of all migraines,” I snapped back, “so if you could lower your fucking tone several octaves, I would really appreciate it.”
She blinked. “Ambisagrus met you? Now that is an interesting development.”
“Yeah, it certainly was.”
I motioned to Kitty for a glass, then plonked down on the chair opposite Beira’s.
I’d given standing orders that she be provided with a bottle of whatever whisky was on special when I wasn’t here and she decided to wait, simply because it did help mitigate her temper.
Today, it was a particularly fine single malt from The Lakes being sacrificed.
“What did he say?” she asked.
“That in order for this particular game to be won, I would have to die.”
She sniffed. A disparaging sound if ever I’d heard one. “Death is not always final, child, as you are well aware.”
Meaning the situation with my aunt, no doubt.
She’d “died” to escape the magical restraints that had been placed on her by the pixie council via the red knife, but had ensured there were medics close by to bring her back to life.
“I’m thinking that is not an option when it comes to this round of godly games. ”
“Perhaps. Perhaps not.” She tapped a yellowed nail against the old wooden table, and though it didn’t seem to affect the wood’s song, it annoyed the hell out of me.
I bit my tongue against the urge to say anything, however, because she had at least modulated her tone. “Did he say anything else of import?”
I glanced up as Kitty arrived with my glass; I thanked her and poured myself a double. “Apparently the only way I can destroy the Harpē is via my storm powers.”
“Did he enhance said powers?”
“If that’s what he was doing when he tried to draw out the darkness in me, yes. He claimed it was the only way we could win.”
“That darkness is a power that comes via anger through his line. I dare say embracing it will not be a choice in the end.”
“Where life remains, so does choice.” I had to believe that.
Had to believe that my path and my death weren’t already set in stone.
After all, did not the gods start these games because they enjoyed humanity’s unpredictability?
I took a large drink and felt it burn all the way down; it didn’t, unfortunately, do much for the pain battering my brain cells.
“Why are you here, Beira? What’s happened? ”
“I gained some interesting information that could help our quest.”
That quest being stopping the Ninkilim from raising their god, though this was, I thought, the first time she’d said “our” quest. It suggested she’d stepped things up a level. “I thought you were more an interested spectator rather than an active participant.”
She hesitated. “You could define me as a spectator with a deep interest in seeing particular players succeed.”
“And spectator participation isn’t banned?”
She cackled; the sound was as sharp as the energy that crackled around her. “Oh, it is. There is a reason I landed in this meat suit, child.”
I snorted, winced, and drained the whisky. It might not be helping the headache, but I suspected it would help me sleep. I poured another glass, topped up hers, and then said, “So, what have you found?”
“The means by which the Ninkilim might have taken control of the council. Or, at least, some of it.”
“We already know Carla Wilson—”
“She hasn’t, in and of herself, the power to force her will on others, though I suspect she is indeed the wielder of the weapon.”
“She’s a shifter who uses her sexual wiles to very, very successfully get what she wants,” I said. “She doesn’t need godly help in the form of a weapon.”
“Using sex is an approach that has worked for eons, and one that will no doubt continue to do so for at least as long as men can be led by their dicks. However, sexual wiles can only do so much, especially when it comes to the Ljósálfar.”
“Why particularly light elves?”
“They are cold, unemotional creatures at their core, and while they might enjoy sex, it would not be enough in and of itself to convince them onto paths they would not have otherwise taken.” She pursed her lips.
“That aside, I’ve nothing more than a suspicion that the rat god’s latest attempt at rising centers around the Ljósálfar more than the Myrkálfar. ”
And I suspected her suspicions might be anyone else’s truths. “What sort of godly weapon is she using to control people, then?”
“It’s called Bia’s Blade—”
“And Bia is?”
“The goddess of force and compulsion. Her blade allows the wielder to enforce his or her will onto others.”
“How? Do you press the blade against the skin or stab it in?”
“The latter, of course.”
I stared at her for a second, horrified and yet not entirely surprised. She grinned in response, revealing surprisingly straight, white teeth. “We goddesses do have a bloody bent.”
It wasn’t just the goddesses in my experience. “How could Carla or whoever else might be wielding this blade repeatedly stab someone and get away with it? Being knifed isn’t something you’d easily forget.”
“It is a goddess-gifted blade, remember, so the target’s memory is adjusted, and the wound heals as the blade is withdrawn from flesh.”
“That latter gift was mighty generous of her.”
It was sarcastically said but Beira nodded in agreement. “It was indeed. Most would not have provided the healing.”
I snorted softly. “You’re a charming lot at heart, aren’t you?”
“But you love us.”
I harrumphed and took another drink. “Am I immune to the blade? Or will it affect me the same as anyone else?”
She waved a hand. “That is unknown, but your godly blood will protect you from at least some relics even it doesn’t protect you from all of them.”
Fabulous. Not. “I take it you’re here to demand I find the blade, without telling me how to do so?”
“In part. The blade has an unusual resonance that should allow you—through the wind—to find its location when in use.”
“How do you know this?”
“I asked Bia.”
I just about choked on my drink. “She’s a player?”
“Sort of. She’s what we call a sideliner—a semi-active participant that works to impede.”
“Both sides?”
Beira nodded. “The uncertainty caused by sideliners does add an extra zing to the games.”
I snorted. “I take it that means she wasn’t willing to give up the name of the current wielder?”
“Of course not, but given she is one of the ancients, the Codex should hold some information on her blade.” She drained her glass and pushed to her feet. “And now, I should go. I have spent too long here already.”
She picked up the whisky and tucked the bottle into the voluminous folds of her rather ratty-looking coat. The bird’s nest that had for ages been in her matted hair seemed to have migrated to the inside of the coat, if brief but outraged tweeting was anything to go by.
“If I find anything, I’ll contact you,” I said.
“Sooner would be better than later.”
“And the blade itself? What do I do with it once I’ve found it?”
“Take it to Liadon.”
My eyebrows rose. “Really? What is the damn point of finding these things if they’re just going to be handed over and released again?”
“The point is godly pleasure, as you are well aware, but items returned rather than destroyed cannot be used again in the current game.”
“There are rules? Color me shocked.”
“There are always rules; whether most are actually followed is another matter entirely.”
I rolled my eyes, and she cackled, a harsh sound that seemed to linger long after she’d left. I gulped down the rest of my drink, walked the glass back down to the bar, then clattered up the stairs, my hand on the railing so I could feel the wood’s warmth.
The next floor was larger, as there was no kitchen up here to take up space, and contained a mix of booths of varying sizes, a few tables, and the doors leading out onto the covered row area.
The only customers up here were Jack and Phil.
They’d been coming to the tavern as long as anyone could remember and, like many of the elders in the pixie community who lived permanently here in Deva rather than one of the widely scattered enclaves, basically treated the Boot as a second home.
The fierce joy that radiated off the old oak beams in the tavern was undoubtedly one reason for that; it was as close as they could come to communing with nature in the old city without having to take public transport out to a public park or even an enclave.
But I suspected the real reason was the fact that the Boot provided a deep discount on food to all the older fae—except elves—to ensure they had at least one decent meal a day.
The only reason we excluded elves was because there were two large encampments sitting outside city limits, and elves generally did a good job of looking after their own.