Chapter 28 #4
“Yes, but Thamaos was very much alive when the knife was made. He cut himself open and tore out his own rib, offering it to Un Drallag for the creation of a weapon, so that he might defeat Urdin when the time came. But he failed. A battle ensued along the Jade River, close to Fia Drumera’s gates.
Thamaos took Urdin from behind and drove the God Knife into his chest. But before Urdin died, he shoved his fist and the blade through his own body, driving it out through his back and into Thamaos’s heart.
The last two gods of Tiressia died that day.
Summerlanders came, and the final deities of our lands were buried at the Grove of the Gods. ”
A gasp leaves me. “The Grove truly exists? I thought surely it was a myth. Many of us did.”
Alexus runs a hand over his beard. “It’s a very real place.
Ancient as Loria. Gods of other lands are even buried there.
The Prince of the East knows this, as have other eastern rulers before him, but Fia Drumera has managed to keep the Eastlanders at bay.
Now, however, they’ve learned that the queen’s greatest weakness might just be the isolated King of Winterhold, who will turn to nothing more than desert sand if they bring him across the Jade River and into her city.
This is why I’m so selective about who I collect from the valley, and it’s why they don’t return home.
They have a choice, but once they learn this story, they know it’s best for all of Tiressia if they stay and learn and protect.
After they’re told the importance of guarding Colden, they understand why we cannot tell the whole vale.
Some secrets can change the world, and those we love most can be terribly tempting given enough curiosity. ”
I curl my fingers tight as my throat closes. I can’t say I would be so noble, but knowing this gives me some sense of peace about why Nephele never came home.
“Colden Moeshka is his own force to be reckoned with,” Alexus continues.
“As restitution, the gods gave Colden and Fia a certain degree of command over their elements. He can breathe an icy fog. Freeze an enemy with a touch. If the Eastlanders somehow manage to take him, I worry they will use him against the Fire Queen, so they might access the Grove and the magick she has protected for so long.”
“What could the Prince of the East even do?” I ask. “The gods are dead.”
Furrowing his brow, Alexus switches to speaking with his hands. “At Nephele’s refuge, you asked me what the prince wanted with the knife. It is said that a god can rise, Raina. Remember what I told you about resurrection?”
So many things rush into my mind at once. Alexus’s words about resurrection, yes, but also my father’s words about the God Knife. It can kill anyone and anything, the blessed and the cursed, the forever living and the risen dead—even other gods.
The risen dead.
“A resurrection was performed with an Ancient One centuries ago,” Alexus says quietly.
“The story tells of rituals and healers, not unlike yourself, using the hair of a dead god to bring them back from the afterlife. Some worshippers saved locks of the god’s tresses, not realizing their treasure could be used in a rite to restore life.
All that was needed was a god remnant, an intact grave, and the right prayer. ”
A chill runs across my skin as I glance at the God Knife strapped to his thigh. “Are you saying that…Thamaos could be resurrected?”
“I fear that is exactly what the Prince of the East plans to do, especially now that the knife has been found.”
My mind pitches from thought to thought. “What does that mean? For us? If the prince succeeds?”
“That depends on the prince’s plans. What I do know is that, when he lived, Thamaos wanted absolute rule, and he did not care how many lives were destroyed for him to attain it.
I am certain he is even angrier than before, having spent centuries in the pits of the underworld.
If he is brought back from the grave, he will not stop until every person living in this shattered empire bows to him.
He would start a war in Tiressia first and foremost, to bring down Fia.
After that, I do not know. The world is much bigger than Tiressia.
There are plenty of other lands to conquer, other rulers to dominate, even living godlings.
He could change the entire world as we know it, unless I stop the prince from taking Colden to the Summerlands and keep this”—he pats the knife—“safe.”
A sudden feeling of loyalty washes over me. For Tiressia and its people. For Alexus. Even for parts of our world that are only stories to me. Can I find my sister and help Alexus? Help him save Colden Moeshka and protect a queen I’ve never even seen?
“When the god battle was over,” Alexus continues, “King Gherahn demanded that Un Drallag travel to the Summerlands and retrieve the God Knife. It was said to be lost in the Jade River or in the sands where it might never be found again. The sorcerer went to the Eastland coast, but in truth, he was tired. He had a wife by then, a child on the way. He wanted a life that was more than the one he lived under the king’s thumb as a spy, an assassin, a weapon.
So he abandoned the only home he had ever known and fled to the Northland valley, where he’d been a spy once upon a time.
The God Knife was never located, but Un Drallag felt it calling to him for many years after.
There is such power in this knife, Raina.
” He touches it. “It would be better if it didn’t exist, but there are no gods left to destroy it. ”
Dread pools in my stomach. “My father said that the blade harkens to the one from whose body it was made. Is the blade calling to Thamaos now?”
That thought terrifies me, that I might’ve been carrying around a relic that summons a dead and dangerous god.
“No, that isn’t true,” he replies, tilting his head, looking at me like he needs his next words to sink deep. “Perhaps your father was confused. Because the blade calls to its maker, Raina,” he signs.
After a pregnant moment, he reaches over his head, grabs a fistful of his tunic, and strips off his shirt. With the fabric wadded in his hands, he leans forward again, elbows on his knees, and pulls his long hair to one side.
His back is beautifully made, wide and tapered like wings, like I noticed at the stream.
But the skin from his shoulders to his waist is marked with scars, rough and raised, like those on his chest, though these form a large circle with a center scar adjoining them by lines, much like a wheel and its spokes.
The firelight catches on the silvery skin, shimmering. Emboldened, I drop the blanket from my shoulders and move to my knees. There, nestled between Alexus’s legs, I touch one of the runes on his shoulder blade. He flinches at first, but chills rise the more I admire.
Because it is admiration. His marks look like they were painful to receive—branded or carved—but they’ve left him looking like an artifact, something to be studied, understood, deciphered.
I want to know the history behind each one.
“Do you recognize them?” He looks up, searching my face for some response that I clearly don’t have to offer.
I shake my head. “Only that they are old Tiressian runes.”
“How closely have you examined the knife?” he asks.
“I know it by heart.”
“I am not sure you do,” he says, slipping the God Knife free from its sheath. “Let me show you something.”
He hands over the knife. Once again, the blade is so warm to the touch. It feels so good in my hands.
“Look into the stone,” he signs. “Hold it to the light.”
I’ve held the God Knife near the candles on my worktable a few times, enough to know what it looks like.
I’ve never stared deep into the amber, though, and when I do, I’m more perplexed than ever.
Faint markings I’ve never noticed before hide inside the stone.
I peer harder and twist the hilt toward the firelight, rolling it between my fingers.
A dozen or more runes are either etched into the pommel itself or forged into the stone.
My hands still, and a rush of awareness hits me. The marks are the same as the ones on Alexus’s body.
“Those are runes, yes,” he signs. “Old Elikesh runes. The young man who forged that knife used runes and his own blood to bind him to the blade. Runes can act as”—he pauses, like he’s hunting for the right word to sign—“an enclosure,” he finally says.
“They trap necessary magick within objects, like a knife. Or within…people. They can also forge a connection between people or people and things.”
I’ve heard of this but only in lore. I’ve even seen runes—they were engraved on old stones inside Silver Hollow’s temple. But those methods of magick are archaic, practiced when the last gods still lived.
Sitting back on my heels, I touch the mark over Alexus’s right breast. He takes the knife, re-sheathing it, and clasps my hand in his, pressing my palm against his naked, fire-warmed skin.
“The God Knife calls to Un Drallag, Raina,” he whispers. “It’s been trying, all these years, to return to its maker’s hands. Its haven. Its home.”
A question flutters across my mind, chased by an answer I’m sure I already know.
Heart racing, I ask anyway, my fingers faltering around my words.
“And has it?” I sign. “Finally found home?”
A lump builds in my throat and tension in my fingers as I wait for his reply.
He lifts a hand to my cheek and traces the curve of my jaw, looking at me with those otherworldly eyes. “Yes.”