Chapter 18 #2
Taran held out a hand and shifted to make room in his seat, so I was obliged, in my part as the dutiful priestess, to put down my instrument and slide in next to him, nearly propped over his knee.
This put me mere feet away from Death, closer than I’d ever been.
Candle-blue eyes dissected my face and figure without recognition.
I was palpably aware of the stone knives hidden in my waistband.
“Don’t eat anything,” Taran whispered under his breath before nipping my earlobe to cover his words. He straightened and gave a belated response to Death.
“A souvenir of my time in the mortal world.” The caution in his voice was so strong that I forgot to be angry that I was being discussed like an imported wine.
“Another reminder of what Wesha keeps from us,” Wirrea said from Death’s lap. Her husband did not seem to notice that he’d misplaced his wife, and Taran was focused on the god behind her, but I very much wished she’d worn more underclothes.
At Wesha’s name, Smenos scowled into his goblet.
“Did the Allmother tell you what happened at the Painted Tower?” Taran asked him.
The crafter god shook his head. “No. The death and rebirth of so many of her children in such short succession has tired her. She slept again before even announcing Wesha’s punishment.”
“Perhaps something like yours, Taran,” Wirrea chimed in. “But longer, since she actually did murder a Stoneborn, rather than merely provide the means. What do you think, my love, would a thousand years of service by the Maiden suit you?”
Smenos grunted agreement, but Death’s smooth face cracked for a moment, opening to the rage inside. He still said nothing.
“A thousand years of service from inside the Painted Tower would be of little use to anyone,” Taran said, probing.
“Maybe it’s time we knocked Wesha off her perch at the Gates,” Smenos grumbled. “I will take my ships back to the mortal world and recover what I’ve lost. What we’ve all lost! She had no right to close the Gates for so long.”
Taran pretended to consider that. “But how? All the Stoneborn together granted Wesha the power she uses to hold the Gates, then took her vow to seal the Underworld.”
Silence met this point, but it was flavored differently. Sullen from Wirrea and Smenos, but far too still from Death. Taran let it draw out before looking around the table, meeting the eyes of each immortal in turn, and I felt his thigh tense next to me before he spoke.
“We are the youngest gods now. But our short memories might be an advantage as we imagine how we might resolve this impasse. There’s no reason to mourn for what we can’t even remember.
Wesha holds the Gates closed because she wants her freedom.
The other Stoneborn deny her that freedom because it guarantees Genna’s peace.
We could agree tonight to that peace. We could let go of all our claims, all our grudges—and release Wesha from her vows.
We could simply act according to our natures, then.
Build your ships, Smenos. We and the mortals will come and go like we used to. ”
Marit, surprisingly, was the first to object to that. “But who would make the mortals obey? They killed you too.”
Taran pressed his cheek against my temple, and my heart beat faster at the attention it drew to me.
“My priestess was the last one to cross the Gates. I think I have a clearer picture than Wesha from her tower. The mortal world is in ruins, but those ruins could be your masterwork if you rebuilt them, Shipwright. Their forests are untended and overrun with wild beasts, Huntress. Their seas are empty and lifeless.”
He picked up his wine and swirled it, concealing small signs of stress in the gesture. “And even you, Napeth—the mortal world is rich enough to satisfy even you, once the other Stoneborn cultivate it. We could take new vows for a new peace, one that does not doom either world to fall into dust.”
It was so unexpected a speech that I froze, shocked by how little like a careless princeling and how much like my Taran he sounded.
Is that you?
He sounded like the same man who’d convinced the mortal queen not to salt the fields of the loyalist nobles who refused to surrender, the same one who urged forgiveness toward the ones who did. A man who met anger with patience and despair with understanding.
It was strange to feel proud of him for being like this today when I’d spent three years falling in love with him for being this person every day, but for once the shiver of recognition gave me more hope than wistfulness.
Marit’s smile was tentative, and Smenos looked thoughtful, but it was Death I watched for an indication of whether we might avoid more conflict.
Meeting the hot core of his blue eyes took effort—my body rebelled like I’d stuck my hand in the oven—but I searched him for some clue of his plans. He was a cipher.
Hope died when Death sat back and placed his goblet on the table. He slowly clapped, once, twice, again.
“I hear that it was as amusing to speak with Wesha as it was pleasant to hear her sing. A familial trait, I suppose? Some genius of the Peace-Queen’s line? That was a lovely little speech, Taran ab Genna. I heard you were charming, and you did not disappoint.”
Death’s voice was soft and even, and his words weren’t hostile, but they chilled me to my marrow.
“I cannot remember any more than the rest of you, but I am told that I was once a friend to all the Stoneborn. My kinsmen would visit my citadel in the Underworld to marvel at my crystal gardens and rich hospitality. When I traveled across the Sea of Dreams, mortals generously thanked me for caring for their dead. And Wesha—I am told that my lovely bride went to me willingly.” Now he smiled, and Taran shifted next to me, hand slipping from my knee.
“My question for you, son of Genna, is why I ought to be satisfied with what I have now? I had dominion over the Underworld, I had the Dawn-star as my wife, I had the respect of the Stoneborn, and I want it all back. Why would I bind myself with new vows when I won the last war? Why would I give up a single shred of my freedom? For Genna’s peace? That is not my nature.”
“We are not so simple,” Taran said in a low, insistent voice. “You are not fire any more than Marit is the ocean. We can choose how to get what we want. Burning the world didn’t work. It didn’t win you the respect of the other Stoneborn or Wesha’s love. Try something else this time.”
At this, Death beamed at Taran, like I would at a talented child who’d performed his first ballad on the lyre without making any mistakes. It was just as unsettling as his stillness, wide enough to display the dimples in his cheeks.
“I can see why the Peace-Queen made you her envoy. Among all my regrets, I wish I could have known you when you were deploying your many talents on her behalf, as the Huntress has recounted to me with such…loving detail. But no, rest assured, I will be trying everything. War. Fire. Terror. Do not fear that I will run out of creativity. My powers are just as varied as your mother’s. ”
“All those powers did not get you past the Gates of Dawn for three hundred years,” Taran said pleasantly.
“That was from the other side. I can see the Painted Tower from the top of the Mountain behind us,” Death observed.
“And the last time you approached it, the Maiden ran you off with a single knife.”
Those unnatural eyes glittered as the god of the Underworld stared directly at Taran. “I shall take your advice, then. Employ new tactics. My own…charm. I also know how to choose the right tool for each task, son of Genna.”
He pointedly sucked the tips of two fingers into his mouth and popped them out with a wet, obscene sound, leaving them slick with spit. My stomach turned as he examined his wet knuckles. “I look forward to it, even. I may not remember, but I hope Wesha inherited every talent you did.”
It was a cheap attempt to provoke, and when Taran looked away with a small, tight smile on his face, I thought he wasn’t going to fall for it.
The second when his muscles bunched was the only warning I got to dodge as Taran jumped straight up out of our chair.
He landed in a crouch on the lip of the table, knocking it over as a lever to fuel his forward momentum and launch himself straight at the god of death.
The two of them toppled to the floor, and for a moment my biggest worry was the spray of hot coals that Taran’s maneuver had tossed across the hall.
My attention immediately shot back to the fight at the organic, meaty sound of Taran’s fist striking Death’s face, followed by the scrape of chairs on stone as everyone else shot to their feet.
Taran’s arm jerked back for a second blow, then a third—but it didn’t land. Death threw him off, sending him into a roll that terminated at Smenos’s feet.
Wirrea was the first person to make a noise, a high-pitched, feral screech, because she’d been dislodged from Death’s lap and toppled onto the ground.
His wife’s angry yowling sparked Smenos into action, and the crafter god reached for Taran, ready to yank him up by his throat.
Taran moved first though, hammering an elbow to the side of Smenos’s knee before leaping to his feet.
Death rose to his knees, expression incredulous at the trickle of golden ichor that dripped from his broken nose. He wiped it with his sleeve, smearing it across his chin and bared teeth, then snarled deep in his throat as his gaze locked on Taran.
Taran’s broad shoulders straightened in readiness and red flooded his cheeks, posture as graceful as a stone statue of a warrior in a monument when he spun to block Smenos’s bull rush.