9 Rebirth and Reinvention #4
An imperceptible shift took place in Wrath’s frame, broadening the line of his shoulders, magnifying his eyes.
Less an attempt at intimidation than a god unused to feigning human form.
No mortal could comprehend the Elsar’s true faces.
The facade was for Kadra’s benefit. This wasn’t their first argument.
He had the irritating sense that it wouldn’t be their last.
“Few enter into the minor pantheon of the Naaduir in this age,” Wrath said slowly in a voice like slate scraping against slate.
“Millions profess to worship us, but few truly do. You mortals have formalized more Saints than exist in truth. Many of the vaunted names you pray to are vestiges of souls being impaled in some hell or another.” He bared wide fangs in a grin. “Repeatedly.”
“Yet, you still want me as one of the Wretched.” Like the High Elsar and the Dark, the minor pantheon of the Naaduir contained both the Saints and their aptly-named, crueler compatriots.
Kadra had under no illusions as to which one he was slated for.
“Is there such a dearth of candidates that the gods no longer vet them?”
That seemed to amuse Wrath. “The gods have their ways of evaluation. You were already positioned for a seat once you died given your inspiring number of kills. Your service pleases me greatly.”
Kadra leaned against the gates. “I’ve never thought of you.”
A flicker of annoyance on the god’s face. “Your choices find me. There are other Elsar those decisions have served, but the sum of your life has led my way. I have Touched you. There is no returning to the world you knew. You will always see and know more.”
“Like the compatriot of yours who seems to have a penchant for crushing my skull?” Kadra asked dryly. “She offered me power too.”
The god seemed to halt in his tracks for a second, before continuing. “She can never give you what I can. Accept. In life, you will have strength beyond any you’ve known. In death, you will be the god you choose.”
“The same strength that has driven many men mad,” Kadra noted with amusement. “No.”
Blood dripped absently from Wrath’s hands. Bone extended from his nail beds like talons.
“Your position fetters you,” the god said darkly.
“Tetrarch, Headmaster, Magus Supreme, they bind you to human notions of morality. Your constituents are equally your enemies and turn on you at the hint of crisis. They laud you for dispensing justice and shun you for how you enact it. Your land sees you as only fit for battle not rule.” The liquid pool of his robes widened.
Skeletal hands emerged from it, clawing at the air.
“Your woman is scapegoated by the very land she risks life and limb to save. You work yourself to the bone, trying to turn this country into a fortress for her, and for what? A reckoning comes. And it will force your hand between love and country. You will need me then.”
Reckoning. Wrath’s use of the word didn’t escape Kadra. “A shunned god seeking to rebuild his name,” he said evenly as rage tightened the Elsar’s face. “I know why you need me, but you’ve given me no reason to agree. My people are dying. Who is my enemy?”
A crease formed between Wrath’s dark brows. He was quiet for a long, barbed moment. “There is someone here who shouldn’t be.”
“And I am not to know who.”
“Some battles are necessary. While here, you are Godstouched and mortal. Only in death will you gain the privileges of godhood.”
“Quite an exchange. Power that’ll drive me mad when alive, and an eternal contract to work after death.”
The god laughed, short and pitiless. “Death would bore you. Who are you if not a politician? You have no purpose in the quiet. You need the next war, the next enemy.”
“I have both.”
“You will lose against them without me.” Wrath’s grin exposed four rows of teeth this time. “I will return, mortal. When you are ready to beg.”
Kadra inclined his head. “As you’ve just done.”
Wrath’s eyes kindled seconds before he vanished in a screech of warping metal.
Kadra paused and turned. He examined the tangled knot of iron that had once been the gate to Aoran Tower. The gods, he decided, were a headache.
Yet, Wrath had been more forthcoming than he might have realized.
There is someone here who shouldn’t be.
That the culprit was in the city meant they were trapped by Cassandane’s edict that none could enter or leave. They would be running out of places to hide. They’d already come out to engage him today. They didn’t want me to interrogate that hunter.
The spill of blood always meant war and the start of a game.
There were only six questions to ask each time: Who were the victims. Who or what did they know.
What did they do. Where and when did they die.
How. The more one killed, the harder it became to muddy the answers to those questions every time.
There was no avoiding the creation of a pattern.
This one was a jagged thing of blood and bone.
He saw it straining to coalesce. It had begun in the north, and the north held the key.
Sarai would find it. As for him… his spine burned with every step into Aoran Tower.
He uncorked four bottles of wine, sloshing the crimson liquid into a glass, and leaned against his desk with a cruel smile.
He would play the game.