Chapter 12 The Wrath of a God
Ireus commands reverence through his threefold nature, embodying the pillars of masculine power.
As Warrior, he is raw strength and strategy, the protector in conflict.
As King, he governs with justice and authority, shaping the order of realms. As Sage, he holds wisdom and foresight, discerning the paths of destiny.
These are not separate gods but facets of one immortal, the living archetype of force, rule, and mind.
—Excerpt from the forbidden Anatole Text, written by the Crimson Scholar
There are spots of light when I crack my eyelids.
The music’s stopped but the bloodbath continues around me.
I’m on the floor, flat on my stomach. When I try to shift, the clink of the scattered eyrir sound.
They’re slick with something warm and sticky.
My fingers recoil from it. The light hurts too much to keep my eyes open for long.
Someone hit me, hard, in the side of the head, but I can still hear and see faint outlines as Crow steps away from me, clutching his side.
He kicks the red blob that makes up Captain Searle.
I hear the faint ring my móeir’s hunting knife makes when unsheathed.
There’s a jerking movement. The captain howls and something thwacks onto the ground near me.
I close my eyes, the iron scent of blood stinging my nose worse than before.
Someone’s voice breaks through the howling; they sound panicked.
Terrified. “Ireus save us, is that Rhyland Crow?” I think it’s the naval officer.
I crack my eyes again, ignoring the way they go in and out of focus, to see him staring at Crow and then the aristocrat bleeding out on the silver littered floor.
The son takes a moment longer to come out of the haze.
Reave pushes his stunned form away but winces, holding his ribs.
Captain Searle's kneeling now, his right arm held tight to his chest. "Talon?" he chokes out.
"Searle. Thank you for holding onto my ring.” Crow bends, and I watch his calloused hand reach for the fleshy lump that landed next to me, and my stomach lurches as he slips the black ring off it.
"I-its all I had left thanks to the stunt this little shit pulled.
Me whole crew abandoned me. I 'ave nothin' anymore, Talon.
Just the rags on my back. The Serpent's Breath was me heart ‘n soul, she was. Imagine being parted from the Nightingale.” His voice has gone weepy and pained. He holds his bleeding stump tight.
“I warned you, Searle. I told you what would happen.” Crow’s pitiless cadence starts to fade. I realize I’m going in and out of it again. My head pulses in time with my heart and darkness tugs at the edges of my vision.
“Captain,” Briggs rumbles, standing close, probably the one who walloped me. “We can’t linger here….”
As hard as I fight, I can’t seem to hold on.
Sinking into the abyss is a fate that sparks hot fear through my chest. I shot Rhyland Crow.
Shot him. If I pass out now, there’s no guarantee I’ll ever wake up, not after that.
But the lull of it is so intense, like that siren’s call in the cave.
I could just close my eyes, for a moment.
A quick second. And then I’ll get up. I’ll fight. I’ll do something.
But my thoughts fade like shadows, melting against a sunrise. Like the light, my promises are snuffed out, and I’m trapped in dark oblivion.
I register the feel of hands ghosting over me. The rumble of the wagon moving quickly over cobblestone. Somewhere, far away, Rowan’s voice warbles tense and tightly until she’s shushed by another. I sink into the black again.
The smell of the sea is a tickle in my nose, an itch I want to scratch but can’t. My limbs feel too heavy, like weighted bags of sand. In the distance a gull cries and the wind gusts fiercely. Someone's shifting me back and forth, passing me from one set of strong arms to another.
“Hold on,” Rowan whispers. “Hold on.”
A cool touch finds my forehead. A low murmur quakes, “I believe there’s swelling on the brain. How hard was she hit?”
I’m surprised to hear it’s Rhyland Crow rumbling back.
“I don’t know.” He pauses, then lets out a sharp puff of air.
“Don’t look at me like that, Mattias. It was an accident.
Searle had my ring, Ire. I thought it’d been obliterated when Galen—” he cuts himself off, voice going strained and taut.
“It’s meant for war, for berserkers. He released its magick in that enclosed place—everyone got a dose of it, lost their minds. ”
“It was me.” Brigg’s baritone sends a shiver down my spine. I hear the creak of wood beneath his feet. “I hit her hard when she went after Rhyland. Her hands were burning with silver flames. She was going to try to kill him.” There's a creeping edge of guilt woven into his words.
When the first man speaks, he sounds older than the other two. More tired. “She was under the Ire’s spell, both of you were. Surely, neither can be blamed for their actions.”
“She tried to murder our captain—I—”
“Briggs,” Crow’s voice is quiet but firm.
I imagine him resting a steady hand on the man's shoulder, a look of equanimity painting his face. “You did what you had to, but we cannot allow her to pass into Vatterheim. Not before we know where the crown piece is.” I don’t know why but it stings to hear him say it like that, so cold and matter of fact.
To him, I serve one purpose. After that I’m disposable.
He doesn't know I'll never make it to Vatterheim, though—my mortal father saw to that.
But isn't that how I feel about him? Get his crown fragment and go. If he's hurt in the process, so be it. Though evidently, even a bullet to the gut can't keep him down.
Guilt of my own rushes through me. I can't believe I did that, spell or not. Despite whatever ill feelings I harbor toward him…I never expected it to come out in a rage like that.
“Your potions?” The older man's hand touches my forehead again. It’s cool and smooth. A comfort that's familiar, but long lost.
“My supply’s run dry. I’ll have to restock for laeknir and the like in Elaris.”
“Is there nothing else you can do? You’re the god of healing for goodness sakes, Talon. Some days, I’m not even sure why you keep an old surgeon like me on.”
“Galen was the god of healing, Mattias. I only took up his position for a short time after—” That hollow silence again. “In truth, I was quite the opposite, charged with battle and destruction. Warriors prayed to me when they should have prayed to him. But you know this.”
Mattias clears his throat. “I’m sorry, Captain.
But if we don’t have your potions, this must be done in a more traditional way.
We need to keep her propped up to drain any fluid that’s gathered.
I have some herbs here that may prove useful: ginger, hawthorne, valerian root, but ultimately, her brain needs rest. I’ll have to keep her sedated.
And she'll have to stay here, in my surgery in relative darkness, for minimal stimulation. Moving her could worsen her condition. Is there any chance you’ve managed more laudenum on your journey? ”
I feel the shift in the air, Rhyland stirring.
“From what I’ve gathered, she’s at least part nymph.
She’ll heal faster than the average mortal.
Briggs will get you whatever you need, but we’re setting sail tonight.
The Magistrate is in pursuit and I have a certain lying Sea Witch I need to speak with.
” The malice in his tone makes me shiver inside.
“Did Cyprian get them then, the maps? Will we really be going to Staygia for the Queen’s games?”
A beat of silence. “He failed. Someone beat him to the Hall of Scrolls. If the rear pass is blocked, we’ll be heading through the straights. Searle and this nymph will be our only hope.”
“Captain, are you certain—”
“Just heal her. Whatever it takes.”
I can’t see anything, my eyes are so heavy, but the sound of footsteps fade, and I know Rhyland Crow is gone, Briggs never far behind him.
The surgeon sighs, a sound loaded down by the weight of exhaustion.
I want to wake up. I want to know where we are, where Rowan is.
But there’s a sound of a vial uncorking.
Mattias slips his hand beneath my neck to tilt my jaw up and a bitter tasting liquid trickles down my throat.
The throbbing in my head dulls within minutes, and I find I can’t resist falling into the black nothing once more.
I don’t know how much time passed in a world blended between dreams and shapeless nightmares.
There’s a gentle swaying beneath me, and when I open my eyes again they’re finally clear.
It’s a dark room, something I can hardly make out, though I must be used to the shadows as they take shape quicker than I expect.
I’m laying on a long table, and someone’s stuffed a trove of pillows beneath my head and a thin bedroll under my back to protect against the unforgivingly hard surface.
It’s such a relief to no longer be weighed down by leaden mental sludge that I sit up too fast, vision pulsing black for a moment before it clears.
Aside from the table, there are shelves lined with books, little glass bottles, and tinctures.
Potted herb plants hang from the short ceiling.
A faint light comes from the back of the room, just a sliver that pours from a slit in the long drapes.
Unsure of what else to do I go to it, holding my breath as I grip each side and part them.