Chapter 20 Losing Battles
Losing Battles
Erik surfaced from the deadly doze passing for sleep once a Son reached Elder status, greasy sweat slicking his skin and settling in every crease.
For a few moments, staring at the vaulted stone ceiling, he didn’t know where or even who he was, the dream sliding away in eggshell fragments to drop on hard floor polished by God alone knew how many footsteps.
Erik stayed very still, listening. Sometimes you could catch the tail end of a whisper, so you knew where the attack came from. Not that it mattered—the next would arrive from a different direction, or not, according to where the Mad God thought your weakness might best be approached.
A constant, losing battle, besieged inside a treacherously weak piece of meat—of course, that was humanity even before the Mad God ever got involved.
A Son had much better weaponry than a civilian or the unclean, but using it meant vulnerability to the fucking whispers.
Eyes half-lidded, Erik held himself perfectly still. Sometimes it was a waking dream, taking advantage of a man’s relief. Thinking you were safely escaped from sleep’s ever-shifting country, vigilance might slip a fraction, and then it was all over.
The walls, bare and grey, looked just the same as they always did.
His cot was the same; so was the functional nightstand with its tensor lamp, knives, and gun set at precise angles, the weapons rack across the room, the ancient, severe wooden wardrobe holding spare clothes and whatever gear wasn’t stored in the armory.
Everything as it should be, with no warping at the edges or undercurrent of secret wriggling satisfaction.
All right, he was awake. His ears tingled; he was straining, listening for the far-off murmur of the liraim and its precious, fragile inhabitant. Of course even a Son couldn’t hear from this end of the temple, but it didn’t do any harm to think about, did it?
Except it would. Longing could provide an opening, just as inattention could.
The urge to find some reason to tiptoe to the liraim’s door, to peer in, to maybe ask her if she wanted anything, was all but overwhelming, and Erik exhaled hard, rolling out of bed, stretching lithely and scratching his soles on chill, slick stone.
It was no use to punish yourself when you recognized an attack. The god could use fanaticism as well as laziness. The middle way was safest, but then you risked turning into an ineffective milquetoast.
A losing game all the way around, but then, everything was.
The bathroom was just as small and chilly as the bedroom—a functional washbasin, a painfully clean commode, a scrap of cataract-clouded mirror over the sink.
He examined himself; not too bloodshot, not too haggard, needing only a splash of cold water and a round of monotone cursing before getting back to business.
And what kind of business is that? You heard Ignatius, you’re going to betray her to the Flame. She’s going to hate you, and you’ll deserve it.
“Father won’t give me anything I can’t handle,” he muttered, and twisted the cold faucet with maybe a touch more force than necessary. It was old-fashioned robust metal, and could handle a little abuse.
Not like the lirai. Of course she’d be more pleased with Jake. He had a temperament women should like.
His closed his eyes, wet fingers curled over the edge of the sink’s flower-cup.
If he exerted a little more force he could leave marks in the tough ceramic, and if he made a sudden wrenching movement he could tear the entire thing away from the wall.
Water would spray, he’d have to snap a word or two of sorcery to get it to seal off, and repair would take an hour or so.
It was always easier to destroy.
Let that be a lesson, Ignatius would say. If the old man was worried about Control’s reluctance to move their potential, that meant Erik should be flat-out alarmed. A full lirai would be in charge of the whole operation, eager to bring Liv to safety in an active temple.
But a lirai often only knew what the Sons told them. If a liaison officer had turned…
There was no good way to finish a thought like that. The world was full of holding actions; the entire thing was a rigged game.
And despair was just as much a trap as anything else. A soft, subtle slithering filled his skull. Erik’s eyes flew open; he stared unseeing at the mirror, his mouth agape.
“Oh, no you don’t,” he said finally. The words echoed oddly against stone walls. He grabbed the towel, swiped his face once, and hurried to get dressed.
He could amble past the liraim’s door, let the tingle of her nearness keep the whispers at bay.
He could even tell himself seeking proximity was a necessary measure, and hope it was the truth.