Chapter Twenty-Three
I’ve never been particularly devout, unlike Da, who prayed to Cerastes every morning and night, or my first tutor, who kept
a tiny idol of Sathrynos the Wise in his pocket for luck. But I’ve always believed. Occasionally prayed. The gods have been
a pillar of my existence, so interwoven into my life with daily rituals that I never thought too much about them. They were
just there.
“Is that your quest?” I ask. “To save a dying god?”
“No. I wish it were. That would be a lot simpler. My quest is to become a god. To take the place of the one who is dying.”
Of course I have questions. So many. But I can’t force any of them past my closed-up throat. I always knew Titus was beyond
my reach—of true intimacy, maybe even true friendship. I’m just his traveling companion and sworn liege. He’ll never belong
to me. He’ll belong to the world.
“Bria?”
“Who knows about this?”
“The gods, their chosen, all the rulers of the Sunderland.”
“The monarchs keep this secret from their people?”
My voice sounds combative, but he answers calmly. “My heart mother always said that power protects itself. Many gods’ candidates
come from royal lines. I guess it makes sense.”
To cover the fact that tears are pricking at my eyes and I can’t seem to collect my thoughts, I say in a tight voice, “Just tell me everything.”
“As you wish. Cerastes appeared to me the night after I manifested my second Gift.”
“Is Cerastes the one who is dying?”
“I don’t know which one it is.”
“What did she say?”
“She said it was her divine right to select a champion, and that she had chosen me. She told me—”
“How do you know it was her?”
“She was . . . glowing. But also I could just feel it. So much magic, so many glimmering threads, weaving all around her.
It was hard to breathe in her presence. She—”
“You’re sure it wasn’t a dream?”
“Bria, will you let me tell this without interrupting?”
“Oh, sorry.” I guess my questions are finding their way out of my mouth after all. “Please go on.”
“She explained that though the gods were all very long-lived, they were as subject to the laws of death and dying as the rest
of us. In fact, they are humans who have ascended to godhood through careful selection and trial. She herself is the fourth
to bear the Cerastes mantle.”
I open my mouth to ask a question, but I slam it shut and wait for him to continue.
“Every few centuries, one of the gods feels their inevitable death approaching. When that happens, each god chooses a champion. The five champions come together at a godsmoot, where they compete in a series of tests and trials. The victor of these trials ascends to a higher plane of existence and is granted all the power and Gifts of their predecessor.”
Titus takes a deep breath, then rubs at his forehead with the back of his hand, as though wiping away sweat.
“Are you all right?” I ask.
“Fine. Just . . . I need to sleep soon.”
The way he slumps in his saddle indicates it ought to be very soon. Moonlight softens his features, and his eyelids seem heavy.
He looks young, vulnerable. Nothing at all like a boy who is about to become a god.
And all this time I thought I was traveling with a mere prince.
“So what do you think?” he says, and his voice seems suddenly shy.
I swallow the lump in my throat and make my voice grave to say, “I think you will make a beautiful Chelydrus.”
He straightens in his saddle, striking a pose with his hand on his hip and his chin tilted upward. “I’ve been told I have
a very graceful figure.”
For some reason, I want to cry. “You are perfect,” I whisper.
“What?”
“I said you are a perfect choice. To become a god. There is no one I trust more to do a good job of it.”
He blinks, as if a little stunned. “Oh. Thank you. Even if I become the goddess of human passions?”
“Even then. Besides, I’m sure becoming a god transcends something as insignificant as gender.”
“I’m sure you’re right. If you ever meet Cerastes, you’ll see. She seems like a woman at first glance, but also . . . not
so much. She’s just . . . a lot.”
“But I’m confused.”
“About what?”
“About what in all the Sunderland possessed you to acquire a pair of ugly, stinky magic gloves? What does that have to do
with you becoming a god?”
“Oh, right. The gauntlets.”
I roll my eyes.
“You see, the godsmoot, where all the champions go to vie for godhood, takes place beyond the Edge of the World, across the
sea of sky.”
I gasp.
“The first trial is just showing up. I need the gauntlets and the matching horn so I can call and command a monster. Specifically,
a high dragon. I’m going to fly to the godsmoot, and I must be there by Sunderday.”
I’m certain that shield maidens are not welcome at godsmoots. Once he mounts that dragon, I’ll never see him again.
“Where are you going to find this dragon?” I ask, keeping my voice as steady as I can.
“The horn will bring the dragon to me. After we retrieve the final piece from Cathira, we’ll go . . .” His breath is coming
too fast.
“Titus?”
“We’ll head into the potentat’s nature preserve . . . toward the escarpment . . . and . . .”
He crumples against Blackwind’s neck, and I watch in horror, unable to dismount quickly enough to reach him, as he slips from
his saddle and lands on the hard-packed road with a terrible thump.
“Titus!”
He has landed on his side, his long arms splayed like he’s hugging the dirt. His eyes are closed, but even with the moons
out, I can’t tell if he’s breathing until I put an ear to his chest.
“Oh, thank the gods.”
I give his shoulder a light shake, but he does not stir.
He is near to being Gift-starved, after both healing and shape-shifting. Healing while shape-shifting. Cold moisture sheens his forehead, and his left arm is at an odd angle. Maybe he broke it.
Gift-starvation is a fact of life in the Sunderland, and I know exactly what he needs: rest and more sustenance. I glance
around, wondering what to do. We’re alone in the middle of the road. To our left is the river, shimmering and fast. To our
right, the foothills loom like shadows, bluish in the moonlight. Titus will probably be fine in a few hours if I give him
proper care. But with assassins about and a godhood at stake, we shouldn’t wait it out here in the open.
Da’s low, soft voice is suddenly in my head. If either of you girls ever gets lost, find shelter and stay put.
This isn’t the situation Da had in mind, but it’s close enough, and it feels good to follow my father’s advice.
Cottonwood shrubs grow sparsely along the river; even in the lunar gloam they show off the buttery yellow of autumn. Down
the road a bit, I spot what could be a larger thicket—little more than a thick blotch in the distance, but if I’m right, larger
trees mean a sturdy bank outside the flood plain and branches thick enough to hide smoke from a campfire.
I just have to get him there.
Apple sidesteps a little when I remove my bedroll from his saddle hook; he knows something’s wrong. I flip out the bedroll onto the road beside Titus’s prone body. I try to be gentle as I push him onto the bedroll, careful of his awkward, floppy arm, but he’s so heavy that he just plops over.
“Sorry!” I say. “Guess you’ll just have to heal yourself when you wake up.”
I waste precious time trying to figure out a way to attach the bedroll to a rope so Apple or Blackwind can drag him where
we need to go. But it’s no use. I’m just going to have to do this the hard way.
I lift the front corners of the bedroll to my hips, which lifts Titus’s torso off the ground, and begin dragging him toward
the copse of cottonwoods. Apple and Blackwind follow curiously.
“Good boys,” I tell them.
Every step feels like walking uphill against a raging current. My thighs and lower back scream in protest, but with effort,
I’m able to get a little momentum going—
Titus tumbles right off the bedroll.
I say a word that would give Ma kittens.
Pain stabs my shoulder as I roll him back. It’s the old dislocation wound that Titus healed, which might be sensitive for
the rest of my life. I’ll worry about that later. “You know,” I tell Titus, “this is all your fault, you enormous oaf. Did
you have to grow so big?”
Once again, I lift the corners of the bedroll and yank him forward. “Next time I see little Titus, I’m definitely telling
him that he is my favorite Titus.”
Big Titus rolls off two more times before we reach the grove of cottonwoods, but once we’re behind the cover of the trees, I know it was worth it. The ground is soft with fallen leaves, and we’ll be invisible to anyone on the road.
I tie Blackwind and Apple within reach of some delicious grass clumps and start clearing a safe spot for a campfire. There’s
plenty of kindling to choose from, and the fire is soon crackling and hot.
I check on Titus. The cord from his amulet is tight around his neck, indenting his skin. I reach forward to loosen it, to
make sure it’s not choking him. The motion pulls the amulet from beneath his shirt. I stare at Cerastes’s coil a long time.
In the firelight, it seems like two snakes writhing together rather than a goddess battling a dragon. Which Cerastes defeated
Baloranth? The first? The third? Maybe nothing is true about this story at all. If the gods aren’t immortal, what else don’t
we know?
Titus shows no sign of stirring, but his breathing seems steady. I hope I haven’t made everything worse by dragging him here.
I put a hand to his forehead. His skin seems too cool, but maybe that’s just the night air.
My hand lingers on his forehead. He has beautiful eyebrows, just a shade darker than the hair on his head, with a slight arch
that makes him seem perpetually inquisitive. My thumb has fully traced one brow from inner to outer edge before I realize
what I’m doing.
I snap my hand back. I need to make myself busy.
Titus grabbed some supplies when he left me alone at the inn to run errands, and I rummage through Blackwind’s saddlebags to see what he came up with.
I’m glad to discover a small satchel filled with tea leaves.
Delighted when I realize a tiny, stoppered clay jar is full of honey.
And then, wonder of wonders, my fingers glance across the dimpled skin of a lemon.
A lemon! He was going to surprise me with this; I’m sure of it. He remembered my lesson on tea, that very first night after
he rescued me.
Well, this could not be more perfect. Tea with honey and lemon is the very best thing for easing a belly back to normal after
a bout of Gift-starvation. I clutch the lemon and honey to my chest a moment, then set about making some tea.
My eyes snap open. I dozed off against a tree while the tea was steeping. Titus isn’t the only one who used too much magic
tonight.
I fling myself toward the fire, afraid my tea has boiled itself dry and ruined the pot . . . but no, it simmers steadily,
and the piquant herb scent makes my belly rumble.
My arms are heavy as logs, my fingers too thick and cold for fine-motor work as I prepare a cupful of tea for Titus. I stir
in the honey and plop an entire lemon slice into the cup. I nearly drop it twice.
I test it: Delicious, but it burns my lips. I wait to allow it to cool, which turns out to be a terrible idea because my dry,
aching eyelids want to close so badly. I absolutely must stay awake until I know Titus has something in his stomach.
Feeding a comatose patient is no easy task, especially when one’s patient is a giant oaf with a heavy head.
I lift his head onto my lap to elevate it, then dip my forefinger into the hot tea and paint his lips with the moisture. I watched Ma do this for Da once, when he caught a fever from a Grimsvolder family traveling from the coast. Just feeling warm liquid on his lips was enough to get Da to stir.
But not Titus. He’s as limp as the bedroll I dragged him on.
Carefully, I pull down his bottom lip with my thumb and pour a few drops of tea into his mouth. Just a few. I have to be careful
he doesn’t aspirate them.
His head twitches.
Encouraged, I try again. A few more drops.
He swallows reflexively.
“Oh, thank the gods,” I say to whoever might be listening. “Thank you, thank you.” Tears wet my eyes as I give Titus a little
more.
So gradually, Titus downs the entire cup. He does not wake, but his breathing becomes a little deeper, his forehead a little
warmer. His head still in my lap, I let my own head fall back against the trunk of a cottonwood. I should stoke the fire to
burn slow and steady before I close my . . .
“Hello, sweet maiden,” a voice whispers in my ear.