15. MEETING DEATH
“Fuck yeah,” Roirdan managed to grunt out. “Just do me a favor, and make it quick.” He dug his head into the pillow. The veins in his neck bulged as he tensed, the poison spreading from his shoulder and spidering across his collarbone.
I stiffened, trying to remain calm.
“Everyone but my council, step outside,” Niall commanded.
The healers all scurried away.
I looked over at Maeson, who was chewing her lip like she wasn’t sure this was a good idea. “You once said that the Alatyr could be used to call upon the gods.”
She nodded warily. “I did.”
“I have to try,” I said to no one in particular.
Amarna came up to my side and gripped my ankle. “You will need an anchor to this realm if you are to summon a god.”
Maeson stepped up to my other side. “And you will need someone to speak the Old Language while you call the god forth. Guess that’ll be me,” she said, eyeing Amarna across the bed.
Amarna gave her a curt nod, then lifted her own Alatyr from around her neck. She turned to Niall. “So as not to get the signals mixed,” she explained, handing it to him.
She opened her mouth again to speak, but Niall cut her off. “With my life,” he said, replying to the command she was surely about to issue.
I steadied myself. “Guide me, would you?”
“Okay, we’re really doing this,” Maeson said, taking a deep breath and grabbing my other ankle.
“You need to put the Alatyr on to command it,” Amarna directed. “You are not an Elder, so there is no guarantee it will even work, and if it does it might—”
“Let’s not go there,” I said quickly, lifting the chain around my head and letting the stone fall to just above my navel. “What next?”
“Now, you are going to need to call upon the god you want to petition,” she instructed.
“There is no right way, but you will need to call forth your power when doing so. It is your power, and the Alatyr, that will invoke the god or goddess you choose. We will hold you here, grounding you. In the presence of a god, it can be hard to tell what is reality and what is not. You don’t want to get lost in the space between your physical body and whatever the god shows you. Some can be fickle.”
“I’ve heard that before.” I clutched the stone in both hands. “Will the god actually physically appear?”
“Only to you, if they deem you worthy,” Amarna answered, a hint of worry lining her brow. “Your interaction will be in your mind. We will not see what you see. Just remember to come back to this body when the task is finished.”
I breathed in deeply and closed my eyes.
I would call on the goddess of healing, Nephira.
She was one of the few gods I’d learned about when I was a child, when the city became plagued with a deadly sickness.
My grandmother had contracted it, and our entire family had prayed relentlessly for her to be brought back to health.
When she succumbed to it, I didn’t understand why our prayers had not been answered.
That was the last time I had prayed to the goddess.
I’d been a horrible patron to the gods my entire life, only frequenting the few temples in our realm when I was a child. And now, here I was, about to demand an audience with one of them. I hoped the gods still had faith in me, despite my shortcomings.
There’s no right way to do this, I reassured myself.
Maeson began chanting under her breath, the power in her words flowing into me and channeling into the Alatyr.
Going with what felt natural, I lifted the stone in my hands, and as I rallied my power, I spoke the words in my mind. I summon you, Nephira. Hear my plea. I call for your aid and your strength, to heal—
A sudden gust of wind descended upon me from all angles, whipping my hair into a torrent and lashing the Alatyr’s chain against my neck. I heard a medicine table crash to the ground somewhere behind me, but I kept my eyes shut.
Someone nearby called out for me, but their voice was growing more distant.
A sense of panic washed over me.
Amarna’s and Maeson’s grips tightened in unison on my ankles, but then the pressure grew lighter and lighter. It felt like I was being torn from my existence and brought into a void.
Then, everything went quiet. And in the white abyss of my mind’s eye, a black mass opened before me.
I had heard of Nephira’s beauty. Of her creamy brown skin, matching eyes, and long, curly hair.
But the being that stepped forth was the opposite of the goddess I had called upon.
He wore long robes that were black as night, and carried a golden scythe in his right hand.
With his left, he pushed back his hood, revealing skin as white as snow and as pale as death.
He had thick, pale lips, and a broad nose, crowned with a pair of milky, opaque eyes that churned and swirled like endless clouded depths. His hair was twisted and tied back on his head in multiple, matted, rope-like strands the same shade of white as his skin.
I had never seen anything like him. He was so strange—so unsettling—and yet so defyingly calm.
As he approached, I felt that same calm wash over me, as if he was projecting his posture upon my thoughts. The emotion he evoked was at complete odds to the fear my body was screaming at me to feel. And the power that radiated off of him was indescribable.
All the air rushed from my lungs as I realized who he was.
He stopped mere feet from me, and I stared up into the face of the god of death.
His opalescent eyes roamed over me, weighing me down with their clouded stare.
Should I kneel? Do I bow?
I had no idea what I was supposed to do while in the company of a god, but I couldn’t have moved anyway. My body was too busy trying to not be overwhelmed by his presence.
His expression didn’t change as he opened his mouth and spoke. “That stone is not yours to command, young one.” His voice was a whispered baritone that skittered on the wind. I shivered at the ancient sound of it.
“I-I know. But I need your help.”
The god regarded me for a long moment. So long, that I thought he wouldn’t reply at all.
“You sought the goddess of healing,” he finally said.
“Yes. But, you’re not her . . .”
“I am not.” The scythe shifted in his hand. “I am AEbon.”
“The god of death,” I breathed out.
“The very one.” His stoic expression remained unchanged. “And just how did this stone come into your possession?”
I gulped down a swallow. “I took it from a High Lord who stole it from its Elder. I intend to return it to where it needs to be, but the Elder who owned it is dead.”
“Mmm.” AEbon regarded me. “Make sure it finds its way to another Elder, or your realm will suffer for it.”
I thought about Amarna gripping my ankles. “There is one with me now.” With my physical body, that is.
“And why was she not the one to summon me?”
“I thought that my power—”
“Your power is strong, yes, but it is almost fully spent. You are brave to attempt this feat with so little remaining in your well.”
A wave of anxiety washed over me. What he said was true; I could feel my power fading. And the longer we talked, the more time we were wasting.
“I called for Nephira to help heal—”
“He is beyond healing. He is already upon my doorstep.”
The god’s words made my heart lurch.
Was I supposed to beg? Plead? Offer him something? What did gods want that they didn’t already have? How could I convince him?
“No—please, you have to help him! You have to—” I stopped myself when the sudden realization hit me like an iron fist. “That’s why you answered my summons, not Nephira. Because he’s . . .”
Dying. I couldn’t say it.
AEbon looked down, as if he was looking at Roirdan beneath us. “That particular poison has no remedy. Only death follows its sting.”
I trailed his downward stare, but all I could see was the white void of my consciousness.
The god of death took his time, drawing out his next words. “You have a strong spirit, Auren, Daughter of Karios.”
His words pulled my attention back to him.
He knows who I am.
“Yes, I know who you are, young one—what you are. You will right many wrongs in this world before you join us.” His head tilted ever-so-slightly—likely the only thing akin to interest that I would get.
As much as I wanted him to elaborate, there was no time. Roirdan was fading beneath me, just as my power was fading with every breath I spent rallying it for this plea.
This was my only chance.
I opted for begging. “Please, please help him. He is needed for what’s to come too!”
AEbon eyed me once more and shifted his scythe to his other hand. “Indeed, he is.” He seemed to sort things out in his head before he spoke again. “I will offer you a bargain.”
I sucked in a breath. At least it wasn’t a “no.”
But a bargain . . . A bargain with a god . . .
“I will remove the poison from his body and restore his life, as you request. But you will give me something in return.”
What could the god of death want more than . . .
“Death,” I whispered, the word hitting a hollow spot at the bottom of my gut. “Mine?”
The god took his time thinking again, then blinked. “No. Your fate has been written.”
“Whose then?”
Would it be my child . . . if I ever considered having any?
Awful things usually happened to people who made bargains with fae—according to the old stories. Would a bargain with a god be any different? Worse, even?
This time his voice was more of a hiss than a whisper. “You ask too many questions.”
His long fingers drummed along his scythe in a rhythmic pattern, once, twice. “You will give up something that is precious to you. Something that the ancients feared, and what haunts ones’ dreams. I will come to collect it when the time is right.”
Before I could question him further, I heard a guttural cry from Roirdan, echoing from somewhere far-off—even though he was physically right below me. From the sound of it, I knew he was in absolute agony.
“Do it,” I agreed without hesitation. “Save him.”
I swore I saw a hint of victory flash in AEbon’s eyes, but he quickly closed them, and his robes stirred on a phantom wind as he breathed in deeply.