Chapter 13
Basuin isn’t ready to return to Gyeosi yet.
Instead, he wanders the forest, lingering in the thought of Hou-tou’s words.
He asks himself the same thing she did: if it’ll be godhood, or death.
Does Ren know of the elder tree? If she did, she would’ve told him.
All she wants is her magic back—the threads of it he’s stolen.
But he isn’t willing to face Ren, not after their last exchange of words. He winces at the thought. While it wasn’t his finest of moments, it isn’t regret weighing him down. No, he meant his words. He doesn’t know what the heaviness is, but it isn’t guilt.
There are bigger things to focus on. The elder tree, Kensy’s artifact—the wolf-man and how to peel it out of his chest and where to find the remnants of his heart again. With the elder tree, Basuin has the chance to be a man again. It’s a bright spot among the wreckage inside him.
He’ll take that chance, to be human, again. Even if it means being a soldier once more.
The crunch of fallen leaves and other foliage beneath his boot is rhythmic as he marches through the forest. Side to side, his eyes scan through the trees. All of them, they must have names. That’s what Ren said. Everything in this forest is a spirit, and she is connected to all of them.
He is, too. Everything—everyone—in this forest will be cut loose from him when the elder tree cuts him loose of the forest. It’s a good thing. A blessing.
The best way Basuin knows to protect something is to remove it far, far from his reach.
Bass comes to rest before an old, gnarled oak tree, craning his neck back to look up at where it stretches tall into the sky.
His left hand pulses, warmth heating the scarred mark on his palm.
When he opens his fingers, the lines are red and puffy where he tried to scrub it away.
He uses his thumb now to soothe over the god mark, but all it does is itch.
Above him, the sky is beginning to darken. The sun hangs low and ripe, waiting to fall beneath the horizon until tomorrow. The shadows in the forest begin to grow and lengthen, taking fuller shape. Turning back before nightfall would be smartest.
But Bass has magic, too. He made that light, the one Ren pulled from his palm. He flexes his hand again, watching the god mark pull and stretch. He could do it again and light his way through the forest. All the way to the elder tree, if he marches long enough.
The wolf-man snarls a laugh, and Bass thinks of anything but telling it to shut up.
“All right,” he murmurs to no one—only the spirits that surely watch him from where they live. Bass takes a deep breath, materializing the image of Ren sitting with him, her small hand cradling his, to try to rouse the magic out of him from memory. She told him to feel it.
So Basuin burrows down, deep inside himself, past the wolf-man even. He burrows down and he pinpoints that place beyond his eaten heart, beyond the god-thing holed up in his chest and looks for the feeling of something warm. Something mirroring Ren’s touch.
Another breath, and Bass opens his eyes. His god mark glows red, and it cracks a smile from his lips.
Then, a gunshot rings out—and the forest cowers beneath it.
Magic explodes from his hand in a shock of red.
Light beams toward the sky, fire stretching toward the sun, its maker.
His knees shake. He lands on the ground, somewhere, somehow.
The only sense he has is to close his right hand over his god mark, smother out the flame.
Quiet the red, angry, scared thing that’s pouring out of him.
The light cuts off and Basuin falls, hands planted upon the ground as he pants.
And underneath him, the leaves turn to snow. White and so cold it burns. His vision blurs, wet with tears, and when he blinks them away the snow is splattered with blood. The same color as his magic.
Valkesta is howling: Run.
Basuin looks up. Above his head, a white crane flies over, darting through the sea of trees toward him. A crane shouldn’t be here.
It opens its beak and caws at him. Run, Wolf God! Run!
He scrambles to his feet in an instant. The white crane sails over him, flapping its large wings, and then disappears into the woods. His eyes track its trail backward, into the distance from where it came, and he finds a body striding out from the trees.
Kensy barks a laugh. His blond locks have grown out just enough to hang over his forehead, dampened with sweat.
In his hands, a cocked rifle waits. This is a different man.
Not the same Kensy whom he fought with on the front lines.
Basuin can’t breathe. Whatever panic he tried to stave off starts to build again, swirling inside him on the brink of disaster and devastation.
“I’m not surprised,” Kensy says, mirth and mistrust in his easy smile. “If anyone would escape death, it would be you.”
Basuin can’t hide the shock that widens his eyes, restricts his body. No, this isn’t the same Kensy at all.
Kensy should be in Shaelstorm. Not with him, not in the forest. Not this close to Gyeosi.
Basuin chokes on his own spit, all thick in his throat.
If Kensy is this far into the forest, then he’s still searching for the artifact.
But alone? Kensy wouldn’t think of sullying his own hands with god-things.
And if he is still searching for the artifact—what of it? Is the artifact he’s been after at the Crying Trees, where the elder tree lives?
“What are you doing here?” he shouts across their distance, steadying his voice.
“Didn’t you see the fireworks?” Kensy asks. “You should have stayed dead, old friend.”
He coughs, a laugh caught in his chest. “That would’ve been easier for you, Commander? I thought we didn’t leave soldiers behind.”
Kensy grins. “Come on, Bass. You’re useless now.” It stings more than it should, coming from Kensy. “Face it—the gods abandoned you long ago. You were getting in my way.”
Something in his chest aches. Ren would agree with Kensy, if she was here. That Basuin is getting in her way. He tries to hide the shake in his hands at his sides.
“They didn’t.” As soon as the words leave his lips, he knows he shouldn’t have said it. “You might not be a believer, but I am the one who escaped death. Why bring me to this island just to leave me for dead?”
There’s the slightest twitch in Kensy’s eye.
Something wicked. But Kensy doesn’t advance; he slings his rifle over his shoulder and out of the way.
A surrender, but a show of power. Of control.
Kensy knows something; he has the upper hand.
But Basuin doesn’t know what. It feels like he’s being eaten alive.
As though Kensy can see everything inside of him—even the wolf-man.
And the wolf-man growls, muzzle pointed at Kensy, watching with beady red eyes.
“You think me cruel, but let me show you how kind I am,” Kensy says, and he takes a step to the right, and right again, moving slow and circular to Bass. In turn, Bass moves to the left, keeping their distance. A careful, but unyielding dance. “Come back with me, to Shaelstorm.”
Basuin stops. Kensy moves three steps closer. “What?” His mouth is dry, his throat tight.
“Forget and forgive,” Kensy says, like it’s easy. “We can still do this together, Bass. You can go down with honor.”
Now, he understands. His mother’s godstone feels so heavy around his neck, like cattle rattling their chains as they head toward slaughter. Kensy stills needs him. Kensy needs a god speaker—and Basuin is all he has.
It’s familiar. Basuin’s washed Kensy’s dirty laundry for the last five years—broken necks and bled bodies and bludgeoned heads. Basuin was good at it. Of course Kensy wants him back.
“No.” It comes out like a laugh. “I won’t do that, Commander.” It’s the first time he’s ever said no to Kensy. It’ll be the last time, too.
Kensy nods, looking toward the trees. But a strange, tense silence closes in on them. “You remember what happened at Ulenski, don’t you?”
Ulenski—his greatest victory. Right before his greatest failure in Valkesta. A whole city, razed to the ground, burned to nothing but black char beneath his boots.
A black wolf, a mother cried, praying to the moon and then praying to him. Black Wolf, she sobbed as she ran, as soot and ash stuck to his skin, don’t hurt us, please.
This is a threat.
“I will do whatever is necessary to get what I want, Bass.” Kensy bares his teeth in some perverse version of a smile. A sort of recklessness, so unlike Kensy, oozes from the corner of his lips. “And I won’t be stopped. You’re no stranger to that, Black Wolf.”
The whole world is cold again. It isn’t because he’s in Valkesta.
It isn’t a memory, a flashback. Basuin’s body floods with icy water, charging through his veins, as a pit of fear settles inside him.
His teeth ache in his head. He knows. Basuin knows Kensy will do whatever is necessary—because it was Basuin who always did the necessitating.
There’s blood in his mouth.
“Now.” Kensy holds his hands out in a shrug. “I’m not so cruel, am I?”
No, not at all. Kensy is the cruelest.
Basuin takes a step back, and then two, and then three. Toward Gyeosi. Kensy sighs, shaking his head.
“I always knew I’d have to kill you,” Kensy muses. “But I really wish I didn’t have to, old friend.”
Kensy doesn’t lie. Kensy never lies. He reaches for his rifle and Basuin runs.
Flees into the forest, darts behind the trees.
A shot goes off—too close, so close. It rings in his ears.
Kensy didn’t lie. The wolf-man howls until it shatters his eardrums, the same pitch as the bullet cutting through the woods.
Something surges within him, more god than human, and the trees blur past him as he sprints faster than ever. Gone faster than Kensy can catch up.
Kensy meant it—and it lingers like the blood coating his tongue. He’ll do whatever it takes. Burn down this whole forest to get what he wants, like Basuin burned Ulenski. A victory and a funeral march, all in one.
Basuin can’t go back to Shaelstorm, but he can’t stay here, either. Kensy’s threat wasn’t meant for Bass. It was meant for the gods. He should’ve known better; he should’ve known from the start.
But there’s too much hanging in the balance now. Messy gods and duty and murder and death. His choice is just. He’ll go to the elder tree and give up godhood. He’ll give Ren’s magic back so she can protect her people. And he’ll be out of the picture.
When Basuin returns to Gyeosi, Yaelic runs to meet him.
The boy clings first to his shirt, then gives a proper bow.
He yaps on, like a pup would, about how he spent his day.
How Ko taught him about Gyeosi, and how he and Hami are still fighting, but it won’t last, it never does with them.
And that there are newcomers. Refugees, from the south.
All he can think of, trembling hands tucked under his arms as Yaelic walks back to their hut alongside him, is that Kensy isn’t going to stop. He won’t stop until the forest is completely burned to the ground, until he finds that godly artifact for Queen Ye’suite.
And when he sees Ren, sitting among other spirit villagers, he nearly turns to meet her. To warn her. Kensy told him that first.
Warn them that we are coming.
Basuin pauses, staring straight across the village at her.
She sits with the family of refugees, their heads bowed to her in thanks, but Ren holds his gaze instead.
Her eyes are narrowed in that same glare, still soured from their earlier argument.
Until something changes, and then her face softens into something else.
Realization, and then confusion—a new weariness—moves in.
It deepens the frown on her mouth, and Basuin hates that.
Then, behind her, a refugee raises his head. His eyes are full of hatred. Regret, and hatred, and blame, all pointed straight at Ren.
Refugees, from the south, where the army has razed clean.
Part of him wants to put himself in between them—shield Ren from those hateful eyes. But a better part of him knows she would first cut his throat.
So he swallows and continues onward, heading up the stairs with Yaelic pulling at him.
Ren can worry about the forest. Basuin is done being a god. She’ll get her magic back, Basuin will die, and everyone will be happy.
These are her lands, and her people, and her problem. Basuin’s presence is a pitfall. No more hurting spirits. No more learning tricks and playing games to try and make magic that doesn’t even belong to him. None of it. This was a mistake.
Basuin coming here—Basuin being deified—was a mistake. And the sooner he leaves, the better the chance Ren has at saving her own forest. Right?
Something heavy presses into his spine, fissuring his bones.
The weight of his supply pack when he carried it up the mountains and into Valkesta.
The weight of the bodies they recovered, strapped to two soldiers each, and the pieces they found in the snow that they shoved in a bloody pack and carried back down to the encampment.
Can Ren really stop Kensy—alone?