Buch lesen: «The Godblind Trilogy», Seite 4
DOM
Seventh moon, first year of the reign of King Corvus
Green Ridge, Southern Krike
They’d given the three of them a small house to sleep in, the Two-Eyed Man and his faithful companions. Or faithful companion, singular. Dom wasn’t sure he qualified. Dom wasn’t sure Crys and Ash would allow him to qualify, regardless of his own opinions on the matter.
As the sun went down, the others had gone to the town’s council house and Dom had stayed behind. He lay on the floor, head pillowed on a pile of blankets, and watched the flickers of orange light dancing among the roof beams and spiders’ webs. He’d managed to untie and retie the laces of his trousers eleven times, each one a victory against the memory of the crushing embarrassment at asking Ash – a man he’d once considered a brother and who now hated him – to help him in the first days after the loss of his hand.
But being able to take a piss unaided and being able to fight were two different things. Dom hadn’t managed to scavenge a weapon when they’d fled Rilporin, but he’d found a reasonably sharp knife in the kitchen that might break the skin of an enemy if they didn’t mind holding still for a while.
He snorted and spun the blade awkwardly in his fingers, his right hand so less nimble than the one he’d lost, and fumbled it so the hilt knocked against the stump of his arm and sent a bolt of lightning through the twisted nerves and flesh. He yelped at the pain, and then did it again because it felt, in some indefinable way, good, opening a well inside him he hadn’t realised was there and demanding he jump in.
Dom sat up. Holding his breath, he jabbed the tip of the knife into the scar tissue this time. More lightning, searing up his arm and into his heart until it seemed to skip in his chest and pump delight and darkness. A bead of blood formed along the knife tip and he stared at it with unblinking intensity, fascinated by the firelight reflected in miniature in the crimson. He pushed harder, a little deeper, more blood welling and with it relief. Purpose. All the promises he’d told himself and Crys – all the lies – fell away to reveal the red, sharp-toothed truth.
The words came of their own volition, words of power and ecstasy and glorious surrender. ‘Dark Lady, beautiful goddess of fear and death, accept this my offering. Holy Gosfath, Lord of War …’
And there He was, the God of Blood looming over Dom in the sudden echoing darkness of the Waystation between Gilgoras and the Afterworld. Dom’s breath stuttered, mingled longing and terror freezing his thoughts. How was he here? How had Gosfath summoned him with such ease, such swiftness? And for what?
Yet Gosfath ignored him, sitting in the flames of His own burning, wrists resting on His bent knees as He watched His own shadow writhe and dance across the cavern’s wall. Tongues of red fire licked His red skin; He paid it no more attention than He did Dom.
Dom took a stealthy step backwards, and then another, but however he’d arrived, that path was closed to him. He was here until Gosfath said otherwise. Trapped. Bladder clenching, Dom eased himself to his knees. ‘I am here, Lord.’ The god didn’t respond. ‘Holy Gosfath, Red Father, what is your will?’
Now He did move. The great horned head rose ponderously in his direction, and small black eyes, dancing fire reflected in their depths, met Dom’s. If the god recognised him as the murderer of His Sister-Lover, Dom had no doubt he’d be killed, slowly, over months or years, for Gosfath’s pleasure.
‘Gone.’
The word was so loud and huge, the meaning behind it so vast, that Dom struggled to process it. All the loss and hurt that filled Dom to the brim was as nothing; Gosfath’s pain would drown the spaces between the stars, His rage hotter than those distant points of light, His loss a winding-sheet black enough and big enough to cover the face of Gilgoras itself.
Gosfath raised both hands, palms up in an expression so human, so lost and bewildered, that Dom’s throat constricted with shared grief. ‘Gone.’
‘We’ll bring Her back,’ he said impulsively, his hand extended towards Gosfath’s, finger to black talon. It was razor-sharp and Dom sealed the oath with blood.
‘Gone,’ Gosfath repeated, as though Dom hadn’t spoken, and the pain tore his heart into shreds.
‘What are you doing?’
Ash’s voice was so sudden, the return to the firelit room in Green Ridge so unexpected, that Dom yelped and the knife scored a deep cut through the remains of his arm as he stumbled to his feet. He yelped again and dropped the blade.
‘Gods, you scared me,’ he said shakily, pressing the hem of his shirt to the cut and backing rapidly behind the table.
‘I said, what are you doing?’ Ash demanded, following him. ‘Who were you speaking to? You were making promises. Which lord?’
Dom blushed and retreated again until his back was against the wall. ‘I didn’t, it wasn’t, it’s not what you think,’ he tried, but Ash reached out a long arm and hauled him close so that Dom was forced to look up at him.
‘You better not have been doing what it sounded like you were doing,’ he snarled. ‘I came back because Crys sent me to fetch you, because he wants to find a way forward, a way for you both to live with what you did to him – aye, and what he did to you. Though if he hadn’t cut that hand off, it would’ve killed you. But he sent me here because he’s not healing and neither are you and we need you both if we’re to have any hope of winning this. And I was starting to think we had a chance, that today was the beginning of something, and then I walk in here to find you cutting yourself and praying to the Red fucking Gods.’
Dom couldn’t meet his eyes. Shame and the hollowed-out emptiness of grief churned uneasily together. His vision blurred with tears and he kept his head down, blinking savagely. He brought me into His presence. So desperate is He for companionship that He’ll snatch at anything offered Him. Even me.
Ash’s arms came around him, one hand pressed to the back of his head, an embrace Dom neither expected nor deserved. He hesitated, snatched out of his thoughts and into this most surprising of moments. Gingerly, he hugged Ash back. More tears, and a wrenching pain deep inside that would never go away.
‘I’m broken, Ash,’ he whispered, and the confession was a catharsis. ‘There’s nothing left of me, nothing inside but hurt and hate and death.’ He tightened his arms, wanting to hold Ash to him even though he knew the archer must be disgusted. ‘I crave Her, Ash, Her touch, the … delight of the agony She brought, as wrong as I know that is. I don’t know how to live without Her. Everything the Dark Lady did to me was cruel, evil, but … I still love Her. I always will.’
He heard Ash swallow, felt him lean away, just a finger’s width, but one that threatened to become a chasm they could never bridge. ‘But you have to live without Her,’ he whispered. ‘Because She’s gone and She’s not coming back, no matter what crazy plans that blue-clad bitch has. We’re going to stop the Mireces, stop Lanta, and then send Gosfath into death after His Sister. And you’re going to help us do it, because that’s what we do, it’s who we are.’ He pushed him away to arm’s length, hands on his shoulders. ‘It’s who you are, as well, deep down.’
‘Is it?’ Dom whispered, the remembered expression in Gosfath’s face mirrored now in his own. ‘When all I can think of are ways to help the Blessed One? When every night is haunted with dreams of Her even though every day all I long for is to see Rillirin again? There’s even a part of me that would offer up her and our child if it would bring back the Dark Lady, and I hate it, I hate myself, but I can’t stop.’
Revulsion flashed across Ash’s scarred face and now he did let go, took a decisive step away. To the other side of that chasm. ‘Yeah? Well, we don’t always get what we want, do we?’ He touched the notch in his jaw, another scar just visible through the open neck of his shirt. ‘I got killed by Galtas; didn’t want that. Crys got tortured – by you; he didn’t want that. The man I love above all others is a fucking god, and one that you prophesied would have to die to end this war, or have you forgotten your own words? “And the godlight will lead us, to death and beyond.” Do you really think either of us want that? Because Crys knows this will kill him, he knows there’s no coming back from this, and he’s doing it anyway. Because he understands.’
‘Understands what?’ Dom whispered across the gulf, trying to reach his friend. Failing.
‘That sacrificing his life to save Gilgoras is worth it. That doing everything he can to spare innocents from the horrors of the Dark Path is worth it. That’ – Ash swallowed again, thickly this time – ‘that me losing him is worth it.’
He cleared his throat and blinked hard. ‘You killed Her, which was the only good thing you did in those months of your madness, and you’re not going to return there no matter how much you want to. I’ll kill you myself rather than see you lost to Blood again. So you’re going to help us make sure She stays dead, and you’re going to repent for the lives you took and the betrayals you perpetrated, because otherwise—’ He broke off, perhaps knowing that no threat he made could ever scare a man who wanted to give himself, body and soul, to madness.
‘And believe me, you have no idea how much courage it’s taken Crys to send me here with the prospect of forgiveness. It’s certainly not something I suggested, because I have seen every last one of those scars you put into him, and those that live only on the inside, too, that even he might not know are there.’
Ash paused to get his voice back under control. ‘Those are the scars we’ll have to deal with when this is all over, if any of us are alive to do so. Those are the ones that will define the rest of his life, his ability to sleep peacefully, our chance at happiness. Those are the ones I don’t want you to ever forget inflicting. And with all that said, he’s still trying to find a way to forgive you.’
Dom’s chest was heaving with repressed sobs. ‘Can he? Can you?’ he choked out.
Ash’s face twisted. ‘No. Maybe. I don’t know. But I do know he’s the one you pray for,’ he added, jerking a finger out at the night. ‘Pray for Crys, and pray to the Fox God. Not Her, never again Her. Got it?’
‘Got it.’ Dom licked his lips and nodded, looking away. ‘Are you … going to tell him?’
‘Are you going to do it again?’
Dom shook his head – and meant it.
‘Then no. But don’t let him down like that again.’
Ash picked up the knife Dom had used and examined its edge, then shoved it deliberately through his belt. Dom fidgeted, wanting to ask for it back, knowing how it would sound. No hand, no weapons, no way to hurt himself or others. Bitterness rose in him to mingle with the guilt, the hope, the grief.
Ash wiped his hands on his shirt as though they’d touched something foul. ‘Come on, then,’ he said in a voice cold as an axe blade. ‘He still wants to see you.’
CRYS
Seventh moon, first year of the reign of King Corvus
The Belt, Krike
Green Ridge could field two hundred warriors, and all of them followed Crys when he left the town three days later. He’d expected to leave them behind, pick them up on his way back through towards Rilpor, but they elected to follow him instead.
‘And by follow,’ Crys hissed to Ash on the fourth day out of Green Ridge and through the thick pine forests known as the Belt, ‘I mean everywhere. I’m pretty sure I saw one watching me have a shit yesterday.’
Ash glanced behind at the Krikites; Crys didn’t. He knew what he’d see. Cutta Frog-dream walked half a dozen paces behind with Dom, and behind them were ranged the warriors. They watched his every move like stoats watching a rabbit burrow. Unblinking.
‘Yeah, that’s creepy,’ Ash said when he turned back. ‘But they’ll get used to it. I have, despite the yellow eyes lighting up the night when I’m trying to sleep.’
‘You think you’re hilarious, don’t you?’ Crys demanded, tapping his fingers on the pommel of his sword; he’d traded the axe he’d brought with him and the new blade was decent quality, well weighted. However curious about him they were, the Krikites at least boasted some talented smiths. The pine needles underfoot were springy, lending energy to his steps, the rich scent sharp in his nose. He had an urge to sprint off ahead and leave them all behind – leave everything behind. Prophecies and legends and the prospect of war.
Ash pressed his lips together but couldn’t suppress a hoot of laughter. ‘It’s not their fault,’ he said with an air of implausible seriousness, ‘they’ve never actually met a god before. I don’t think any of them expected you to be so handsome. Oh yes, I’ve seen the women – and a fair few men – eyeing you up, don’t think I haven’t. Should I be jealous?’
‘Hilarious,’ Crys muttered again, blushing. ‘You have no idea how weird this is, though. Half the time I think I’ve just gone mad and no one’s had the heart to tell me.’
‘Crys, my love, you’ve gone mad. We just didn’t have the heart to tell you.’
‘Stop it,’ he snapped. Ash raised his eyebrows. ‘I’m not who they think I am. I mean, I am, but I’m me too. No one wants to know me; they just want to see Him. I’m invisible.’
‘You looked pretty visible when you were getting dressed this morning,’ Ash teased. ‘I remember it distinctly. The manly sweep of shoulders, the pale curve of your arse—’
‘This is serious,’ Crys almost screamed, fingers curling into claws in his hair. ‘I don’t know who I am any more.’
We’re us, the Fox God said, as if it was simple.
‘You’re you, you’re Crys, heart-bound to Ash.’ Ash echoed the internal words so closely it was eerie. The laughter fell from his face. ‘You’re mine,’ he added, ‘and you were mine before all this happened. You’ll be mine again afterwards.’
‘I’ll be dead afterwards,’ Crys said and the silence between them then was so profound he nearly fell into it. He caught Ash’s hand in his, waiting for his lover to denounce his words. He didn’t and Crys’s gut twisted within him. Every time they’d skirted the subject before, Ash had been vehement in his denials. Now, maybe because of what had happened with the Fox God and the stone in Green Ridge, his opinion had changed. He believed Crys was going to die and that meant Crys believed it too, bone-deep for the first time. Nothing could save him.
And the godlight will lead us all, to death and beyond. Thanks Dom, you always were a cheery fucker even before you tried to kill me.
Crys glanced back to where the calestar walked alongside Cutta Frog-dream. The knowing that had meant nothing for so long, that had been empty words easily forgotten, was coming true. The Fox God brushed against him, reassurance and gentle mockery, humour and love. Crys pushed Him away, feeling as if he was an intruder in his own body.
‘Maybe none of this would’ve happened if you hadn’t brought me back,’ Ash said and Crys registered the guilt in his face. ‘I mean, you made that promise in return for me. If you hadn’t—’
‘If I hadn’t I’d already be dead,’ Crys said, squeezing his hand hard and feeling a flush of guilt himself. He’d never considered how Ash must feel. They stopped walking. ‘I’d have got myself killed during the siege. Nothing mattered to me in those minutes when I knew you were dead, love. Nothing. I’d have made any promise, done anything, to have you back. And … the Fox God was always here, I know that now. He’d have found a way out when He needed to, no matter what. This way I got you. I got a whole life to cram into however long we have, and I intend to make the most of it. If you want?’
Ash wiped at his eye with a thumb, his palm sweaty in Crys’s grip. ‘I want,’ he said in a scratchy voice. ‘I want it all, but I’ll settle for this. For you and these next …’ He trailed off.
Crys swallowed and forced a smile. ‘Days. Weeks. Months. How about we don’t count?’
‘Numbers are overrated,’ Ash said, and although it wasn’t funny, they laughed anyway.
The snake of warriors had come to a halt behind them instead of carrying on, waiting in a respectful hush. Crys faced Cutta. ‘We’ll catch you up,’ he said. She paused; then she nodded and led her warriors on.
‘What’s wrong?’ Ash asked before he caught the glint in Crys’s eye. ‘Oh. Oh. Catch you up. Got it.’ His smile was hot. ‘Well, you know what they say: a bow long bent grows weak. Some time off should do us both some good.’
They wandered off the main track and Crys could feel eyes on them as they went, knowing they were seen. He squeezed Ash’s hand. He didn’t care.
‘You really need to stop saying “gods” when we make love,’ Ash said later, leaning on one elbow to pick pine needles from Crys’s hair. ‘It’s like you’re talking to yourself.’
Crys felt a flicker of annoyance at the words and suppressed it ruthlessly. Instead he arched an eyebrow. ‘Didn’t hear you complaining about my godlike abilities,’ he said.
Ash screwed up his face and slapped his bare shoulder, laughing. ‘Damnit, you’re not supposed to join in the teasing. I don’t have an answer to that one. As long as my merely mortal prowess is enough for you.’
‘Oh, it’s enough,’ he murmured, ‘believe me.’
Ash ran gentle fingers over the myriad silver scars in Crys’s skin and Crys relaxed, enjoying the caresses in the aftermath of their urgency. ‘Not sure when we’ll have time to be together again,’ he murmured eventually, knowing he was breaking the moment, unable to stay quiet. ‘Especially not once we’re back in Rilpor. Just because Mace didn’t arrest us when he found out doesn’t mean we can shove it in their faces.’
‘I have no intention of shoving anything in Mace’s face,’ Ash protested and Crys smiled. ‘But you’re right, I suppose. Let’s just hope your godhood means we don’t get arrested at all.’
‘Godhood? Is that a more impressive name for man—’
Ash clapped his hand over Crys’s mouth. ‘Worst. Joke. Ever,’ he warned, though he was struggling not to laugh. Crys kissed the palm against his lips, moved it aside and replaced it with Ash’s mouth.
‘Hate to say this, but we need to get back,’ Ash said after another breathless few minutes. ‘Unless you want Cutta’s warriors spying on this too.’
Crys grunted, horrified by the thought, and that’s when the attack came.
The Fox God screamed warning and Crys was up and on his feet, scanning their surrounds, an instant before the first warrior sprinted from the trees into the glade. ‘Up!’ he roared at Ash and leapt in between him and the assailant, naked and shining silver. The attacker, stunned by the nudity or perhaps Crys’s strange markings, missed his strike. Crys slapped the spear down and this time the warrior didn’t hesitate, driving the butt end towards him in a flat trajectory that just skimmed the flesh of his belly as he jumped backwards.
Four more pounding out of the trees, and Ash’s arrows took three but missed the fourth, who ducked and threw himself on to the archer. Crys’s new sword was somewhere beneath their clothes with his belt and dagger and the rest of Ash’s weapons, and the spearman was fast. Very fast.
Surely he could just let himself be skewered and then heal?
Move, the Fox God barked. Crys moved. He couldn’t get inside the spear’s reach, so he led his attacker further into the trees where the weapon’s length would be a hindrance. Jabs came fast and hard, aiming for his naked chest or gut, and Crys was feeling backwards with his bare feet; if he tripped, he was dead.
A grunt ratcheting up into a scream from the clearing and Crys’s blood turned to ice. If that was Ash … The spearman attacked, sensing his distraction. Crys jinked right and the spear tip scored a hot, ripping line through the inside of his upper arm. He bellowed hurt and got the tree between them, a second’s rest, wasted it looking for Ash instead of a weapon.
The spear came around the bole and Crys leapt high, left hand closing around a branch. Tucking his feet, he pulled himself into the tree, on to the branch – too thin to support his weight – skipped out along it and threw himself off the end even as it began to crack.
He landed in a tumble, came up on to his feet and burst into the clearing. Ash, on his back in the leaf-litter, brawling.
Sword. Crys dived forward, scooped up the weapon by its scabbard and clubbed Ash’s attacker between the shoulder blades as though he was splitting wood, reversed the blade and ripped it free, spun to deflect the spear thrust with the scabbard and punched the sword into the spearman’s ribs.
His attacker dropped his weapon to clutch at the wound and Crys spun again, almost dizzy with it, but Ash rammed an arrow in his enemy’s thigh, fishing for and finding the main artery, and people rarely think about killing someone when their life is pumping out of their leg.
Ash heaved the man off him and staggered to his feet, gasping and wiping blood out of his eyes. Two of the three he’d put down with arrows were dead, the third wounded and trying to crawl to safety. Ash went over and stamped on his back, shoving him into the dirt.
‘Start talking,’ he growled as Crys finished the other two, who were dying already, and then crouched at the injured man’s side. One side of his head was shaved and tattooed with a stylised hare.
‘Shit,’ he breathed. ‘Krikites.’
‘Fucking Rilporians!’ the man raged. ‘The Seer-Mother has forbidden you to set foot in Krike! All Rilporians to be killed on sight. We’ll lend you no aid in your war!’ He had an arrow in his shoulder, through and through, and he was pale with shock and blood loss.
‘The Seer-Mother made this pronouncement, not the Warlord?’ Ash demanded. ‘Who is she to give such orders?’
‘The Seer-Mother sees all, knows all,’ the Krikite snarled, hand clamped around the arrow. He groaned. ‘The Warlord bows to her wisdom.’
‘Wisdom?’ Crys spat as the Fox God rumbled discontent. ‘This is not wisdom. Has the Seer-Mother forgotten her oath to Trickster and Dancer? To me?’
‘You?’ the Krikite tried, but then he squeaked as Crys’s eyes flared yellow. ‘Rilporian demon,’ he muttered. ‘Please. Don’t hurt me.’
‘I’m not going to hurt you, Hare-dream,’ Crys said, touching the tattoo. ‘But the Seer-Mother is wrong in this. Rilpor needs aid and sends me to garner it. I am no demon, Krikite. I am the Fox God and you will lead me to your people.’
‘You what?’ the man asked, and then gasped as Ash snapped the tail from the arrow in his shoulder.
‘Waste of a good shaft,’ he murmured as he bent the man forward and and drew it on through and out, fighting the sucking pull of the flesh. The man screeched and thick pulses of blood leaked from the entry and exit wounds. Ash batted his hand away. ‘Go on, then. Do it.’
Crys put his palms against the wounds and let the light rise. The man’s pain became terror, became awe, and by the time it was done, the fervour of belief shone in his face. He looked at the place where the arrow had been and flexed his arm, then at the newly sealed scar in Crys’s own arm from the spear thrust.
Ash helped him to his feet. ‘When they ask, you tell them the Fox God Himself spared your life and then saved your life. Wait here.’
The Krikite’s jaw was slack and he held out a wondering hand, brushing it gently over the scars on Crys’s chest. ‘I see you, Lord.’
Crys straightened his shoulders. ‘And I see you.’
They dressed hurriedly and Crys looked at those they’d killed, wondering whether he should have tried to save them.
There have to be consequences, the Fox God told him.
Ash buckled his belt and winced as the adrenaline faded and the hurts made themselves known. ‘One way to start a legend,’ he sighed. ‘No healing for me,’ he said, slinging an arm around Crys’s shoulders and pressing a kiss to his temple. ‘I don’t know if you’ve got a limit on that silver light, but use it for something more important than bruises. Besides, sometimes we should hurt. Keeps us sharp.’
Crys squeezed his waist. ‘You’re wiser than you look, heart-bound,’ he said. ‘One of the reasons I love you. But let’s catch up with Cutta before anyone else decides to try and kill us.’
‘Once this one tells his tale to all who’ll listen, we’ll have even more warriors on our side. At this rate we won’t even need to meet the Warlord,’ Ash said as they began walking, pointing to the Krikite now following so closely he almost trod on Crys’s heels.
Crys frowned. ‘No. There’s something I can’t quite put my finger on, but I have to go to Seer’s Tor. There’s something wrong in Krike. All those stories I learnt in the South Rank, everything I told you before Green Ridge about the Krikites and their way of life … well, we haven’t seen any of that, have we? No, there’s something going on here.’ He shrugged. ‘Besides, it’s only fair to meet the man we’re stealing warriors from and give him the chance to join us.’
‘Think he will?’ Ash asked.
‘I really don’t know.’
The Krikite’s name was Sati Hare-dream, and when he burst into Belt Town shouting news of the Two-Eyed Man, Crys was relieved to find Cutta and her warriors already there. He didn’t much fancy explaining having killed four of their number and then asking them to ally with him and Rilpor.
Cutta’s relief at seeing them again was palpable, and it was clear she’d already spent some time trying to convince the town elders of Crys’s double identity, because they didn’t fall about laughing at Sati’s pronouncement.
‘Where is the rest of your hunting party, Hare-dream?’ an elder asked and Ash tensed.
‘In our ignorance we attacked the Two-Eyed Man and his lover,’ Sati said. ‘It was the Lord’s will only I survived.’
I wouldn’t say will, exactly, Crys thought. More like terror. He decided it wouldn’t be particularly godlike to tell them that, though.
‘I would be happy to speak with your priests,’ he said instead. The elders exchanged mutters and embarrassed looks. ‘You do have priests?’
‘The Seer-Mother dispenses wisdom from the tor,’ Cutta said when no one would answer him. ‘I told you this.’
Crys rounded on her. ‘You mean there are no priests left in the whole of Krike, not just Green Ridge? What did you do, kill them?’
‘Of course not,’ Cutta protested. ‘But when the Seer-Mother’s gifts made them obsolete, they were given other work.’
‘Horseshit,’ Ash muttered. Even Dom looked shocked and Crys couldn’t remember an expression other than self-pity on the calestar’s face since they’d left Rilporin. He swallowed bitterness and put him out of his mind.
‘What is a community without priests?’
‘The Seer-Mother dispenses judgement,’ Sati ventured.
‘I did not say judgement; I said community. Your priests are still here – you have just stopped recognising their wisdom. Bring them to me.’
As war leader of the region, it seemed Cutta outranked even the elders, for soon enough an old woman hobbled towards Crys, labouring along the rutted road from a dark, ramshackle house on the outskirts of town. Ostracised. Crys favoured them all with a disgusted look and jogged to meet her; he could hear her whistling breath from ten paces away. He stopped her with a gentle touch and stooped to meet her eyes.
‘Priestess of Trickster and Dancer, I am the Two-Eyed Man and I see you as the vessel through which wisdom passes. Tell me, how can I prove my identity?’
She examined him for long enough that he started to get uncomfortable and doubt began to rear its head. ‘It is for the Seer-Mother to say who you are and who you are not,’ she said in the end, her voice thin as paper. ‘It is she who sees and knows all.’
Crys took her hand, dry as a bundle of sticks, in his and straightened up. ‘Thank you, priestess, but no one is the arbiter of my identity. I ask how you would have me prove it, not whether someone else allows me to be who I am.’ She flinched and he raised her hand to his cheek, acting on instincts that weren’t quite his, despite his fine words. ‘The fault is not yours, priestess. Can you tell me what has happened here, why the Seer-Mother has broken up the priesthood?’
‘I said,’ the old woman began, her voice quavering.
‘And only I am here to listen. I am not Krikite, priestess. You can tell me the truth.’
She sucked her remaining teeth, cheeks hollow, as she examined him. ‘The Seer-Mother has … she has broken our people’s connection to the land and the gods. All prayers must pass through her; all decisions come from her. There is no truth here any more, no reverence. She is the dam that separates us from the river of divinity.’
Her thin chest was heaving under her rags; the grip of her hand was fierce. ‘Save us, Two-Eyed Man. Save us all.’
And there it was, another burden for Crys to bear. And yet how could he say no? If he could do it, then he had to do it. ‘I will go to the tor. I will do all I can to fix this so that you are recognised as priestess again and the land remembers its people and its people the land.’ He kissed her hand. ‘I see you, priestess. There is no dam between us.’
‘I see you,’ she whispered. ‘I see. He is the Two-Eyed Man,’ the priestess called out in a wavering voice. ‘He will restore the gods to us. Follow him.’
A storm of muttering rose from the gathered Krikites, abuse hurled towards the old woman. Crys held his arms out in a barrier as a few began edging forward with clenched fists. Would they tear her apart for daring to speak out? Was this how far their faith had fallen – or been claimed by the Seer-Mother?
Crys headed towards the crowd and they fell back before him. ‘War leader, you will guarantee the priestess’s safety. I want three warriors you trust to look after her while we are gone. This behaviour towards the priesthood – regardless of the Seer-Mother’s pronouncement – is unacceptable.’
