Of all the strange things that Deinaros had told me, and of all the evil that I had seen in the pages of his book, nothing disturbed me more than this key he asked me to retrieve. A blade of obsidian glass must have traveled far to end up in the forests south of my homeland, where the earth lay steady beneath one’s feet and the fires at the heart of the world slept without waking. In all its wandering, passed from hand to wicked hand, it carried the lingering miasma of spilled blood. What sorcery had caused this? Surely, the knife had been used to take innocent lives—why else would it be afflicted so?
I steeled myself and held my tongue. Deinaros’ face, at the same time ancient with archaic knowledge and unlined with youth, betrayed no emotion. He stared at me without blinking.
This is a test, I thought. Is he judging my loyalty and willingness to obey, or am I meant to recognize an evil relic by its description, and refuse to lay a hand on it?
“What will you do with it, if I bring you the key?” I asked.
“I will open the door,” was his only reply.
If I’d had any other choice, I would not have associated with magic-workers such as Deinaros, who could not answer a simple question without posing another riddle. “I’ve recovered the mirror for you,” I said. “Before you send me on another perilous quest, I’d ask that you explain exactly what this ritual entails.”
“You wish for me to open the way to the land of the dead,” Deinaros said with a quirk of one ink-black brow, “to the realm of the so-called gods. You offer your labors in exchange. What use is it to you to know the tasks I must complete and the magics I must weave? Your understanding is not required—only your cooperation.”
He paused, touching his hand to the edge of the mirror’s corroded frame. “Unless you wish to abandon our bargain. You are welcome to seek another way across the barrier, of course. Though I doubt you will find one. I am the last of the students of Maponos. Of all the people who walk the earth at this present time, I am the only one who can use his tools.”
And because he had neglected thus far to educate Cricket, his apprentice in name but a servant in deed, in the use of these tools, he would remain the only one until he finally met his death.
I could seek out the cursed blade. Better it enter my custody than remain in the world where any villain could grasp it. If I needed to remove it from Deinaros’ hands later, it would be easier to find in this tower than it would be in the forest.
I had not yet asked the obvious question. “Why does the blade smell of blood?”
Deinaros waved a dismissive hand. “Magic is a tricky thing. It acquired the odor after years of use, if my memory is correct. I can tell you more once it is in my possession, if you wish.”
“I only wonder if it has been used to spill an inordinate amount of blood,” I said. “Evil deeds have their ways of being found out.”
“No more so than any other knife, I would imagine. Though I have not seen the blade nor heard tell of it for many years.”
“And this ritual?” I asked. “When you open the way, will it require blood?” That, I decided, would be my limit: I would risk no one’s life but my own. I was not the Ascended, to demand the blood of others for any purpose, let alone my own gain.
“No,” Deinaros said. “That will not be necessary.”
Relief washed over me like a high tide. If his answer had been different, I would have walked away—but I knew not where I would go. I was already so far from everything I had ever known and anyone I might have called a friend—other than my horse.
“I’ll fetch your knife, or your key, if you prefer,” I said.
“Excellent,” said Deinaros. “I’ll have the girl gather your provisions. You’ll depart before the week is out.”
I could tell when I was being dismissed. I left the sorcerer’s study and descended the stairs to the ground floor, where Cricket had divested herself of her noisy decorations and was hanging herbs up to dry underneath the steps. A hazy, green smell filled the room.
“I’m going to see to my horse,” I told her. “Will you leave a light on for me?”
“I suppose I can,” she said, not looking up from her work.
I walked out into the early evening sun. Gallia was a beautiful city when the light fell across its towers, but I feared its beauty was no less an illusion than that of Svilsara in the desert. Phyreios had been beautiful, as well, even as the blood of its people drained from the center of the arena to the chamber beneath, where its gods used it to wake the creature asleep beneath the mountain.
I had placed my trust in a man, rather than a god. I could only hope that doing so would serve me better. Deinaros had some power—his uncanny, ageless face was evidence enough—but he wasn’t divine. He had no worshipers. Even Cricket, young as she was, understood that he was only human. He would die someday, and she would rule the tower and its resident monsters, any sign of which I had yet to see.
Bran’s mood had visibly improved in his short time away from the ship that had brought us back. He was eager to leave the stable, standing still long enough for me to put his bridle on before he set off at a brisk walk onto the street. I followed, letting him do as he pleased.
He wandered toward the market, and I purchased an apple for him and another for myself. We turned north again, crossing the lattice of lengthening shadows that lay over the city. Alas, there was nowhere nearby where Bran could run, and his hooves beat a restless rhythm against the uneven cobbles.
“Soon, we’ll be in the wilds again,” I promised.
As the sun sank beyond the distant hills, and its light faded into a shade of bloody crimson, I found myself standing before the temple of Gallia’s seven gods. A long, long time ago, my friend Aysulu had told me that the gods of the West were numbered like the Ascended, though they did not walk amongst their people like the Ascended had done in Phyreios. We had been told at the start of the tournament that Phyreios was blessed above all cities not to have to petition distant gods with prayers and incense. I had come to believe that the farther one was from the gods, the more fortunate one could be.
I left Bran beside a patch of overgrown grass and climbed the stairs to the open doorway. I passed beneath an arch of pale marble into a vast dome, stained red in the sunlight passing between the columns that supported it. A sprinkling of dry leaves skittered across the floor.
Opposite the door, the statue of a man gazed down upon the handful of petitioners milling about at his feet. He carried a scepter in the crook of one arm, and stretched the other out across the dome, his fingers spread. The woman to his right carried a sheaf of grain, and the man to his left held a sword aloft, all carved in the same white stone. There were seven in all, their faces all exquisitely sculpted, as though they were only seconds away from smiling at their worshipers.
Had the statues I had passed by in the desert once held such detail? I could count the eyelashes on the smith-god’s face and see the wear on her marble hammer.
It mattered not. Here were the seven gods of the West, resplendent in the seat of their power. I approached the statues, my footsteps loud under the dome of the ceiling. The statues towered above me. My neck ached with the effort of looking up to take in their great height, some five or six times the height of a man.
Another petitioner came to stand beside me. “Magnificent, isn’t it?” he said.
His voice was familiar. Where had I heard it before?
I turned to him. He was dressed in a simple robe of undyed linen that fell to his knees, and his boots had been restitched a number of times. The dust of the road was still on them. A curved sword hung from his belt, its leather scabbard embroidered in golden thread. His hair was long and a glossy black, tied back at the nape of his neck, and his face was all sharp angles etched in a rich, flawless red-brown.
I knew this face. This was Ashoka, champion of the Ascended and favored son of Phyreios. As his gods turned against their people, he had left their service at last, leading refugees out of the city. He had cast his weapons at Khalim’s feet, there at the gate, and I had not seen him since.
“Eske,” he said. “I’m surprised to see you here, at the other end of the world.”
“Not as surprised as I am to see you.” I hadn’t thought of him since the fall of Phyreios. He might have died in the conflagration, or been crushed when the worm emerged from the mountain, and I would have been none the wiser.
“Why are you not in Phyreios?” Ashoka asked, turning his head to regard the statue once again. “I have heard tell that your companion reigns as a king there. I thought you’d be enjoying the spoils of your victory.”
I looked away. “There was no victory in Phyreios. You should understand that better than anyone.” I took a breath, and a pain without origin shot through my chest. “The man on the throne is not Khalim.”
“Then I was mistaken,” he said. Outside of the depths of his despair, betrayed even by the gods he had worshiped all his life, this was the closest he might have ever come to an apology. I had not known him well, but I knew of his pride.
“What are you doing here?” I asked.
The ghost of a smile flickered across his face. “I might ask you the same thing.”
If it was to be a duel of questions, then so be it. I had nothing to hide from this man. “I have traveled the length and breadth of the world to find someone who can help me bring Khalim back. I’ve finally found one who has the knowledge I seek. He lives in this city, on the cliffs facing the sea.”
“Bring him back?” Ashoka echoed. “Back from where?”
“The land of the dead, the realm of the gods,” I said. “He did not die, but he was taken from me. That is why a man with his face sits on the throne of Phyreios.”
Ashoka considered this, a frown troubling his chiseled features. “Then you’re consorting with the sorcerer in the tower,” he said.
“You know of Deinaros?” I asked.
“Only what I have heard from the priests here,” he answered. “He has lived for hundreds of years, and those who enter his tower are never seen again. I suppose you might be the exception.”
It seemed that no one could tell me of Deinaros, least of all the man himself. “I’ll be cautious,” I said.
“Caution may not save you. Still, it’s no concern of mine how you spend the hours and years of your life,” said Ashoka.
“Neither is it any of my concern what you do with yours,” I said, “but I hope you’ll indulge me, nonetheless. Why are you here?”
He regarded the towering statue of the marble king once more. “I’m searching for a god,” he said. “But I do not believe I have found one here.”
Back to Chapter LI: Friendlier Shores
Forward to Chapter LIII: Departing Once More
Just a little pause before Eske heads out on his next arc. Thanks for reading!
Also, a brief update: I have 10 chapters left in my outline (which has a total of 68 chapters and 6 interludes).
Space Whales Press 
2 thoughts on “Journey to the Water Chapter LII: A Temple of Faces”