Ashoka fell quiet, gazing up at the kingly statue. It was as though I fell out of his awareness, disappearing along with the city in the fading sunlight. In Phyreios, he and I had barely spoken—until the very end, he believed in the might and benevolence of the Ascended, so we had little to speak about. He’d called Khalim a charlatan and a sorcerer, and me a barbarian. I’d had no kinder terms with which to address him, though I’d had few occasions to do so.
But here stood a man with a familiar face, who had seen the triumphs and the horrors I had seen. Here stood a man whose gods had betrayed him. Though the animosity between us remained, filling the temple’s air with a tension like a taut bowstring, I could not yet bring myself to turn from him.
“You haven’t found a god here?” I asked. “I count seven.”
His aquiline nose wrinkled. “Seven gods. A king and a queen, a warrior and a smith, a navigator and a dancer and the keeper of the dead—just like the Ascended. I wonder which came first.” He shook his head. “I have no more reason to trust these gods than I did the Ascended. Less, in fact. I spoke to the Ascended. I heard their decrees and stood in their presence on many an occasion. I cannot say the same for these gods.”
“It’s better this way,” I said. “Let the gods stay in the world beyond the world. We have enough troubles here without their meddling.”
Ashoka tore his eyes from the statues and favored me with a raised brow. “Meddling? And this from a man who wishes to enter their realm and steal a soul from them?”
I scowled. “I think of it as undoing their meddling.”
“Call it what you like,” Ashoka said. “The gods give and the gods take away. I would have thought that someone so well-traveled would have learned that by now.”
I took a step closer to him, petty pride flaring in my chest as he shrank away, one hand falling to his side where his sword hung ready. I had beaten him in a duel once, and he hadn’t forgotten. “And I thought you had learned the circumstances in which they must be overthrown,” I said.
He fixed me with a steely glare and said nothing.
It was almost fully dark by now, and I had a long walk ahead of me, but still I hesitated. If I left Ashoka here, would I ever see him again? Would it be such a great loss if I didn’t?
He was no longer a servant of the Ascended. He had rejected them, once he could no longer reject the evidence of his eyes, and he had taken his people to safety. Many in Phyreios could not say the same. Even at the end, there were men in the same armor that he wore standing guard outside the colosseum, turning aside anyone who would put a stop to the slaughter within. Ashoka did not deserve my disdain.
“I wish you luck in your search,” I said. “I hope you find a god worthy of you, in this world or the next.”
I turned to go.
“Eske,” he said. “Wait.”
I stopped. A priest with a bent back shuffled between the statues, lighting candles at their feet. When the wind stirred the flames, the carved faces almost appeared to move.
“You’re a fool, Eske of the North,” Ashoka said.
Perhaps I had been too generous with him. “There are worse things,” I said.
“Let me finish.” He glanced at the priest. The old man kept to his task, making no sign that he could hear us. Ashoka turned to me, his dark eyes cold and serious.
“You’re a fool, Eske of the North,” he said, “but you were once an honest man, and I can only assume you’ve remained so, as you’re unafraid to speak ill of the gods in their own house.”
“That isn’t much of a compliment,” I said.
Ashoka shook his head. “It wasn’t one. Do you believe that you can cross over into the realm of the gods? That you can retrieve the soul of your companion and return to this world?”
That drew the attention of the priest. He raised his head, holding the long match up like a weapon. I nodded toward the door, and Ashoka followed me out.
Bran looked up as we approached, his ears flicking back and forth. He scuffed the pavement with one hoof.
“I’d thank you not to tell anyone else,” I told Ashoka, “but yes, I do believe it. I must believe it, or all the work I have done these past years has been in vain, and there’s nothing left for me to do but wait for my eventual death. Beyond that, however, I believe it because this world is filled with wandering gods, and magic-workers who study all things permitted and forbidden, and the bravery of heroes and the faithfulness of lovers. How could I not believe that such a thing is possible?”
Ashoka’s angular face, as sharp as if he had been chiseled from the same stone as the statues in the temple, softened just slightly. “You may be right. I must warn you, then, not to consort with the sorcerer in the tower. The people in this city speak of him. They say he has cheated his way out of death on a score of occasions. They say he is already dead, but clings to this world by means of forbidden arts. They say he has bound a spirit of the water to his will and keeps her as a servant.”
“His servant is only a child,” I said, “as much flesh and blood as you or I. As for the rest, I cannot say. I can only swear to you that I will spend no one’s blood but my own.”
His hand rested atop his sword. “I will hold you to that promise,” he said. “If I find out that you have broken it, I will have to kill you and your magic-working friend, or die in the attempt.”
I held his gaze and nodded, slowly, so that even in the darkness he could see that I acknowledged him. “I would expect no less.”
***
I returned Bran to the stable and walked to Deinaros’ tower under the light of a half-moon. I found Cricket asleep under the stairs, her head on a book. Its pages overflowed with added notes and illustrations, scrawled messages and geometric patterns sticking out and fluttering with Cricket’s slow breathing. Had Deinaros finally relented and allowed her to read one of his many books—and well past when a child her age should have been in bed, no less? I took her extra dress from where it hung above her head and pulled it over her shoulders like a blanket.
When I awoke the next morning, Cricket was gone, though I could hear her moving about on the floors above. Two full waterskins and a number of parcels of grain and dried meat awaited me by the tower’s door.
And so, Bran and I left the city of the seven distant gods and headed north, leaving both Deinaros and Ashoka to their own devices. I expected Ashoka would move on by the time I returned, continuing his search for a better god than the Ascended, and leave my tenuous connection to the sorcerer in peace.
The city streets gave way to a rocky plain, and then to forest, all golden and emerald green in the sunlight. The song of unseen birds accompanied us as we walked.
It was a more welcoming place than the southern forest, where the sun never reached the roots of the trees, but a lingering sense of trepidation followed my every step. I was certain I had seen this place before, perhaps in a dream—but I could not remember when. Somewhere beyond this land, and beyond the northern mountains, my homeland sat amongst the rocks on the shore of the winter sea, but I had never come this way before.
I was on my way to fetch the last artifact Deinaros needed to open the way. I told myself not to worry. I had Bran and my harpoon, and enough supplies for a month on the road. I had nothing to fear.
Back to Chapter LII: A Temple of Faces
Forward to Chapter LIV: The Ring-Fort
Not as much progress this week, but I’m still trucking along. I’ve finished the arc you’re just about to start here! Thanks for reading!
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