Jay Lake - Green

“Come on,” I said. “To the tent. Either he’ll kill us, or he’ll let us off our feet.”

My poor friend grunted, but he followed.

I did not even try to avoid the lightning. To what end? It belonged to Choybalsan; he could lift it or not as he pleased. Approaching the ring was a very strange thing even so. My mouth began to taste of metal. The hairs of my skin stood stiff. My head felt dull, while the air had a strange, empty, ringing quality.

We stumbled through the line, our strides so shortened by the ropes binding our ankles that we were almost hopping. Neither of us was struck down, though the thunder robbed me of my hearing. The tent was perched in the center of the circle, round with no ridge to speak of and a roof like a cap.

I pushed through the flap. Septio came so close behind me, he nearly knocked us both down.

A large black rock stood at the center of the space within, flanked by two poles. The rock appeared bubbled and burned-a fallen star. I’d never seen one, but one of Mistress Danae’s books had contained a lengthy disquisition on the stones of heaven and how the gods must live in an iron house.

The walls were hung with horse blankets and a few ripped tapestries looted from some manor house. Likewise the floor of blankets and carpets with rushes strewn over them. A low backless seat was set before the stone.

We were alone in the house of the king who would be god. Or possibly the god who would be king.

Goddess, I prayed. I do not ask You to deliver me, for that is my test. Nor for courage, as that is my test as well. Lend me what strength and wisdom You have to give. Tears welled in my eyes. Spare a measure of grace and mercy for Septio, if his god has not already cared for him.

Federo stepped around me and looked me over carefully. For one strange moment, I imagined a rescue had come. Then I realized he was not wearing a suit, nor a decent set of robes, but the leather trews and thick felt vest of the bandits who rode in Choybalsan’s train. Unlike them, he was unarmed.

He also appeared far less strained than he had back at the Textile Bourse.

I sagged in the face of such betrayal.

Then he took my chin in his hands and tipped my face up for inspection. That old, old insult brought me back to myself.

I snarled: “So you stand midwife at the birth of godhood?”

“Do not presume, Green,” Federo said softly.

“Then where is he?”

Federo sat on the chair with his back to the skystone and spread his arms. “Choybalsan, the bandit chieftain.”

Bound hand and foot, they had still left me the good, hard bones of my head. I hopped toward him with an angry roar and tried to butt him in the face. His moment of poise spoiled, Federo leapt up and tripped me. I fell forehead first into his plain little throne and smacked myself so hard I saw lightning all over again.

He bellowed incoherently as I rolled onto my back. My vision was doubled, but that was still enough to see Septio lurching toward Federo. The traitor sidestepped the priest, who staggered slowly around the altar, circling the tent and crying. Blood ran freely from his mouth now.

Federo began to laugh.

Enraged, I managed to bend nearly double, then lash a kick that took Federo off his feet. Bound and stunned, I had no follow-through. If my head had been more clear, I would have cursed every god ever born. Instead, I lay gasping while Septio waddled up to Federo and tried to lean over him.

The bandit-king held up a knife as my boy lover toppled. The point took Septio in the belly. A killing wound, but painful and slow. In the worst cases, the wounded might live for days while their belly dissolved into burning stench.

Federo pushed Septio away, then climbed to his feet. He took up a corner of carpet to wipe the blood and bile off his blade, his arm, and his vest. Septio began to retch.

“He is nothing.” Federo leaned close. “Not like you. I shall let you watch him die.” He stroked my hair. “Don’t go far. I’ll be back soon. You have kept something I need very badly, dear Emerald.”

I watched him walk out of the tent. My head still reeling, I began to plot the most elaborate of deaths, slow agony that would give even Blackblood’s priests pause. When my head had finally cleared enough for me to move, I crawled across the rugs to Septio.

He lay with his eyes closed. I could see he still breathed. The wound reeked of bile and shit. Which made sense. Federo’s knife hand had angled down from the entry. That would mean a quicker death, at least.

“Septio,” I whispered.

He did not stir.

“Septio.”

Another slow, ragged breath.

“Septio!”

Still nothing.

I wriggled close and kissed the blood from his lips. He moaned a bit at that, but did not wake.

Pain might be his sacrament, but a gut wound was still a nasty death at the best of times. If he bled out quickly, he could die a little easier.

I raised my wrists behind my back, until my elbows stuck out. Throwing my shoulders back and forth, I tried to see how much clearance I could get on one side. My joints burned, but an errand of mercy needed doing.

Slowly I moved past him until my elbow was level with his ear. I raised it again and rocked myself hard to my right, trying to catch his head in the triangle formed by my bound arm and the side of my body.

It took me three attempts, sweating and crying, but finally I had Septio’s head clutched close. I squeezed and rolled hard to my left. Not hard enough, for he cried out.

Once more.

“I am so sorry,” I whispered, and thrashed with such strength that I broke his neck. Then I could not free myself. I lay there with his body clutched close and wept a long while.

Later I realized I could no longer hear thunder outside. The tent, quite dim when I had first entered, was now dark. My elbow was still caught around Septio’s head. The smells of his death had long since eroded my senses. My body was so stiff and numb that I doubted I’d be able to move at all should Federo bother to free me.

Grief and betrayal warred in my head, so I fought them with the skirmishes of logic.

If Federo were a traitor, why send for me at all? He would have been safer with me forgotten across an ocean’s distance. I could play no role in the affairs of the Stone Coast from Kalimpura.

If the Dancing Mistress knew Federo was a traitor, heir to the old Duke’s magic, why did she not tell me at the first? Perhaps she had come across the sea despite him, to bring me back in hopes of finding some chink in his armor. I did not know whose wishes had prevailed, but I also did not think she had lied to me. Certainly she had not told all, but omission was not the same as deception.

We wouldn’t have spent so much time casting about Copper Downs on our arrival if the Dancing Mistress had known with certainty where the rot was. In point of fact, I had asked that we not go straight to the Interim Council.

Finding who had played whom false was a skein not easily unraveled.

I worried instead at the reasons anyone would have had to come find me. That I had no love for Copper Downs would have been obvious to all who knew the truth of my life. No one could expect me to set myself at risk for the city. They could not have known, after all, that the Goddess would command me as She did.

Or that I would obey.

That made me laugh, and laughter made me cry. The grief slipped back in unawares and broke down the armies of my logic for a while. The one small comfort it brought was that the spasms of my arms slipped me free of Septio’s head.

I would have kissed him again then, but my body would not move for all the money in King Pythos’ vaults of legend. I had no sensation in my arms, and my legs were like blocks of wood shot through with ants. A corpse could hardly have felt much less.