The Darkness Comes (The Second Book of the Small Gods Series) (13 page)

“All right, then. Vote says we search here.” Dansil strode into the street, headed for the nearest building, Strylor following close behind.

Osis stepped up beside Trenan and waited for his word.

“Do me a favor, Osis,” Trenan said staring after the other two men. “Don’t let me kill him until we find the prince and princess.”

XI Danya - The Mother of Death

A weighty hush of death hung in the air, the woman’s small and rasping breath the only thing disturbing it. Danya wondered, if the old woman were to pass, would the chamber become her tomb? Around her, she sensed the masked girls, but none of them moved and she couldn’t remove her gaze from the Mother of Death.

Small red veins snaked across the woman’s nose and pallid cheeks; three short hairs grew from a dark patch on her skin near her ear. The princess couldn’t imagine how many times this Mother might have seen the seasons turn. Danya leaned toward the masked girl who’d led her to the temple.

“Is this the barren Mother?”

The old woman’s eyelids slid open as though the princess had spoken magic words meant to rouse her from her sleep. The clouded eyes beneath, gray with age, moved unerringly to find Danya’s. When her gaze fell upon the princess, she drew a heavy breath in through her vein-covered nose and released it slowly. Her colorless lips parted in the middle, the corners remaining closed as though stuck together.

“I am not the Mother you seek, lass.”

The woman’s voice was no more than the sound of wind through dry grass, yet her words were clear. Danya’s heart sank.

They brought me here for nothing.

“Not for nothing, princess—you’re the one for whom we’ve searched.”

A chill crawled along the surface of Danya’s skin. What form of evil allowed this old woman to know her thoughts? And why had they been searching for her?

The Mother of Death’s mouth curled ever so slightly at the corners, as though she intended a smile. Danya blinked once and it disappeared.

“Why have you brought me here?” she demanded.

Her voice—too loud for the quiet room—bounced from wall to wall. The masked girl at her side laid a hand on the princess’ arm and leaned close to her ear.

“Sshh.”

Danya shot the girl an angered look, then returned her gaze to the so-called Mother of Death. The old woman’s eyes had slipped shut again, as though they weighed more than a woman of her age could manage to hold open for too long.

“A barren Mother, the seed of life.” The words floated up from the woman’s barely moving lips. “Do you understand what they speak of, princess?”

Before she thought about what she was doing, Danya responded by shaking her head. When she realized her mistake, she parted her lips, but the old woman interrupted.

“These are important words; words that may decide the fate of the world.”

The icy feeling crept across her flesh again; the princess stared at the woman’s wizened face.

“You were right in coming here.” The Mother of Death opened her cloudy eyes. “The barren Mother serves the Goddess, but she is not here. She is lost.”

Danya shook her head, unable to accept that the woman knew of her quest. Did she know about Teryk’s death, too?

“Your brother is not dead.”

Mouth agape, Danya faltered back a step. The masked girl who’d escorted her grasped her arm to steady her. The room spun around the princess as though she’d been drawn into the swirl of a whirlpool; her stomach lurched and her breath fled. A gray fog crept into the edges of her vision and she reached out to support herself on the masked girl. Bent at the waist, she gasped for air, struggling to fill her lungs and come to terms with the words the old woman had spoken.

If he’s alive, then I left him behind.

The thought echoed through her head like the toll of a death bell. It might have overcome her if she let it, but she clung to one word to find her center again:
alive.

The vertigo passed and Danya straightened again, released her grip on the masked girl, though the girl’s remained. She used her sleeve to wipe a chilling sweat from her brow and stepped back to the side of the bed to gaze upon the old woman.

“The brigand who stole Godsbane said they killed him. How could he be alive? How do you know?”

The Mother of Death didn’t respond. Her murky eyes remained fixed on the ceiling above as though seeing visions in the grain of the wooden beams. Danya waited, her breath made small and quiet lest the woman spoke, but she didn’t.

“I have to find him.”

“No.” A skeletal hand darted out from beneath the blankets to grasp her wrist, the skin stretched thin, the veins beneath prominent and blue. It was cold. “He has his own path, and is not meant to follow yours. Finding him would divert both of you. All would be lost.”

“I don’t understand.” Danya shook her head, looked at the woman’s long and knobbed fingers. “The scroll speaks of the firstborn child of the rightful king. If Teryk lives, there’s no part for me to play but to support him.”

“There’s much you don’t grasp.”

The room fell into silence, save for the rattle of the woman’s breath in her chest. The light of twelve candles flickered across her sallow cheeks sending tiny shadows dancing in her deep wrinkles. Danya stared, waiting for her to say more, to say something other than vague riddles meant to frustrate her. Enough time passed that the princess thought the old woman might have slipped into slumber, but still no one moved. Eventually, she spoke again.

“Searching for the barren Mother is the right path, princess. Your task is to find her. We will help.”

“But how? You said she is lost.”

“You were chosen for this for a reason.”

The old woman’s breath hitched in her throat. She gasped and coughed, spraying spittle across her chin. One of the masked girls kneeling near the curved wall shifted, handing her taper to one beside her, then stood. She drew a cloth from her sleeve, hurried to the bedside, and wiped the Mother of Death’s chin before returning to her place and taking back her candle. Danya watched in disbelief—would the king be treated this well were he so ancient?

“What reason?” the princess asked when the old woman again seemed as though she’d volunteer no more information.

“Your gift.”

Danya narrowed her eyes. “What are you talking about? I have no gift.”

“No? What did you see while standing on the bridge and peering into the river?”

The princess’ throat clogged and dizziness threatened to return, but she concentrated on the woman’s frigid grip on her wrist to keep herself grounded. She’d put the hallucination from her mind, dismissing it as caused by the grief of losing her brother. Her lips parted to say what she saw was merely that, but again the Mother of Death spoke before her.

“It was no hallucination, princess, but a vision. If the evil already in motion isn’t stopped, the river will run red as it did the night the Goddess banished the Small Gods, but this time with the blood of man.”

Danya swallowed hard, remembrance of a disembodied head floating past on the river’s current, dead eyes staring at her, then rolling away only to stare at her again. Then she remembered the body of a child.

“A vision?” she whispered.

“Your gift. It is what allowed you to read the scroll. The Goddess has blessed you, but with it comes responsibility.”

The princess raised her gaze to the old woman’s face and saw her head had shifted, her milky eyes fixed on Danya’s. She didn’t know if the Mother of Death saw her through those carapaced orbs, but it felt to her as though she did.

“Will you accept the blessed responsibility the Goddess has honored you with, Princess Danya?”

Danya continued to stare, her breathing shallow as her mind turned from the vision in the river to her brother. If he had a role to play and she didn’t fulfill hers, what would happen to him? Would he survive? Would he save the kingdom from the return of the Small Gods? She waited for the Mother of Death to hear her thoughts and respond, comfort her, but silence engulfed the room. Its heaviness weighed on Danya like a mail shirt crushing her chest. When it became too much to bear, she nodded and whispered:

“Yes.”

The corners of the old woman’s lips twitched like she wanted to smile but no longer possessed the ability to do so. Her grip on the princess’ wrist tightened, squeezing it in thanks, and then she released it and drew her twisted hand back beneath the blankets. A long exhalation sighed out of her chest.

“Make her ready for her journey, Evalal. You will accompany the princess.”

“Yes, Mother,” the masked girl who’d brought Danya to the temple responded.

She pulled on the princess’ arm to guide her away from the bed and toward the door, but Danya hesitated, her head spinning with everything that had happened. Despite Teryk’s faith, she’d continued to wonder if they should give any credence to the words written on the scroll. After all, they did not name Teryk or their father, nor the age in which its prophecy might transpire. She’d thought to continue what her brother started to honor his memory, not because she thought it might be real.

And now it is.

She was unable to remove her gaze from the old woman. The girl pulled more insistently and the princess finally allowed herself to be drawn away. Her stomach ached with shock and excitement, sweat moistened her palms. When they reached the door and the girl stopped to open it, Danya turned back toward the old woman.

“Why are you called the Mother of Death?”

No one moved or spoke and Danya wondered if the old woman had heard. Perhaps she’d fallen asleep, but after a few heartbeats, the same gaunt hand with which she’d gripped Danya’s wrist slipped from under the blankets and one bony finger gestured. A masked girl kneeling by the wall passed off her taper and stood, went to the bed. Danya watched the girl grasp the blankets near the old woman’s chin and pull them down, exposing the Mother of Death.

Naked beneath the covers, the flesh on her arms and legs hung loose from the bone. Her emaciated breasts sagged beside her chest and blue veins showed through skin as brittle as antiquated paper. The hallmarks of age, but the woman’s protruding belly snatched Danya’s attention and made her mouth drop open. Fly wing-thin skin stretched tight over her abdomen and the princess saw a hint of movement beneath.

The Mother of Death—the woman more ancient than Danya might imagine—was pregnant.

XII Teryk - Healer

An uncomfortable sensation tingled along Bieta’s flesh, raising the hair on the back of her neck. She rubbed the heel of her palm against the smooth, pink flesh where once she’d had an eye, glanced toward the lad with the one she still possessed. His features held a familiarity, she had to admit, one she didn’t notice until searching for it.

“Couldn’t be,” she said, breaking the heavy silence in the small room. “Not even a low-level noble’d be traipsing around the outer city. You’re making this shite up.”

Enin shook his head. “Ask yourself this, Bieta: why would a merchant speak the name of the princess?”

“Why does anyone speak anyone else’s name?”

“Because they know them,” Enin insisted. “When did you last utter the words ‘Princess Danya’?”

She shrugged. “Not sure I have.”

“Exactly.”

“Doesn’t mean no one else does. Could be he sold goods to her. Or she commissioned him to make a necklace and it’s weighing on his mind that he ain’t delivered it yet. Guilt’s got him for lying around doing nothing other than bleeding instead of getting to the task at hand.”

“Judging by the state he’s in, I don’t think he’s too worried about work.” The horse doctor scratched his sharp jaw. “No, he called out for someone he knows. His sister.”

Bieta wiped damp palms on the front of her smock, her mind racing through possibilities. If the lad was a merchant, they could get a few gold for him in ransom—up to a hundred, she figured, depending on which family he belonged to and what he sold. But if he truly was the prince, the amount might be thousands…tens of thousands.

Enin took a step away, skirting the table. Bieta fixed her gaze on him, squinted her one eye.

“Where d’you think you’re going?”

“I don’t want any part of this,” the horse doctor said before taking another step back. “This can’t be anything but bad.”

“Stirk,” Bieta said over her shoulder, and her son was up and reaching for Enin in an instant.

The horse doctor made a break for the door, but Stirk snagged him by one sleeve, pulled him to a stop. The expression on Enin’s face suggested he was considering to pull away, but the shorter man’s greater bulk convinced him not to bother.

“You want me to kill him, Ma?”

They fell quiet for a handful of heartbeats, the injured lad’s labored breathing the only sound as the horse doctor’s gaze flickered from Stirk holding his arm to Bieta. Enin’s lower lip quivered; Bieta rubbed her gums briskly with the tip of her tongue.

“You can’t,” Enin said finally.

Stirk yanked on the sleeve of his shirt, making the taller man stumble, but he didn’t fall.

“Course I can,” Stirk said, eyeing the tall, skinny man. “I’d break you in two like a twig.”

“That’s not what I mean.” He nodded toward the injured man. “He’s going to die.”

Bieta stepped forward, rested her hand on Stirk’s arm. Her son didn’t release the other man, but he didn’t rip any of his limbs off, either.

“What are you talking about? You sewed him up and put that gunk on him. Ain’t that going to fix him up?”

“It’ll stop the bleeding and heal his wound on the outside, but he’s bleeding inside, too. If it keeps up, he’ll die.”

Bieta leaned closer to him, pressed her teeth tight together. “Well, fix him, then.”

“I can’t. The insides of a person and the insides of a horse aren’t the same.”

“Then you ain’t no use to us,” Bieta said. She glanced at her son. “Kill him.”

A smile stole across Stirk’s lips and he raised his hand, fingers curled into a fist. He cocked his arm back.

“I can get you a healer,” Enin cried before Stirk swung his blow.