The Darkness Comes (The Second Book of the Small Gods Series) (14 page)

The stocky man hesitated, tilted his uncertain gaze toward his mother. Bieta jammed the heel of her hand into her eye socket again, its movement synchronized with her tongue darting through the space between her teeth.

“Why didn’t you say so before?” She gestured at Stirk with her chin and he lowered his fist but didn’t release his hold on the horse doctor’s sleeve.

The fear etched into the lines on Enin’s face dissipated and his expression morphed into a smirk. Bieta didn’t appreciate this new look; it brought a shiver to her spine.

“I didn’t realize how much he might be worth until I saw it was Prince Teryk,” he said, his words measured. “Half that sort of ransom might set a man up for life. Two lifetimes, perhaps.”

Bieta’s brow creased, making the shiny scar on her eye tighten uncomfortably. “What do you mean?”

He shrugged. “I don’t imagine you’re planning to walk him back to the Inner City gates and hand him over, otherwise you’d have done it already. That means you see him as a money-making venture. You’re a shrewd business woman, Bieta.”

A tickle of pride at the horse doctor’s words made the corner of her mouth twitch, but she kept it from breaking out into a smile. Better men than he had done their best to charm her and failed.

“Maybe I am, maybe I ain’t. Either way, it’s got nothing to do with you.”

Enin raised one brow. “Except I’m the only one besides you and your oxen son who knows he’s here. Am I right?”

“Stirk.” Bieta frowned and nodded. Her son raised his fist again, but Enin didn’t so much as flinch at the threat.

“He’s going to expire without help. Then he’s worth nothing but the trouble of disposing of the corpse.”

“The river ain’t so far away,” Stirk growled.

“Shut up, Stirk,” Bieta said.

Her son’s threatening expression drooped while Enin’s smirk remained. Bieta regarded him for a moment, resisting the urge to scratch her eye. She tapped her foot and crossed her arms in front of her chest.

“What is it you’re suggesting?”

“I’ll get you a healer to make sure he lives long enough to get your ransom.”

Enin paused, looked at the injured lad. Bieta followed his gaze, saw the sweat dampening his brow, the sickly hue of his pale skin.

“And?”

“In return, you’ll give me half the gold.”

“Half?” Bieta barked. “Half? You’re already getting this.” She waved both her hands along her body.

Enin shook his head. “You can keep your wares. I can buy all I need with my share of the ransom.”

Bieta pursed her lips, biting back an angry retort. The horse doc never minded her wares the times she put his too-small-for-his-body man thing through the space between her teeth. But with so much gold at stake this was no time for pride.

She glared at him, waiting for a sign that he’d relent in his demand. In the time she’d spent collecting coin in exchange for her favor, she’d gotten a good deal of practice at negotiating. No one wanted to pay what you asked, so you always asked for more than you wanted, and they’d always offer less.

“We’ll split it four ways: one for you, one for Stirk, and two for me for thinking up the plan.”

“Only one for me?” Stirk said. “But I lugged him here.”

“And you’ll likely have to lug him again. Just shut up.”

Stirk gazed at his feet.

“Give me a third and you two can fight over splitting the rest,” Enin said. “For that, I’ll bring the healer and my lips are sealed on the matter forever.”

She crooked a brow. “Why should I trust you?”

“The same reason I can trust you…there’s a lot of gold to be had.”

Bieta put her thumb in her mouth to rub the flesh between her teeth, but the sour taste of dirt and sweat made her take it out again. She peered at the lad, disappointment churning in her belly, but the truth of it was, two shares of a mess of gold was more than the whole pot of a little gold. Or none, if he died.

“All right,” she said, nodding to Stirk to release the horse doc’s sleeve. “You’ve got yourself a deal.”

“I’ll get the healer right away.” Enin smoothed the wrinkles from his sleeve where Stirk’s fingers had bunched it. He took two steps toward the door.

“Hang on,” Bieta called after him, his hand halfway reached out to open it. “Stirk’ll be going with you to make sure you don’t come back with a squad of See-Gees instead.”

“As you like.” He dipped his head in a mock bow. “But I don’t think the reward they’ll offer is near as much as the ransom we’ll get.”

“No matter. I can only trust you when I can see you, and Stirk here is my other eye.”

Stirk glared at him, but Enin only nodded again and pulled the door open a crack. He peeked out, saw no one in the alley, and went out, Stirk hard on his heels. The door closed again, throwing Bieta back into the relative darkness of the flickering taper. She crouched beside the lad, dabbed his forehead with the cloth still wet with his sweat.

“Prince Teryk,” she cooed. “A pleasure to meet you, m’lord.”

***

Darkness. Heat. A bolt of pain.

Teryk’s throat wanted to cry out in agony, but he had no control over the actions of any part of his body. He felt himself twitch and jerk, shiver and quake. A ringing in his ears led to a pounding in his head. His blood scraped through his veins as though loaded with shards of steel swept up from the blacksmith’s floor and emptied into his heart.

Sounds came to him through the ringing, voices he didn’t recognize speaking words he didn’t understand. He longed to answer them, to communicate, to beg for relief, but had no voice of his own. He trembled and occasionally moaned, the sound coming from his throat surprising him whenever it did.

After a time that might have been very long, the thunderous torment gripping him eased, the roar in his ears lessened to a hum, the hammering in his skull became a pulse. The shivering and trembling and shaking ceased, leaving him with the sensation of floating atop the pain, its waves licking at him like he was a boat and it was the sea.

The sea. The man from across the sea.

The thought came to him from out of nowhere—words he suspected he should recognize but didn’t understand why. He focused on it, using it to distract him from the sensations in his body, and other words materialized, none of them making any more sense than the first.

Barren Mother.

Small Gods.

Darken’d wings.

First born child of the rightful king.

The last words sparked regret in his chest, a feeling of a task he was meant to carry out but remained undone. He didn’t know what.

What child? What king?

The thoughts were the first of his own, made by him with purpose and meaning, unlike the words that appeared in his mind. Hazy images followed them: a scrap of blue paper, an ornamented sword, the face of a young woman.

Danya.

The name, the face. Warmth filled the prince’s chest, spilled along his limbs. It comforted him, soothed his pains, eased the tension filling his body. Breath flowed more readily in and out of his chest. Danya’s face drifted in his mind, smiling and laughing, taunting him to go for a swim. He saw himself jumping in the river, experienced the jolt of cold water on his skin, and the shock of it brought everything back to him.

The scroll. The prophecy.

If he’d had the ability to sit up or to cry out, he’d have done so but, though his mind was coming back to him, his body remained rogue. He concentrated on his limbs, but to no avail. His mouth refused to move; even fluttering his eyelids proved too much.

I have to find Danya. I have to tell her.

The thought came to him without understanding of what he needed to tell her. He abandoned his attempts at moving, focusing instead on the one thought.

What am I supposed to tell her?

Pain jarred him again, more intense than before, and the thought fled his mind, chased away by overpowering darkness.

***

Bieta watched the robed figure lay hands on the injured lad, wondering less about the ritual performed than whether the healer be man or woman. Silky hair flowed past narrow shoulders. Delicate features and high cheekbones showed not a hint of whiskers. Yet an energy surrounded the healer that made Bieta suspect a cock and balls dangled behind the robe.

“What payment will the healer expect?” she asked leaning toward Enin. Stirk stood by the far wall, facing away from the healer, eyes closed. “I don’t want to give up more of the gold we’ll get for him.”

The horse doctor bent closer to Bieta, spoke in lowered tones. “The healer has no interest in gold.”

She nodded, understanding his meaning. The payment she’d intended to give the horse doctor for stitching up the lad would be transferred to the healer, then Bieta would find out for certain if the robe hid the parts of a man or a woman. Didn’t matter to her—she’d make payment either way.

The prince’s body jerked under the healer’s hands and Bieta gasped, startled by the sudden movement. His body remained tensed for longer than seemed possible, then the robed figure stood, breaking the connection with the prince. His back remained arched for two beats of Bieta’s heart, then finally relaxed, settling back onto the pile of dirty straw. The healer stood gazing at the lad for a few breaths, then faced Bieta.

No one spoke. Stirk remained facing the wall and Bieta thought Enin might be holding his breath beside her. The healer’s glimmering eyes held her attention as they regarded her expectantly.

“Done?” Bieta asked.

The healer nodded once.

“And he’ll live?”

The healer nodded one more time.

“He’s my nephew,” Bieta lied. “My sister’d hate me if she found out what happened.”

The healer’s expression remained unchanged; his placid but intense gaze didn’t move from the woman’s face.

“Time for payment, I suppose.”

No response.

Bieta crossed the short space between her and the healer and sank to her knees. She drew a deep breath, readying herself, and wondered which set of parts she’d find beneath the robe.

“Bieta,” Enin said behind her, but she ignored him.

Her tongue rubbing back and forth on the skin between her teeth as though preparing it, Bieta reached out and grasped the front of the healer’s robe.

“Bieta.”

She waved her hand, signaling for the horse doctor to keep his comments to himself, and gripped the front again. The healer didn’t move or react in any way, so she figured she’d made the correct assumption about the payment due. She parted the robe and gasped.

The flesh between the healer’s legs was a puckered, pink scar, similar to Bieta’s eye. The woman stared, surprised and sickened, but found it impossible to tear her gaze away. No hair grew through the shiny skin, and nothing left behind indicated whether the original equipment had been a man’s or a woman’s. The cauterization that had kept the healer from bleeding to death rendered the spot where his or her legs met unrecognizable but for a tiny hole left through which to piss.

Bieta finally dragged her eyes away and found the healer smiling at her.

“The healer has no interest in your sort of payment,” Enin said.

Bieta let go of the edges of the robe, allowing them to fall back into place and hiding the hideous scar. As she stood and took a step back from the healer, she imagined she detected the scent of burnt flesh.

“What are you?” she whispered.

“It matters not,” the healer said in a voice neither male nor female, possibly either. “The requested healing is done and payment is due.”

Bieta’s lips moved, opening and closing a few times, but no sound came out. Her tongue worked furiously between her teeth.

“What payment do you require?” Enin asked on her behalf.

In response, the healer raised one arm, extended one finger. Bieta followed it, found it pointing at Stirk standing with his eyes closed and his nose almost touching the wall.

“You want my son?”

“Not all of him,” the healer replied. “One part.”

Bieta looked at her son’s back and shuddered.

XIII Damya - The Garden

The hallway’s turns and switchbacks twisted Danya’s sense of direction, making her feel she’d be hopelessly lost without Evalal’s sure steps leading her. They climbed steps, descended flights of stairs, turned corners, went through doors and seemed to walk a great distance, though the building hadn’t appeared so large on the outside. When the princess realized they’d passed no windows, she guessed they must be traversing an underground labyrinth. She might have been concerned about their destination if what she’d seen didn’t consume her thoughts.

How can it be?

She had no doubt the woman had been with child—she’d seen tiny movement within her distended belly—but she was far beyond her childbearing seasons. The wrinkles on her face, the gauntness of her limbs, the wisps of gray hair, all suggested age greater than anyone Danya knew. If she was as ancient as she appeared, could this be a blessing from the Goddess, as the masked girls believed?

“How old is the Mother of Death?” the princess asked as they descended another set of stairs.

“No one knows for sure. Even she has forgotten.” Evalal stopped before a wide door, hand poised on the ring. “I’ve been told she’s been here more than fifty turns, and she was beyond the seasons of honoring the Goddess when she arrived.”

“Where did she come from?”

“I don’t know.”

Danya swallowed hard as Evalal pushed the door open a crack. She put her hand on the masked girl’s arm to stop her and asked the question burning in her mind.

“What happens to her children?”

The girl faced her, eyes peering through the wooden mask’s holes alight with the tapers’ reflected light. When she spoke, she did so in hushed tones.

“All are born dead. They go to the market to fund the temple.”

She pushed the door open without waiting for Danya to reply and stepped through, leaving the princess on the threshold, mouth open and a sickened feeling throbbing in her gut. She stared at the back of the girl’s head before movement in the room jarred her attention away.