The Darkness Comes (The Second Book of the Small Gods Series) (32 page)

“Sorry, little feller. It don’t appear you’re gonna be headin’ home.”

XXXII Danya - A Public Execution

The princess barely found a wink of sleep the night after digging up the seed. She’d been allowed to keep it with her, perched on a table beside her bed at eye level, and she’d spent most of the night staring at the dim light reflecting in its dark surface. She imagined shapes and faces in it—Teryk, Trenan, a child with gray skin, a woman with her hair cut close to her scalp, and what appeared to be a living statue. When first the image of her brother and the master swordsman showed themselves, she assumed the visions to be figments of her imagination, but she’d never seen the others who appeared in the dark surface.

The next morning, Evalal gathered the princess, clothed her in a red robe over her armor and weapons, and led her from her room. No one else accompanied her and the girl who wore a constant smile on her unmasked face, a pouch hanging at the princess’ waist the only other item they took. It bounced against her hip as they walked, the Seed of Life’s smooth oval hidden within.

Danya didn’t bother asking Evalal where they were going; they were seeking the barren Mother—she who’d bear the fruit of the Seed of Life. Where they might find her, neither of them knew, but it was the task laid before them.

The path out of the temple seemed too quick and uncomplicated. After the circuitous path they’d followed to arrive at the Mother of Death’s room, then the room overlooking the courtyard, she presumed half a day’s travel to find their way through the temple’s knotted maze.

Two turns and a long hallway ending in an unassuming door led them out.

They passed across the threshold and—impossibly by Danya’s estimation—into the same alley which they’d followed to enter the temple. The princess stopped and stared back at the door.

“How is this possible?”

Evalal pulled the painted mask she’d worn before from under her robe and glared at it in her hand, the smile disappearing from her lips. Danya thought she hadn’t heard her question, but she didn’t ask it again. The girl raised the mask toward her face but paused before pulling it on.

“Put your hood up,” she said. “There may be watchers.”

Danya nodded and pulled the cowl of the red robe onto her head as Evalal donned the painted face. The princess realized the girl hated having to wear it but made the sacrifice for the greater good.

“What are watchers?”

“People who don’t agree with what the Goddess stands for,” she said, voice muffled behind the wooden mask.

“And what’s that?”

“Preventing the return of the Small Gods.”

Evalal headed up the alley leaving Danya to follow.

***

Danya thought the red robe the Mothers provided her as a disguise might be the worst possible garment for avoiding attention. Anyone watching could easily pick her out of a crowd—precisely why they’d chosen it.

“The red robe is worn by members of the temple who are deathly ill,” Evalal explained through the red-painted smiling lips when Danya asked. “They are escorted from the temple to keep others from falling ill, too. The red robe warns people to stay away.”

“And where are the sick taken?”

Evalal answered the question with a silence that made the hairs on the back of Danya’s neck quiver.

The girl led her along streets and avenues she’d never seen before and, without exception, everyone they encountered gave the red robe a wide berth. Evalal kept them to the sparingly used lanes, but they encountered many citizens about at this time of the day.

And they all seem to be going the same direction we are.

They didn’t veer from their path, following along with the crowd flowing through the streets, their numbers swelling as they went. Ahead, the narrow street widened into a small square jammed with people. Evalal didn’t stop when they reached it, but the princess did. She stood on her toes to peek over the sea of bodies crowding the open area in front of her. The girl stopped when she realized Danya had.

The princess stood straight, the thongs fastening her sword’s scabbard to her leg beneath the robe digging into her thigh as the muscle flexed with the effort. At first, she saw nothing and a knot threatened in her calf, so she lowered herself again. She looked to Evalal, who shot her a disapproving expression, then bounced up onto her toes once more. This time, she spied a wooden platform through the crowd, the kind one might stand upon to make a speech. She wondered who the orator might be.

They didn’t need to wait long to find out.

An armored man vaguely familiar to Danya walked up the steps onto the platform, a length of rope trailing from his hand. A woman who looked as though she’d seen better days followed, her wrists bound. Behind her, a large man made his way up the stairs, a scowl on his face and the rope tied awkwardly around his forearms. Danya stretched farther and realized it was because he had only one hand.

“What’s happening?” the princess asked.

Evalal came back to stand beside her, but made no attempt to see past the press of bodies crowding the square. She grabbed Danya’s sleeve and tugged, attempting to get her moving again.

Before the girl answered, another man climbed the stairs onto the platform, and this one Danya recognized as one of her mother’s personal guards. She didn’t know his name, but she’d never liked the man. The princess’ brow dipped.

What is he doing here?

Her gaze swept across the front of the crowd. Did his presence indicate the queen might be here? Surely not; Danya couldn’t imagine her mother coming to Sunset. Jeering men made up the crowd’s front line, their fists raised and shaking. The queen wasn’t present, and the princess was about to settle back and allow Evalal to lead her away when her eyes found a one-armed man she’d recognize anywhere.

Trenan.

The master swordsman climbed onto the crowded platform, a steely expression pressing his lips tight. She’d seen him angry before, but nothing like this. The glint in his eye reminded her of the way he’d looked the night in the tavern.

“Evalal,” Danya said without removing her gaze, her voice quiet. “What is going on here?”

This time, the girl let her hand drop away. Danya glanced at the painted mask with its inane expression but perceived something else in the young girl’s eyes.

“An execution.”

A chill finger touched the nape of Danya’s neck, sending goose bumps racing along her arms and bitter saliva flooding her mouth. She looked hurriedly at the group standing on the platform, saw the way the woman hung her head and realized tears dampened the one-handed man’s cheeks.

“Impossible,” she said, looking back to the girl. “No one has been executed in the kingdom since before my birth. My father has forbidden it.”

Evalal shook her head. Danya’s mouth went dry and she resisted the urge to lick her lips. Though the crowd did their best to keep their distance from the red robe, the sharp tang of their unwashed bodies penetrated her nostrils and threatened to roil her stomach.

“It can’t be.”

Danya glared back at the platform and noticed the guard who served her mother had forced the woman to her knees, hiding her behind the crowd of bodies. With a crooked smile on his face, the soldier pulled his axe from its sling, raised it above her. The buzz running through the crowd hushed to a murmur and the air grew heavy with anticipation.

“By order of the king, these two kidnappers are to be punished,” Trenan said, his voice clear and hard. “They are to pay with their lives.”

The last of the murmurs died and the crowd went silent. Trenan faced the guard and nodded. His blade fell, sunlight catching its edge, the faint whistle of steel cutting the air and a frightened sob from the one-handed man the final sounds Danya heard before the crowd erupted in cheers.

Though she didn’t see the result, the thought of what happened brought a bile-flavored knot to the back of the princess’ throat. Its pressure increased when her mother’s guard raised the blade, showing the blood on its edge to the frenzied mob.

The crowd in front of her waved their arms, obstructing her view. Evalal took the opportunity to grab her arm and pull her away. This time, Danya allowed herself to be led but kept glancing back. They’d gone five paces when the crowd lowered their arms again and she glimpsed the platform once more. The man had disappeared, presumably forced to kneel as the woman had been before her.

Trenan held Godsbane in his hand.

Danya’s heart jumped as he raised the blade and the crowd hushed again. The master swordsman’s face bore no sign of a smile as had the guard’s. Instead, his expression was grim—the aspect of a man who had no relish for what he must do. The cords in his neck stood out as he prepared to strike the killing blow.

“Trenan! No!”

The words escaped Danya’s lips before she had time to decide if speaking them was the best course of action. The master swordsman’s head snapped toward her, eyes searching the crowd. She froze, knowing the red robe’s cowl would hide her face, but wanting to raise her hand and let him know she was there.

Trenan lowered his blade and jumped from the edge of the platform into the crowd. The people at the front fell over each other hurrying out of the grim-faced soldier’s way.

Evalal’s grip on Danya’s forearm tightened to the point of pain.

“Hurry,” she said, tugging on the princess to follow. “He must not stop us from finding the barren Mother.”

Danya’s mind raced. Trenan would help, wouldn’t he? His duty had always been to give Danya and Teryk whatever they needed, to support them and teach them. If ever Danya needed him, this was the time.

But that wasn’t the whole truth. The master swordsman worked for the king, not the prince and princess. If Teryk was dead, or alive and missing, their parents would want their children returned to them, not left to wander the land in search of phantoms and legends. Finding them and returning them would be Trenan’s duty.

With a breath tasting of despair, Danya hurried after the girl, fleeing from the one man who might be able to aid her in her search for a woman she couldn’t be sure existed.

XXXIII Horace - Gettin’ Out

The circle made outta people cinched tighter ‘round Horace and Thorn. The ol’ sailor moved the two o’ them back a step, but it weren’t no good with more town folk directly behind them, too.

Horace’s gaze flickered from person to person and found a smatterin’ o’ women amongst the men, but only the boy what they’d come upon first. No babes-in-arms, no little ones toddlin’ ‘round or pickin’ up clods o’ dirt and tryin’ to eat them, just the one boy o’ eight or ten turns and a bunch o’ grown-ups what, upon closer inspection, bore a strikin’ resemblance to each other. Horace dragged the back o’ his hand across his lips, wipin’ away nervous spit what made its way out.

“We don’t mean no harm,” he said, disappointed with himself at a waverin’ in his tone. “We didn’t intend on visitin’ your little town. Found ourselves here, is all.”

One man standin’ right in front stepped forward, away from the others. Horace’s muscles went tense, readyin’ to defend if necess’ry, but he weren’t sure what they’d use for the purpose. Neither he nor Thorn had no weapons, and near thirty-five turns o’ the seasons aboard one ship and another never did nothin’ to improve his fightin’ skills. He curled his fingers up into fists, anyways—sometimes you get lucky when you take a swing.

The feller stopped before he got close enough to throw a punch; he didn’t have a weapon in his hand nor carry any at his waist, neither, so far as the ol’ sailor saw. He stood a couple hairs taller’n the other fellers—same height as Horace—and wore his face shaved clean the way all o’ them did. His breeches was black, his shirt white, and they both looked as shiny and new as the buildin’s ringin’ the town square. Horace’s gaze moved to the next feller, then back, then to the man on the other side before returnin’ to the stepped-forward one. The three fellers might’ve been brothers.

“Mister,” Horace said, raisin’ his hands defensively. “We ain’t—”

“Who are you?” The man’s voice came out flat, emotionless.

Horace touched his hand to his chest. “My name is Horace. And this is…” He hesitated, gulped back saliva flavored with nerves. “My son, Rilum.”

Horace didn’t need to glance at Thorn to know the little man were smilin’ up at him; the gleam o’ sunlight reflectin’ offa his teeth practically blinded him. It did nothin’ to ease his concern o’er their current situation.

“You are not of Haven,” the monotone voice said.

“No.” Horace considered the statement a might curious. He’d only have to count his fingers five, maybe six times and he’d have the number o’ people in the circle ‘round them accounted. “I…we’re from the Horseshoe.”

The stepped-forward man’s head tilted and a brow moved up his forehead in the direction o’ his dark hair what were the same color as all the others gathered ‘round.

“Horseshoe?”

Horace raised his own brow in return. “The Horseshoe. You know: where the king o’ the Windward kingdom sits on his throne.”

The man didn’t untilt his head. Were it possible they’d come so far that these people didn’t know ‘bout the Horseshoe? No, weren’t no way. Couldn’t live Windward and not have the taxman from the Horseshoe pay a visit. Horace’d crewed a few ships what’d transported them bloodsuckers along the coast, takin’ whatever coin they could get from people what worked hard for it and couldn’t afford to give it up.

“You don’t know ‘bout the Horseshoe?” Horace did his best not to sound disbelievin’, but didn’t think he’d done a very good job, so he decided to try somethin’ else. “The last place we was at were called Millstream. It’s ‘bout eight sunrises walk from here.”

The man shook his head. Beside Horace, Thorn rocked back and forth the way a little one might when needin’ to make water soon or it’d be runnin’ along the inside o’ his pant leg. The ol’ sailor resisted the impulse to direct his gaze toward him to see what were goin’ on.

“Nobody has ever come to Haven.” The man’s unemotional voice came out a drone.