In the Shadow of the Gods

797 Years after the Fall

The Parents wept when they saw what their children had wrought, and they cast the Twins forever from the world so that their stain would be spread no further.

—The Tale of the Fall

CHAPTER 1

Mount Raturo lurched above the forest like an ugly thumb, throwing its broad-shouldered shadow over the trees. Its sides were crisscrossed with hidden paths, crawling all the way to the snow-shrouded peak. Tunnels bored deep into the mountain’s heart, entrances disguised by a long-lost magic. Death lurked in the shadows of path and tunnel, waiting for those who didn’t know the proper words, for those who didn’t speak quickly enough. Dark, hidden eyes watched from every egress, waiting patiently. Bones, human and animal, lay scattered among faint rust-brown stains, among pitted black scorch marks, beneath heartless rockslides. The mountain knew nothing of forgiveness, of mistakes, of second chances.

For Joros, the sight of Mount Raturo sent a rare stab of warmth through his heart. Few enough things could put a smile on his face, but the sight of home after a long journey was one.

This is it? the boy, Ranick, asked, a faint quaver in his voice as he stared up the sheer mountain face.

Do you see another mountain? sneered the woman, Verteira, eyes gleaming eagerly in their blackened sockets. The smattering of bruises across her pale flesh was fading, but slowly. She bore them with pride.

Odaro remained silent as always, his broad face thoughtful.

Watching his chosen three, Joros was pleased. Mount Raturo should bring fear and awe to those who gazed upon it, as it did with Ranick and Odaro. But Verteira . . . she saw Raturo’s existence as a challenge as much as a wonder. Joros had been lucky to find the woman. The Ventallo would be pleased with her, and with him, he had no doubt.

Come, he said, and walked toward the mountain. Odaro followed, tugging the reins of the mule on which Verteira perched, wincing, the fingers of her broken arm clutching at her swollen stomach. Ranick came last, his shoulders hunched as if he could feel the watching eyes. They had come too far, these three, to let fear turn them back now. Their pasts were dead and buried, their only hope the spire reaching up toward the sky to brush the clouds. They followed Joros as he began the long climb, because they had no other choice.

It was hours before Joros paused. His lungs burned, his breath wheezing through his mouth and nose, a stitch sending stabbing pains through his side with each step. His legs were useless lumps, feet slapping clumsily down, teeth rattling with each footfall. Every part of him ached—and he’d never felt so alive. He remembered his first ascent, his feet torn to bloody shreds, hands clawing at his neck with the desperation of too little air. Sweet memories, his finest triumph.

He stopped a moment to let his chosen catch their breath. Odaro was heaving in great bellyfuls of air, a hand pressed to his chest as if to assure himself his heart still beat. Verteira clung grimly on to the mule’s back, face pale, blackened eyes wide, not so fearless as she’d been at the base of the mountain. Ranick toiled a ways behind, half crawling, hands leaving behind red smudges as he dragged himself up the mountain steps.

Joros looked down at the forest, a dark blanket far below, swallowed up by the night. The ground was gone, a distant memory, a legend overheard, a tale to terrify children. The two red points of Sororra’s Eyes hovered above the horizon, glaring over the world as Joros did. He looked up and up, to the light of the moon gleaming off the peak of Mount Raturo. They had a long way yet to go, and he was eager to be out of the cold. Come, he said to the three, and he turned his eyes back to the steps and to the black shape that appeared before him.

The Sentinel loomed over him, blotting out the peak, blotting out the moon, a shape made of darkness itself save for its eyes, which were the blue-tinged color of stars in the night sky. Speak, it grated, voice like crashing stones.

Shock gripped Joros for a brief moment. The black shape twisted, a shadowy limb rising up, fist poised to crush him. The words fell from Joros’s mouth in a rush: Tevarro borine. Long journey, in the Old Tongue. The Sentinel’s head dipped ever so slightly in acknowledgment.

Tevarro borine, Verteira repeated, voice half whisper, half prayer. From behind came Ranick’s high-pitched wail: Tevarro borine! Silent, gaping Odaro stared and said nothing, and Joros smelled the sharp stench of urine.

The shadow moved through Joros, chilling him to the bone, twisting his guts into miserable knots. The Sentinel’s raised fist swung, suddenly terribly solid; Odaro flew, crashed into the unforgiving face of the mountain, and exploded.

Gore flew in every direction, chunks of meat and bone raining around Joros, covering him with a sticky red warmth. A severed hand hit the mule squarely on its nose and it reared, screeching, and tossed Verteira sprawling down the stone steps to fetch up against screaming Ranick. The mule twisted and plunged over the side of the mountain, and Ranick screamed louder. Tevarro borine, the Sentinel murmured, and melted back into the mountainside.

Joros straightened as sick relief flooded through him, and hurried down the steps to help Verteira. If she was dead, it would send all his hopes bursting like Odaro. She lay on her side, but she was already struggling to rise, alive and angry. Are you all right? Joros asked, hauling her to her feet.

No more battered than before. She reached out and gave Ranick a sharp slap across the face, cutting his scream off abruptly.

Then we carry on. You’ll have to walk the rest of the way.

Ranick was shaking badly, and his voice even more than usual. It killed Odaro! he whimpered. "Killed him, killed him—" Cut off as Joros pressed the point of his knife against the boy’s throat.

Yes, Joros said evenly, holding Ranick’s wide-eyed gaze, the Sentinels of Raturo found Odaro unworthy, and he paid the price. You, in your infinite luck, have been spared. He pressed ever so gently forward, the knife’s tip pricking into Ranick’s flushed neck. "For now. I brought you here because I judged you worthy, judged that you had the tiniest trace of a spine. A slow twist to the knife, a drop of blood trailing down the boy’s neck and into the sweat-soaked collar of his shirt. I thought you had more courage than some wailing woman. Verteira sneered at his words, pursed her cracked lips to hawk a gob of spit at Ranick’s feet. She had a sense for theatrics; she’d fit well, inside Raturo, should she make it to the end. Was I wrong?"

Ranick’s head twitched, trying to shake a negative with as little movement as possible.

Because if I was wrong, and Joros twisted the knife back the other way, digging deeper, drawing a choking sort of whimper from the boy’s throat, I can spare you the trouble of having to climb hours more only to die at the hands of a different Sentinel. If you’re as much of a coward as I’m beginning to suspect, that’s the only way this will end, after all. So tell me, Ranick. He held the boy’s eyes, watching the panic wash through him. Are you a coward?

For a moment Joros thought he would start wailing again, and tightened his grip, ready to plunge the knife home. But the boy’s eyes hardened and his back straightened, the knife jerking a shallow slash through his neck. He didn’t flinch. No. I’m no coward.

Verteira spat at him again, and Joros was almost tempted to do the same. But judgment was not his to make, so he pulled the knife away, wiped its bloody tip clean on Ranick’s shirt, and returned it to his belt. Then we carry on.

When do we sleep? Verteira asked.

Joros laughed, and the sound of it tumbled down the mountain like the mule. Raturo never sleeps. Best if you don’t either.

Food, then? We haven’t eaten since last night. She splayed her fingers pointedly against the bulge of her stomach.

If you feel like searching for the mule, I’m sure you can cook yourself a fine feast.

She looked up to the mountain’s peak, so far away; then down, back the way they’d come, not so terribly far when compared to the way ahead. Not too late to turn back.

Joros turned away from her and back to the steps, lifting his aching feet and setting them ever upward. He heard Ranick behind him do the same, scrabbling at the stone. And after a moment, Verteira’s ragged breaths, following.

They climbed as the sun touched the outer edge of the great forest; as the sun beat down mercilessly upon them, not quite enough to burn away the chill that began to seep into their bones; as the sun disappeared once more behind the distant peak, wreathing Mount Raturo in brilliant fire. Joros stopped then, panting, hands braced on his thighs, and gazed out over the southern lands of Fiatera. The forest spread out far below, leagues and leagues of it, trees eventually giving way to the nameless plains beyond, a vast sea of sere grass that slowly faded and died and became the Eremori Desert, a lifeless, blighted wasteland.

Fiatera, the fire lands. Lovingly shaped, as the priests would tell it, by the hands of Metherra and Patharro, the Divine Mother and Almighty Father. Joros heaved in a breath of air and spat over the edge of the mountain. That, for all the Parents’ hard work.

Ranick was drudging behind, of course, but not nearly so far behind as Verteira. Joros sat down on the narrow-cut steps, back resting against the mountain’s face and legs dangling into open air, and glared out over the world. The sun cast Mount Raturo’s shadow farther and farther across the forest, reaching, reaching.

As the sun set, Ranick finally caught up to him, sprawling inelegantly along the steps. Joros cuffed him, growled, Stand. Ranick dragged himself whimpering back to his feet, slumping against the mountain but standing nonetheless.

What do you see? Joros asked as the last traces of sunlight leaked away.

Teeth chattering, Ranick sniffled, The w-world. It’s s-so b-b-beautiful. I f-feel like a g-god.

Night closed its hand, and all was silent halfway up Mount Raturo save for Ranick’s clicking teeth. The forest, plains, desert—all were shapeless, colorless, indistinguishable. A solid black, spreading out in every way to the ends of the world. The mountain cold sank through Joros, blood now creeping sluggish through his veins. His heart thumped slow, steady.

Fecking mountain, Verteira wheezed as she sagged next to Ranick.

Joros breathed in deep, the frosty air searing his lungs. What do you see? he asked her.

She stood at the edge of the mountain, the edge of the world, and was silent for a long moment. Darkness, she whispered. Glory.

Glory?

She didn’t look at him, just stared out over the blanket of the night. There was a man who visited my village, years ago. He called himself a preacher of the night, just like you. Said Metherra and Patharro were doomed, that their Twins would be unbound one day and rise to destroy the Parents’ tyranny. That they would bring down Metherra’s sun and cast darkness over the world. That the heart of every man would be laid bare and judged. That we’d all be made equal under the Twins’ rule. She shivered, wrapping her good arm tight around herself. They drove him out of town, of course, but I always remembered his words. This far above the world, and this dark . . . it almost feels like he was right.

A chill, deeper than the night air, ran down Joros’s arm. A voice murmured in the back of his mind, Her. Joros didn’t bother hiding his relief, lips twisting into a smile. He reached, his cold fingers wrapped around an ankle, and he flung.

Ranick screamed as he tumbled past Verteira, screamed as he fell through open air, screamed long after they stopped hearing him, if Joros was any judge. It didn’t matter.

Verteira gaped at him, eyes wide in their blackened sockets. One, he told her as he rose to his feet. Only one is allowed in. You are judged worthy. His fingers tingled, blood racing into cold flesh. He pressed the other hand against the mountain, and a hidden door of solid rock cracked open to reveal the black mouth of a tunnel. Old magic, woven when gods still walked the earth.

Verteira looked up at him, hard exterior melted away, fear written plainly on her bruised face. What is this place?

Don’t you know yet? He stepped into the darkness.

They walked through the blackness, a dark more solid than any night, until he could hear Verteira’s short sharp breaths hissing shallow through her teeth, her feet stumbling, her hands clutching at his back. Smirking, Joros stopped to light one of the torches placed evenly along the wall. Verteira gasped in relief, shaking hands clutching at her stomach.

Scared? Joros asked her.

No, she lied quickly.

"There are many who find the idea of a darkened world appealing, where all are blind and equal. In practice, though?" The harsh sound of his laugh echoed around them, leading the way as he continued down the tunnel, torch held high, Verteira close on his heels.

Time was meaningless inside the tunnels of Mount Raturo. He was tired, so tired. Three days, at least, they’d been walking. No food, no sleep. Verteira was flagging, bruised ankle dragging, blowing like a hard-ridden horse, black-ringed eyes standing out in her pale face. Joros couldn’t afford to show weakness, couldn’t afford to be weak. He was hollow, empty, legs screaming, stomach clawing at his rib cage. He always forgot how exhausting the return journey was. Forgot how many people died making it, even the ones who’d done it hundreds of times before. The bones were a good reminder. Full skeletons, curled up into helpless balls. Stretched out flat, bony hands reaching toward salvation. Torn apart, scattered, broken. Charred piles of splinters. Fools who’d been too slow to speak, too tired to think. Joros didn’t intend to become just another warning; he was better than that. Atora beyan, he murmured with every footfall, weary eyes flickering at every shadow, every noise. In the Old Tongue, safe passage. In case the shadows moved, solidified, tried to turn him into a lingering reminder for caution. Atora beyan.

Seeker Joros, a deep voice murmured.

Atora beyan! Joros shouted instinctively. As a low laugh sounded, his weary brain remembered that the Sentinels gave no warning. He shoved the torch forward and the light reflected off a doughy face. Sagging jowls, drooping cheeks, piggish little eyes sunk into rolls of flesh. Fraro Borghen. Joros’s lip curled. A pleasure.

The fat man waved his words away, thick fingers made heavier by a king’s ransom in jewelry. "The Ventallo wished me to conduct you into their presence with all haste. They have been waiting most . . . impatiently for you to arrive. What have you brought them this time?"

Joros stepped in front of Verteira. I answer to the Ventallo alone.

Borghen’s layers of fat shifted in what might have been a shrug. Politeness, brother, politeness. It is a skill you could cultivate.

Joros spat at Borghen’s feet and pulled Verteira behind him. He barged past the fat chancellor, who followed with a chuckle.

The tunnel grew gradually brighter, light creeping along the floor, until it opened onto an enormous cavern, ceiling lost in shadow far above, tunnel-speckled walkways spiraling lazily up and down the perimeter. The hollowed-out heart of Mount Raturo. Torches were placed at even intervals, just enough to alleviate some of the gloom. Black-robed men and women walked here and there, all far enough away to make Joros feel like the only living thing in the vast space. He shook off the feeling, and said to Verteira, Welcome to your new home.

We’ll see about that, Borghen murmured.

It was another long walk down, though not so long as the walk up. Raturo was smaller within than without, though one would hardly think it. Verteira looked ready to collapse with exhaustion when they finally came to the end of the spiraling path, the floor of the great cavern.

The walk across the chamber was a sobering one, as it was intended to be. They didn’t speak, and the only sound was the press of their feet against the floor. Verteira walked with her head craned back and mouth hanging open, gaping up at the specks of torches flickering far above, circling into oblivion. Joros kept his eyes fixed straight ahead, on the carved archway. Three times the height of a man, it depicted the Fall of the Twins: Fratarro on the left, reaching up as he fell, pleading for mercy; Sororra on the right, falling headfirst, refusing to look back; and above, haughty and pitiless, the Parents. Joros pressed his fist to his brow as he passed beneath the arch, a gesture of obeisance—not to the sneering Parents, but to the ill-fated Twins. Borghen echoed the gesture, but Verteira’s eyes were fixed on Sororra’s hard, ascetic face.

Beyond the arched doorway was a circular room, claustrophobic after the huge cavern. A curved table dominated most of the room, twenty carved-stone chairs facing the entrance. Nineteen stern faces gazed out at them, nineteen men and women in robes the color of darkest night with the red sparks of Sororra’s Eyes sewn over their hearts.

Borghen stepped forward and swept his low bow. Exalted Ventallo, his voice boomed around the chamber, I bring you Shadowseeker Joros, returned from his foray.

The old man sitting at the apex of the table waved a wrinkled hand in dismissal, and Borghen bowed his way from the room. Joros dropped to one knee, fist to his forehead, and saw Verteira from the corner of his eye laboriously assume the same pose.

Stand, stand, the old man called querulously. Delcerro Uniro, first among the Fallen, was not a patient man. Joros rose, and Verteira glared up at him as though she expected some sort of help. He let her struggle to her own feet. What have you brought us this time, Seeker Joros?

A woman, Reverence. A woman the world has turned its back on. A woman who has nowhere else to turn. He pulled Verteira forward, was pleased at how she clutched at her stomach. This is Verteira. She was cast out by her village, beaten, left for dead.

And why, Verteira, Uniro asked, is that?

To her credit, she held her chin high and met his glare. The midwife said I would bear twins.

A rustle of clothing shivered around the table, a few murmurs, eyes brightening.

Twins? Uniro asked, and a slow smile stretched his wrinkled face. You are welcome to stay here, Verteira, for as long as you may wish. This shall be your new home. He made a discreet motion, and a servant hurried forward to touch Verteira gently on the arm. Tomo will show you to a chamber where you may make yourself comfortable. A midwife will attend to you—and he chuckled, the dry sound of rustling paper—better than the previous one. Verteira looked wide-eyed at Joros as the servant led her from the chamber, an expression almost like fear. Joros turned his eyes back to the Ventallo.

You have done well, Seeker Joros, crooned Ildra Setira, an ancient crone, seventh among the Fallen.

"Very well," put in Dirrakara Quindeira, fifteenth among the Fallen. At thirty years of age, she was one of the few young members of the Vantallo, her skin glowing with health and a mane of red hair tumbling around her face.

Etengro Duero, second among the Fallen, creaked to his feet. You may have noticed, he said, walking slowly around the table, we are short one member. His bony tight-skinned hands rested on the back of the last chair on the left of the half circle, the empty chair.

Poor Tisaro, wailed Saval Septeiro, seventeenth among the Fallen, then winked at Joros.

He was old, Uniro snapped.

We have been watching you, Joros, Dirrakara Quindeira said, dark eyes fixed intently on Joros. "Very closely."

You have done great deeds, said Shuro Noviro, ninth among the Fallen, bouncing with excitement. "Brought many new initiates, spread the old stories far and wide, and now . . . this!"

Twins! Setira said wonderingly. You have been a shadowseeker, what, three years?

We are pleased with all we have seen, said Valrik Trero, third among the Fallen, though he sounded less than pleased.

"Very pleased," Dirrakara added.

"Oh, so very pleased," Saval mimicked with a broad grin.

The Ventallo need a new member, Uniro said impatiently. Joros felt his mouth going dry, his hands beginning to shake. He clasped them quickly behind his back.

And we are thinking, said Deuro, pulling the empty chair scraping back, that it should be you.

Uniro didn’t smile, but his wasn’t a face for smiling. What say you . . . Joros Ventiro?

Will you join us, Joros Ventiro? Dirrakara purred.

A mighty responsibility, Valrik Trero cautioned, and one not all are capable of taking.

We think you are, though, Saval said. Twentieth doesn’t do much anyway. Mostly cleaning chamber pots and the like.

Uniro glared down the table. Fraro Septeiro jests, of course. But we are wasting time. What is your answer, Joros?

Joros swept a graceful genuflection—the one he’d practiced. He pressed his knuckles to his forehead, trying to suppress the grin that threatened to split his face.

It was about damned time.

Exalted Ventallo, he said formally, I am honored by your offer. It has always been my greatest wish to serve the Fallen, and it would be my deepest pleasure to continue serving in a higher capacity.

That’s that, then, Uniro said, pushing back his chair and rising to his feet. Who will stand for him?

I will, Saval said quickly. Joros and Dirrakara Quindeira both gave him a faint glare, though he seemed oblivious to it.

Very well, Uniro said as he hurried around the table and toward the great archway. We’re finished here, he called over his shoulder as he left.

The rest of the Ventallo shuffled out, some pausing to offer congratulations. Quindeira gave him a look that promised they would see more of each other.

Saval Septeiro fidgeted impatiently until they were alone, then puffed out his cheeks in a mighty sigh. As you can see, meetings are all terribly boring. But bureaucracy is what it is, eh? There are other things that keep us busy. Come on, then.

There was a wooden door fitted into the wall behind Uniro’s chair, hidden in shadow. Saval pulled a dull metal key from the neck of his robe and inserted it into the lock. "Only the Ventallo are allowed in. You’ll have your own key, of course. Don’t let anyone else know about it, and don’t ever let it out of your sight. They’re so very serious about secrecy. That’s the hallmark of the Ventallo. Poroshen, newest brother. Secrecy. Though I’m sure you know enough about that, with all your shadow scouring."

Does the door actually open? Joros snapped. Or does that key just open your mouth?

Saval laughed, a startling sound in its sincerity. Joros couldn’t remember the last time he’d heard a real laugh anywhere near Mount Raturo. I knew I was going to like you, Saval said, and swung the door open.

Joros could feel a headache building. Whoever had carved out the innards of the mountain had had an overreaching fondness for circular chambers. This one was low-ceilinged, lit by a single hanging brazier, the fire whispering in the quiet of the room. Below the brazier was an enormous, unadorned stone block, hip-high and at least as long as Joros was tall. Just visible within the brazier’s circle of light were a number of doors set into the wall. Twenty of them, Joros soon saw, each carved with an unnecessarily large numeral. The closest on the right, which Septeiro went to, was numbered 20.

Yours, Saval said.

My, how complicated things are here.

Smirking, Saval pulled a key from the hook set above the door. It was strung onto a dirty, fraying piece of rope, and Joros wrinkled his nose as Saval offered it. Paryn, the former Ventiro, is a . . . very austere man, shall we say? All about simplicity. He has one robe he’s worn his entire life, and has never washed it once. You’ll want to make sure to stand upwind of him. Come on, take this, put it on a nice chain or something. It’s yours now, your most sacred possession. At least until one of those corpses decides to completely fall apart and you move up to Nodeiro. Then you get a slightly shinier key. They say Uniro’s key is made of solid gold, though I doubt old bird-neck could carry it around if it was.

Grinding his teeth and doing his best to ignore the incessant babbling, Joros inserted his key into its lock. The heavy wooden door swung open on squeaking hinges to reveal a small room lit by a pale blue glow. A desk was the room’s only furnishing, not even a chair to sit in. There was a book on the desk, thick and dusty and older than death, and quill and ink. And there was the source of the strange light: a tall, translucent candle burning with a steady blue flame. This flame, too, seemed to whisper, a soft hissing sound that slowly grew louder, more insistent. The throbbing in his temples deepened, not quite pain but annoyingly close.

The ice candle, Saval said, walking to the desk. Valrik made it when he was Quindeiro, years and years ago, but it’s not ready yet for wider use. There are advantages to leading the Fallen—we get shiny things before any of the others. The light will help with all the reading you’ll be doing. He patted the thick book, smirking. This lists all the farmers and hunters and fishers who keep Raturo fed. You’ll be overseeing them all, making sure they send us enough food and in a timely matter. You’ll also send preachers out to remind the farmers of their duties, if they get lax. And they will—they always try to take advantage of the new Ventiro. Don’t show them any bend and they’ll straighten out.

Joros could feel a cold disappointment creeping through his stomach. A decade of dedication to the Fallen, and this was his reward? He put a hand to his forehead, trying to press back the growing headache. So I’m a clerk now? he growled.

"Oh, nothing so banal as that. You’re an important cog in the machine, brother. That’s all anyone is. You’ve gone from a tiny cog to a slightly bigger one, take heart in that. You can only grow from here. And it’s only a matter of time until one of the Ventallo finds their dinner poisoned, or a knife to their neck. We’re a constantly squabbling little family. You have nothing to worry about right now, of course, but once you move up . . . well, you learn to place your trust carefully and keep your back to the wall. Anyway, you’ll rise faster than you think. Just scribble and count for a while, and know that it’s all toward the greater purpose."

The greater purpose, he mocked, but the whispering was too distracting to formulate more of an insult.

Saval grinned, a feral gleam in his eyes. One had to be crazy, Joros supposed, to be able to laugh inside Mount Raturo. "Oh, goodness me, did I forget to mention that? Oh yes, littlest brother, there is a greater purpose. The greatest of purposes. He flipped open the cover of the giant ledger, crooked a finger beckoningly at Joros. It’s written here, a constant reminder so you know what you’re working toward. So you know what machine you’re propelling, little cog." His finger tapped against the page, and Joros leaned over, squinting to read in the pale light.

The page was artfully illuminated, a colorful depiction of Sororra and Fratarro. In every other portrayal of the Twins, they were either falling, cast from the heavens by their holy Parents for the sin of wanting more to their lives than they had been given, or wrapped in chains, bound in a place deep beneath the earth. This, though, showed them free, broken chains dangling from their wrists and ankles, Sororra swallowing the Mother’s sun, Fratarro holding the Parents by their throats. And in bold, flowing letters across the top of the page was written Freeing the Bound Gods.

Joros looked up at Saval, frowning. You act as though this is some great revelation. They’ve been chanting this at me since I got to the top of Mount Raturo. The Bound Gods are a . . . a symbol— Gods, his head hurt, and that damned whispering. Something you can shout about to keep the sheep in line. They’re not real.

"Oh littlest brother, oh tiny cog, you have so much to learn." Saval turned and walked from the room, back into the antechamber and straight to the stone slab; Joros remained in his new chamber, frowning down at the ice candle. It wasn’t the candle flame whispering, he could see that now, but try as he might, he couldn’t find the source. His attention was pulled away by a new sound, low and grating, and he turned to watch Septeiro in the antechamber.

The man had his hands pressed against the stone block, and Joros soon saw it wasn’t a solid mass of stone, but a box. The top slid effortlessly aside, seemed to lower itself gently to the floor, and the whispering grew louder, fiercer, a babbling of soft, desperate voices. Saval smiled, that crazy light in his eyes again. Joros’s head felt like it was about to split, and he thought, There really is no dealing with fanatics.

Come, brother, Saval murmured, his voice carrying under the whispers, eyes fixed on whatever was in the box. Come see the glory entrusted to the Ventallo.

This is ridiculous, Joros said, but the voices that were just beyond hearing were pulling at him, the throbbing in his skull pulsing in time with the incomprehensible words. His feet moved, and he stood next to Saval, and he looked down into the box.

Charred black and as long as the box, longer than a man, it was hard to recognize. But there was an ankle, there the smooth curve of muscle, there a toe the size of his hand. A leg. And the raw, rent flesh where it had been torn brutally away. The voices coalesced, crescendoed, broke over Joros in a single wave that commanded in a voice deep and desperate and lonely, Find me.

Into the silence that left Joros reeling, Saval whispered, And thus did Fratarro shatter upon the bones of the earth . . .

. . . his limbs flung to the far horizons, Joros finished, the words learned so long ago, a child’s parable.

Not so far after all, Saval said, smiling that mad smile, and impossibly, Joros felt his mouth matching shape.

CHAPTER 2

Apounding at his door awoke Kerrus, and his breath formed a heavy mist before his face as he let it out in a frustrated sigh. Can’t sleep a whole night through, gods help me . . . he muttered as he swung his scrawny legs over the edge of the bed, toes quickly finding his fur-lined boots. Coming, coming! he groused as the pounding continued. He pulled on his thickest coat and mittens before setting his hand to the door’s cold handle, but the thing wouldn’t budge. Grumbling more, he put his shoulder to it, and after a few hits that left his old bones feeling bruised, the snow that had been keeping the door shut gave up its hold. The winter air rushed in to swallow what little warmth had built up, and snow crept in to touch the toes of his boots. An eye peered at him from the darkness beyond the cracked door, and thin fingers helped Kerrus pull the door wider.

Mora, with her hair wild as the nest of a psychotic bird and her eyes almost as wild, said in her low voice, You gotta come, Parro. There’s trouble.

Kerrus sighed again. The Parents’ work was never fecking done. He