The Crippled God

Her gaze faltered.



‘Who are you?’ he asked.



‘Don’t ask me that. I see that question in every face. They all look at me. They say nothing.’ She hesitated, staring down at her hands. ‘It was the Shadow Dance. It was every Shadow Dance.’ She met his eyes suddenly. ‘It wasn’t me. I just slipped back, inside, and just like you, I watched.’



‘If not you, then who?’



‘The Rope. Cotillion, the Patron God of Assassins.’ She grimaced. ‘He took over. He’s done things like that before, I think.’



Henar’s eyes widened. ‘A god.’



‘A furious god. I – I have never felt such rage. It burned right through me. It scoured me clean.’ She unhooked her belt, tugged loose her scabbarded knife. She set it down on the blankets covering his wounded chest. ‘For you, my love. But be careful, it’s very, very sharp.’



‘The haunt is gone from your face, Lostara,’ said Henar. ‘You were beautiful before, but now …’



‘An unintended gift, to be sure,’ she said with some diffidence. ‘Gods are not known for mercy. Or compassion. But no mortal could stand in that blaze, and not come through either burned to ashes, or reborn.’



‘Reborn, yes. A good description indeed. My boldness,’ he added with a rueful grimace, ‘retreats before you now.’



‘Don’t let it,’ she snapped. ‘I don’t take mice to my bed, Henar Vygulf.’



‘I shall try, then, to find the man I was.’



‘I will help, but not yet – the healers are far from finished with you.’ She rose. ‘I must leave you now. The Adjunct.’



‘I think Brys has forgotten me. Or assumed me dead.’



‘Don’t think I’ll be reminding him,’ she said. ‘You ride at my side from now on.’



‘Brys—’



‘Hardly. A word in private with Aranict will do the trick, I think.’



‘The king’s brother is collared?’



‘Next time you two meet, you can compare shackles.’



‘Thought you disliked mice, Lostara Yil.’



‘Oh, I expect you to struggle and strain at your chains, Henar. It’s the ones we can’t tame that we keep under lock and key.’



‘I see.’



She turned to leave the hospital tent, saw the rows of faces turned to her, even among the cutters. ‘Hood’s breath,’ she muttered.



Pleasantly drunk, Banaschar made his way towards the command tent. He saw Fist Blistig standing outside the entrance, like a condemned man at the torturer’s door. Oh, you poor man. The wrong dead hero back there. You had your chance, I suppose. You could have been as brainless as Keneb. You could have stayed in his shadow right to the end, in fact, since you’d clearly been finding it such safe shelter for the past few months .



But the sun finds no obstruction in painting you bright now, and how does it feel? The man looked ill. But you don’t drink, do you? That’s not last night’s poison in your face, more’s the pity . Sick with fear, then, and Banaschar dredged up some real sympathy for the man. A stir or two, clouding the waters, dulling the sharp edges of righteous satisfaction.



‘Such a fine morning, Fist,’ he said upon arriving.



‘You’ll be in trouble soon, High Priest.’



‘How so?’



‘When the wine runs out.’



Banaschar smiled. ‘The temple’s cellars remain well stocked, I assure you.’



Blistig’s eyes lit with something avid. ‘You can just go there? Any time you want?’



‘In a manner of speaking.’



‘So why do you remain? Why don’t you flee this madness?’



Because Holy Mother wants me here. I am her last priest. She has something in mind for me, yes she does . ‘I am dreadfully sorry to tell you this, Fist, but that door is a private one, an exclusive one.’



Blistig’s face darkened. There were two guards outside the command tent, only a few paces away, well within earshot. ‘I was suggesting you leave us, High Priest. You’re a useless drunk, a bad influence on this army. Why the Adjunct insists on your infernal presence at these gatherings baffles me.’



‘I am sure it does, Fist. But I can’t imagine being such a dark temptation to your soldiers. I don’t share my private stock, after all. Indeed, I suspect seeing me turns a soul away from the miseries of alcohol.’



‘You mean you disgust them?’



‘Precisely so, Fist.’ But we really shouldn’t be having this conversation, should we? Because we could swap positions and apart from the drink, not a word need be changed. The real difference is, I lose nothing by their disgust, whereas you … ‘Do we await the Letherii contingent, Fist?’