The Broken Kingdoms

  “Hold His children hostage,” said Shiny, and only a fool would not have heard the kindling fury in his voice. “And… kill them?”

  Serymn laughed, though it sounded affected. “You assume that we—”

  “Why not?” Dateh, too, was coldly angry. I heard some of the servants shift uneasily in the background. “During the Gods’ War, their kind used this world as a battleground. Whole cities died at the godlings’ hands. They cared nothing for those mortal lives lost.”

  At this I grew angry myself. “What is this, then?” I asked. “Revenge? That’s why you’re keeping Madding and the others—”

  “They are nothing,” Dateh snapped. “Fodder. Bait. We kill them to attract higher prey.”

  “Oh, yes.” I couldn’t help laughing. “I forgot. You actually think you can kill the Nightlord!”

  I heard, but did not think about, Shiny’s swift intake of breath.

  “I do, indeed,” Dateh said coolly. He snapped his fingers, summoning one of the servants. There was a quick murmured exchange and then the servant left. “And I shall prove it to you, Lady Oree.”

  “Dateh,” said Serymn. She sounded… concerned? Annoyed? I could not tell. She was Arameri; perhaps Dateh’s temper was spoiling some elaborate plan.

  He ignored her. “You forget, Lady Oree, there is ample precedent for what we’ve done. Or perhaps you don’t know how the Gods’ War actually began? I assumed that you, having been a god’s lover…”

  I became acutely aware of Shiny. He sat very still; I could hardly even hear him breathe. It was ridiculous that I felt sorry for him in that instant. He had murdered his sister, enslaved his brother, bullied his children for two thousand years. He had so little concern for life in general, including mine and his own, that more deaths should have been meaningless to him.

  And yet…

  I had touched his hand, that day at Role’s memorial. I had heard the waver in his steady, stolid voice when he’d spoken of the Nightlord. Whatever problems he had, however much of a bastard he was, Shiny was still capable of love. Madding had been wrong about that.

  And how would any man feel, on learning that his daughter had been murdered in imitation of his own sins?

  “I’ve… heard,” I said uneasily. Shiny kept silent.

  “Then you understand,” said Dateh. “Bright Itempas desired, and killed to obtain that desire. Why should we not do the same?”

  “Bright Itempas also embodies order,” I said, hoping to change the subject. “If everyone in the world killed to get what they wanted, there would be anarchy.”

  “Untrue,” Dateh said. “What would happen is what has happened. Those with power—the Arameri, and to a lesser degree the nobility and priests of the Order—kill with impunity. No others may do so without their permission. The right to kill has become the most coveted privilege of power in this world, as in the heavens. We worship Him not because He is the best of our gods, but because He is, or was, the greatest killer among them.”

  The dining room door opened then. I heard another murmur. The servant returning. Something flickered, and then abruptly a silvery, shifting gleam appeared in my vision. Startled, I peered at it, trying to figure out what it was. Something small, only an inch or so in length. Oddly shaped. Pointy, like the tip of a knife, but far too small to be used that way.

  “Ah, so you can see it,” Dateh said. He sounded pleased again. “This, Lady Oree, is an arrowhead—a very special one. Do you recognize it?”

  I frowned. “I’m not exactly into archery, Lord Dateh.”

  He laughed, already in a better mood. “What I meant was, do you recognize the power in it? You should. This arrowhead—the substance that comprises it—was made from your blood.”

  I stared at the thing, which shone like godsblood. Not quite as bright. And stranger: a moving, inconstant swirl of magic, rather than the steady gleam I was used to.

  My blood should have been nothing special; I was just a mortal. “Why would you make something from my blood?”

  “Our blood has grown thin over the ages,” said Dateh. He set the thing down on the table in front of him. “It was said that Itempas needed only a few drops to kill Enefa. These days, the quantity needed to be effective is… impractical. We therefore distill it, concentrating its power, then shape the resulting product into a more usable form.”

  Before I could speak, there was a sharp thump as wood hit the floor, and the dining table shook hard.

  “Demon,” Shiny said. He was standing, his hands planted on the table. It shook with the force of his rage. “You dare to threaten—”

  “Guards!” Serymn, angry and alarmed. “Sit down, sir, or—”

  Whatever she might have said was lost. There was a crash of servingware and furniture as Shiny lunged forward, his weight making the table jolt hard against my ribs. More startled than hurt, I scrambled backward, my hand flailing for the stick that should’ve been beside me. Of course there was nothing, so I tripped on the dining hall’s thick rug and went sprawling, practically into the fireplace. I heard shouts, a scream from Serymn, a violent scuffle of flesh and cloth. Men converged from several directions, though not on me.

  I pushed myself upright to get away from the close heat of the fire, my hands scrabbling for purchase on the smooth sculpted stone of the hearth—and as I did so, my hands slipped in something warm and gritty. Ash.

  Behind me, it sounded as though another Gods’ War had broken out. Shiny cried out as someone hit him. An instant later, that person went flying. There were choking sounds, grunts of effort, more dishes shattering. But there was no magic, I realized in alarm. I could see none of them—nothing except the tiny pale glimmer of the arrowhead where it had fallen to the floor, and the swift-moving bob of Serymn’s blood sigil as she ran to the door to shout for help. Shiny fought for his own rage, not to protect me, and that meant he was just a man. They would overcome him soon, inevitably.

  The ash. I felt around, closer to the fire, ready to snatch my hand back if I encountered something hot. My fingers fumbled over a hard, irregular lump, quite warm but not painfully so. Bits of it crumbled away as I touched it. A chunk of old wood that had been burned to charcoal, probably over several days.

  The color black.

  Behind me, Dateh had managed to get free of Shiny, though he was wheezing and hoarse. Serymn had him; I heard her murmuring, worried, to see if he was all right. Beyond them, a flurry of blows and shouts as more men ran in.

  Inspiration struck like a kick to the gut. Scrambling back with the charcoal in my hand, I shoved aside the rug and began to scrape the charcoal against the floor, grinding it in circles. Around and around—

  Someone called for rope. Serymn shouted not to bother with rope, just kill him damn it—

  —and around and around and—

  “Lady Oree?” Dateh, his voice rough and puzzled.

  —and around and around, feverishly, sweat from my forehead dripping down to smear the blackness, blood from my scraped knuckles, too, forming a circle as deep and dark as a hole into nowhere, cold and silent and terrible and Empty. And somewhere in that emptiness, blue-green and bright, warm and gentle and irreverent—

  “Dearest gods, stop her! Stop her!”

  I knew the texture of his soul. I knew the sound of him, like chimes. I knew that he owed Dateh and the New Lights a debt of pain and blood, and I wanted that debt repaid with all my heart.

  Beneath my fingers and my eyes, the hole appeared, its edges ragged where bits of the charcoal had broken off with the force of my grinding. I shouted into it, “Madding!”

  And he came.

  What burst from the hole was light, a scintillating blue-green mass of it that roiled like a thundercloud. After an instant, it shivered and became the shape I knew better—a man formed of living, impossibly moving aquamarine. For a moment, he hovered where the cloud had been, turning slowly, perhaps disoriented by the Empty’s deprivations. But I felt rage wash the room the instant he spied Dateh and Ser
ymn and the others, and I heard his chimes rise to a harsh, brassy jangle of dire intent.

  Dateh was shouting over the guards’ panicked cries, demanding something. I saw a faint flicker from his direction, almost drowned out by Madding’s blaze. Madding uttered a wordless, inhuman roar that shook the whole House, and shot forward—

  —then jerked back, tumbling to the floor as something struck him. I waited for him to rise, angrier. Mortals could annoy gods but never stop them. To my surprise, however, Madding gasped, the light of his facets dimming abruptly. He did not get up.

  Faintly, through shock, I heard Shiny cry out, in something that sounded much like anguish.

  I should not have been afraid. Yet fear soured my mouth as I scrambled to my feet, stepping onto my own drawing in my haste to reach him. It was just inert charcoal now. I tripped over the rug again, righted myself, fell over a chair that lay across the floor, and finally crawled. I reached Madding, who lay on his side, and pulled him onto his back.

  There was no light in his belly. The rest of him shone as usual, though dimmer than I’d ever seen, but that part of him I could not see at all. He clutched at it, and I followed his hands to find the smooth, hard substance of his body broken by something long and thin, made of wood, that jutted up. A crossbow bolt. I grasped its shaft in both hands and yanked it free. Madding cried out, arching—and the blotch of nothingness at his middle spread farther.

  I could see the arrow’s tip. Dateh’s arrowhead—the one made from my blood. There wasn’t much left; I touched it and found that it had the consistency of soft chalk, crumbling with just the pressure of my fingers.

  All at once, Madding guttered like a candle flame, his jewel facets becoming dull mortal flesh and tangled hair. But I still couldn’t see part of him. I felt for his belly and found blood and a deep puncture. It wasn’t healing.

  My blood. In him. Working through his body like poison, snuffing out his magic as it went along.

  No. Not just his magic.

  I threw aside the arrow and touched his face, my fingers shaking. “Mad? I… I don’t know, this doesn’t make sense, it’s my blood, but…”

  Madding drew in a harsh breath and coughed. Blood—godsblood, which should’ve shone with its own light—covered his lips, but it was dark, obscuring the parts of him that I could see. Those were fading from view, too. The arrow was killing him.

  No. He was a god. They did not die.

  Except Role had, and Enefa had, and—

  Madding choked, swallowed, focused on me. It made no sense that he laughed, but he did. “Always knew you were special, Oree,” he said. “A demon! A legend. Gods. Always knew… something.” He shook his head. I could barely see for his dimness and my tears. “And here I thought I’d have to watch you die.”

  “No. I… I won’t. This isn’t. No.” I shook my head, babbling. Madding caught my hand, his own slick and hot with blood.

  “Don’t let him use you, Oree.” He lifted his head to make sure I heard him. I could barely see his face, though I could feel it, hot and fevered. “They never understood… too quick to judge. You aren’t just a weapon.” He shuddered, his head falling back, his eyes drifting shut. “I would have loved you… until…”

  He vanished. I could feel him beneath my hands still, but he was not there.

  “Don’t hide from me,” I said. My voice was soft and did not carry, but he should have heard me. Should have obeyed.

  Hands seized me, dragged me to my feet. I dangled limply between them, trying to will it: I want to see you.

  “You forced my hand, Lady Oree.” Dateh. He came over, visible for once; he had used magic during the struggle. He was rubbing his throat, his face bruised and bloody. Someone had torn part of his robes. He looked thoroughly furious.

  I hated that I could see him and not Madding.

  “A doorway into my Empty.” He laughed once, without humor, then grimaced, as this hurt his bruised throat. “Amazing. Did you plan this, you and your nameless companion? I should have known better than to trust a woman who would give her body to one of them.” He spat downward, perhaps at Madding’s corpse.

  not Madding there’s nothing there that isn’t him

  Then he turned and snarled at one of the guards to come over. “Bring your sword,” he added.

  I prayed then. I had no idea if Shiny could hear me, or if he cared. I didn’t care. Bright Father, please let this man kill me.

  “Must you?” asked Serymn, her voice edged with distaste. “She might still be turned to our cause.”

  “It must be done within moments of death. I don’t intend to let this mess go to waste.” He reached over to take something from the guard. I waited, feeling nothing as Dateh turned a look on me that was as cold as the wind in the Tree’s highest branches.

  “When Bright Itempas killed Enefa,” he said, “He also tore her body open and took from it a piece of flesh that contained all her power. Had He not done so, the universe would’ve ended. Killing the Nightlord runs the same risk, so I’ve spent years researching where the seat of a god’s soul lies when they incarnate themselves in flesh.”

  He lifted the sword then, two-handed, so fast that for an instant I saw six arms instead of two, and three sets of teeth bared in effort.

  There was the hollow whoosh of cloven air. I felt a stirring of wind against my face. But the impact, when it came, was not in my body, though I heard the wet chuff as it struck flesh.

  I frowned, horror struggling up through the numbness in my mind. Madding.

  Dateh tossed the sword aside, gestured at another man to help. They bent. The smell of godsblood rose around me, thick and cloying, familiar, as flat and wrong here as it had been in the alley where I’d found Role. I heard… gods. Sounds I would expect in one of the infinite hells. Meat tearing. Bone and gristle cracking apart.

  Then Dateh rose. His hand had gone dark, holding something; his robes were splattered and intermittent, too. He gazed at the thing in his hand with a look that I could not interpret, not without the touch of fingers, but I guessed. Revulsion, some, and resignation. But also eagerness. Lust worthy of a god.

  When he lifted Madding’s heart to his lips and bit down—

  I remember nothing more.

  13

  “Exploitation” (wax sculpture)

  IT ALL COMES DOWN to blood. Yours, mine. All of it.

  No one knows how it was discovered that godsblood is an intoxicant for mortals. The godlings knew it already when they came; it had been common knowledge before the Interdiction. I suppose someone, somewhere, simply decided to try it one day. Likewise, gods have drunk mortal blood. Only a few of them, thankfully, seem to like the taste.

  But some god, somewhere, eventually decided to try a demon’s blood. And then the great paradox was revealed: that immortality and mortality do not mix.

  How the heavens must have shaken at that first death! Until then, godlings had feared only each other and the wrath of the Three, while the Three feared no one. Suddenly it must have seemed to the gods that there was danger everywhere. Every poisonous drop, in every mortal vein, of every half-breed child.

  There was only one way—one terrible way—that the gods’ fears could be assuaged.

  Yet the murdered demons had their vengeance. After the slaughter, the harmony that had once been unshakable between gods and godlings, immortals and mortals, was shattered. Those humans who’d lost demon friends and loved ones turned against humans who had aided the gods; tribes and nations fell apart under the strain. The godlings regarded their parents with new fear, aware now of what could happen should they ever become a threat.

  And the Three? How much did it hurt them, horrify them, when the deed was done and the battle haze faded and they found themselves surrounded by the corpses of their sons and daughters?

  Here’s what I believe.

  The Gods’ War took place thousands of years after the demon holocaust. But for beings who live forever, would not the memory still be fresh? How muc
h did the former event contribute to the latter? Would the war have even happened if Nahadoth and Itempas and Enefa had not already tainted their love for one another with sorrow and distrust?

  I wonder. We all should wonder.

  * * *

  I stopped caring. The Lights, my captivity, Madding, Shiny. None of it mattered. Time passed.

  They brought me back to my room and tied me to the bed, leaving one arm free. As an added measure, they went through the room and removed everything I might use to harm myself: the candles, the sheets, other things. There were voices, touches. Pain when something was done to my arm again. More of my blood-poison, drip, drip, dripping into a bowl. Long periods of silence. Somewhere amid this I felt the urge to urinate, and did so. The attendant who arrived next cursed like a Wesha beggar when he smelled it. He left, and presently women came. I was diapered.

  I lay where they put me, in the darkness that is the world without magic.

  Time passed. Sometimes I slept, sometimes I didn’t. They took more of my blood. Sometimes I recognized the voices that spoke around me.

  Hado, for example: “Shouldn’t we at least allow her to recover from the shock first?”

  Serymn: “Bonebenders and herbalists have been consulted. This won’t do her any lasting harm.”

  Hado: “How convenient. Now the Nypri need no longer weaken himself to achieve our goals.”

  Serymn: “See that she eats, Hado, and keep your opinions to yourself.”

  I was fed. Hands put food into my mouth. I chewed and swallowed out of habit. I grew thirsty, so I drank when water was held to my mouth. Much of it spilled down my shirt. The shirt dried. Time passed.

  Now and again, women returned to bathe me with sponges. Erad returned, and after some consultation with Hado, she put something into my arm that remained there, a constant niggling pain. When they came to take my blood the next time, it went faster, because all they had to do was uncap a thin metal tube.