Hunter couldn’t help it. His eyes filled with tears, and he wept like a child.
“You’ve changed, Hunter,” his father repeated.
Hunter looked down at his callused feet, ashamed of his tears. “I lost my shoes,” he croaked. “And I lost my shield, and my armor. I lost everything you gave me, and it was like… it was like I lost pieces of you.”
Bandu’s face smiled sympathetically, and Father’s voice said, “But you knew you’d lose me one day, Hunter. You wanted to be the king’s champion, and you never would have been, so long as your brother and I lived.”
Hunter shook his head. “I didn’t want you to die,” he said. “I wanted you to see me and be, and be…” He couldn’t continue.
“I know,” said Father. “I know.”
Hunter chuckled ruefully. “The life I wanted was stupid,” he said, “and I have nothing to replace it with.”
Bandu put a hand on his shoulder. “You are still young,” said Father. “There will be time. The important thing is that you have the opportunity to live and grow, and find your way. I’m proud of how you’ve grown already. I’m proud of you.”
Hunter looked down into Bandu’s eyes, grateful and confused. “What for?” he asked.
“Look at you!” Father exclaimed. “You’re not the same boy you were back then. That boy was single-minded and stubborn, and his armor never left his back. Honor was everything to him, and people were nothing.
“When I left you at the docks, you were surrounded by strangers. Now you’re surrounded by friends. This girl was willing to lend me her body just so that I could speak with you. What do I care if you’ve lost your shoes or your shield? I would have liked to give you friends instead of all those things, but I didn’t know how. I’m glad you’ve made the exchange yourself.”
Hunter couldn’t help it then: he broke down. Bandu embraced him, but he pulled away after only a few seconds. It was too strange, feeling her breasts press against him when he ought to have been hugging his own father.
He dried his eyes on his sleeve and looked around, as if for the first time. Phaedra was gazing at him with warmth and admiration. Narky made an effort to smile, though such a genuine expression didn’t look quite natural on his face. Criton stood holding the baby to his chest, his concern for Bandu carving wrinkles in his brow. Hunter turned back to Bandu. He nodded, and smiled in relief.
She beamed back at him, tears welling in her eyes too. “You were always your mother’s child,” Father said. “Perhaps that’s why I cherished you more than Kataras. He resented it, poor boy, but what could I do? Ah well, that’s all over now.
“You should leave this place,” he added, his smile fading from Bandu’s lips. “I’ve given you everything I can. There is nothing for you here.”
“We’re here for the king,” Hunter told him. “We need to bring him somewhere.”
Bandu’s eyebrows shot up. “You’re rescuing Kestan?” Father said. “I hope you succeed. If he leaves, we may finally be able to rest.”
“Do you know where he is?” Phaedra asked. “We’ve looked everywhere.”
“He fled the city some time ago,” Hunter’s father told her. “Those who blamed him followed. I didn’t.”
Bandu glanced at Criton, then back to Hunter. “I have taken too much advantage of this young lady’s generosity. I should return her body to her.”
“Wait,” Hunter pleaded, but Bandu closed her eyes and his father’s spirit left her. He would never come back, Hunter knew. He was gone now.
Bandu blinked a few times and rubbed her eyes. “Are you all right?” Criton asked, rushing forward.
She nodded. “I’m tired,” she said.
They slept that night in Hunter’s old house, surrounded by Lord Tavener’s desolate estate. The linens were all moth-eaten by now, but the hide rugs were as soft as ever. No other ghosts approached them here, though Hunter stayed up for a while, hoping. Surrounded by childhood memories, it took him a long time to fall asleep.
Phaedra too stayed up late, staring at the ceiling. “I used to imagine sleeping in this house,” she said quietly.
Hunter said nothing. She had liked Kataras, he knew. Everyone had liked Kataras. Until Father’s ghost had spoken to him, he had never thought to pity his brother. Now he felt bad for the bruises he had inflicted during their sparring matches, and for avoiding Kataras after his brother had refused to fight him anymore. He had truly understood nothing back then.
They lay a while in silence, and then Hunter asked, “Phaedra? What’s the underworld like?”
Phaedra boosted herself up on an elbow. “What do you mean?”
“Well,” said Hunter, “you’ve read a lot about the Gods, and I was wondering, what’s hell like? Does any God rule there? What do the dead do?”
“Not much, I think,” Phaedra said cautiously. “And there’s no God of the Underworld that I know of. Followers of the Sun God in Atuna believe that the underworld is a cold, wet place where the dead lie in uncomfortable sleep, but that if you’re cremated you’ll join Atun in the heavens instead. A Mayaran philosopher I’ve read suggested that those who drown or are buried at sea become absorbed by the Sea God Himself.”
“Do people stay themselves when they die on land?”
Phaedra sighed. “No one really knows,” she said kindly.
“Oh,” said Hunter. He rolled over. “Good night.”
“Good night,” Phaedra whispered.
They awoke just after dawn. They raided the garden and the larder for any foodstuffs that had survived a year’s neglect, and ate a breakfast of cucumbers, dates, and the highest quality Laarna olive oil. The luxury of this last item did not escape them: the world would never again taste Laarna’s olives.
They left the city after breakfast and went once more in search of the king. Grasses were growing in the middle of the roads, and yet the country felt much less deserted than the city had. At least here it felt more natural to go an hour without seeing anyone.
They found King Kestan on the southern crags, less than a mile from Karsanye. They were able to spot him from some distance, climbing along the jagged cliffs that overlooked the sea. Hunter would not have recognized him had he not known he was looking at the king. Kestan the Third was skeletal now, and his beard was long and bedraggled. He was not wearing the royal garments that Hunter remembered – at least, not unless the tattered muddy rags that he now wore had once been a deep, rich blue. Teetering there on the cliffs above them, he looked to Hunter as if he might blow into the ocean at any moment.
“He’s surrounded by ghosts,” Criton said. “How do we get him down from there?”
The king was looking out to sea, and had not noticed them yet.
“I don’t know,” said Phaedra. “Who knows what kind of an influence they’re having on him? What will he think when he sees us? We don’t want to alarm him.”
Narky lifted his eyebrows. “Alarm him? He hasn’t seen anyone alive in, what, a year now? I’m pretty sure he’ll be alarmed.”
“So what do we do?” Phaedra asked, looking sidelong at Hunter.
“We climb,” he said.
Bandu nodded and reached out to Criton. “Give me Goodweather,” she commanded. “Then you go.”
Up they went, scrambling over the rocks toward their king. Yet even as Hunter climbed, his mind filled with doubts. What were they doing here, really? Were they here to rescue King Kestan, as Father had believed? No. They were here because Psander had sent them. They were here because Criton wanted to free his ancestor and awaken his people’s ancient God.
Bandu had agreed with Criton because she loved him, and Narky had agreed because he was afraid of the Gods and wanted one on his side. And those weren’t bad reasons, really. But what would become of the world when the dragon returned? Would God Most High be kinder to humanity than His rivals were? Hunter wanted to believe that He would, but he couldn’t know, and that worried him. He couldn’t help but feel that they were really acting out of selfishness.
The king turned just as they were nearing him. When he saw them, his eyes widened with fear. “Keep away from me!” he cried. “Keep away!”
“We’re here to help!” Phaedra called from the rear.
“No!” shouted the ragged king. He turned from them and began leaping frantically from rock to rock, trying to escape.
They hurried after him. Partway there, Criton slipped and skinned his knees on a boulder. “Forget this,” Hunter heard him say. In a moment, he had leapt off the rocks and was flying toward the king. Hunter watched him with envy, but did not stop his climb.
“Stand back!” the king cried, backing away toward the cliff’s edge. “Keep away! She will punish us!”
“Your Majesty,” called Hunter. “Stop.”
The king looked over the precipice, and then back at them. He fell to his knees on the bare rocks. “She will punish us,” he whimpered, over and over.
Criton reached him then. He stood beside the crouched figure and put a hand on his shoulder, just in case he decided to leap off the cliff after all. “It’s all right,” he said. “We’ll get you out of here.”
By the time Hunter and Narky arrived, the king no longer seemed in danger of jumping. Phaedra remained stranded halfway down the hillside, her progress hindered by her ankle. “Help him down from there!” she yelled to them.
“Go away,” begged the king. “Save yourselves.”
“We’re here to save you,” Hunter told him.
The king chuckled and looked up at him. “I know you,” he said.
Hunter nodded. “I’m Lord Tavener’s son, Hunter.”
Kestan blinked. “No, it doesn’t matter,” he said angrily to himself. “It can’t make any difference. She has no power here, not against Karassa.”
“What are you talking about?” said Criton. “Who has no power here?”
“Let’s talk about this when we’re a little farther from a deadly high cliff,” Narky suggested. “Come on down with us.”
The king shook his head, and Criton said, “Don’t listen to them.”
“What?” said Hunter.
“Not you,” said Criton, “the ghosts.”
King Kestan looked startled. “You see them too?”
“Let’s go,” Narky said. “I’m getting nervous up here.”
He reached down a hand to help the king to his feet. The king stared at his hand fearfully.
“Take it,” said Hunter. “We’re here to help.”
With the utmost hesitance, King Kestan reached slowly for Narky’s hand. Narky, impatient as ever, grabbed the king’s hand and pulled him to his feet.
The ground shook.
Hunter nearly lost his footing in the initial motion, but the second tremor threw him to the stones, and it was only his luck that he fell toward Phaedra and not toward the water. The king was less lucky. He tipped over backward and disappeared over the cliff, while Narky nearly followed him. The one-eyed boy stumbled and fell onto his stomach, with one arm hanging over the cliff face.
“Narky!” Hunter shouted, but he could not even hear himself above the roaring earth. He could not spot Criton either, though that didn’t worry him as much. Criton, after all, could fly.
He crawled toward Narky over the jiggling stones, his heart pounding. Narky was struggling to get up, with no success. “Are you all right?” Hunter shouted at him.
“Hold on!” Narky yelled back, but every attempt to rise seemed to push him farther over the precipice. With an effort, Hunter managed to reach him and grab hold of Narky’s legs. The next moment his head was thrown face first against a rock.
Dazed but conscious, Hunter wrapped his arms around Narky’s legs and held on with all his might. The whole world seemed to be shaking. Narky was still screaming, “Help me!” but Hunter could do no more. Then he saw Criton swoop down past the edge of the rocks, and he realized that Narky was not talking to him.
“You have to climb up,” Criton shouted.
“I can’t!” a voice answered. The king! Now Hunter understood why Narky had looked as though he was struggling to stand: he must have held onto the king’s hand even as he went over the cliff, and had been struggling to hold on without slipping over the edge himself.
Hunter felt a tug, and Narky groaned. With Criton’s help, the king was climbing up his arm toward safe ground. Even though the ground convulsed beneath them, the king made steady progress. First his hands and then his head came into sight, until finally he was able to crawl past Narky onto the lower rocks.
There was a great cracking sound from below, so loud that Hunter could feel it in his bones. “Get away from the edge!” he cried, jumping up and helping Narky to his feet. “GO!”
They ran as best they could, leaping down toward Bandu and Phaedra with reckless speed. With a deafening rumble, the cliff behind them collapsed into the sea.
“The boat!” screamed Phaedra. “We have to get to the boat!”
They fled for Karsanye, frequently falling to the ground only to jump right up and run even harder. Fissures opened in the ground as they ran, and Hunter had to catch Phaedra once before she fell in. His hand found her hair instead of her arm, and the girl cried out. He tried to apologize once he had pulled her back to safety, but he was too out of breath. They ran on.
When they finally reached Karsanye, the city was barely even recognizable. Walls had collapsed; trees had fallen; whole buildings had been swallowed by the earth. The king’s grand palace could not even be seen above the wreckage. Hunter suspected that it had been leveled.
When they reached the seaport, half the docks had splintered apart or torn away from the island in chunks, floating off toward the mainland like so many inelegant rafts. Thankfully, the boat was still there.
Overpowered by the quake, the tide seemed to have reversed itself. Water was rushing away from the shore in frantic waves, rippling out into the ocean and dragging along what planks remained in its path. The islanders ran across the undulating dock toward their boat, while Criton flew overhead with Goodweather in his arms. He arrived first, but could do little good there: he couldn’t even put the baby down, because the boat was half full of water.
Phaedra’s legs were failing her, and she and Hunter were the last to reach the boat. The others were already bailing out seawater by the time Hunter helped her in. “Let that sail down!” he shouted at her, and then turned and cut them off from their moorings with one clean stroke of his sword.
Their voyage was slapdash and desperate. The hull kept filling with water, and they quickly gave up on navigating in order to concentrate their efforts on staying afloat. Hunter barely looked up from his work until the keel hit bottom and he was nearly thrown overboard. They had reached shore… somewhere.
They splashed through the shallows as quickly as they could, never forgetting the grudge Mayar held against them. Only when they were nearly a mile from the shore did they finally fall to the ground and rest their aching muscles.
The king seemed completely dazed. “We escaped Her,” he said, disbelief in every syllable. “We escaped!”
Phaedra rose slowly to a sitting position. “That was Karassa,” she said, “wasn’t it? We thought some other God had defeated Her, but She was the one who cursed the island all along, wasn’t She?”
The king nodded. “She found out about the sacrifice, and She punished me. But everyone! All those people! I never dreamed She would take such offense.”
“Offense at what?” asked Narky. “What sacrifice?”
King Kestan bowed his head. “I sacrificed a calf to Eramia on the morning of Karassa’s festival.”
“To Eramia?” cried Hunter, surprised. “Why?”
“Eramia came to me in a dream the night before and promised me that my people would be raised up above all others, to lead the world with strength and Godliness. I couldn’t delay sacrificing to Her with a message like that.”
The islanders looked at each other. “Another prophecy,” Hunter said.
“And another one about us,” Phaedra added. “You’re right, though: you had to make that sacrifice. To receive a prophecy of good fortune without repaying it with a sacrifice would be inexcusable.”
King Kestan shook his head. “If I had known…”
“Karassa is a cruel Goddess,” Phaedra said sadly.
Bandu snorted. “Eramia is a cruel Goddess. All Gods are cruel.”
“Bandu!” Phaedra cried. “Eramia is on our side!”
Bandu rolled her eyes. “Gods are not on people sides, Phaedra. Gods are only on Gods’ side. You think Eramia doesn’t know that Karassa kills everyone after king’s sacrifice? Eramia wants everyone to die.”
“That doesn’t make any sense, Bandu,” Criton insisted. “Why should Eramia hate the people of Tarphae? She favors us!”
Bandu stared at him disbelievingly. “She doesn’t hate Tarphae,” she said. “She only doesn’t care. Gods never care. She wants us to help Salemis. If island is still home to us, we never are helping him.”
“But how could She have known about us?” Criton asked. He was beginning to sound desperate.
“Ravennis knew,” Narky pointed out, “and He was watching us too. Is it possible He and Eramia were allies?”
“It’s possible,” Phaedra said uncertainly. “Eramia is Elkinar’s younger sister, at least according to that book I read in Anardis. The Second Cycle, remember? It didn’t mention Ravennis at all, which doesn’t help much, but it may mean that He’s a younger God. At least there doesn’t seem to be any ancient enmity there.”
“Great,” said Narky. “So Eramia and Ravennis have been planning for us to release Salemis and awaken God Most High all along. Ravennis got us all to leave Tarphae while Eramia goaded Karassa into smiting the island so that we’d never go back. Bandu’s right: these Gods don’t care about us. They’re ruthless.”
“Quiet!” the king cried. “Don’t say such things! Is it not enough for you to have escaped the plague? Must my people be twice-cursed?”
“I’m sorry,” Narky said more quietly. “In any case, now we know that this has all been planned. We were meant to find Salemis all along. So much for us just being clever.”
“Men have free will,” Phaedra insisted. “Ravennis and Eramia could have been planning this for all of eternity, but it’s still up to us to actually do it. We could still choose to do otherwise if we wanted to.”
“Right,” said Narky. “We could leave Salemis to rot, leave Psander to die, lose Eramia’s protection, and be struck down by Her or by Magor or Mayar or even God Most High Himself. It sure doesn’t feel like we’re making a choice, or like we ever did. It’s felt like we’ve been slaves more or less ever since we met Psander. Well, now we know it’s been a good while longer than that.”
“Hunter,” Phaedra pleaded, “help me here.”
“Me?” Hunter didn’t know what to say. He was embarrassed to speak in front of Phaedra and Narky, whose thoughts on the matter were strong and precise. He had always thought about Karassa and the other Gods as being sort of like parents who tried to control their children’s fates but were never quite pleased with the result. Would they even get credit if they succeeded?
“Now we know why the elves call us godserfs,” he said.
They journeyed on in near silence. Propriety meant nothing to them now, and they foraged and stole whatever food they could find on their way. After a few days of traveling, they came upon a horribly familiar sight: the great swath of trampled earth and refuse left by an army on the march. This army was moving northwest away from the sea, along Atel’s roads. It had probably come from Parakas, Hunter thought with some dread. Magor’s army was already surrounding Silent Hall, and now His brother Mayar was coming to His aid. Were Atel and His roads complicit? The Traveler God was also the Messenger God, after all.
The islanders didn’t even bother discussing it. They simply turned to follow the path of destruction. They all knew where it would lead.
Criton went ahead as a scout, returning frequently to apprise them of their position. Finally one day, he reported that the armies were in sight up ahead. They were preparing a joint assault.
The candles came out. Criton had used up their only spare, but there were still enough for each of them to hold one.
“If we can,” said Hunter, “let’s stay together this time. We can’t afford to waste time getting us all in the door.”
They lit their candles and pressed on together, navigating by the sound of each others’ tread and sometimes brushing lightly against each other. When they reached the edge of the camp, Hunter’s heart sank. Past the thousands of men preparing themselves for battle, Silent Hall stood ominous and still. The fortress was visible.
They wound their way through the camp, avoiding the clustering soldiers as best they could. Hunter prayed to Eramia and to God Most High that they were not too late, and that they would reach Silent Hall safely. For once, the Gods seemed to hear his prayers.
When they reached the gate the armies were already mustering behind them, ready to charge at any minute. Hunter’s candle had burnt down almost to a nub when he pounded on the gate, shouting for Psander to let them in.
Her head appeared in a window above. “You have him?” she asked anxiously.
“Yes,” said Narky. “Let us in!”
Psander disappeared for a moment, but the gate did not open. She soon reappeared above them, carrying Goodweather’s seed.
“All is prepared,” she said. “From what I can tell, the seed ought to grow once you plant and water it, and after that it should tear its hole in the mesh fairly quickly.”
“Good,” said Phaedra, “but you have to let us in!”
Psander shook her head. “The only way to get my hall into the other world is to plant the seed under the cornerstone, on the outside. Here, you’ll need this.”
She threw down the seed, and a shovel. They landed together with a thud and a clang that seemed to ring across the battlefield. Then the hot wax dripped through Hunter’s fingers, and his candle burned out.