time slows to a crawl, slows almost to stopping point, even dances around itself in spirals …
And so could the Dark Court, it seemed.
Not for the first time, he wondered what real difference lay between the dwenda and the gods. What powers and interests they might share.
He lay with his cheek pressed into the soaking grass, and a fresh chunk of memory dropped into his head.
R ISGILLEN OF I LLWRACK TOLD ME SHE NEGOTIATED WITH THE D ARK C OURT to bring about my downfall. In essence, that you gave me up to her.
Is that how it seemed to you? Yet you did not fall down, as near as I recall. Or, let us say, you did not fall very far.
He shivers. It’s the best part of a year since the assault on the Citadel in Yhelteth, the horror he was plunged into as a result. He will not revisit those memories if he can avoid it.
The dwenda do not lie, he says, in a voice not quite even.
Do they not?
That was my understanding, from my time spent with Seethlaw. He saw deceit as a human trait he must learn. He was quite bitter about it. Risgillen was his sister, and junior to him in their schemes. It seems unlikely she would have learned the trick any faster.
Well, then, she perhaps told you the truth as she understood it.
Gil sets his jaw. You lied to her.
Does that upset you? A wry smile. We are human gods, after all.
You set us both up. He can hear the bitterness surge in his voice. And then you fuckers sat back and watched us fight it out.
The dark queen shrugs. Risgillen was coming for you anyway. It might be more accurate to say we provided you with the tools to withstand her revenge.
Yeah—tools I learned how to use only at the eleventh hour, and no thanks to the Dark Court along the way.
But you are the apple of our eye, Ringil. The Court has always had faith in your ability to find your own way. It is what draws us to you.
Oh, fuck off.
No, really. Ask yourself—what use does any god have for worshippers who tug constantly at her sleeve like so many overmothered children? The dark queen’s lip curls and contempt etches her tone. Wanting, praying, needing, begging, asking for comfort, guidance, confirmation, a great big blanket of righteousness to wrap themselves up in from cradle to grave. We grow weary of it, and faster than you’d think. Give me some arrogant unbeliever over that any day of the week, and twice on holy days. That’s how heroes are made.
Yeah? Well, this hero’s done.
She looks at him like a doting mother. No, you aren’t. You are not made that way.
All blades have a breaking point. It’s a line from his treatise on modern warfare, the one no one in Trelayne would touch with a publishing barge pole. All men, too.
Firfirdar inclines her head. You are all made to run yourselves against the grindstone, true enough. But some take longer to wear down than others, and some give out brighter sparks. You shower incandescence at every unyielding turn, Ringil.
I won’t do it, he says quickly.
You won’t do what?
Whatever it is you want. I won’t take up your fucking tools and be your cat’s paw. Not anymore.
She breaks out into soft, throaty laughter. It’s as if he told a very sophisticated joke, and the punch line has only just dawned on her.
Oh Ringil, she says fondly. That’s not how it works. You should know that by now. I do not send you back to the world with instructions. I offer only guidance, I tell you only what you might anyway wish to know.
Which is what?
Another regal shrug. That Ornley is fallen in your absence, that your friends are now captive and your enemies lie in wait. That war is declared and battle soon to be joined. That the Aldrain are bringing the Talons of the Sun to light the skies once more with the glare from a myriad undeserved deaths—unless you can stop the machine in time. She gestures cheerfully. Things like that.
You think you’ll hook me again? He manages a shaky laugh. He clears his throat, clears out the hoarseness in his voice. You’ve had
And so could the Dark Court, it seemed.
Not for the first time, he wondered what real difference lay between the dwenda and the gods. What powers and interests they might share.
He lay with his cheek pressed into the soaking grass, and a fresh chunk of memory dropped into his head.
R ISGILLEN OF I LLWRACK TOLD ME SHE NEGOTIATED WITH THE D ARK C OURT to bring about my downfall. In essence, that you gave me up to her.
Is that how it seemed to you? Yet you did not fall down, as near as I recall. Or, let us say, you did not fall very far.
He shivers. It’s the best part of a year since the assault on the Citadel in Yhelteth, the horror he was plunged into as a result. He will not revisit those memories if he can avoid it.
The dwenda do not lie, he says, in a voice not quite even.
Do they not?
That was my understanding, from my time spent with Seethlaw. He saw deceit as a human trait he must learn. He was quite bitter about it. Risgillen was his sister, and junior to him in their schemes. It seems unlikely she would have learned the trick any faster.
Well, then, she perhaps told you the truth as she understood it.
Gil sets his jaw. You lied to her.
Does that upset you? A wry smile. We are human gods, after all.
You set us both up. He can hear the bitterness surge in his voice. And then you fuckers sat back and watched us fight it out.
The dark queen shrugs. Risgillen was coming for you anyway. It might be more accurate to say we provided you with the tools to withstand her revenge.
Yeah—tools I learned how to use only at the eleventh hour, and no thanks to the Dark Court along the way.
But you are the apple of our eye, Ringil. The Court has always had faith in your ability to find your own way. It is what draws us to you.
Oh, fuck off.
No, really. Ask yourself—what use does any god have for worshippers who tug constantly at her sleeve like so many overmothered children? The dark queen’s lip curls and contempt etches her tone. Wanting, praying, needing, begging, asking for comfort, guidance, confirmation, a great big blanket of righteousness to wrap themselves up in from cradle to grave. We grow weary of it, and faster than you’d think. Give me some arrogant unbeliever over that any day of the week, and twice on holy days. That’s how heroes are made.
Yeah? Well, this hero’s done.
She looks at him like a doting mother. No, you aren’t. You are not made that way.
All blades have a breaking point. It’s a line from his treatise on modern warfare, the one no one in Trelayne would touch with a publishing barge pole. All men, too.
Firfirdar inclines her head. You are all made to run yourselves against the grindstone, true enough. But some take longer to wear down than others, and some give out brighter sparks. You shower incandescence at every unyielding turn, Ringil.
I won’t do it, he says quickly.
You won’t do what?
Whatever it is you want. I won’t take up your fucking tools and be your cat’s paw. Not anymore.
She breaks out into soft, throaty laughter. It’s as if he told a very sophisticated joke, and the punch line has only just dawned on her.
Oh Ringil, she says fondly. That’s not how it works. You should know that by now. I do not send you back to the world with instructions. I offer only guidance, I tell you only what you might anyway wish to know.
Which is what?
Another regal shrug. That Ornley is fallen in your absence, that your friends are now captive and your enemies lie in wait. That war is declared and battle soon to be joined. That the Aldrain are bringing the Talons of the Sun to light the skies once more with the glare from a myriad undeserved deaths—unless you can stop the machine in time. She gestures cheerfully. Things like that.
You think you’ll hook me again? He manages a shaky laugh. He clears his throat, clears out the hoarseness in his voice. You’ve had
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