The Godless by Ben Peek

Quor’lo’s voice was barely audible.
    â€œYes,” Zaifyr replied.
    Bueralan said nothing.
    â€œWe cannot find the remains of his wards,” it whispered, not concerned with his response. “They are the air, the dirt, the fire, the ocean: Ger shattered their chains to him with what strength he had left. We are told that their remains are the anger in our weather, the floods, the droughts, the cyclones, the fires. They are lost to us.”
    â€œThey are not lost. They are here. They live without him, just fine.”
    â€œNo!”
    The cry was sudden, angry, a denial that snapped Bueralan’s attention away from the submerged building and forced him to take a step back, reaching for the cold dagger strapped to his leg. What started as a surge of the Quor’lo to its feet ended with a shudder. It fell to its knees. “You and your kind,” it whispered. “I will not listen to you and your kind.”
    And there, its voice stumbling in an inaudible whisper of defiance, it fell still.

 
    7.
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    Away from the Spine of Ger, Ayae dug her nails into the palms of her hand and fought for control. Part of her urged returning to the stairs to confront them all, to strike out, scream at the injustice of it just once; while another part urged her to keep walking, ignore the warmth at the tips of her fingers and the heat that soaked into the palm of her hands as her anger threatened to overwhelm her.
    As the Spine fell behind her, Ayae found herself walking toward the Keep. Her first glance at the emerging structure saw her step falter, but as she drew closer and the gates that led to the empty gardens appeared, her step strengthened. Fo had not explained the curse enough to her—he had hidden everything behind his fanaticism, behind his dislike for Reila, and she had been in no condition to push him. Orlan was not entirely right that they were the only people to turn to about curses in Mireea, but they would certainly know the most, and she would press them for more information.
    She was led from the gate by an elderly guard, his beard slivered with silver and his eyes the color of wet stone. The warm, spice smells filled the Keep as the corridors twisted left and right, leading up flights of turning stairs cut into solid stone. With each step a series of doubts cracked beneath her, each one ending in the desire to turn around, to leave. To pave over what was broken. But the silence that she was treated to from the guard, and the way his back remained straight as if the muscles had frozen in place at her arrival, served to remind her of why she was making the trip. She knew that she could not walk away.
    There were four towers in the Spine’s Keep, each designed to mirror the towers that sat along the Spine, though without the practicality that those battlements actually had. The Keep’s towers were named after the directions that they faced and were symbolic before anything else. The West Tower offered no strategic advantage, unless an army managed to climb the sheer drop it faced—and it was to the door of that tower Ayae was led by the guard, who left without a nod.
    Alone, she stood before the door, her hands balled tight at her side. What would she say once she entered? Fo was a powerful man. He was a member of the Enclave, a Keeper who was, she had heard, over a thousand years old, and had a worldview unlike her own. Ayae did not hate anyone with a curse—in truth, before today, she had never met anyone cursed—and she would not have raised her voice like Keallis, nor given into fear so easily, or at least she hoped; but she was not someone who enjoyed confrontation, or who saw it as a way to resolve her problems. How long she stood there lost in thought about how best to proceed, Ayae was not sure. It was entirely possible that she would have continued standing if a person had not emerged from the twisting halls of the Keep behind her and stopped at her side,