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6
A god just arrived.
I find this far more exciting than everyone else does. I don’t care that he’s a god of battle or whatever. If he’s a god, he can send me home.
I might have laughed out loud.
Aron’s gaze turns to me and it’s like ice.
I realize I’m the only one not on my knees bowing, and the moment our eyes make contact, I feel a shiver go through my body. There’s power there, and even though I don’t worship these gods, I drop to my knees because it feels like I have to.
The god—if that’s what he is—continues to swing his gaze around the room, utterly silent. After a moment, he notices the prelate sitting in his chair next to his throne, and you can just tell that he does not approve.
The prelate turns sheet white and stumbles over Avalla in his haste to drop to his own knees. “Lord of Storms,” the prelate says, and his trembling voice carries across the too-still room. “It is you. The Anticipation has been fulfilled at last.”
I watch Aron of the Cleaver to see if he’s going to say anything. He continues to study the room, his mismatched gaze burning with hostility. I shiver, wondering if he’s a benevolent god. Something in me says no. There’s an element in the way that he holds himself that suggests he’s not a very nice god at all.
His gaze moves to the goblet on the end of one of the arms of his chair. It’s the same golden, jewel-crusted goblet that the prelate put there earlier, too busy enjoying himself to pay attention. Very carefully, very slowly, Aron of the Cleaver flicks the goblet away and it clatters to the floor, spilling wine down the marble steps of his dais.
“Where am I?” His voice is lethal with dislike.
I’m shocked. This is the voice I heard back in the apartment. It’s the gorgeous, smooth, deep voice that haunted me and drove me crazy. Except…
I didn’t think the owner would be quite as intimidating as this guy. I’m just as terrified as everyone else. Was this what I was brought for? To watch this? To get killed with everyone else in this room once the war god arrived? I’m still confused, even if a piece or two slid into place.
The prelate practically quivers before the god. “This is Aventine, my lord. City dedicated to you.”
“I know where Aventine is.” His tone is scathing.
The prelate presses his forehead to the marble floors, and I can practically hear the man sweating. “We are honored to serve your Aspect. Just ask and—”
“It does not look as if you are honored to serve,” Aron says caustically. “It looks like you are here for wine and wenching.”
Well, he’s got that one pegged. Wine and wenching seems to be the order of the day. Massive burn.
“No, no, my lord,” the prelate says, sitting up on his knees. “You misunderstand—”
“Do I?”
The two words practically send frost through the room. I shiver as everything goes silent once more. Everyone’s clearly terrified, including me.
For a moment, I feel bad for the prelate. It’s clear that no one’s ever expected one of the gods to actually show up. In a way, I can kind of understand. I’m not sure how Santa’d take it if he slid down my chimney and found me eating all the cookies laid out for him.
But then again, Santa’s not real.
This Aron of the Cleaver clearly is, and he doesn’t seem to be a benign sort of god. Much as I love seeing the prelate squirm, I wish I was anywhere but here.
“How can I serve?” the prelate asks, his voice turning obsequious. “Command it and it shall be done.”
“How do you think you should serve?” Aron of the Cleaver’s face is expressionless, but I still get a sense of distaste from him.
Trembling, the prelate picks up the goblet on the floor and offers it up to the god—
—Only to have it knocked from his hands again. “Do I look as if I wish your scraps?” Again, Aron doesn’t raise his voice, but there’s still an absolute sense of danger that follows those quiet words. This is not a man to be fucked with, that much is clear.
“Of course not, my lord.” The prelate slowly gets to his feet and casts a frantic look around the room. “Servants! The finest wine for our honored Aspect! Cheese! Fruit! Meat! Fine robes! At once!”
The room bustles into activity. People scurry to do the prelate’s bidding and others remain exactly as they were, on their knees. There’s a palpable feeling of terror in the room and the girl next to me is trembling with fear.
And she wasn’t trembling at the thought of her own death at dawn, so that kind of scares me.
Maybe these people should have worshipped a fluffier, kinder god. Someone with more hearts and cuddles than say, a god of war or storms.
“What else can we do for you, my lord?” The prelate bows again, pressing his forehead to the floor. “Aventine is honored to serve.”
I half-expect the god to give another venomous response. Instead, he raises a hand thoughtfully and stares at his palm. “This body is weak. Why?”
The prelate stammers for a moment, and when a serving girl moves timidly forward with a length of crimson material, he snatches it from her and then offers it to the god.
“I did not ask for this,” Aron says, and he sounds pissy.
“Of course n-not, my Lord of Storms. I was simply anticipating your needs.” The prelate bows his head and offers the clothing, and when it’s not taken from his hands, he waits a moment longer and then slinks back, handing the robe to a quaking Avalla.
I guess a god doesn’t like to be told to put pants on. It’s kind of fu
Even I’m not that dumb.
“As for why you are weak, my Lord of Storms, m-might I offer a suggestion?” The prelate sounds more and more obsequious with every minute that passes. When the god flicks a hand indicating he should continue, the prelate goes on. “The sacred scrolls speak of this. As you know”—his voice begins to tremble again—“in the last Anticipation, the gods that were cast to the mortal world were forced to take an anchor.”
Aron of the Cleaver nods slowly. “Anchor. I remember.” He pauses and flexes his hand again, as if unused to it…or unused to wearing skin. After a moment, he looks up. “Who is to be my anchor? You?” His lip curls.
The prelate clearly misses Aron’s distaste. “If it pleases my lord—”
“It does not.”
It goes silent in the room once more. There’s a faint smell of urine.
“Shall I choose someone, then?” Aron spits the words as if he is insulted that he has to even ask. “I grow impatient waiting for you to assign me my servant.”
The prelate sits up. His bald head is covered in sweat and has a slick sheen in the torchlight. “The anchor must dedicate themselves freely, Lord of Storms.”
The god sighs, as if he’s the most put-upon person in the world. “Then let a volunteer approach.”
The room is utterly quiet.
No one’s stepping forward to serve the god. At first I don’t blame them—he’s kind of an asshole. But as the oppressive silence continues, I wonder how come no one’s volunteering at all. Is it that bad a deal? No one’s saying what an anchor is.
At all. And that worries me a little. It might just be another fancy word for “sacrifice.”
As long seconds slide past and the god’s face grows angrier, the storms overhead thunder and crash as if the entire sky is about to fall down on our heads. That’s not helping the situation, I imagine. He’s not going to get a servant if everyone’s too terrified to speak.
“No one?” the god says, and I can practically feel the ice dripping from his voice.
I think of the certain death I have at sunrise. I don’t want to die here.
I think of the drums, and the voices I heard back in my apartment. I’ve been brought here for a reason. Maybe this is it. Aron’s terrifying, but I’ve worked for asshole bosses before.
And what’s he going to do to me? Kill me? I’m supposed to die at sunrise anyhow. Maybe this absolute raging dick of a god is the King of Pentacles I’m supposed to meet. Maybe it’s because he’s the one that can send me home.
I shoot to my feet. “I’ll do it.”