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8
I have to admit, it’s a pretty good butt. I guess that’s to be expected when you’re a god, though. It’s pale as the rest of him, but the globes are perfectly shaped and muscular. Not that I care, because it’s attached to a holy pain in the ass. Literally. He puts his hands on his hips and surveys the room. “Who are those maidens in the back that are not allowed to celebrate?”
The prelate’s gaze flicks to me and I get a chill down my spine. He knows I’m to blame for this. I lift my chin, unwilling to back down to him. I get a seat on the dais now, after all, and he doesn’t. That makes me more important. He can suck it.
Granted, it’s a seat at Aron’s feet, but it’s still a seat above his.
The prelate clears his throat delicately. “Those are offerings to the gods.”
He makes it sound so benign that I can’t help but speak up. “A bunch of people brought slaves to the temple. He picks the cream of the crop and then the rest are sacrificed at dawn,” I pipe in.
Both men turn to glare at me. Sheesh.
Aron of the Cleaver turns back to the prelate, and the thunder overhead rolls ominously. “Why are they sacrificed to the gods?”
“As an offering of our devotion, of course. It has been that way for many, many centuries, my lord.”
Aron crosses his arms over his chest, all pale naked body and stormy anger. “Have the gods ever asked for such a thing?”
The prelate is silent.
“I asked you a question. Have you been commanded by me—or any other—to sacrifice i
“It is tradition,” the prelate says faintly. “Slaves are given as cleaver brides every Anticipation—”
“I do not recall it being written in the sacred scrolls. Is it?” His voice is so casual and imperious at once, and I admit I’m hunching my shoulders every time he speaks, just because he sounds so darn mad—and the thunder crackles overhead constantly.
After a moment, the prelate licks his lips. “It is not, my Lord of Storms.”
“Is any of this in the sacred scrolls?” Aron flicks his hand at the crowded, trashed temple full of drunk, stuffed partygoers. At that moment, a naked woman squeals and runs from a man in red temple robes. “This carousing?”
I can practically feel the cringe of the prelate. “It is not, my lord. But it is all tradition done in your honor—”
“Then stop,” Aron snarls. He whips about and moves back to his chair, and I catch a glimpse of pale, hairless body and he’s just as muscular in the chest as he is in the backside…and I notice that he’s got large balls and an even bigger cock. Like, huge.
Okay, well, that answers that.
God-cock is apparently very impressive.
Aron flings himself back onto his throne and clamps his hands down on the arms. “This is my temple, is it not? Perhaps you should spend your time obeying my wishes?” His voice is practically a snarl.
The prelate drops his forehead to the floor again. “Of course, Lord of Storms.”
The angry god flicks his gaze over to me. I notice one eye is brown and one is green, and I’m frozen underneath that unusual gaze. “What am I a god of, woman?”
Oh shit, is this a trick question? “Cleavers?”
Someone makes a terrified sound.
His eyes narrow.
Pin drop.
I smile brightly even though the air is so heavy and ominous it feels like I’m about to be throttled from afar. “I should probably point out that I’m not from here and so I don’t know that answer.”
“Battle,” the prelate offers in a thin voice. “Battle and thunder.”
“That was going to be my second guess,” I add. “Don’t see what that has to do with sacrificing maidens. You guys would probably be better off holding a duel or a fight or something.”
The room gets quiet. The prelate stares at me with hot eyes as if he can’t believe that I’m daring to speak. Well, tough luck. Speaking up got me a cushion on the dais, and if that’s the only advantage I get, I’m going to use it. I suspect I’ll be paying for my “privilege” soon enough.
I should have never brought up the butt stuff.
“My servant is correct,” Aron says after a long moment. “You do me no honor with your sacrifice. If you wish to honor me with blood, do so on the field of battle. Release those maidens to go back to their families.”
“They are slaves, my Lord—”
“Then keep them and feed them as you would any other temple slave.”
“Of course, my Lord.” He sounds like he’s chewing glass.
One of the women in the back begins to sob loudly, and I can see the irritation spreading over Aron’s face. He gestures at the woman, who’s weeping as if she’s just now realizing she’s going to die, except she isn’t. “Why does she cry?”
I have to admit I’m as mystified as he is.
The prelate straightens himself, as if finding his spine. “She is dishonoring her master if she is not sacrificed to honor the gods.”
As I watch, Aron pinches the bridge of his nose, as if beat down by all of this. “How is it dishonorable if she is serving my temple at my wishes?”
The woman’s crying eases and her sniffles turn to surprise, and then she stumbles forward, dropping to her knees a short distance away from Aron’s throne. “I only wish to serve, Lord of Storms. However I can, I wish to be of service to the gods.”
I actually feel sorry for Aron for a brief moment, because he looks so frustrated with the situation that his jaw clenches and I suspect he’s moments away from rolling his eyes. “Serve my temple. And quit crying. The gods do not like tears,” he snaps.
All the gods or just this one, I wonder?
The prelate bows and then the other women are dropping to their knees, weeping their thanks. Aron just looks even more a
He looks like he’s about to change his mind, so I pipe up. “I bet all these new servants of the temple will start their work—their devotion,” I correct, glancing over at Aron, “to the gods early in the morning. Someone should probably show them where they’re sleeping so they can get some rest. It’s late.”
As in, get them out of here so Aron doesn’t lose his shit.
I give the prelate a pointed look but he only glares at me like I’m the jerk for daring to speak up. One of the red-robed priests in the back seems to be smarter, though. He gathers up some of the weeping, prostrating women and begins to usher them down a back hall. The prelate bows to the god and backs away, returning to his chair, and some of the tension in Aron’s jaw eases. The low hum of the room picks up again, conversations going once more.
I’m left alone, sitting at the feet of the crankiest, most beautiful man I’ve ever seen and he looks as if he’s sucking lemons. What he did has made the hard knot in my chest ease a little, though. I touch his leg to get his attention and ignore the spark of electricity that shudders through me. “Thank you—“
“Do not thank me,” he snaps, cutting me off. “If it did not suit my needs, I would not have spoken up. Do not mistake me for a kind, gentle god. I am not one.”
Yeesh. I pull my hand back.
I go back to watching the room, though it seems a lot of people are clearing out now that it’s getting closer to dawn. There’s a lot of yawning and the food laid out on the tables has long since been demolished, and the smell of it is starting to turn. There are puddles on the marble flooring that tell of spilled wine and I delicately kick aside a crust of bread with my foot and try to hold back my own yawn. What happens now, I wonder. Even though I’ve stress-eaten through the entire platter, I’m still hungry, and the long day is catching up to me. Now that the spine-clenching fear of death is gone, I’m exhausted. I’m going to live for another day, and even if I have to deal with Aron and his shit, I’ll take it.
Of course, it’s been one long, never-ending shit storm ever since I got to this place. No wonder I’m tired. I watch as people glance uneasily in Aron’s direction and sneak out however they can. No one knows what to do around the god. I can’t blame them. He’s not exactly shown himself to be a cuddly, kindhearted sort.
Bet they’re regretting this whole “Anticipation” thing now.
I glance up at Aron, but if he notices people are sliding away and leaving, he’s not showing it. He continues to stare stonily ahead, watching the dwindling crowd, and his expression is the same unpleasant one it always is.
It strikes me that maybe he doesn’t know what he’s supposed to do now. If this is his first time being among people, maybe he doesn’t know that at some point, people go to bed? They don’t sit and glare at the crowd like they’re insulting him with their presence? And if I’m his servant—his anchor—am I the one that has to break the news to him? Because for every person that slips away, there’s another robed one waiting at the fringes of the room, faces a mixture of anticipation and exhaustion. I know how that feels.
I look around for the prelate, because maybe it’s time to be mouthy and speak up about getting Aron a room for the night so everyone can get some sleep. Of course, that might mean I’ll have to “serve” Aron in ways I’d prefer not to, but I’m so tired that I’m willing to just get it over with at this point.
The prelate’s chair is empty, Avalla half-asleep and leaning against the side of it. Did he slip out, too? I scan the room, looking for the bald head in the red robes and find him in a shadowy corner. A chill skitters up my spine as I see that he’s talking to a familiar, pear-headed soldier. My old owner. Sinon.
Both are looking in this direction and talking, and they’re wearing unpleasant expressions. As I watch, Sinon fingers his sword pommel thoughtfully.
I have a bad feeling about that. The prelate looks just as unpleasant, and I suspect they’re not happy with the god they got. Maybe they should have worshipped a nature god instead of a war one.
Their intense conversation continues, and they keep looking over at Aron. I know no one’s a huge fan of the guy right now, but the way they’re talking makes my skin prickle. I think we need to break that up, just in case. I glance up at Aron on his throne and notice that his eyes are a little glassy, his lids heavy. He looks tired.
Does he not know he doesn’t have to stay in his throne all night?
Hesitantly, I touch his leg again. This time, I’m prepared for the shock that ripples down my hand as I graze his skin. “Should I ask the prelate to prepare a chamber for you?”
The god’s gaze flicks down to me. “Why?”
“So you can sleep? Rest? Relax?
“Sleep,” he repeats, and I don’t know if he’s considering the suggestion or trying to figure out what it means. “Very well. Go and retrieve the prelate and tell him I wish for a chamber.”