up in a lady’s cosmetics chest in...where did you say? Landers Port?”
Briony nodded.
“More likely something else is afoot with you and your brother. I sense nothing out of the ordinary from your side, nothing magical—other than your virginity, which always counts for
“What do you mean?”
“A rare possession among both the Surazemai and Onyenai, I can promise you. In fact, other than perhaps the Artificer himself—there’s irony there, isn’t there?—only our Devona remained unsullied, and I think that may have been as much from inclination as anything else. Just as among mortals, the gods were made in all sorts of shapes and desires. But Zoria...certainly not, poor thing.”
“Are you saying that the blessed Zoria isn’t...wasn’t...she’s not...a...”
Lisiya rolled her eyes. “Girl, I told you, Khors was her lover and she loved him back. Why do you think she ran away from the meadows and the Xandian hills? To be with him! And had her father not come with all his army of relatives to defend his own honor—foolish men and their honor!—she would have happily married the Moonlord and borne him many more children. But that was not fated to be, and the world changed.” For a moment the brittleness seemed to soften; Briony watched a sadness so deep it looked like agony creep over the goddess’ gaunt face. “The world changed.”
Her expression was too naked—too private. Briony looked down at the fire.
“To answer your earlier, unfinished question...” Lisiya said suddenly, then cleared her throat. “No, Zoria was not a virgin. And now she simply is not—nor are any but we pathetic few, stepchildren and monsters, castoffs of Heaven. Like insects crawling out of the scorched ground when a forest fire has passed, only we survived the last War of the Gods.”
“You mean...the other gods are dead?”
“Not dead, but sleeping, child. But the sleep of the gods has already been ages long, and it will continue until the world ends.”
“Sleeping? Then the gods are...gone?”
“Not entirely, but that is another story. And I do not doubt that a few more aging demigods and demigoddesses like me are still caring for their forests, or landlocked lakes that once were small seas. But I have not talked to one of my kin in the waking world for so long I can scarcely remember.”
“No gods? They left us?”
Lisiya’s smile was grim. “Not by choice, mortal kit. But they have slept since your ancestors first set stone on stone to build the earliest cities, so it is not as though anything has changed.”
“But we pray to them! I have always prayed, especially to Zoria...!”
“And you may continue to pray to her if you wish, and the others as well. They may even answer you—when they sleep, they dream, and their dreams are not like those of your kind. It is a restless sleep, for one thing...but
“What? Are we going to walk again?”
“Yes. Follow.” And without looking back to see if Briony had obeyed her, Lisiya went limping away through the forest.
The late afternoon sun was burrowing into the distant hills when they reached the edge of the Whitewood. As they stood with the great fence of trees behind them, Briony looked out over the meadowlands of what she could only guess was Silverside. The grassy plains stretched away as far to the north and west as she could see, beautiful, peaceful, and empty. “Why have we come here?” she asked.
“Because the music calls you here.” Lisiya fumbled in her shapeless robes and drew out something on a string, lifting it over her head with surprising nimbleness. “Ah, a little sun on my bones is a kindly thing. Here, daughter. I am sorry we have not had more time. I miss the chance to speak to something less settled and slow than the trees, and for a mortal child you are not too stone-headed.” She held out her claw of a hand. “Take this.”
Briony lifted it from her hand. It was a crude little charm made from a bird skull and a sprig of some dried white flowers, wrapped around with white thread. “I am too old to come when summoned,” Lisiya said, “and too weak to send you much in the way of help, but it could be that this might smooth your way in some difficult situation. I have one or two worshipers left.”
As she drew the leather cord around her neck, Briony asked, “Have we reached the place you were talking about? You’re not going yet, are you?”
Lisiya smiled. “You are a good child—I’m glad it was given to me to help you. And I hope this path will lead you to at least a little happiness.”
“Path, what path?” Briony looked around but saw nothing, only damp grass waving in the freshening evening wind. It was the middle of nowhere—no road, no track, let alone a town. “Where am I supposed to go...?”
But when she turned back the old woman had vanished. Briony ran back into the forest, calling and calling, looking for some sign of the black-robed form, but the Mistress of the Silver Glade was gone.
24. Three Brothers
Listen, my children! Argal and his brothers now had the excuse they needed and their wickedness flowered. They went among the gods claiming that Nushash had stolen Suya against her will, and many of the gods became angry and said they would throw down Nushash, their rightful ruler.
“This does not seem a good idea to me,” Utta whispered. “What does he want from us? He is dangerous!”
Merolanna shook her head. “You must trust me. I may not know much, but I know my way around these things.” “But...!”
She fell silent as the new castellan, Tirnan Havemore, walked into the chamber. He held a book in his hands and was followed by a page carrying more books with—rather dangerously—a writing-tray balanced atop them. Havemore wore his hair in the Syannese style that had swept the castle, cut high above the ears, and because he was balding he looked more like a priest than anything else —a resemblance, Utta thought, that Havemore was only too eager to encourage. Even when he had been merely Avin Brone’s factor he had seen himself as a philosopher, a wise man amid lesser minds. She had never liked him, and knew no one outside of the Tollys’ circle who did.
Havemore stopped as though he had only just realized the women were in the room. “Why, Duchess,” he said, peering at them over the spectacles perched on his narrow nose, “you honor me. And Sister Utta, a pleasure to see you, too. I am afraid my new duties as castellan have kept me fearfully busy of late—too busy to visit with old friends. Perhaps we can remedy that now. Would you like some wine? Tea?”
Utta could feel Merolanna bristling at the mere suggestion that she and this upstart were old friends. She laid her hand on the older woman’s arm. “Not for me, thank you, Lord Havemore.”
“I will not take anything, either, sir,” the duchess said with better grace than Utta would have expected. “And although we would love to have a proper conversation with you, we know you are a busy man. I’m certain we won’t take much of your time.”
“Oh, but it would be a true joy to have a visit.” Havemore snapped his fingers and waved. “Wine.” The page put down the books and the teetering tray on the castellan’s tall, narrow desk, a desk which had been Nynor Steffen’s for years and which had seemed as much a part of him as his skin and his knobby hands. Unburdened, the page left the room. “A true joy,” Havemore repeated as though he liked the sound of it. “In any case, I will have a cup of something myself, since I have been working very hard this morning, preparing for Duke Caradon’s visit. I’m sure you must have heard about it—very exciting, eh?”
It was news to Utta.
