He held out a hand and the towers screamed. Glass vibrated and steel hummed throughout the city in a wave. It passed through people, through stone, through water and steel. Finally, it rested on the Spear of the Brothers, tightening until the whole structure sang like a tuning fork. Something shifted inside the shining white marble tower, then a small section of the white stone crumbled like snow. An object flew out of the tower and smashed into a nearby building, raking along the glass walls and furrowing a trail of shattered windows. The object flew straight and true, breaking anything that stood before it, cracking walls and bending pillars with its passage. With a hammer's blow it struck a tall glass building on the water's edge, cratering the facade, burrowing through floors and stairwells before erupting from the other side in a shower of glass and noise. It flew to the figure and snapped into his hand, glowing with the might of its passage.
He raised it over his head like a benediction. The Spear of Amon, in the hand of Amon. The Scholar had taken up his weapon. War was upon us.
* * *
I clambered from the water, gasping and tired. I rode some of the detritus out when the building opened up, was lucky enough to find something wooden, and the wave brought me home. Lucky enough for that.
I sat on the shoreline, trembling, eyes wide at the ravaged coast. Waterfalls coursed out of broken windows; the harbor was choked with shattered furniture and churning pedigears and bodies. Lots of bodies. The sirens started up again as Amon raised his spear and pointed it across the city. Far away I heard stone shattering, and a pillar of debris towered between the buildings. The Spear of the Brothers, my guess.
From the wreckage of his throne, Alexander ascended. He rose into the air, white as the full moon, halberd in hand, half-shield on his back. And now he wore the articulated mask of the Betrayer. Alexander the Healer, Alexander the Betrayer, Alexander the godking of Ash.
The city stopped, the sirens and the pedigears and the monotrain. The impellors slowed and then halted. The gods of man faced each other across the landscape of the city of Ash, and we all stopped.
'Godsdamn,' I whispered, easing my blade from its waterproof bag. 'Gods and Brothers be damned.'
Above me, the sky began to turn.
19
he war between the Brothers Immortal was a thing seen and yet unseen, felt and yet unfelt. They hung above the city like rogue stars, one charred, one shining, hovering in poses of martial meditation. Around them the sky boiled and churned. In the city it felt like bad weather in a clear sky. Like everything was wrong with the world.
Massive pressure systems lumbered through the streets, causing windows to creak and eardrums to pop. Just as suddenly the air would vacate this alley or that building. People stumbled into the open, gasping for breath, blood leaking from their ears. The sky turned dark one second, then flared into brilliant whiteness the next. The air groaned with the passing of unseen energies.
It was worse for me, for all the scions of our erstwhile gods. Nausea swept through me, crippling weakness, then frenetic energy bordering on the psychotic. I was dizzy, I was high, I was tired, and I was scared. I focused on the ground in front of me, on each faltering step, on the sword in my hands. Around me the city was a hash of gunshots and oily smoke and breaking glass. The world was going mad.
The maddest part was around the Library Desolate. These were people who had voluntarily submitted to imprisonment, in order to serve the god they loved. And now they were free, and their god wasn't dead after all. Only he was clearly mad, and that madness was rippling through the community like a virus. Meanwhile, the citizens of Ash, who had grown up being taught that Amon was the darkest villain mankind had ever spawned, were just coming to grips with seeing the Scholar rise from the lake like an eclipsed moon. That his rising had killed hundreds of people, ruined the shoreline, and was now the subject of an arcane war that, simply, none of us could understand wasn't helping the public mood. Crowds had gathered at the Library, to be met by the newly freed Amonites. A thin band of whiteshirts stood between them, not sure who they were supposed to be holding back. My approach disrupted things even more.
'Paladin! Paladin of Morgan! Save us!' some of them shouted, from all three groups. Save them from the madness of their god, or the crowd, or their duty? I wasn't sure. And I was in no position to do any of it, anyway.
Others among them remembered the lies of Nathaniel, of the trials that had just been conducted, the judgments that had been handed down. Some of these same citizens might have stood in the shadow of the Strength, cheering while it burned.
My mind was in turmoil. I pushed my way to the whiteshirts, the hands of the crowd on me equal parts acclamation and condemnation. It was a gauntlet. By the time I reached the Alexian lines, I was twitching with restrained violence. Someone had to take control.
'Your god has betrayed you,' I said to the frightened line of soldiers. 'Amon did not kill Morgan. It was Alexander.'
Okay, that probably wasn't the best thing to say, given the situation. Probably not a situation on earth where that would have been the right thing to say. But I was never a leader of men. More like a leader of the charge, and that's what this was. A rush to enlightenment, storming the walls of an ancient betrayal.
'What the hell are you talking about?' one of them shouted. We were all shouting, just to be heard over the crowd. Crowd. Riot, more like.
'Look up, look at your god.' I pointed at the distant figure of Alexander, hovering among novas of power. 'Tell me what you see!'
They peered up, squinting at the light. Finally one of them raised a set of binoculars to his eyes.
'He's wearing a mask,' the man reported. They looked back at me.
'The articulated mask of the Betrayer,' I said. 'The fight is too dire, his brother is returned. He has to play all his cards, bring all of his aspects into play.'
'To hell with you, lady. I swore to Alexander on my name, and with Alexander I'll stay,' one of them said.
I nodded. 'Fairly said, but consider: I am the last of the scions of Morgan. What reason would I have to stand with my god's betrayer?'
'Your god is dead. What reason do you have to stand with him?'
'She's a lady of conviction, fellows,' said another in the crowd, and I turned to him. Owen, face smeared with ash, a bandage across his forehead. 'You broke my skull, Eva.'
'The cost of trusting me,' I said.
'Yeah. But that up there? That's not the god I swore my name to.'
'Then help me stop him.'
He laughed and shrugged. 'Of course. What else would I do with my time? But what are we supposed to do here?'
I looked around at the seething mobs on both sides of us. Even among the whiteshirts there were those who would knife me before they would follow me. Best to just defuse and get out. I went to the nearest Amonite.
'Who leads you?' I asked.
'Amon, risen again, Scholar and Saint!' he shrieked. I took his collar in my fist and slapped him once.
'Among these people here, who leads you?'
The Scholar looked at me numbly, so I dropped him and went to the next.
'Who leads you?'
'That is my calling,' said someone deep in the crowd. He fought his way forward. An old man, face lined with ash and tears of joy. He looked calm, though. Not at all mad. 'What do you need, sister of our brother?'
'You're never going to get out this way. These people will kill you. Go back inside, and wait. Let the Alexians guard you.'
