such an opportunity, but we will if we must. Join us freely, turn over the sword, and we’ll spare all your companions in the High Wing.”
Tylar stared at the god before him. He was plainly handsome, unassuming in greens and browns. But Tylar remembered another Chrism. He again touched Mistress Naff’s memories, of Chrism attacking her, abusing her, destroying her with his corrupted seed. Tylar still felt the stubble of his cheek at his throat. He remembered the agony.
There was no kindness or mercy to be had here.
His fingers tightened.
Chrism noted the strain of his muscles. “A shame.”
“Who are you?” Tylar asked. He would know more. From the easy carriage of the god, there was a trap hidden here. He wanted time to discern it, to let it show itself, to let the god drop his guard. He needed every advantage.
But mostly he wanted answers.
“I am still Chrism,” the god answered. “Or rather as much of Chrism as once filled this skin. We are one and the same. Or rather one part of three. Except our aethryn selves have vanished to the aether. Unknowable, untouchable, uncaring of flesh and things beneath it.”
“You’re a naethryn,” Tylar said, realizing the deeper truth behind the god’s words. Disgust filled his words. “You’re Chrism’s undergod.”
Chrism shrugged. “This cloth is as much mine to wear as the one before.”
“How…?” Tylar asked. “What became of the other?”
“Gone. Burned away by the sword you carry with you now.”
“You killed a part of yourself?”
“It was no matter. The Sundering shivered away all that was soft and merciful from me, left it in flesh here. The greater purpose was set aside, forgotten. But not in the naether! We still remembered. Those who served He Who Comes still survived. We banded together.”
“The Cabal,” Tylar mumbled.
A nod answered. “When the time was ripe, the Cabal stole the Godsword, whetted the blade, and buried it into the spot where Chrism bled and settled this land. He knew it, of course, felt its poison in his precious garden, and came to the pillars, to the sword. He was so easily trapped… again.”
“What do you mean?”
Chrism sat straighter. “That’s right. You never knew the truth.” Laughter flowed, darkly complexioned. “The story of Chrism’s settling of this First Land. His great sacrifice. It was not as your illustrious historicals describe. Do you wish to know how your lands truly started?”
Tylar noted the furtive movements behind Chrism’s shoulders. I must keep the god distracted, focused on me.
“What happened?” Tylar asked stiffly, but he shifted the Godsword to catch Chrism’s eye.
Chrism settled back. “It was a dark time when the gods first came to this world. Atrocities were committed across Myrillia, by god and man alike. Chrism was no different. He raved. Did horrible things. He was eventually captured by your folk. Chained between the pillars here. His throat, wrists, and groin were sliced to the bone. They meant to kill the daemon who had slain a hundred children among their villages. But Chrism bled and bled. Undying, he fed the land. His Grace took root here, and his ravings died away. He pledged himself to the land and spent another hundred years chained to that pillar, in servitude, until finally being freed.”
Tylar’s skin went cold at that thought. A century in chains.
“Only after he was freed was his discovery shared among the other gods. Others settled to escape the ravings. But the first… Chrism’s settling was not done by choice or even despair, but by force. A savage and bloody beginning of Myrillia’s new age.”
Tylar shook his head, refusing to believe.
“And the Godsword,” Chrism continued. “Why do you think Chrism slew those children? He was trying to revive our sword. When we were whole, in our own kingdom, we forged it for He Who Comes. Some sense of this persisted in his ravings. He struggled to revive the sword. But once settled, such desire faded. He hid the sword, but others knew of it.”
“Your Cabal.”
Chrism nodded. “For millennia we sought some way to break from the naether and into this world. Rivenscryr was our only hope. And there were those among your people who used Dark Grace to thin our world from yours. We broke through in tiny seepages. Enough to set a foothold here. We lured others to us. We set them on a path to free Myrillia.”
Tylar remembered the screams of freedom by Darjon. Such human Cabalists had been duped, believing they fought for some greater purpose, some illusory freedom that would benefit all of Myrillia, not realizing the Cabal’s darker purpose.
Chrism leaned forward. “Who do you think finally released Chrism from his chains after a hundred years? Who allowed Chrism to spread his peaceful message and start this age?”
Curiosity burned in Tylar. Yet he had to maintain focus. Not let his eyes wander to the silent writhing that rose behind the throne. It had not been a glowpike in the waters under the keep. Tylar’s eyes narrowed.
“It was the Cabal who freed Chrism from his chains. Those first to wear human skin. But not the last.”
“If… if you freed Chrism from his chains then why murder him now?”
“At that place in history, peace served the Cabal. Time was needed to study this land and the odd Graces born to us here. It took millennia to spread ourselves, to root ourselves, to corrupt those of weak mind. But four centuries ago, a new way to whet Rivenscryr was discovered.”
“The godling boy.”
Chrism smiled, a predatory gleam. “Much was wasted until we discovered how to use the boy’s gifts. It was difficult without possessing the sword at the time. The boy died too soon.
He did not have our natural ability to heal from mortal wounds. Who would’ve known that? The offspring of gods was not immortal. So much was wasted. We won’t make that same mistake again.”
Tylar pictured Dart. He couldn’t let this monster have her.
Chrism continued. “But the Cabal did preserve enough of the boy’s blood, saved in crystal. We bided our time. We chose where best to strike first. Two centuries ago, the castillion here was infiltrated, the sword stolen and whetted and planted as a trap in the Eldergarden. The god came, sensing the poisoned touch of the sword in his midst. He found the sword, yanked it free. The fool.”
“The sword had pierced into the naether,” Tylar said.
“And I was there, waiting. When he pulled the blade, I swept forth and into Chrism. Bathed in Gloom, he had no defenses. I burned the quick from his flesh, hollowing him out. Then I slipped into him like one slips into a well- worn boot.”
Tylar touched his chest, forgetting himself.
Chrism noted his movement. “Not like you, Godslayer. Or even like the creature you slew in the High Wing, wearing Mistress Naff’s skin. That underling, of low mind and station, served us, carried the whetted sword and slew Meeryn. It was unfortunate Meeryn had learned of the Cabal’s infiltration of Chrismferry; even she did not know how high it had spread. But such knowledge could not be allowed to survive.”
“So you had Meeryn killed,” Tylar said.
“The Cabal will have this world. We will possess it like I do this skin. We will pave the way once again for He Who Comes. Nothing will stop us this time. We acted too hastily in the past, in our own kingdom. We did not understand fully what I had forged.” Chrism stared at the sword again, eyes shining. “But now we do. As before, we will bring a new age to Myrillia. But not one of peace for the crawling vermin of these lands. Such a time has ended. You shall become our chattel and clay. Your blood and flesh will open the way for His coming.”
“Who-?”
Chrism sneered. “Even his name you are not worthy to hear.”
Chrism finally stood. A black mist steamed from his skin. Tylar had seen such a sheen in gods when they were worked up, like when Meeryn had fled her assassin. But while Meeryn’s glow was sunlight and petals, the pall rising from Chrism ate the light and stirred with the winds of the naether. It made his form shimmer, as across baked sands.
