Caine's Law (54 page)

“If I could demand, I’d demand you take a fucking hike. How’s Faith?”

She worries for you. As do I
.

“And I’m just fine. See? Now the hike.”

A shimmer of power gathers in the air beside Duncan. The power becomes light, which shapes itself into a figure resembling his son’s wife. “Shanna.”

Pallas Ril. I am glad to meet you again, Duncan. Let me help you
.

“Help me?”

I can ease your pain
.

“It doesn’t hurt.”

Not the pain of your flesh, Duncan
.

He feels Her Power upon him, warm as a kitchen on winter’s day, safe and comforting as the memory of his mother’s arms.

Caine says, “Remember what I told you.”

“I haven’t forgotten.” He turns a regretful half-smile upon the goddess’s shimmering form. “Thank You for Your concern, Pallas Ril,” he says with deliberate formality. “But without that pain, I wouldn’t know who I am.”

Is that a dreadful fate? I tell you now: forgetting is calm, and quiet, without suffering, without fear, without desire. Only rest
.

He finds tears gathering at the corners of his eyes. “You are very kind. But no. I can’t. Not yet.” He opens his hands toward her. “Hari still needs me.”

Hari is dead. That man is not your son
.

“He’s somebody’s son. He’s the son of a father who loved him without reservation. The son of a mother whose fondest dream in life was to see her son become a man.” Now his tears spill over. “That’s son enough for me.”

Then in respect for the memory of love we share for Hari, let me at least free you from this prison
. The shimmer gains substance as it reaches for the hilt of the black sword.

Angvasse Khlaylock says, “Stay.”

Without transition, Angvasse’s kneeling form has translated from across the glade to between the Sword and the goddess’s Hand. Still on one knee, still without weapon, head still inclined in reverence, she says, “One touches the Sword by invitation only. You are not invited.”

You would oppose Me, little godling? I am as far beyond you as you are beyond these mortals you hope to defend
.

“I know full well the depth of Your Might. My duty remains.” She lifts her head to regard the shape of power that was the goddess’s face. “I do not set Myself beyond mortals, Wild Queen, but beside them. My Shield is and always shall be faced against all who would do them harm.”

Mortal harm from mortal hand
.

“Not this time.”

You forget to whom you speak
.

“There are two ways only to resolve a threat ’gainst any who bide in shadow of My Shield. One of these ways is that you withdraw.” Angvasse stands and faces square the Power. “That is the way without violence.”

Had I the power to stop you all while harming none, please believe I would
.

“I believe what I am shown. If you would neither do harm nor suffer it, withdraw.”

I can see why Caine admires you so. Good-bye, little godling
.

The Hand of the Power stretches forth to touch the armored chest; a silent blinding flash wipes the god who took the form of Angvasse Khlaylock from the glade as though neither had ever existed.

Now I will have the Sword, and this will end with its destruction
.

“No.” It was Kris Hansen who had knelt; it is Deliann Mithondionne who rises. “Now I see why Caine doesn’t trust You.”

You, creature? You pathetic created thing—you would seek to defy My Will? You are not a fraction of what Khryl is, and I banished Him with a thought. A flick of my eyelash would destroy you forever
.

“Good luck explaining to Ma’elKoth.” He looks over his shoulder at Caine. “You know my answer.”

A blast of thunder darkens the sky and forking branches of lightning converge on Deliann; when vision returns, the earth where he had stood is burned to the rock.

Caine says, “I always did.”

The Power reaches again for the Sword.

Duncan grimaces, finding himself aghast at what he was about to say, but he says it anyway. “No.”

You dare?

“Save the
You dare
shit for the tourists,” Caine says.

You would set your will against Mine?

“Caine says you can’t take the Sword unless I give it to you.”

Then give it to Me
.

“I already said no.” He sets his jaw. “I don’t like the way you ask.”

It was not a request
.

“That’s what I don’t like.”

I can make of this pretty glade a hell beyond imagination—

“It is a hell, you silly bitch,” the horse-witch says, still absently weaving her wildflower garland. “Haven’t you been paying attention?”

The Attention of the Power wheels on her.

You. What are you? So insignificant I can barely see you. A gnat buzzing around matters beyond your comprehension. Less
.

“I’m the horse-witch.” She sighs, lays the garland in her lap, and folds her hands over it. “Do you know why he hasn’t killed you yet?”

You’re as tiresome as Khryl
.

“It’s Faith. He loves her, and he doesn’t know what destroying you will do to her. But I do, and it’s not much, so you should be nicer to people.”

You’re insane
.

“You should understand that I’m trying to help you, even though you don’t deserve it. Eventually he’ll believe me about Faith, and then he might just execute your slag ass, River Bitch. After that he’ll find out I was right. She’ll barely even miss you.”

“Um,” Duncan says, “are you sure you want to take that tone? With Her?”

I know of your rutting with the man who once had been My Husband. I have no reason to harm you, but I also have no reason to endure your company
. The Power gathers almost to physicality.
Begone
.

The horse-witch shrugs and goes back to braiding wildflowers.

How are you still here?
The sky darkens again, and once more thunder rolls.
Begone!

The horse-witch rolls her eyes without bothering to look up. The Presence gives now only a sense of being flabbergasted into immobility.

“She doesn’t like you,” Caine says to the Power. “She doesn’t get angry often, and she never holds a grudge. Except for you.”

This is impossible!

“Apparently it isn’t.”

It’s inconceivable …

“Look, first, she can’t be forced. You can kill her, but you can’t make her do anything she doesn’t want to. And second, you can’t kill her.”

Watch me
.

“It’s not even about you and me, or You and me,” he goes on. “It’s because she, um, some people, some of whom looked like her, used to run away and pray to You for help to hide in forests and shit. Prayed for even a chance at freedom. And you didn’t help.”

And don’t
.

“Yeah. She doesn’t hate Shanna. She knew about Shanna. She even helped some of the
tokali
escape, when she was down along the river that fall. She knows Shanna Leighton would give her life without hesitation to help these people You ignore. The human Pallas Ril
did
give her life to
help people like them. But You can’t be bothered. So the horse-witch is angry, and probably still will be even if I kill you.”

Kill Me? You?

“You don’t understand what’s going on here. Ma’elKoth—Home, whateverthefuck—sent you after the Sword because you’re the only god in His pantheon who had a physical Aspect before Assumption Day. You’re the only one who can’t be unhappened.”

Unhappened …?

“Believe it.”

You truly think it is even vanishingly possible to unhappen the Mind of Home?

“There’s one way to find out.”

You’re insane
.

“I get that a lot. I know you’re thinking you should probably warn Him or something, or maybe just run the fuck away, but you can’t. He can’t either, because you aren’t wholly separate entities. You express a part of His whole, right? So while I hold You here, I’m holding Him.”

And how do you hope to hold Me?

“You’re kidding, right? Have You completely fucking forgotten everything You ever knew about me? It’s already done.”

Done …

“I know You’re a Natural Power, so you don’t have the whole temporal omnipresence shit, but somebody should have told you who Khryl was. Who the
real
Khryl was. Angvasse, if you wouldn’t mind, bring Kris on out here.”

In the depth of shadow under the trees, the tent-flap of the yurt pulls back, and out from it walks Angvasse Khlaylock, now dressed in a simple tunic and pants, and at her side walks Kris Hansen.

Kris said, “Next time
warn
me. I thought I really was about to die.”

“I figure that’s a feeling you immortals need to be reminded of, every so often. Besides, you’d have blown it. You are a man of many talents, Kris, but you can’t fucking act.”

Kris looks like he can’t decide whether to scream or weep. “Do you have any idea how hard it is to be your friend?”

Caine turns back to the Presence. “Just between You and me and Ma’elKoth, Khryl was the one who Bound all You Fuckers in the first place. You touched him with Your Power; his power touched you. Worked out well, considering Lord Fair Fucking Play over there wasn’t willing to just bushwack Your Ass.”

You don’t—you can’t possibly even hope—

“No? So, the last time I had a little disagreement with You and Ma’elKoth, how did I make him come after me?”

Oh—oh, the black knife … the oil …

“Sucks to fall for the same fucking trick all over again, doesn’t it?”

Thunder becomes words:

AND THUS WE SHALL NOT
.

When they look up, the sky from horizon to horizon is the Face of Ma’elKoth, with clouds His Beard, mountains His Teeth, and the sun and moon His Eyes.

“Oh, hey,” Caine says. “Thanks for stopping by. There’s something I want you to see.”

H
e stared down the face of Hell into the Ring of Justice, and he had to give the fuckers credit.

The Order of Khryl had a refined appreciation of the power of showmanship. They had arranged a spectacle on the order of the Nuremberg Rally in
Triumph of the Will
. Arguably even better, as the Nazis had been too fastidious to build a national event around mortal combat between race-champions. The Khryllians would have had Hitler do the intro for a cage match between Joe Louis and Max Schmeling with spiked cesti and no referee. To the death. Now,
that’s
showbiz—

And pretty much what they were going for with this particular Khryl’s Justice.

This Ring of Justice had been raised and consecrated especially for this particular event. A circular platform a dozen feet tall and some fifty paces in diameter stood at exactly the intersection between Purthin’s Ford and Hell, positioned for maximum exposure to both: erected upon the jitney landing at the foot of the vertical city, between the base of the Spire and the lowest tier of Hell. The disk was covered and draped with several layers of thick, absorbent linen, white and spotless to absorb and show every drop of blood; blood shed in Khryl’s Justice is sacred to the Lord of Battle.

Two rings encircled the platform, one at three feet and the other at six. On the tallest, one hundred outward-facing armsmen stood shoulder to
shoulder, riot guns at parade rest, eyes invisible within gleaming helmets. On the ring below stood one hundred and twenty. On the flagstones below them stood two hundred more. Public sentiment had been running high for some time, and the devastation of not only the previous night’s Smoke Hunt but the morning’s bombing in Weaver’s Square had the massed assemblage of Oath-bound Soldiers and Civility in a dangerously unstable mood.