The Godgame (The Godgame, Book 1) (4 page)

LENA

Lena forced herself to give Josef a reassuring smile and closed the bedroom door. She wanted to tell him their son was going to be okay, but there was something caught in her throat. She gasped, her lungs aching, a fit of coughing overtaking her. She held the wall to support herself, hoping her husband would not come through the door, waiting for it to pass. She did not want her husband to know how much worse she was feeling.

She staggered to the bed and slowly crawled beneath the covers. A feverish shudder ran through her body. She clutched the blankets tightly. She stared up at the cracks in the ceiling. The sickness had settled in her lungs, making each breath difficult, as if an oxhoag sat on her chest. She was much sicker than she allowed herself to appear.

Our son is going to be okay
, she imagined saying to her husband.
Ash is going to be fine. 

Her relationship with Josef was founded somewhat on his unquestioning acceptance of her past. She always dismissed his questions, explaining to him how important it was to her to live this chapter of her life unsoiled by the one before it. He knew only that she had been born in Talos, raised and educated there. He knew that she had at a young age been a member of Marrow’s crew, but she had never told him more than that. He knew that she still had family in Talos, but she never spoke of them, except occasionally about her sister Embla.

When she had come to the village of Fallowvane, she had been cold, hungry and scared. She had all her life been in the City, with its mobs of people, labyrinthine structures and electrical lights; and then on Marrow’s Aerial, among an eclectic group of people, she had seen amazing lands and animals and learned of the greater world. Marrow had taught her many things, had read to her every night as they lay side by side in bed.

Another fit of coughing overtook her and, for a moment, all she could do was close her eyes and clutch herself against the pain that tore through her lungs. When the coughing finally subsided, her entire body was trembling.

She had fled Marrow, but had soon found coming back to the life she’d left behind in Talos hollow and meaningless. She had become disgusted with the greed and decadence of the heirotimates, with the unending schemes her family members and friends plotted—constantly clawing themselves to greater positions of control and wealth—with the attitudes of even the lowliest Talosian that it was okay to manipulate and destroy others economically and emotionally for personal gain. All her years of study with Marrow, of art and philosophy, of the wonders across Meridian, had served only to open her eyes to things of worth beyond the material, and left her unable to cope in a world which defined a person’s worth based on their wealth.

So, she had abandoned that life as well, fled Talos and everything for which it stood, shuffling for agonizing hours through a dank tunnel beneath the City, trusting in Galen who had, for a substantial price, agreed to show her the way. She had been led out through a broken drainage grate and been left alone blinking against the brightness of the cometlight with the open countryside before her, some meager supplies, and a few vague rumors she had collected about the territory of Nova.

She had, after weeks of travel through lonely coniferous forest, sleeping in the homes of friendly but cautious villagers when she could, dehydrated and exhausted, come upon the village of Fallowvane. From the top of a small forest hill, she had been able to take in the entire spread of small houses with a single sweep of her eyes. Fallowvane was built where dense forest met sweeping grasslands, in a slight depression that seemed to shelter it. It consisted of two unpaved roads that crossed each other at the village’s center, where a sculpture stood, a twenty-foot tower of metal fused together at apparently random angles, as if constructed by a madman, which, she had later been told, it basically was. At the top of the structure protruded a weathervane, a cock in profile roosting upon an arrow, its metal an oxidized turquoise. This sculpture, and the weathervane upon it, was the namesake of the village, although it never moved; despite the warm winds which came through the grasslands, the weathervane refused to budge from its position: always pointing south, always in direct opposition to that which loomed the other way—the City of Talos.

Although she had intended to press on to the coast, perhaps to find a ship that would take her as far from anyone she knew as possible, she had stumbled that day into a small carpenter’s shop and met the shop’s proprietor. Josef had given her a bed, a warm meal, and a smile of complete trust and kindness, and she had decided to stay.

She had liked Josef the moment she had met him. He was a simple man who worked with his hands, making chairs and other furniture for sale in his shop. He was an honest man. She’d been able to tell that about him right away, his large eyes blinking at her, his face open and unguarded. She had loved him almost immediately, fiercely and loyally. And, she had soon discovered, his attitudes toward Awa, were ambivalent. When she’d told him she no longer believed in Awa or any other god, he’d only shrugged and said, “I don’t think it matters much what you believe. All that matters is our lives, right here and now.” He’d smiled and waved his large hands through the air.

She had embraced her new pastoral life, as hard as it had been at first to live without electricity and the advanced plumbing systems found throughout most of Talos. She had birthed four children by Josef, Mother Marlena delivering them all. She helped Josef in the shop sometimes, prepared meals, cared for her kids, lived simply. She enjoyed the freshness of the air and the routine of the day to day.

One day she had been outside, sitting in a chair built by her husband, de-feathering several small birds over a large basin by hand while she watched Ash and Kya play in the yard, both toddlers at the time, when her husband had come striding up.

“What are you thinking?” he’d asked. “You have a strange expression on your face.”

She’d blinked at him and the words had come to her lips before she’d realized she meant them. “I’m happy,” she’d said. “This is what happiness feels like.”

Josef had scowled, as he did when she said something he didn’t quite understand, and then he’d shrugged. “Why wouldn't you be?”

Lena coughed and coughed. She let her arms fall to her sides, lying on her back, her frail body looking wilted beneath the sheets. She was exhausted and could draw air only in shallow gasps. She had, for several years, lived the life she had always wanted; she was thankful for that. And now, if she was going to choke to death, she had to remember how fortunate she had been. She had produced four beautiful children, had a husband who loved her deeply, and had, for several years, been truly happy. How many people could say that?

War is coming.

The thought sickened her, pulled her from her reminiscing. It was a terrifying thought, but it couldn’t be true, could it? The Novan committee reported that bands of Talosian troops had been seen at the borders of the territory, but that did not mean war. Yet Ash, her eldest child, had chosen to join the militia that was assembling. The recruiters had been glad to take her twelve-year-old son from her, but had rejected her husband, saying he was too old and that his skills were needed in Fallowvane.

Ash would never see battle, she reassured herself. Of course he wouldn’t. Even if there were a few rogue bands of Talosian mercenaries looking to stir up trouble, the Novan militia would soon scatter them. The threat of war had not grown to the point where children were thrown into battle. The committee was only being vigilant and cautious, as they should be.

Of course, she could write to her sister. Embla, who still lived and worked in Talos, might know what was going on. But it had been years since they’d spoken—would Embla even bother to write her back?

TALOS

EMBLA

When Embla saw the letters sitting in her personal mail slot, her heart immediately began to pound. She quickened her step. Somehow, even after all these years, she still hoped for that one letter, the one she’d been waiting for all her life. In her heart she knew it was not too late. She still had much to offer. She wanted to travel the skies. She knew she could still be an asset to Marrow and his crew.

She snatched the letters from the box and hurried into the single room that served as her living quarters. She sat on the bed and looked at the letters. The first one was from her sister, which gave her pause. She looked at her sister’s name, written in ink—
Lena Alexander
—and then tossed the letter aside. The second letter was an unlabeled square of metallic-colored paper. She fumbled it open, unceremoniously ripping the paper in her excitement.

She unfolded the plain paper within and a small packet fell into her lap. She glanced down at the packet, and then at the letter.

She made a sound of disgust. For a moment, she had thought the letter was the one from Marrow for which she yearned; the shiny paper had tricked her. It was only a dummy message; the real letter was sealed inside the packet that had fallen into her lap. The letter said she was to take the packet to the Archon directly. Important messages were sometimes delivered this way, when the telelines—into which anyone could tap and listen—could not be trusted, arriving anonymously and then passed from person to person until they eventually reached their intended audience, in this case: the Archon. She was one of the few who lived in the upper reaches of the Ziggurat, otherwise known as the Archon’s Pyramid, and had direct access to the Archon, although she had never seen him personally.

She dropped the letter and picked up the packet. She turned it over in her hands. She wondered what message it contained. It was small, square, sealed with a rubbery substance that felt sticky, but left nothing on her fingers—a popular method for ensuring letters remained tamper-proof amongst the heirotimates.
How important was the letter’s message? Would people live or die based on the information it contained? Or was it nothing more than an invitation or a thank you note? The fact that it was being delivered by hand and not by teleline meant someone felt it was important enough to use such a secretive, if inefficient, method of delivery. But that fact in itself did not necessarily mean much among the exarchs and many of the heirotimates, who saw life as a competition for the best comforts, for the largest parties, for the newest and most exotic pleasures.

What if she burned it? Could its waxy, sticky coating catch flame? What if she hid it away? Or tossed it in the River Slid?

She shook her head, banishing these thoughts. She glanced around her meager chamber, as if someone might be watching.

Learn of that which cannot be seen
, Galen had advised her during her visit to the temple last week. She had asked the prophet how she could become a part of Marrow’s crew and that had been his response. She trusted Awa’s messenger, but what did his words mean?

That which cannot be seen.

Her thoughts, in this way, had been occupied for the past few days, as she fed the animals and shoveled excrement from their cages and paddocks. As she brushed Theo, the long-haired, onyx-spotted ibex; as she took her lunch in the aviary, closing her eyes in the hopes the roar of avian conversation might help her to reconcile her thoughts; as she walked down to the bay to watch the turtles of paradise, with their bright multi-colored shells, move peacefully beneath the waning cometlight—she considered Galen’s words.

Cannot be seen.

She was Keeper of the Beasts and it was her job to feed and care for the rare and unusual creatures housed in the Archon’s Biopark. It was demanding work, her staff minimal, and she spent many hours alone, but enjoyed it. She liked spending time with the animals; their politics were simple; they didn’t complicate things the way people did. Her father had wanted her on his council, but she had never been very good with people, did not possess the same level of charisma as her sister Lena, so she had ended up with this position, and her father was never too tired to voice his complaints at how difficult it had been for him to get it for her.

Lena had been their father’s favorite growing up. Her sister had shown an immediate ease with people and their father had talked, even when they were very young, of how high they would rise. When he had finally been appointed to the position for which he’d sought his entire life—Head Executioner for Bergman, Exarch to the House of Peace—he’d promised his two daughters places in his personal council. Of course, when he made that promise, he’d been thinking of Lena, but Lena had received the invitation to join Marrow’s crew and been taken away.

Embla could still remember the look of excitement on Lena’s face as she boarded Marrow’s Aerial, that smile, filled with perfect teeth, that hint of a sneer, that taunt in her eyes as she looked at Embla standing next to their father. Embla had been fuming with jealousy. Their father had watched stiffly and waved. Then, after Lena had left, he’d looked down his nose at Embla and said, “Now it is you who must learn the ways of the House of Peace.”

Her father had dressed her in the crimson robes of Bergman’s house, but she had been lost at council meetings and sickened by the decisions that were to be made at each one. How might the campaign to find more wives for Bergman be conducted most diplomatically? How many commoners must be killed to prevent further conflict between the Awans and the Awaes? What punishment should so-and-so receive for this crime or that crime? Shall the torture method be The Kite or The Inscriber or perhaps even The Crimson Curtain? Shall execution be by decollation or defenestration? Was the criminal of enough repute amongst the common folk to be hung from the Gallows Tree?

She had been lost from the very beginning and had hated her father’s mocking laughter when she had asked him the difference between decollation and defenestration. “The first is death by having one’s head struck from one’s shoulders by a heavy blade, the second by inevitable dismemberment upon one’s body hitting the ground after a fall from the height of a great tower.” When she had grown pale and silent, he had only laughed more loudly and left her to think over what she had learned.

It had not been long before her father had given up on her being a part of his council and found other work for her. She had bounced from job to job within the House of Peace, but had found the harsh ways of her father’s people disconcerting and she had not fit in.

Eventually, her father had found her the position of Keeper of the Beasts. He was convinced it was best she work with as few people as possible. But what he didn’t understand was that her problem was not with
all
people, but with
his
people, with the brutes and sadists who worked within the House of Peace.

It was Lena who should have stayed to work with their father and she who should have joined Marrow’s crew. Lena would have been good at making the difficult decisions, at the mind games and people manipulation, at getting people to do what she wanted to further the political position of their family. Embla should have been the humanitarian, travelling the skies to distant lands to help people, to bring them food when they were starving, to cure their fevers when they were sick. She would have been a great asset to Marrow. She still could be. She knew she could. If only Marrow could see her for whom she truly was, for the kindness in her heart. She had, for the past couple of years, hoped her expertise with animals might make her a candidate, but no letter had come.

Learn of that which cannot be seen.

But what did that mean? She enjoyed her job at the biopark, despite judgments from those who felt the position was pointless and obsolete, that she wasted her status as one born into a high-ranking heirotimate family. She didn’t care what people said. What she really wanted was to be on Marrow’s crew. There was nothing in the world she wanted more. She didn’t care about her social class.

She clutched the Archon’s letter and put the single room she called home at her back. She walked to the steps and began to climb. She took a deep breath and began through the Garden of Mue. Great marble pillars rose around her like trees without branches, smooth and polished. She could already hear the whistling sounds of several of the acouferrus carvings responding to the shift in the sound waves her presence brought to the garden. Things moved out of the corners of her eyes—statues of animals, small in this part of the garden—but she ignored the sensation; she knew if she turned to look, all would be still, the rabbits and various other creatures of the forest floor arranged as they had always been, carved in stone.

“Embla,” someone said.

She stopped. A figure emerged from around one of the pillars, watching her.

“Skin?” Embla said. “What are you doing?”

Skin came forward into the cometlight. “I will take it to him.”

Embla looked down at the letter she clutched in her hand, shook her head. “I have to deliver it to the Archon directly.”

Skin sighed. She was dressed very differently from the leathers Embla had seen Skin wear before. She was wearing a dress silky and ridiculously impractical, which wrapped first around and between her legs, then up over her hips, the swell of her breasts, to her neck, in a spiral pattern. The white color of her gown appeared very bright against her smooth, purple-hued skin. “I will take it to him,” she said again.

“No. Those are not my instructions.”

“Please,” Skin said.

“Skin, you don’t understand. I must—”

“It’s okay,” said another voice. “I will take it.”

A man walked toward them. He was tall for a sapien, though still significantly shorter than Skin, thin, with lanky arms and legs—and just a hint of a protruding heirotimate belly—his blond hair shaven at his scalp, equal in length and color to his clean-cut beard.

“Trevor,” Embla said, her muscles tensing.

The man smiled. “Yes, of course it is. Good news, I hope?” He waved at the note Embla held in her hand.

“How would I know?”

Trevor came closer. “Yes. How would you know?” He held his hand out for the note.

Slowly, Embla reached out, and dropped the note into Trevor’s hand.

“Thank you,” Trevor said. “That will be all.”

Embla turned, and hurried back toward the steps that descended the Ziggurat.