The Godless (53 page)

It was not long until he came across disturbed candles and the fatalism that he had felt earlier was realized.

Kae sat on one of the long pews, snuffed candles around him. With his eyes closed and his back straight, it looked as if the swordsman had stopped to pray, had found peace. Until Bueralan noticed the first of his broken swords at his feet. The second lay next to it, also broken. What both had broken against was unclear. What was worse, however, was the darkness around his stomach, and the realization that it was not a failure of the candles to complete him, but of flesh.

Bueralan continued down the aisle, pressing through the smoke, the taste of the unreal in it growing, suggesting more and more unworldly a presence.

Ahead, the pews became a jumbled collection, strewn across the floor with the candles.

There, he found Ruk and Liaya close to each other. The first's legs had been stripped to bone, as if acid, or worse, had consumed the flesh, while the latter had died behind him, her hands on his back, her intent to help him clear, the contents of her pack strewn across the floor, a dark pool of blood and chemicals that reinforced the act. On her, however, the marks of death were not cannibalistic, but it was clear that what had struck her had done so from above, coming down through her face, her throat, her chest. Ruk's sword lay just beyond him, in the darkness, torn from his grasp but with no blood, nothing to suggest, as with Kae, that he had wounded anything.

Aerala he found shortly after, her bow shattered, her spine likewise.

It was when he bent to close her eyes that he heard the laughter: a young girl's laughter. A child's laughter.

He did not draw either sword. There was no point, he knew: even had he not been exhausted by the week's ride, he would not have been able to kill, or to defend himself against whatever had killed the others. What had killed them all, he corrected. He knew that he would find Zean shortly, and Orlan. He would find what had killed all of them and then he would follow. He doubted he would even, at the moment it came, resist.

The smoke parted.

It revealed the end of the cathedral, a huge, bare stone wall with a single, closed door to the left. But it was the dais that drew Bueralan's attention, the upraised platform that held hundreds of melting candles in a series of circular patterns, while in the center of them sat a child. A pale-skinned, blond-haired girl, who wore a simple dress of white and regarded him with clear, green eyes.

If not for what surrounded her, he would have thought nothing of her.

But at her feet lay Zean, having fallen on the short flight of steps to the dais, his body a mix of cuts and slashes, a knife and sword close to him.

While behind her—

Behind her was Samuel Orlan, a series of dark, shadowed hands having dropped from the smoke and drawn him against the bare wall, still alive.

“God touched,” the girl said. “Another god-touched man to visit me. But the last to ever be touched by one of the old gods, yes?”

Bueralan made no reply.

“It is wise not to draw your weapon on me. I am protected here. I cannot be hurt and you would not survive, just as your friends did not.” She lifted up a small, dark crystal, held it before her. “But I have a gift for you, Bueralan. One that will show how kind I can be—to you and your blood brother, Zean.”

“You have to capture a man's soul in a bottle for it to be true,” he whispered.

“A stone or a bottle, you believed in neither.” She rose, stepping through the candles, to stand over Zean's body. “But it matters not. Any item will hold a soul and I have done it for you. I have done it despite the fact that you killed my favorite. She was to bring me back my father's power, but you snapped her neck, so, so easily. I do not hold it against you, though. It was not all you, I know that. My father had his own desires, so I have forgiven you for your part, and to show you that, I give you my gift.”

She placed the crystal in his hand and he knew—he
knew—
she spoke the truth.

“Don't.” Orlan's voice was a damaged rasp. “Strike her. Strike now. Don't believe. The dead are her power—the dead are used for all her lies. She will never—she will never give up even one!”

His hand closed around the crystal.

“Return to your home,” she said softly. “Take Samuel Orlan with you. I cannot kill him, not now, not yet. But if he stays, I will not know such restraint as you see now.”

From the huge dome of the cathedral there emerged a sound, similar to flesh moving against stone, a sense of movement that did not linger above where he stood, but which resonated through the entire length of the building.

“And remember,” said the girl, “that you may call on me. But once, just once. But, dear Bueralan, call only when what is at stake is innocence.”

 

About the Author

Ben Peek's previous works include the autobiography
Twenty-six Lies/One Truth,
the dystopian novel
Black Sheep,
and the flip novel
Above/Below,
cowritten with Stephanie Campisi, which was nominated for a Ditmar Award. His short-story collection,
Dead Americans,
comprises fiction published in anthologies and magazines such as
Polyphony, Clarkesworld,
and various Year's Best collections. He lives with his partner and their cat in Sydney, Australia.

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously.

 

A THOMAS DUNNE BOOK.

An imprint of St. Martin's Press.

THE GODLESS
. Copyright © 2014 by Ben Peek. All rights reserved. For information, address St. Martin's Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.

www.thomasdunnebooks.com

www.stmartins.com

Cover photographs ©
Shutterstock.com

Maps © David Atkinson;
handmademaps.com

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ISBN 978-1-250-05002-1 (hardcover)

ISBN 978-1-4668-5122-1 (e-book)

e-ISBN 9781466851221

Simultaneously published in the United Kingdom by Tor, an imprint of Pan Macmillan, a division of Macmillan Publishers Limited

First U.S. Edition: August 2014