a cool relief went pummeling through his veins. He let the ikinri ‘ska subside. “But please don’t claim the Dark Court has my best interests at heart, either. I’ve read a few too many hero legends to believe that.”
“Legends are written down by mortals, floundering in the details of their world, seeking significance for their acts where usually there is none.” The corpse hobbled back to its seat by the fire. “You would do well not to set too much store by such tales.”
“Is it inaccurate, then, my lady, to say that heroes in the service of the gods rarely end well?”
“Men who carry steel upon their backs and live by it rarely end well. It would be a little unjust to blame the gods for that, don’t you think?”
Ringil grimaced. “The Mistress of Dice and Death complains to me of injustice? Have you not being paying attention, my lady? Injustice is the fashion—for the last several thousand years, as near as I can determine, and more than likely before that, too. I think it unlikely the Dark Court has not had a hand in any of it.”
“Well, our attention has been known to wander.” It was hard to be sure with that whispering, rustling voice, but the dark queen seemed amused. “But we are focused on you now, which is what counts. Rejoice, Ringil Eskiath—we are here to help.”
“Really? The lady Kwelgrish gave me to understand that mortal affairs are a game you play at. It’s hard to rejoice in being treated as a piece on the board.”
Quiet. The corpse lolled back in the rocking chair’s embrace. The nails of its left hand tapped at the wooden armrest, like the click of dice in a cupped palm.
“Kwelgrish is … forthright, by the standards of the Court.”
“You mean she shouldn’t have told me?”
The soft crackle of the fire in the hearth. Gil thought, uneasily, that the leaping shadows painted on the wall behind Firfirdar were a little too high and animated to fit the modest flames in the hearth that supposedly threw them. A little too shaped as well, a little too suggestive of upward tilted jaws and teeth, as if some invisible, inaudible dog pack surged and clamored there in the gloom behind the dark queen’s chair, only waiting to be unleashed …
Very slowly, the corpse lifted both hands to the edges of the cowl it wore. Lifted the dark cloth back and up, away from the visage it covered.
The breath stopped in Ringil’s throat.
With an effort of will, he looked back into Firfirdar’s eyes.
It was not that the corpse she had chosen was hideous with decay—far from it. Apart from a telltale pallor and a sunken look around the eyes, it was a face that might still have belonged with the living.
But it was beautiful.
It was the face of some fine-featured, consumptive youth you’d readily kiss and risk infection for. A face you might lose yourself in one haunted back-alley night, then wake without the next day and spend fruitless months searching the stew of streets for again. It was a face that gathered you in, that beckoned you away, that rendered all thought of safety and common sense futile. A face you’d go to gladly, when the time came; no regrets and nothing left behind but a faint and fading smile, printed on your cooling lips.
“Do you see me, Ringil Eskiath?” asked the hissing, whispering voice.
It was like flandrijn fumes through his head, like stumbling on a step that suddenly wasn’t there. He reeled and swayed from the force of it, and the corpse’s mouth did not move at all and the voice seemed to come from everywhere at once.
“Do you see me now?”
Out of the seething, chilling confusion of his own consciousness, Ringil mustered the will to stay on his feet. He drew in breath, hard.
“Yes,” he said. “I see you.”
“Then let us understand each other. It isn’t easy being a god, but some of us are better at it than others. Kwelgrish has her intricate games and her irony, Dakovash his constant rage and disappointment with mortals, and
“Legends are written down by mortals, floundering in the details of their world, seeking significance for their acts where usually there is none.” The corpse hobbled back to its seat by the fire. “You would do well not to set too much store by such tales.”
“Is it inaccurate, then, my lady, to say that heroes in the service of the gods rarely end well?”
“Men who carry steel upon their backs and live by it rarely end well. It would be a little unjust to blame the gods for that, don’t you think?”
Ringil grimaced. “The Mistress of Dice and Death complains to me of injustice? Have you not being paying attention, my lady? Injustice is the fashion—for the last several thousand years, as near as I can determine, and more than likely before that, too. I think it unlikely the Dark Court has not had a hand in any of it.”
“Well, our attention has been known to wander.” It was hard to be sure with that whispering, rustling voice, but the dark queen seemed amused. “But we are focused on you now, which is what counts. Rejoice, Ringil Eskiath—we are here to help.”
“Really? The lady Kwelgrish gave me to understand that mortal affairs are a game you play at. It’s hard to rejoice in being treated as a piece on the board.”
Quiet. The corpse lolled back in the rocking chair’s embrace. The nails of its left hand tapped at the wooden armrest, like the click of dice in a cupped palm.
“Kwelgrish is … forthright, by the standards of the Court.”
“You mean she shouldn’t have told me?”
The soft crackle of the fire in the hearth. Gil thought, uneasily, that the leaping shadows painted on the wall behind Firfirdar were a little too high and animated to fit the modest flames in the hearth that supposedly threw them. A little too shaped as well, a little too suggestive of upward tilted jaws and teeth, as if some invisible, inaudible dog pack surged and clamored there in the gloom behind the dark queen’s chair, only waiting to be unleashed …
Very slowly, the corpse lifted both hands to the edges of the cowl it wore. Lifted the dark cloth back and up, away from the visage it covered.
The breath stopped in Ringil’s throat.
With an effort of will, he looked back into Firfirdar’s eyes.
It was not that the corpse she had chosen was hideous with decay—far from it. Apart from a telltale pallor and a sunken look around the eyes, it was a face that might still have belonged with the living.
But it was beautiful.
It was the face of some fine-featured, consumptive youth you’d readily kiss and risk infection for. A face you might lose yourself in one haunted back-alley night, then wake without the next day and spend fruitless months searching the stew of streets for again. It was a face that gathered you in, that beckoned you away, that rendered all thought of safety and common sense futile. A face you’d go to gladly, when the time came; no regrets and nothing left behind but a faint and fading smile, printed on your cooling lips.
“Do you see me, Ringil Eskiath?” asked the hissing, whispering voice.
It was like flandrijn fumes through his head, like stumbling on a step that suddenly wasn’t there. He reeled and swayed from the force of it, and the corpse’s mouth did not move at all and the voice seemed to come from everywhere at once.
“Do you see me now?”
Out of the seething, chilling confusion of his own consciousness, Ringil mustered the will to stay on his feet. He drew in breath, hard.
“Yes,” he said. “I see you.”
“Then let us understand each other. It isn’t easy being a god, but some of us are better at it than others. Kwelgrish has her intricate games and her irony, Dakovash his constant rage and disappointment with mortals, and
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