The Darkness Comes (The Second Book of the Small Gods Series) by Bruce Blake Page A

twittered and sang, letting its brethren know it had survived another night, but this time its tune didn’t ease the man’s concern. He’d made it through the night like the robin, but what of Vesisdenperos?
    The sun climbed above the horizon, sending the Small Gods fleeing to their dens to hide from the day, and Kuneprius felt the pressure of their gaze lift from his soul. Perhaps today would be the day he’d have news of his friend.
    Before pivoting away from the seed garden, Kuneprius adjusted his robe, lining the seams up in a symmetrical pattern, then he made his way toward the meal shack.
    It sat at the end of the compound and looked no different from the other buildings but for the near-constant column of gray smoke swirling skyward from the ovens and cook fires. As he approached, he detected the scent of the meal meant to break his fast and his stomach grumbled in anticipation.
    “Probably gruel again this morning,” he said.
    “Maybe fruit today,” Vesisdenperos’ voice responded. “Or berries.”
    “Or maybe they’ve slaughtered a pig and they’ll have a rasher of bacon for all.”
    He chuckled at the morning ritual, but his laughter burbled across his lips alone. It was always gruel, seldom fruit, and bacon touching a Brother’s plate was unheard of, but the repartee wasn’t amusing without Vesisdenperos walking beside him.
    The meal shack’s door opened on creaking hinges and Kuneprius entered to a clatter of clay mugs and plates, the odor of milk and cereal boiling in great pots. He counted the Brothers in the room—eighteen, not including the cooks—and made his way to his accustomed place on the bench to the far left. His plate sat exactly the way he’d left it, chipped edge at the top, facing sunset, and his cup flipped upside-down to keep spiders out. He retrieved both, straightened the woven place mat that shifted as he picked up his plate, and started for the front of the room to await Brother Ytheriod to scoop a ladle full of porridge from the pot for him.
    Halfway to the short line, he stopped.
    A robed man he hadn’t counted stood at the serving table, a hood pulled low to hide his face. Kuneprius glanced at his own tan robe, then up at the man’s black one.
    A priest of Teva Stavoklis.
    He stared at the priest, unable to make his feet move any farther, but he didn’t need to. The black-robed man’s head tilted in his direction and he strode toward him. Kuneprius struggled to prevent his hands from shaking.
    “You are Kuneprius,” the priest said—a statement, not a question, “keeper of Vesisdenperos, the sculptor.”
    Normally, Kuneprius would have nodded his head three times to indicate agreement, but this time he struggled to move it once.
    “You are to come with me.”
    The priest glided past without awaiting a response, his sandals silent on the dirt floor of the meal shack. Kuneprius stood frozen for a moment, noticing the Brothers around him sneaking glimpses as they scooped spoonfuls of flavorless gruel into their mouths or sipped their juniper tea. Their gazes touched his soul like fingers poking him, coaxing him to follow the priest.
    “Better go,” Vesisdenperos’ voice whispered in his ear. “This is your chance to see me. You might not recognize me.”
    Kuneprius spun around and followed the priest. On his way past his seat, he set his plate and cup back on the table, the chipped edge left askew and the cup upright, inviting spiders to enter.
    ***
    The color of the dirt beneath his bare feet faded from brown to gray as they approached the mouth of the cave.
    Kuneprius had been here once, on the day Vesisdenperos saw the seasons turn for the sixteenth time—the day the priesthood revealed to the boy his calling. Season after season before that day, he’d knelt in other caves, manipulating clay into different shapes, building his skills until a priest came from Teva Stavoklis and showed him where he’d build the man who’d change the world. He’d been so