Page 132 of Of Sword & Silver

I take a step, water sloshing around my ankles, my eyes growing wide as I take in what’s all around me.

“Are those…” my voice echoes weirdly the further I move into the chamber.

Life-sized statues of the gods ring it.

These are carved from marble, their features flawless and perfect, filled with emotion that makes it hurt to breathe.

Could be that’s the curse, though.

“Nakush,” I say to myself, staring into their open eyes like they might see me in front of them. Their hands are wide, palms up, a mage pose.

The next is Heska, the mother of the gods, the namesake of my country, and her face is carved in such loving detail that it hurts to look at.

It reminds me of my own mother.

My hand goes to my throat and I close my eyes.

“Why are they so… lifelike?” I ask. “Most religious statues and paintings… they don’t have any—” I pause, fumbling over the words as my attention falls on Sola.

She’s ageless in the stone rendition, a cruel smile on a plain face, a high ponytail hanging over her shoulder, carved as tenderly as the rest. A dagger in one hand slicing the palm of the other, a warning to all.

My swallow is too loud in my own ears.

“This is a sacred place,” the Sword finally answers, the sound of his deep voice booming.

Or maybe it’s something else, something magic, because the water around my feet seems to vibrate in response.

I shake my head, feeling fuzzy, trying to focus.

“Lojad,” I mutter. The god of order and war stands beside Sola, face hidden by a helm, a shield and sword in hand.

There are two statues left, Dyrda, goddess of the wild places and life, and Hrakan, the god of death and time.

“Every god has two faces,” I say. The next statue is male.

Hrakan, then; Dyrda must be the last in this strange circle.

I pause before him, studying the skull in one hand. The other’s empty, though the stone fingers look like they once did hold something.

I step closer, inspecting the empty hand of Death, feeling the Sword come up behind me. His breath warms the top of my head.

My gaze climbs to the statue’s face and my stomach plummets as I take it in.

As I recognize it.

“You,” my voice cracks.

I turn slowly, my heart hammering as though it’s trying to escape.

The Sword studies me, that sad, unfathomable expression suddenly all too familiar, suddenly too knowing, too much.

I step away rapidly, my back thudding into the statue of Death behind me. Cold water seeps into my leather leggings and I shiver, my eyes wide.

“I know who you are.”

“It’s funny how mortals always recognize me in the end,” he answers, voice sad and ancient—the voice of the god of death.

Hrakan.

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