Page 89 of Godsbane
“Burning the godsdamned Kingswood down is certainly one way to get Marks’ attention, though I think that’s the opposite of what we’re hoping to accomplish,” Kieran huffs.
“I wasn’t going to burn the Kingswood down,” I chide.
“I couldn’t have stopped you.” Cal’s muttered confession settles over us like a wet blanket.
The call to lose myself in his power is strong, my inexperience too great to be trusted. I can practice on the demigods, on Kieran and other other governors when they arrive, but I have to resist the captain’s pull.
When push comes to shove, when we finally face Marks and I attempt to pour every ounce of my magic into him, my only chance at saving everyone is if I don’t know how to stop.
The closer we get to Amale, the more the weight of our monumental task settles over us.
The sun completes its arc overhead and disappears below the horizon, but still we ride. The moon never appears in the sky—a welcome relief for those who seek to traverse under the cover of darkness. The forgotten Goddess of Light grants us one small mercy at least.
The Starry Wolf and the Great Owl, constellations of the god-brothers Mikais and Nobus, stalk us on our trek into the heart of the Diamond Region. The clouds seem to deliberately move around them as to not block their all-seeing gaze.
The dirt road gives way to worn cobblestones as the dilapidated buildings on the city’s edge come into view.
Decades ago, under a different, kinder king, the edges of Amale were bustling with commerce and industry. Talented tailors and dressmakers crafted highly sought-after fashions from shops that once lined these streets. Culinary masterpieces were created to fill the stomachs of the rich who often traveled to the far reaches of the city. But those hearths have long since grown cold.
As most trends do, the favor of the wealthy shifted in time, leaving the tradespeople without the income they relied on. After all, you can’t covet something everyone has, and the Corinthian nobility are driven by their desire to be coveted by those they deem less fortunate.
Only the poorest of Amale’s citizens reside here now. Weather-worn wooden planks make up the derelict homes and storefronts that line the streets. Instead of glass panes, long swaths of cloth hang from window openings and flit in the warm coastal breeze.
This late into the night, with no candles or fires burning to illuminate the shanties, the city feels inhabited only by the ghosts of those who once flourished here, the only noises the haunting whistle of the wind and the clacking of hooves on the jagged, cracked stones.
The ever vigilant military captain, Cal scans the buildings for any signs of soldiers or spies as Kieran leads us silently through the battered town. I memorize the path, three right turns and a single left from the city’s edge. Halfway to the palace and the Port of Gems, the shining coastal port whose waters are said to be as turquoise as the gemstones exported there.
Kieran comes to an abrupt halt in front of a row of run-down homes, each blending seamlessly with the other identical buildings spaced only feet apart on each side. They look abandoned. It’s been a long time since anyone looked too long at these houses, and I pray that doesn’t change now.
The governor of the Ruby Region dismounts, carefully bouncing on his toes as he lands to soften the sound. Approaching the worn door, Kieran knocks four times. One long, two short, one long—a code that’s immediately answered by two short and two long knocks. Whoever is on the other side wasn’t just expecting us, they were actively standing guard.
The door swings open, revealing a large figure completely shrouded in a Corinthian gray cloak. Breath turns to stone in my lungs as two large hands reach forward and grip Kieran by the shoulders.
“Are you hurt?” the man asks in a husky whisper.
“No.” Kieran’s reply is quickly snuffed out as the hooded figure’s lips find his.
Cal gently clears his throat, a reminder to the men of our presence, but also a cue for me to fix my steamed expression.
Trust me, Kieran said. A lot of fucking good that that did me.
“We weren’t expecting you, Klein,” Cal says.
Elias Klein, member of the former king’s council and a loud advocate for a singular national religion, swings his attention toward us, letting the hood of the cloak fall back to reveal black curls and rich mahogany eyes.
“Captain,” he nods, a wide smile plastered across his traitorous face as he takes in Cal and avoids me entirely. “Come inside.”
Elias turns, never dropping his hand from Kieran entirely, as if his secret lover is an apparition that could disappear if he doesn’t tether him to this plane.
“What the fuck?” I ask Cal when the others disappear inside.
“I don’t know,” he says, rubbing a hand gently across my upper arm. “Let’s hear him out first and then we can decide if we’re going to kill him.”
The corner of his mouth turns up in a playful smirk that elicits an unexpected chuckle from somewhere within me. “Fine, but let me do the talking.”
The home is small, the space crammed with a faded settee, a worn armchair, and a rickety dining table with four mismatched stools. Thick drapes cover the broken glass, all that remains of the window panes. The new, expensive fabric blocks out the candle light that illuminates the compact room.
“You all must be starving. I made stew.” Elias Klein motions for us to sit at the table. A steaming cauldron hangs above the small fire, the smell causing all of our mouths to water. We sit at the table as he passes around a decanter of red wine and bowls of the hearty concoction.
