Mortals & Deities Read online

  “A Niyoka is not a little snake. My father says they grow bigger than a man sometimes. And they are as poisonous as they are black as coal.”

  Klain smiled again, he knew he was frustrating the boy-cub. “You did not answer my question.”

  Placing the piece back on the board, he held out his hand to Klain for the Krugour. “It just is.” Continuing as if he had not been interrupted, Charver put the piece on the board. “So, the Krugour can move as many spaces as you want forward and back. The Niyoka can move as many spaces as you want at a diagonal, and the Drakons can move as many spaces as you want in any direction.” Sliding the pieces as he spoke, Charver demonstrated. “They cannot jump any pieces as they move, however. And they can only move in one direction per turn.”

  Setting the black Krugour piece on a square in the middle of the board, Charver placed the white Drakon several squares off to the side of it. “All of my pieces are friendly and can sit next to each other. However, since my Drakon is afraid of your Krugour, I cannot move it into any square adjacent to your Krugour. I can move past it…” He slid his Drakon past the Krugour piece to the other side of the board. “…just not stop on any adjacent square.” He indicated to the eight squares that surrounded Klain’s black Krugour. Setting the white Drakon back on the board, Charver picked up the black Krugour piece. “Now, if you move your Krugour into one of the adjacent squares around my Drakon…” He slid the piece across and stopped it in the square to the left of the white Drakon. “…you would make my Drakon scared. Any piece that is scared must move away on its next turn.”

  “And if it cannot move, why does it not die on its next turn?” Klain was most troubled by the passiveness of the playing pieces. In battle, the use of fear was a wonderful tactic. It made it that much easier to kill your opponent if he was scared.

  Tsking, Charver shook his little head. “Because none of the pieces are removed from this game. If the piece cannot move this turn, it must be moved the first turn it is able.”

  Pointing to four oddly marked squares—the four diagonal to each of the center four squares—Klain made a circular motion with one claw. “And the game is won when either of us gets three of our pieces on any three of these four squares?”

  “Aye! Those are the watering ponds. Having any three of your pieces on three of them ends the game.” With a big grin, the boy-cub snapped his fingers. “Simple as that! Shall we play now?”

  Klain most definitely did not want to play the game, even if it was the oldest on the Plane. Sitting in a room, moving tiny carved pieces around a checkered board, was not something he saw as enjoyable. Yet, the boy-cub was his charge—not to mention the fact that the boy had saved Klain’s life. If a few aurns spent playing a game made Charver happy, Klain could find the willingness. “Aye. I suppose we can.”

  Clapping his hands, Charver reset all the game pieces. “You can move first, Master Klain.”

  Eyes wandering over the board, Klain reached out and grabbed the Krugour. Just as he was about to place the piece back down a few tiles from its original position, the door to the sitting room opened and a Human walked in. Klain smiled as the boy-cub jumped at the sudden entrance—the pads of Klain’s hindpaws had picked up the vibrations of the man’s boots coming down the hall well before he reached the door, though the door shut off the man’s scent from his nose so he had been unaware of who would enter—and watched the boy scowl up at his father.

  Rohann Vimith was not a large man, even by Human standards—the man’s head stopped just short of Klain’s shoulder. The prosperous diamond merchant’s beard, spackled with gray and cut to a point, left his upper lip bare, as was the local style.

  The man who followed in Master Vimith’s wake almost made Klain give a start to rival the boy-cub’s. Not that Klain did not expect a second person—his hindpaws told him there were two—who it was, however, startled him.

  Satner Timms, the head of Master Vimith’s bodyguards, had avoided Klain like a disease since their last “encounter.” The man glanced at Klain as he continued his rant at their Master. “This is not what I signed up for. You say that you have been planning this for winters, yet this is the first I have heard of it? I am the head of your bodyguards. You tell me everything. And now, you want me to believe that you have kept this secret from me for how long?”

  Rohann waved a hand over his shoulder. “Believe as you will, Timms.” He knelt down beside his son. “How are we this day, Charver?”

  Charver’s scowl turned into a grin as it did whenever his father turned his attention to his son. “Fine, father. And you?”

  Casting a stern look over his shoulder toward Timms forced the bodyguard to hold his tongue. Rohann ran a hand over his beard to sharpen the already sharp point. “How would you like to go on a quest, son?”

  Saucer sized eyes filled Charver’s face and his mouth hung open. “A quest! Where?”

  “Well…” Rohann reached out and picked up one of the white Drakon playing pieces from the board. “…I have been trying to acquire information about a fabled lost city for a long time now.”

  “Lost city!” The boy-cub’s words were little more than wind escaping his lips. Klain noted that this caused the smile on Master Vimith’s face to grow, and the scowl on Timms’ to deepen.

  “Yes. It is far from here and may take us more than a moon to reach it. Yet, I have obtained information that will lead us there.” Standing—with Klain sitting it was the only time Rohann looked down on him—Master Vimith held out the white playing piece for Klain to take. “And it might be dangerous.” Rohann cut his eyes to Timms once more. “Still, I think Master Klain here is more than enough to ensure your safety.” Reaching out, he slapped a hand upon Klain’s shoulder.

  Though he had been free and in the service of the Human for some time now, Klain still had to repress the urge to strike out at the man for the overt gesture. He fought to maintain his calm and hoped the other man did not notice.

  At least, Master Vimith no longer cringes when I growl.

  Klain tried hard not to repeat the incident with his new Master that had happened on the first day they met. Fitting in with Humans—with how small and fragile they were, not to mention their beliefs that they were neither of those things—had been the hardest task Klain faced since his release from the gladiator pits. Still, his time at the Vimith Villa had been enjoyable. His charge, Charver Vimith, had fallen in line and rarely gave him any bother.

  Well, nothing more than a shallow growl cannot fix.

  Losing his smile, Rohann turned back to Satner Timms. “And as for you. You signed on to serve as the head of my bodyguard. Both here at my villa and when I travel.”

  “Travel to other cities for business, aye! Not traipsing through foul jungles a hundred leagues from nowhere!” The scorn in Timms’ voice sounded a hair less than offensive. Only a hair.

  Anger burned hot in Master Vimith’s eyes. “If you feel you should seek employment elsewhere, you have my leave.” Brushing past the man, Rohann stalked from the sitting room.

  A deafening silence fell upon the room. After a long moment’s pause, Timms looked back at Klain. If the man was about to say anything, he kept it to himself. Turning, Satner left the room, closing the door behind him.

  “What was that all about?” Charver’s squeak ripped Klain from his somber glare at the door.

  “Of that, I am not sure. I have not found Timms to be a coward. There is more to it, I would gather.” Waving a hand over the checkered board, Klain grunted. “Let us play your Barca, shall we?”

  The boy-cub’s grin smothered his worried expression, and Klain bent himself to the task of playing the game.

  Though, I need to have words with Timms. Not knowing the more to this situation would be unwise.

  Striding through the pristine white corridors of the Temple, Elith felt as if something nestled in the back of her skull. A lump? Reaching
a hand to the base of her ponytail, she rubbed her neck. Her fingers found nothing, of course. Whatever the Revered Father had done to her, the feel of a bulge was no more than her imagination. Still, she could not shake the sensation that something nestled there.

  She passed two slaves as she walked the Back Hall, their white robes pristine in the sunlight of the early morn radiating in through the large, arched windows that ran down the left side of the hall. Each bowed low, bending at the waist so their upper bodies came parallel with the marble floor, as was proper. She spared them little notice. Instead, she let her gaze wander out the windows as she continued to the High Priest’s private chambers.

  For the first time in a long while, she took in the beauty they offered. A grassy expanse ran down to a rocky shoreline. White waves crashed over boulders, throwing a spray of mist high into the air. The endless waters of the Great Ocean raced the vast blueness of the sky off into the distant horizon. Seabirds, white as her own hair, danced on the wind and dove into the water in search of a meal. With the windows thrown open, the salty breeze wafted through the hall, invigorating her. The islands of Komar, and more precisely the Temple of the Priests of Fatint, had been her home her entire life. The sadness of leaving threatened to overwhelm the excitement of her quest. This struck her as odd. Why should she care whether she stayed or left?

  A shovel does not take notice if it is used on one side of the road or the other.

  She remembered when these emotions had crept into her mind two winters past. At first, she had been frightened of them. She saw them as a weakness—Humans had emotions. Anger, frustration, excitement, pride, lust. All could be used against the wielder if one knew how. And her instructors had taught her how to use them all. Until recently, however, she had never experienced them. It was a secret she held close without understanding why. The priests always treated her well, gave her a purpose, training, and all that she needed. Still, they taught her to be cautious. To follow their direction and the teachings of the Twelve, yes. Yet, cautious above all else. And it was this caution that nagged at the back of her mind to hold the fact that she felt doubts, fears, and—

  Her mind pulled up the image of Jarill standing before her, a thin red line of blood encircling his throat. The image laughed. Did it not care that it was dead? Jarill’s image laughed the guarded laugh of one not used to the privilege. The one he and the other slaves used when alone. The feeling of loss crept back into her and she tried to rid herself of it. To run and hide from it.

  Yet, how can she run from her own mind?

  A scream welled up from deep inside her over what she had done to Jarill and the others, squatting on the point of release. She wanted to laugh at herself for having these absurd thoughts! They were not the first Humans she had sent to the Aftermore.

  Why does she have these feelings?

  Suddenly, she found herself looking at a painting her mind told her she should not be seeing. The gods Bathane and Mash’ayel stood with blue fire shooting from their outstretched hands enveloping Saphanthia, the Goddess of Wisdom, who cowered between them. The painting depicted the story from the Book of the Twelve when the deceitful Bathane and the war mad Mash’ayel imprisoned Saphanthia for her disobedience. The story had always disturbed her, more so for the fact that the Book of the Twelve never spoke of her escape. Though Elith knew the goddess must have, for she was still worshiped and free with her gifts of wisdom to her followers.

  Though the story bothered her, she realized it was not the actual painting she should not be seeing, it was its location. Glancing around, Elith noticed that during her fight with her own thoughts she had passed the High Priest’s audience chambers. Retracing her steps, she took a side corridor and soon stood in front of a set of wooden double-doors. She picked up the small silver bell from a side table and rang it once, returning it when done. One of the doors cracked open, and a dark-haired youth of about ten stuck out his head.

  The young boy was beautiful, as were all of the High Priest’s personal attendants. He wore an almost translucent white robe cut to accentuate the thinness of his boyish frame and unblemished olive skin—a skin tone that named him a local of the Komar Isles. Big green eyes, uncommon for a Komarian, looked up at Elith before the boy spoke. “His Highest do be expectin’ ya, Shikalu.”

  Elith frowned at the boy. Though the Priests worked hard to quell the local accent from the slaves who worked in the Temple, this boy’s remained thick.

  No doubt his beauty helps the Highest overlook the boy’s speech. It is not the boy’s voice that has him working as one of the Highest’s personal attendants.

  No, the boy’s accent did not cause her grief. It was what he had called her. Shikalu—assassin. It was the title she had held since childhood, since the priests began training her. It was never more than that before. Just a name. Still, with Jarill’s accusing eyes boring into her from the back of her mind, the title mocked her now. She fought back the taint of her new emotions—they weakened her, gripping her spirit tighter and tighter. The desire to scream almost overwhelmed her once more.

  Redirecting her thoughts, she looked at the boy. He was pretty, and she knew his duties to the High Priest included more than answering the door. Questioning the Priest’s “habits” was another new thing that had developed with her emotions. Why she even gave it a thought was beyond her. It was not like she needed to look for a weakness to exploit amongst those she served!

  Or, does she? Have the priests trained her too well?

  She gave a knowing smile to the boy and glided past him.

  The room beyond could only be described as lavish, not that she had much experience outside the Temple. Still, compared to many of the other priest’s quarters—not to mention her own bare room—the Highest lived in comfort. She entered the audience chamber, the first room of the large complex used by the High Priest. Plush carpets covered the marble-tiled floor. Deep lacquered wood, both carved and gilded, warmed the area. A large desk sat to one side and cushioned armchairs created a sitting area around the main fireplace on the other. Bookshelves lined the back wall, flanking a set of double doors that led deeper into the apartment.

  A young girl, of an age of the boy who had answered the door and dressed in the same almost see-through robe, crouched next to the biggest chair that sat before the fireplace. She held a silver tray on her palms in front of her, as if she were a small table. A plump, blotchy white hand leaned over the table and returned a golden goblet to the tray before the hand stroked the girl’s long, black hair with a gentle touch.

  Frowning to herself, Elith crossed the room and stood between the large chair and the unbearably hot fireplace. Looking down at the High Priest—his silk robes stretching to cover his extended belly, his bald head lightly powdered, his eyes bloodshot from drink even at this early aurn—she was thankful she was not required to prostrate before this man. She was one of the few on this Plane that did not. He scowled up at her and she knew he resented her for it. A slip of a smile came to her as she inclined her head. “The Revered Father bade her to attend you, Highest.”

  “Aye. So he did.” A pasty smile pulled his multitude of chins up. “Please, sit yourself, child.” He removed his meaty hand from the girl next to him long enough to wave it toward a chair, then knitted his hands together in his lap. “These are exciting times and there are some things the Revered Father would have you know before you leave the Isle.”

  Walking to the chair indicated, Elith pulled her Ratave staff from its small pouch on her back before sitting. Willing the end to form a small point, she used it to clean the dirt from beneath her fingernails. She did this often when the Highest spoke to her. It seemed to offend him. For some reason, this pleased her.

  Eyeing her work, the priest grimaced. “Must you do that now, child?”

  Pausing with the sharp tip under her nail, Elith looked into the man’s bloodshot eyes and smiled. When the man did not look away, she
shrugged and withdrew it. Willing it to return to the blunt state, she laid the Ratave staff on her lap.

  “Thank you.” The priest did not sound grateful at all. Still, after picking up his wine cup, he continued. “The Revered Father has been awaiting the reappearance of the Mah’Sukai onto this Plane for a long time. It is what you have trained your whole life for.”

  “She knows this. Though, she does not know why.” It shocked her that she voiced that question. Chastising herself to silence, she relaxed her face.

  “The why is not for you to know!” The Highest jabbed his cup at her, causing a splash of red to spill onto the floor. “The Mah’Sukai must be brought here. To this temple. Alive and unharmed. That is all you need to know. You have the entire resources of the Priests to aid you in this.” His eyes licked her slim frame. “Though you may not have to force him to accompany you. You may be able to entice him to come of his own free will.”

  The statement took Elith aback. “Of his own free will? How is she to do that?”

  A wicked grin spread across the High Priest’s puffy lips. “Why do you think that she was trained in more than just killing?”

  The urge to reach out and slap his fat, splotchy face took hold of her. Never before had she desired to strike out at one of her masters, yet this time his words cut deep. The shock over her desire to hit him stayed her hand as much as her self-control did, and she sat there staring at him.

  Continuing to chuckle, he set his goblet back onto the tray the young girl held and returned to petting her hair. The girl gazed up at the priest with a look of pure reverence. “The Mah’Sukai is power. More power than anyone has wielded in millennia. Only the Father knows how to tap into this power. And only with an unspoiled Mah’Sukai.” Noticing the red stain on the floor in front of him, the priest frowned. “Once you find this Mah’Sukai, you must ensure he is safe and unharmed. His future lies with the Priesthood.” The priest waved a hand, and the boy who opened the door ran up with a towel. Dropping to his knees, the boy started sopping up the spilled wine. The Highest’s eye lingered on the bent over form of the young boy while he continued to speak. “You may convince him of this, my child. Or, you may need to bring him along without his consent. Either way, you will see that he reaches us unharmed.”