I should have known what that would set off.
“In what way,” Shiny asked suddenly, startling me in midswallow, “does attacking Itempas’s children serve Him?”
Silence fell around the table. Mine was astonishment; so was Serymn’s. Dateh’s… That I could not read. But he put down his fork.
“It is our feeling,” he said, his words ever so slightly clipped, “that they do not belong in the mortal realm and that they defy the Father’s will by coming here. We know, after all, that they vanished from this plane after the Gods’ War, when Itempas took exclusive control of the heavens. Now that His control appears to have, hmm, slipped, the godlings—like rebellious children—take advantage. Since we have the ability to correct the matter…” I heard the fabric of his robes shift; a shrug. “We do as He would expect of His followers.”
“Hold His children hostage,” said Shiny, and only a fool would not have heard the kindling fury in his voice. “And… kill them?”
Serymn laughed, though it sounded affected. “You assume that we—”
“Why not?” Dateh, too, was coldly angry. I heard some of the servants shift uneasily in the background. “During the Gods’ War, their kind used this world as a battleground. Whole cities died at the godlings’ hands. They cared nothing for those mortal lives lost.”
At this I grew angry myself. “What is this, then?” I asked. “Revenge? That’s why you’re keeping Madding and the others—”
“They are nothing,” Dateh snapped. “Fodder. Bait. We kill them to attract higher prey.”
“Oh, yes.” I couldn’t help laughing. “I forgot. You actually think you can kill the Nightlord!”
I heard, but did not think about, Shiny’s swift intake of breath.
“I do, indeed,” Dateh said coolly. He snapped his fingers, summoning one of the servants. There was a quick murmured exchange and then the servant left. “And I shall prove it to you, Lady Oree.”
“Dateh,” said Serymn. She sounded… concerned? Annoyed? I could not tell. She was Arameri; perhaps Dateh’s temper was spoiling some elaborate plan.
He ignored her. “You forget, Lady Oree, there is ample precedent for what we’ve done. Or perhaps you don’t know how the Gods’ War actually began? I assumed that you, having been a god’s lover…”
I became acutely aware of Shiny. He sat very still; I could hardly even hear him breathe. It was ridiculous that I felt sorry for him in that instant. He had murdered his sister, enslaved his brother, bullied his children for two thousand years. He had so little concern for life in general, including mine and his own, that more deaths should have been meaningless to him.
And yet…
I had touched his hand, that day at Role’s memorial. I had heard the waver in his steady, stolid voice when he’d spoken of the Nightlord. Whatever problems he had, however much of a bastard he was, Shiny was still capable of love. Madding had been wrong about that.
And how would any man feel, on learning that his daughter had been murdered in imitation of his own sins?
“I’ve… heard,” I said uneasily. Shiny kept silent.
“Then you understand,” said Dateh. “Bright Itempas desired, and killed to obtain that desire. Why should we not do the same?”
“Bright Itempas also embodies order,” I said, hoping to change the subject. “If everyone in the world killed to get what they wanted, there would be anarchy.”
“Untrue,” Dateh said. “What would happen is what has happened. Those with power—the Arameri, and to a lesser degree the nobility and priests of the Order—kill with impunity. No others may do so without their permission. The right to kill has become the most coveted privilege of power in this world, as in the heavens. We worship Him not because He is the best of our gods, but because He is, or was, the greatest killer among them.”
The dining room door opened then. I heard another murmur. The servant returning. Something flickered, and then abruptly a silvery, shifting gleam appeared in my vision. Startled, I peered at it, trying to figure out what it was. Something small, only an inch or so in length. Oddly shaped. Pointy, like the tip of a knife, but far too small to be used that way.
“Ah, so you can see it,” Dateh said. He sounded pleased again. “This, Lady Oree, is an arrowhead—a very special one. Do you recognize it?”
I frowned. “I’m not exactly into archery, Lord Dateh.”
He laughed, already in a better mood. “What I meant was, do you recognize the power in it? You should. This arrowhead—the substance that comprises it—was made from your blood.”
I stared at the thing, which shone like godsblood. Not quite as bright. And stranger: a moving, inconstant swirl of magic, rather than the steady gleam I was used to.
My blood should have been nothing special; I was just a mortal. “Why would you make something from my blood?”
“Our blood has grown thin over the ages,” said Dateh. He set the thing down on the table in front of him. “It was said that Itempas needed only a few drops to kill Enefa. These days, the quantity needed to be effective is… impractical. We therefore distill it, concentrating its power, then shape the resulting product into a more usable form.”
Before I could speak, there was a sharp thump as wood hit the floor, and the dining table shook hard.
“Demon,” Shiny said. He was standing, his hands planted on the table. It shook with the force of his rage. “You dare to threaten—”
“Guards!” Serymn, angry and alarmed. “Sit down, sir, or—”
Whatever she might have said was lost. There was a crash of servingware and furniture as Shiny lunged forward, his weight making the table jolt hard against my ribs. More startled than hurt, I scrambled backward, my hand flailing for the stick that should’ve been beside me. Of course there was nothing, so I tripped on the dining hall’s thick rug and went sprawling, practically into the fireplace. I heard shouts, a scream from Serymn, a violent scuffle of flesh and cloth. Men converged from several directions, though not on me.
I pushed myself upright to get away from the close heat of the fire, my hands scrabbling for purchase on the smooth sculpted stone of the hearth—and as I did so, my hands slipped in something warm and gritty. Ash.
Behind me, it sounded as though another Gods’ War had broken out. Shiny cried out as someone hit him. An instant later, that person went flying. There were choking sounds, grunts of effort, more dishes shattering. But there was no magic, I realized in alarm. I could see none of them—nothing except the tiny pale glimmer of the arrowhead where it had fallen to the floor, and the swift-moving bob of Serymn’s blood sigil as she ran to the door to shout for help. Shiny fought for his own rage, not to protect me, and that meant he was just a man. They would overcome him soon, inevitably.
The ash. I felt around, closer to the fire, ready to snatch my hand back if I encountered something hot. My fingers fumbled over a hard, irregular lump, quite warm but not painfully so. Bits of it crumbled away as I touched it. A chunk of old wood that had been burned to charcoal, probably over several days.
The color black.
Behind me, Dateh had managed to get free of Shiny, though he was wheezing and hoarse. Serymn had him; I heard her murmuring, worried, to see if he was all right. Beyond them, a flurry of blows and shouts as more men ran in.
Inspiration struck like a kick to the gut. Scrambling back with the charcoal in my hand, I shoved aside the rug and began to scrape the charcoal against the floor, grinding it in circles. Around and around—