TO LOVE A GODDESS

SUMMER

K. R. TREADWAY

Cover Asset Credits

Original Vector Art:

Beautiful Girl - Tissen

Bandanna Girl - jemastock

Fashionable Girl - inkystory

Lantern Night - macrovector

Night Grass - MaryRo

Brick Pattern - kjpargeter

Title Font:

Midwinter Fire - Wingsart Studio

Copyright Notice

Copyright © 2025 by K. R. Treadway.

All rights reserved.

This is a work of fiction, and any names, characters, events, or organizations are either a product of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locations, or people is purely coincidental.

NO AI TRAINING: Without in any way limiting the author’s exclusive rights under copyright, any use of this publication to “train” generative artificial intelligence (AI) technologies to generate text is expressly prohibited. The author reserves all rights to license uses of this work for generative AI training and development of machine learning language models.

Formatted with Vellum

CONTENTS

Prologue

1. Gar

2. Eadyth

3. Gar

4. Gar

5. Eadyth

6. Gar

7. Eadyth

8. Gar

9. Gar

10. Gar

11. Eadyth

12. Eadyth

13. Gar

14. Gar

15. Gar

16. Gar

17. Gar

18. Gar

19. Gar

20. Eadyth

21. Gar

22. Gar

23. Gar

24. Gar

25. Gar

26. Gar

27. Gar

28. Gar

29. Gar

30. Gar

Epilogue

Afterword

About the Author

Stories by K. R. Treadway

PROLOGUE

ARISTHRE

“G ar.”

The young man on the straw pallet shifted, his forehead furrowing at the sound of his name.

The night was oppressive and warm, and her mortal was wearing naught but his smallclothes. Aristhre let her eyes roam his torso, her blood already heating like the air.

“Gar, awaken. We haven't much time,”

The man’s eyes finally cracked open. He raised a hand to push back the hair that had fallen across his face. It was almost shoulder-length, a longer and lighter brown than she remembered, and accompanied by a deeper tan than his skin had once borne. The sun had laid a kiss upon Gar during his long journey.

She wanted to add her own kisses.

“Aris?” His voice was slightly raspy.

“Yes.” she stepped out from the shadows, close enough for the distant watch fire to pick out the gold in her hair. She was keeping her divine aura in check to avoid raising an alarm.

“You look…different.”

“The season has turned.” Her voice was breathy. She could feel the beat of her pulse in her throat. “My aspect has…ripened.”

Aristhre ran a hand up along her stomach and cupped one breast. She gently squeezed it, noting with pleasure that Gar was fully awake now—in more ways than one. “Come here, my sweet.”

He scrambled off his sleep pallet and she moved to meet him, pressing her palms against his chest as he wrapped his arms about her. She yearned to tell him that she'd missed him, but mortals weren’t the only creatures to suffer from an excess of pride. So she let her delighted gasp speak for her as his tongue brushed the hollow at the base of her neck.

“I've longed to see you,” he murmured against her skin. His admission, given so freely, made her chest pulse with a new emotion she was afraid to name. So she gently pushed away and fixed him with a wicked smile.

“I've been thinking, Gar. Thinking about how I might finally get you to pray to me.” Aristhre’s smile grew more wanton. Gar watched, eyes wide and hazed, as she slowly sank to her knees. But something was strange. The dirt beneath her yielded like a plush cushion.

“Waait…” Gar’s voice dripped from above like melting wax. Around them the dry dust was fading and blowing away. “Whaat are those…chiiimess…” The campfire snuffed like a spent match, and all went dark.

Aristhre’s eyes snapped open.

The sound of delicate musical chimes filled the air. Above her lay the ornate vaulted ceiling of her bed chamber. Beneath her was bedding so sumptuous it was almost impossible to feel—had her skin not been so flushed and sensitive from that embarrassing dream. She was still in the First and Last Keep. Still in her rooms. Aristhre sat up.

“I must stop sleeping,” she murmured. It was becoming a bad habit.

The chimes showed no sign of slowing. Suppressing a huff of irritation, the goddess got out of bed and hastily waved a hand to call over a long silk wrap. She paused to let the floating material loop around her legs and torso, covering her nakedness with perfect drapery. Smoothing her long blond hair with another gesture, she headed for the entrance to her chambers.

The man in the hall immediately stopped running his fingers through the circle of small metal chimes next to her door, and bowed. He wore a young handsome face, the sort that smiled like it was holding back a secret. Aristhre didn't recognize him, but she knew his rich umber robes at once. Her mortification deepened, and she fought to keep her expression remote.

“Fethir,” she said. “Is aught amiss?”

“You’ve been sleeping again, Lady of the Seasons.”

She looked away. “Must we now seek your permission for simple rest?”

His chuckle was deeper than expected, and she turned back to regard a much older face, perhaps that of a friendly innkeeper. “You know I welcome visits from all who sit at the Table of Ages,” answered the god whose domain was sleep and dreams, “but using my realm to commune with mortals is a tad brazen, my lady.”

Aristhre stared at him. Inside she was a furnace of turmoil.

Infinite unknown…that was Gar. The real Gar. We…our minds touched without my seeking it.

“You know I readily grant such requests,” Fethir continued easily, “but decorum requires that you ask.”

She swallowed. Then, lest a pause give away the unrest inside her, she nodded. “Of course you are right, my lord. I overstepped. I am sorry.”

He nodded, now a ruddy-faced man with waist-length hair. “Apology accepted. Nothing more⁠—”

“Well. How interesting .”

A voice like honey flowed down the corridor. Fethir turned to regard the new arrival while Aristhre struggled not to close her eyes in sheer vexation. The approaching women was the epitome of beauty. Even the sconces seemed to brighten as she passed them, as if eager to illuminate her dusky skin for the benefit of all.

“I never see you two together. Is this a tryst?”

Fethir was unperturbed. The goddess of love, beauty, and lust was well-known for saying such things. “We were discussing Aristhre’s latest visit to my realm, nothing more. Ladies.” He gave his final bow as a tall man with gleaming black hair, and walked away. Desora, of course, lingered.

“Latest visit?” Desora’s eyes lit with curiosity. This time Aristhre couldn’t stop her teeth from clenching. “You’ve been sleeping ?”

“It has suited me to do so,” she returned evenly, forbearing to point out how laughable it was for Desora to feign coming across their conversation by chance. Any god here could transfer their essence to an intended destination with the simplest thought, and this goddess did not tread the halls of the First and Last Keep for the joy of walking.

Desora was scrutinizing her. Even in contemplation her body held a promise of sensual motion. “How fascinating . Do you know, Aris, I think I will visit Caliah this season. You did invite me once upon a time, did you not? I’ve heard so many wonderful things about the night feast, dear sister.”

Aristhre remained silent. To try to dissuade Desora would only make her more likely to attend. Nor would she mention that she didn’t like anyone shortening her name—save for one presumptuous mortal.

Desora’s eyes searched her face intently. “Who knows what lovely…treats…I may happen across?” she said quietly.

“As you will.” Aristhre gave a cold nod.

Desora made a faint moue at being denied a show of emotion, but Aristhre suspected her sister would far prefer this chilled reception over the blazing furnace the goddess of beauty had stoked.

Do as you will, Desora. But play games with those I care for and you will touch silt in the well of regret. This I swear.

1

GAR

T hree months.

Three long months since Gar had left all he’d known behind. He had carefully tracked each day since that fateful night with Aristhre, but in his head they seemed to multiply endlessly. The time he’d spent in the arms of the goddess of seasons, festivals, and feasts had taken on the quality of a mythical story. It still shone like a beacon in his mind, but its light grew more and more distant as the weeks mounted.

The morning after that wondrous night was even hazier, a dazzling smear of jumbled emotions and half-smothered wits.

Gar remembered starting for the nearest trade town, his ear buzzing from Auntie’s slap and his arm burning with Aristhre’s mark. Plodding like an addlepated fool, endlessly repeating the goddess’s directions to a place so far away it might have been made up by a fanciful child.

Caliah.

Perhaps the luck of fools was what aided him that morning. After arriving in the little burg—he’d naively believed it a big city at the time—Gar practically smacked his nose against a long line of wagons. A caravan. Pointed east.

He felt half-dead by then, but he knew better than to spit in the eye of good fortune. Doggedly conjuring a spring into his step, Gar sought out the caravan master and greeted him.

“Hail and well-met, sir! Does this caravan go anywhere near Caliah?” His feigned heartiness was as brittle as a cracked egg, but he hoped the merchant wouldn’t notice.

The man, whose straining doublet and ring-bedecked fingers never stopped moving, eyed him suspiciously.

“I don't know where you heard tale of my wagon train, but Caliah is the end of our route.” He frowned. “I am Hathos.”

Gar bowed low as his heart began tumbling about his innards like an acrobat. He would find no better chance than this. “I beg to seek passage, Master Hathos.”

The trader’s frown deepened. “You have coin?”

“Nay.” Gar cleared his throat. “I would pay my way with labor.” He tried not to say it like a question, but it came out like one.

Hathos studied Gar with a critical gaze. “ ‘Tis true you’ve got some brawn,” he said after a moment. “Hmm…I could use one more loader. It's backbreaking labor for scant coin, but the rations are fair. You find aught of worth in that?”

Gar nodded. “And the passage to Caliah?”

“Aye, that too.”

Not wanting to press but needing to be certain, Gar wet his parched lips and asked, “Will the journey be made by midsummer, Master Hathos? Only I see you have oxen drawing your wagons.” His work as a field hand had given Gar abiding respect for cattle, but he knew the creatures weren’t fast.

“My oxen may not be swift like horses,” Hathos answered, his florid face perspiring, “but they are steady , boy. Constant. Horses are spry in tamed lands, to be sure, but in the wilds? My teams who will outpace theirs. Mark me on it. Oxen are as dependable as a true maiden’s heart!”

I do not embody a virtuous symbol, but a true maiden.

Aristhre’s words sprang unbidden to Gar’s mind, conjuring a bright image of cornsilk hair and violet eyes blazing with power. He fought the urge to scratch at his inner arm, to itch the divine geas burning on his skin.

My mark is upon you, Gar of Meadowhay. You fulfill it as long as you remain true.

“By the grace of absent Hisa,” the caravan master was thundering, having thoroughly roused himself to the defense of his beasts, “we shall arrive in Caliah when the summer market is still in its first frenzy! I⁠—”

“Is that when the night feast happens?” Gar interrupted.

Hathos blinked. “Aye,” he allowed. “Though I advise against seeking it out. Such revels are for…jaded men. You strike me as more suited for a proper lass, like those pure-hearted maidens who remind me of oxen.” He laughed at his own wit.

Gar’s brow furrowed. The caravan master made it seem like Caliah’s night feast was something shameful, an idea he could not credit after the evening he’d spent with Aris. His goddess had spoken of her other aspects, but surely none would be so far off the mark as to be unrecognizable?

Shoving his worries aside, he eagerly signed with Hathos on the spot, and the next day they had…it had been…

The details grew indistinct. Gar’s memories began to blur before him the way a field’s far end might become obscured in the rain. Everything became formless and confused, like a dream.

Wait…a dream?

Yes. There was the truth of it. This recollection of Hathos was naught but a dream! Gar was still asleep. He recalled laying down on his hard pallet and sweating in the heat. But…had there not been a better dream before this one?

Impressions of blond tresses and womanly curves returned to him. Aristhre. She had been here. The goddess had joined him at the encampment and been eager—as eager as Gar himself. But then she had left. Why? When had his dream of Aristhre wilted like a plucked flower?

Gar tossed back-and-forth on his poor pallet, seeking Aris but finding naught save wisps and shadows. He had dreamt of her often on the trade route, but never like he’d experienced this night. Clothed only by air and her own divinity, Aristhre had stood over him as a feminine force of nature.

He needed to find her again. He wanted to gaze upon that warm skin and lustrous blonde hair, to linger on her curvaceous hips and ample breasts. She had appeared perhaps thirty-five years of age, a confident and experienced version of Aris at the height of her seductive powers, and he had felt stripped back to boyhood before her.

The vision had been so clear, so real . What had allowed it? Caliah? Their nearness to the city meant the approach of his journey’s end. Perhaps that had worked the magic.

Gods…she had spoken of ripening , dewy lips shaping the word as if to call forth carnal pleasures. Her eyes had been lust-hazed and hooded, flashing like violet knives when they caught the firelight.

The resplendent vision had been so substantial he’d believed himself awake.

They had embraced. He had wrapped her in his arms, tasted her skin, and spoken his need. And then…

Otherworldly chimes had rent the air. Aris’s form went as elusive as the unnerving mist that enshrouded the caravan of late, and Gar’s sleep had turned shallow and sour, letting the hot air and hard pallet intrude. Finally, the vivid image of his beloved broke apart into mismatched pieces, neither a maiden of spring nor a woman of summer.

“Oyea, Gar! Liven up.”

An unpleasant shock ran up his leg and jarred his spine. Gar grunted and tried to roll over. A second, harder kick landed against the sole of his sandaled foot, making his whole body jerk.

“Crack an eye!”

He shot up, blinking. His mouth tasted like rank dirt. As he coughed out the foul air of the previous night, a pair of strong shapely thighs came into focus a few feet away. He recognized them at once. No dream, this.

“Good morrow, Fari,” he rasped.

“Save your ‘good morrows,’ Gar,” she answered irritably, “I told you to sleep under one of the wagons last night. Or it is your wish to be cooked by the morning sun?”

“What sun?” Gar grumbled, thinking he had a very good point.

Yesterday, a few hours before dusk, the entire caravan had descended into this unnatural yellow fog. It had encircled them like a closing fist, pressing close by the time they stopped to make camp. It still swirled and eddied about, swallowing up all surroundings past twenty paces and turning the light into a bright directionless glow.

He squinted. A very bright glow, in truth. Absently he scratched at his shoulder and winced. His flesh was tender, as if he’d fallen asleep under a noonday sun. Surprised, he looked up into Fari’s freckled smirking face.

“Did I not warn you?” she asked sweetly. Her grip tightened on the upright spear planted next to her boot, and she kicked his sole once more with her other foot. “And you kept your sandals on! Do you want a heat rash?”

“I yield,” he declared, half jesting and half earnest—the woman had leg strength to spare. Pulling his feet out of danger, he gingerly stood. He felt clumsy and slow in the tattered aftermath of his Aristhre dream and the tangled mess that had followed. “I thought to leave my sandals on should there be…” He didn’t want to voice his fear of unnatural roving creatures, not in this murk. “…need for haste.”

Fari’s expression softened. “Aye,” she said, “ ‘Tis is a passing strange campsite. Have we spoken of this place before?”

“Only the Cliff of Caliah,” he said. “But you told me there was a waste before it.”

She nodded, and a shadow seemed to fall over her brow. That’s when Gar realized she was wearing armor. Though her comely legs were bare below the edge of her tunic—a concession to the heat—Fari wore a shirt of heavy scales, full boots, and a conical helmet hooked to her belt for quick donning. A bead of sweat escaped from her gathered auburn locks as he watched.

“I’ve never seen you with a spear.”

“One wants reach in this soup.”

He shook his head, trying to dislodge both the lingering effects of sleep and a fresh wave of fear over wandering monsters. “What is this place?”

Fari dropped her voice, as if afraid her words might thicken the air more. “Do you know the story of the Formless Host?”

“Aye. Very well. Our shrinepriest spins the tale every year for Banisheve.” Gar cleared his throat and did his best impression of Cemond’s powerful voice. “In the distant past, formless creation overflowed the edges of the world and became a boiling horde. The Paired Monarchs led a host of gods and mortals against the monsters, and their battle sundered the world.” He grinned.

Fari just stared at him. Slowly, the import of her silence dawned on him. His grin and stomach both flipped south.

“Hold…are you saying this is where…”

Fari nodded. “According to legend, we stand on that ancient battlefield. On maps it is marked as the ‘Grave of Creation.’ ”

A cold sweat broke across Gar’s neck despite the heat. He peered about as if an ancient beast from nightmare was going to blunder out of the billowing fog at once. The nearest wagon was clear and sharp, but the wagon in front and the one behind were mere silhouettes. Shadowy forms were moving through the mist, but after months on the road he could recognize fellow caravaners by their gait.

“Whether or not ‘tis true,” Fari continued, “this bewitched fog oft gathers at the base of the cliff, and it’s known that monsters still roam within it.” She nervously thumped the haft of her spear against the crumbling ground. “But the legend is where the Cliff of Caliah gets its other name.”

Gar swallowed. “The Headstone.” He wished he hadn’t just learned the reason.

“Aye.”

“Well, where is the cliff?” he asked, hasty to speak of more tangible things.

Fari turned and pointed high. Gar saw naught save the hot glowing fog.

“You’ll have a chance to see it later,” Fari assured him. “The noonday sun usually burns the cursed soup away for a time. ‘Tis a sight to awe the spirit.” She gave him a tight smile and pointed toward the wagon. “In the meantime, the cook fire lies yonder.”

Gar spun to see if the flames were visible and heard an unmistakable noise of feminine appreciation as Fari admired his smallclothes-covered backside. She didn't try to hide it; she was eager for him to hear. He stifled a sigh, even as his pride—and other parts of him—couldn’t help but perk up a little.

“My thanks, Fari.”

“The view was thanks enough,” came her brazen reply. Then, more soberly: “The caravan master has already departed to secure his lodgings and locate a guide up the worm. He took a retinue, meaning the guards are shorthanded. Be watchful, and stay close to the wagons, aye?”

A guide up the worm? Feeling bemused, but also too anxious to be overly curious, Gar told her he would be careful.

Fari departed, the butt of her spear tapping against the dry soil. Soon even her smudged outline vanished.

Gar made for the wagon wheel where he’d hung his tunic and pants over the spokes. He hadn’t asked Fari if they would practice with quarterstaves later—it was obvious her duties would leave no time for it. Dressing quickly, he moved to be closer to the other gathered travelers.

2

EADYTH

T he dull ache in Eadyth’s brain was a warning she chose to ignore. Thus, she had no one to scold but her own fool self when the room tilted upon standing. At least her resulting spill onto the hard wooden floor was accomplished with a certain flourish—not that she wanted witnesses.

Hauling herself back onto the bed, Eadyth sat and waited for the dizziness to subside. She considered which culprit from the night before had laid her low. Fine ale? Piss-poor ale? Orc fire stew? Or had she indulged in a drag from the pipe of an eastern nomad? While she thought about it, she wiggled her rump, which sat lower than it should have. The mattress ropes were loose.

“Needs tightening,” she observed to no one.

Muffled thumps outside her door announced someone coming up the stairs. Eadyth’s body went still, waiting to see if they would stop at her room or continue up to the second floor.

The footsteps stopped. There was an unusual pause, and then a knock that felt equally hesitant. “It’s Adonn.” The innkeep’s normally deep voice was strained.

Eadyth blanched. Of course he would have need of her on a morning when she was at rags and bones. Shaking her head, she eased to her feet and was proud that she only swayed a little this time.

“I’m coming,” she said in a strong voice—or that had been the hope; a reedy warble was all that emerged. Still, the long walk from her bed to the room’s lone exit did wonders for her soggy brain. Throwing the bolt, she opened the door halfway.

Framed in the gap, Adonn’s long swarthy face was made longer by his drooping mustache. He eyed her, and then his gaze roamed past to take in her room with undisguised curiosity.

“We have a caravan,” he said distractedly. “It’s big.”

Despite her pitiable state, Eadyth found her mood lightened by the prospect of a guide trip. Every caravan, with its unique personages and challenges, was a new experience. “I stand eager, Adonn—you needn’t peer about like you’re thinking of turning my room into guest quarters.”

A light seemed to kindle in the innkeep’s eyes, and he regained his usual manner. “It would make for a unique offering this close to the tap roo⁠—”

“How many wagons?” Eadyth quickly asked.

“Enh? Oh. Thirty-two. And the caravan master wants them all up the Headstone by sundown.”

The number added a few extra thuds to her already jumpy heart rate. She had never guided so long a train—and at such a pace!

Adonn tugged his left mustache till it drooped to his chin. “Can you handle that many, girl?”

Eadyth nodded decisively. The vigorous motion banged her brain about the inside of her skull, but she wasn't about to give Adonn an excuse to doubt. She even mustered a confident grin. “That’s why you’ve boxed off my services, Adonn.”

He grunted. “You’re squinty-like. You well?”

“Ready as the sun at dawn. Only I had a bit too much of…” she frowned, realizing that last night was a cleaned slate. She recalled nothing . Infinite unknown, what mischief had she gotten up to? “…of much,” she finished pitifully. “Last eve like.”

Adonn tugged his right mustache to match the droop of his left. “Make sure you present well,” he said brusquely. “This one’s full of coin and tottering on his boot heels.”

“Be down in an eye blink.”

Eadyth shut the door without waiting for an answer and bolted to the other side of the room. Nothing like a rich caravaner to restore one’s balance! Shucking off her long tunic, she balled it up and used it to wipe the cracked mirror next to the wash basin. The looking glass was spotted and blemished, but it served well enough.

She took in her reflection critically, trying to imagine she was seeing herself for the first time. Not entirely charmless. Face was pleasing enough, even pretty. Her dark eyes and black chin-length hair went well with her complexion, which was the gold of ripened wheat. Eadyth frowned. Unless the fine yellow dust of the city had applied a new layer while she slept, in which case her skin tone became “caked dirt.”

“Enough gawking,” her reflection chided.

Cursing, Eadyth dipped her hands in the cool water of the wash basin and scrubbed her face. Wetting her hair was out of the question—her rebellious curls would go mad drying in the heat. She gathered her hair into a small top-knot and tied it with a leather thong. It would have to do. Eadyth stood back.

“Now I look like an urchin,” she muttered.

She didn’t mean to do her body an unkindness, but it was true. Her nakedness was all angles and gangly limbs, with hips that only reluctantly acknowledged her femininity. She had pert, well-formed breasts, but these were so small they would disappear under a guide’s heavy work tunic.

“Good,” Eadyth said, wishing it hadn't come out defiant. “Better than good.” Smothered tits meant fewer pinching fingers. Women with more obvious charms sometimes attracted groping mire hogs, the sort who paid for a guide but expected a whore. More than one merchant had “accidentally” fallen from the Headstone after such abuses—guides fought over every coin like starving rats, but they took care of their own.

Pulling on the short wide pants and thickly woven overtunic of her trade, Eadyth gave herself a fast pat-down. Clouds of yellow dust bloomed and speckled in the room’s solitary sunbeam. She stifled a cough. There was no way to truly clean these garments, and little point besides; they would readily reabsorb the grit of the Worm.

Before turning from her reflection, Eadyth hesitated. For some reason she thought of the one piece of jewelry she owned, a citrine broach that went well with her color. Adonn had said the man was swollen with his own consequence. Sighing, she removed it from the drawer and tied it close about her neck.

Eadyth exited her room and pulled her door shut, jiggling it until the lockbar fell. From her position on the landing betwixt floors, she could see over the heads of the patrons filling the taproom below. The Pickled Wolf was far from the best establishment in Westside, but it was clean and well-run, and the burble of talking and laughter reflected it.

It was easy to mark the caravan master standing next to Adonn. The innkeep’s description was right in the ruts. The merchant was posed at the bar with one hand on a tankard and his foot turned out just so. He was large in the belly and bedecked in colorful fabric and glittering rings, but still possessed the hearty vitality of an active traveler. No doubt he was hoisty. Then again, the master of thirty-two wagons might well be entitled to behave in such a manner.

“Here’s the girl now,” Adonn announced, gesturing at Eadyth as she made her way down the stairs. “As I was saying, Hathos, if you board with me and make use of my caravan camp, you need not seek a guide. The Pickled Wolf provides a dependable one and at a discount besides.”

Eadyth made her courtesy to the caravan master, trying not to let it show on her face that Adonn’s “discount” would be lopped from her pay—and that on top of his own sizable cut.

You have a warm room in Westhalf , she reminded herself. The Wolf stocks plentiful food and ale, and both are oft free to you. Don’t bellyache, Eadyth.

Hathos looked her up and down with the eyes of a man who lusted only for coin. Not a mire hog, then. His lack of surprise at her garments spoke of prior experience with Caliah. Fortunate. The amount of infused dirt might even be a notch in her favor.

“Horses or oxen?” she asked him, keen to bolster his impressions.

“Oxen,” he said. “And you can manage it by nightfall?”

She cut a glance to Adonn. “I hear you have thirty-two wagons. Full loads?”

“Perhaps a bit overladen,” Hathos admitted, pursing his lips. “Bought some kettles in Silvercairn. The lot was too cheap to pass over.”

Zhud take your greedy hide. Eadyth bit the inside of her cheek to avoid saying it aloud. She raised her chin and took a deep breath. “I can manage it. The fee will run six tusks.”

“How much is that in gates?”

She cocked her head, calculating. “Eight and a hundred.”

Hathos goggled. He frowned at Adonn. “This is your discount?”

“Yes,” Eadyth said, answering before Adonn. If the innkeep followed his obsequious instincts they would lose good coin. “I’ll need to hire five runners to shepherd thirty-two overladen wagons up the Worm, and if you want it before sunset, they have to be almost as good as I am.” Best to be brazen since he's already stunned. “I’ll also require twenty gates up front.”

The merchant’s frown deepened. Out of the corner of her eye Eadyth saw Adonn shuffle nervously. She swore to the gods that any further cuts would come out of his share if he allowed himself to be trod over by this obviously wealthy man. The silence stretched out.

Hathos gave an imperious sniff. “Agreed.” His glittering hand swallowed hers as they shook. Then, with exacting slowness that made Eadyth want to fidget, he counted out the twenty silver gates. She dropped them in her pouch next to her shank.

“Your trust is well placed, Master Hathos. The caravan will be on top of the cliff by sunset and bedded down in Adonn’s encampment before moonrise.” She gave a cursory bow.

It took strong will to walk away from the men calmly, but once enough patrons screened her, she broke into a run. Darting between a serving wench and an oaf who pushed out his chair at the exact wrong moment, Eadyth practically fell out of the front door.

“Cudge!” She shouted blindly, righting herself before she stumbled into a peddler’s soup cart.

“Here! Who’s that?” A scrawny gray shape detached itself from the wall.

“It’s me , melon brain.”

The small boy squinted at her, then sucked in a breath. “Eadyth! Why you flopping around?”

“I’m going down the Headstone. I need runners.”

“Ten tacks,” the urchin said promptly, hitching his colorless trousers higher on bony hips. “Had to raise prices since last time.”

“I’ll pay a gate if you make the needed rounds in an hour.”

“A gate ?” Cudge’s eyebrows disappeared into his mop of dingy hair, then lowered in well-earned suspicion. “What’s the clap?”

“None,” Eadyth answered, “only I need haste. I have to get five runners. Skilled ones. You should go to the Goat, the Crooked Scale, Molly’s and…mayhap the Pecking Wren.”

“All the way out there?”

“Only if you can’t find five to serve at the others—but don’t nock corners, Cudge. I must have the best.” She plucked the shiny silver coin with its stylized portcullis stamp and twisted it to catch the morning light. “Are we in accord?”

Cudge’s eyes lit almost as brightly as the coin. He snatched it with a grimy fist. “Accord,” he said, then shot off into the crowd.

Eadyth broke into a run in the other direction, not looking back. In truth, she wasn’t sure this bloated task could be accomplished by sundown.

Thirty-two. Oxen-drawn. Less skittish, but slow as Adonn counting out pay. Have to arrange them by weight. Hathos’s loaders better have a brain between them. Need to start the front even before the back is finished prepping. Guards and extra feet will have to walk up after…

She ran on, ducking down side passages and keeping a sharp eye on the morning bustle. It would be just her luck to get run flat by a smirky trade councilor on a morning chariot jaunt. But despite the time pressing onto her like sand from a tower-sized hourglass, her lips curved into a smile.

Today’s endeavor was…thrilling. Eadyth was excited to put her wits against a difficult problem and fight through it. She hadn’t tested her mettle in some time.

A thorny challenge was just the thing.

3

GAR

“A h, there now. Look behind you.”

Gar set down his empty porridge bowl and turned. He nearly fell off his stool. Fari covered her mouth to laugh, enjoying the sight of him scrambling upright, his jaw agape.

“What say you to that?” she asked, amused.

“Formless creation…” It was the only answer he could muster.

The late morning sun sparkled above the top of a towering cliff that had emerged from the fog like a sneaking monster. Even now the mist was in full retreat down its shadowed face. Soon the whole bleached plain would be laid bare before it.

It was too…big . Gray, cleaved and cracked, the wall of rock stretched endlessly in both directions at the same time it challenged the sky. Sections had come away in vast sheets like petrified onion skin, leaving accumulated piles of rubble amidst the dissipating fog. There, at the bottom, the stone was a jaundiced yellow. But its crumbly appearance changed as it rose. Gar squinted at the hard lines and regular shapes near the barely discernable top. Buildings? The immensity of the thing tested his perception.

“What is that sparkle?” He asked. It shone like a bright jagged line just below the sun.

“Shiny tiles on the roofs and towers of Caliah. Some wealthy lords pay for the extravagance,” Fari answered.

Gods…it was so high up. His neck was already getting an ache. “How do we…how can the caravan possibly…”

“Look. Here.” Fari’s voice was suddenly at his ear, low and intimate. He nearly jumped as her fingers alighted on his shoulder. Gar felt a thrum of awareness—and a twinge of shame—through his surprise. “Follow my arm,” Fari directed, pointing. Trying to shut out the distraction of her closeness, he studied the cliff.

“I see stripes…” He could barely discern them. A vertical line of white scars, each angled up, marked the rock at regular intervals. After a moment he made out tiny black holes on either end. Tunnels?

The cunning shape of the thing came to him all at once. A road!

Those distant scars were paths carved into the open face of the rock. At the top of each angled run, the path curved into a tunnel that must have continued going up on the inside. Each tunnel’s exit marked the start of the next open path. It went on that way, up and up, threading the Headstone like a string through the lacing holes of a jerkin.

“That’s the Worm,” Fari told him. “They say it took three hundred years to carve. Before that, the people of Caliah thought the cliff was the edge of the world.”

Gar turned to her, using the movement to shrug her hand from his shoulder in a way he hoped wouldn’t offend. “The caravan can drive up that ?” His body wanted to shudder at the thought, but he didn’t let it.

“It’s wider than it looks from here.” Fari’s freckles were standing out more than usual. At first Gar worried she’d noticed his ploy to create distance, but her attention hadn’t strayed from the wall. Oh. Her paleness stemmed from fear. “It is not so wide as one would wish,” she explained quietly.

“Oyea! Oyea!”

He and Fari turned at the distant shout. The understeward of the caravan, an idle fellow who seemed to retain his position solely by virtue of his carrying voice, was making his way along the line of wagons, his hands cupped to the sides of his mouth.

“All drivers and loaders to the lead wagon! The guide comes! Oyea! Oyea! All drivers and loaders…”

They watched him pass and looked at each other.

“I remain here to guard,” Fari said. “Your lot and the drivers are to receive instructions to lead the wagons up the Worm.”

Gar laughed. “Instructions? Something like, ‘Don’t get lost on the single narrow path, stonehead?’ ” His smile curdled when she didn’t return the levity.

“This is no jesting matter. Do exactly as they tell you, Gar.”

“Aye,” he said after the moment stretched awkwardly.

She nodded. “Stay safe.” And with that she walked off, the point of her spear flashing in the sun.

Minutes later, as Gar joined the milling men and women near the lead wagon, he realized that everything had turned as sharp and dazzling as Fari’s spear-tip. The fog had departed like a blanket stripped off of a man in his sickbed, leaving the frail yellow soil exposed. If only the worry kindled by Fari’s sternness would disperse in the same way.

With the plain laid bare, he could see the faint groove of a road leading to the bottom of the cliff. There it entered the black maw of the first tunnel. But no one had yet emerged from it, and no one else was looking that way.

Bemused, Gar turned to the head wagon. Quillert was standing atop the drivers box with a great brass telescope fixed to his eye. The caravan’s steward might have been Hathos’s opposite, his spare frame and brusque manner appearing severe when contrasted with his master’s finery and stoutness.

“He comes,” he said to the driver seated beside him.

Gar craned his head along with everyone else. The sun was still behind the Headstone, making it difficult to see any detail on the soaring face of rock, but here in the cliff’s shadow he could make out a black line at the very top. It projected over the edge like a stray eyelash—and appeared no wider than one. It seemed to be swaying ever so slightly.

Still uncertain why everyone was ogling, he glanced back to Quillert, noting that the man’s telescope wasn't focused on the heights, but perhaps halfway down. He turned back, seeking anything that might stand out from flaky gray face.

“Zhud’s blood…” he breathed.

A figure, naught but a tiny speck at that height, was rapidly descending.

For a frantic heartbeat Gar thought they were falling…but that made no sense. The person remained perfectly upright and wasn't plummeting quite fast enough. Was it spellwork? Then he remembered the eyelash. Casting his eyes up, he at last discerned the almost invisible rope being played out from the protruding black line.

His mouth opened wider. Some sort of ingenious—and risky—machine!

Lower and lower the figure dropped, their position tracked by the angle of Quillert’s watching telescope. Now Gar could make out baggy yellowish clothes and either a floppy hat or a dark mass of hair. Whoever it was, they made the journey with bravery…or mayhap insanity. One foot in a loop of rope and one hand on the line above were all that kept them safe from a plunge into the rubble-strewn ground at the base of the cliff.

The figure’s near-plummet only slowed a few wagon-lengths from the bottom. Gar felt his stomach tighten with dread, anticipating a grisly end. Then the rope thrummed, drew taut, and pulled the rider back just in time. The guide drifted up and down while the slack evened out…then hopped neatly to the ground.

Turning, the figure seized the rope and gave it a mighty tug. It retracted back up almost at once, its looped end briefly snagging the hem of their tunic. Gar saw a flash of smooth burnished skin and knew . This lithe figure was neither man nor boy, but a woman.

The guide straightened her tunic and turned, eyeing their assembled group from a distance. After a moment she trotted toward the lead wagon. Quillert collapsed his telescope and hopped off to meet her. They conferred mere seconds before the steward pivoted to the crowd and waved them closer.

“Pack it in, now, pack it in. That's it. Gather nice and tight.” The assembly moved closer until drivers and loaders were wedged into a thick crescent around the guide. “Good. Now pay heed, you cart rats.” A few of the older caravaners chuckled, but all fell silent.

Gar was only too pleased to focus on this strange woman who had just plunged down a cliff. The guide stared back at all of them with her hands on her hips, seemingly unfazed by her demented journey.

She was slightly shorter and thinner than the average woman, but “slim” didn’t quite capture it. “Rawboned” was better. She was all edges and lines. Her sharp cheekbones and angular eyebrows gave her a lean sort of comeliness, but there was no delicacy. Only her pursed lips and dollop of tied-back hair offered any give—and the former were chapped, as if any softness must pay a price.

Her dark eyes met his.

A sharp jolt went through Gar. The feeling was unsettling and unidentifiable, but an unexpected surge of guilt followed it and warmed his cheeks. The woman blinked. Frowning, her gaze swept on.

By the time she’d seen enough—or taken everyone’s measure—the crowd was starting to shuffle nervously.

“I am here to guide you safely up yonder road,” she finally said, her voice projecting over the crowd. Gar was surprised at the depth and sureness in it.

“Some of you have traveled the Worm before, so you know well the trial that awaits. The rest of you”—here her eyes swept them again, and Gar felt another odd stab when her gaze brushed his—“are about to take the most difficult route you have known. As dangerous as the Red Thread.”

She let the semi-mythical horrors of that name sink in. The Red Thread was the lone road to a human kingdom in the south, and if the stories were true, caravaners oft met their deaths on it at the claws of swamp beasts and the arrows of bloodthirsty elves.

Gar found his eyes climbing the carved stitches of the Worm, wondering if monsters dwelled in those tunnels. He swallowed.

“The Worm was last widened a hundred years ago,” the guide went on, “when wagons were both shorter and narrower. When Caliah was not so thirsty for trade.” She stepped over to the lead wagon and slapped her palm against the wooden side. “Now caravans are twice the length and laden with twice the weight.” She leaned against it and held up her hands, the space between them perhaps as wide as a door. “This is the distance between your wagon and the tunnel walls—and it must be shared by both sides. ”

Again the crowd shuffled and murmured. The guide watched them impassively. Then she slowly brought her palms together until a spoon could be wedged between them. “This is the distance between your wheels and the edge of the cliff on the outside.”

There were a few audible scoffs and mutters at this claim. Gar looked around. None of the old drivers were scoffing. Their sun-weathered faces and tightened mouths spoke of prior knowledge. His blood iced.

“I will direct this caravan to the top,” the woman announced, her tone certain and strong. “And every wagon will make it if you do what I or my runners tell you to do without question .” Pause. “Say ‘aye’ if you understand.”

The less experienced caravaners, perhaps equal parts nervous and mulish, mumbled their assent. The old drivers said it loud and clear. Gar followed their example.

The woman nodded. “My runners will be here within the hour. In the meantime, we will need to shift the wagon order. Least-weighted up front, heavily laden to the rear. My name is Eadyth. I do not have time to learn yours. You’ll get a nickname and I expect you to answer to it. Aye?”

Another mottled chorus of ayes answered her. She started at one end, pointing to each man or woman and assigning their name with little ceremony.

“Yellowband, Scars, Eyepatch, Chewer, Torchhead…”

Eadyth’s pointing finger stopped on Gar. Gods…why did her attention make his insides float? She hesitated, and in that instant Gar identified the feeling.

Attraction. He was attracted to her.

A wave of shock and fresh guilt swamped his limbs, and he nearly shook. Instinctively his hand sought Aristhre’s geas, rubbing the skin of his inner arm despite knowing it felt no different beneath his fingers.

Eadyth’s eyes followed the motion. She watched his thumb tracing over the violet square enclosing four small circles of the same color. A furrow appeared between her brows. Then she drew in a breath and renewed her point.

“Devout,” she named him, and moved to the next.

4

GAR

G ar’s entire world had shrunk to stark details. Despite the most stunning view of his entire existence to one side, all he saw were loosening and tightening ropes, hooves meeting stone, horned heads whipping in agitation, and thick wheels turning a handsbreadth from a ledge so high that his balls wanted to cower in his belly.

Sounds, too, had been pared almost to nothing. Creaking wood and metal rims hissing along worn grooves. Cursing. So much cursing from drivers and loaders and Eadyth and her runners. If this Zhuddish trip ever ended he’d have entire new phrases to add to his stock of swears.

The most memorable exchange had been between Eadyth and the driver Tomro, whose mangled ear had decided his name. Somewhere along the fourth winding—Gar had lost track after that—her carrying voice had floated down from a higher ledge.

“Watch the rope, Nockear! Neither too slack nor taut!”

He heard a surly-sounding reply, likely an insult.

“Dunked in the First and Last Privy, were you? Running your nose up the backside of a god explains how you learned to be such a divine arsehole.” She hadn’t sounded angry, and Tomro’s answering laugh made it clear: she was managing the bad-tempered driver the same way she was managing the oxen and wagons.

The realization had made him grin, which led to a flush heating his cheeks and a swift surge of self-reproach. He had eagerly thrown himself back into the arduous task of ascending the worm, a job which made it easy not to think about Eadyth.

On the outside was the ledge. It meant the pull of guide ropes to lead the oxen and adherence to a steady gait. It was tense faces and clenched fists on reins, the knuckles pale no matter the driver’s skin color. On the inside was the tunnel. Echoes and flickering torchlight and trying not to get crushed against the rough stone walls while Eadyth and her runners flitted past like snatches of dream.

Up and out…in and up…up and out…up…up…

This had never happened to him before.

Stop dwelling on this.

Stirrings, yes, but never waves of heat and nerves, the straining of his senses to hear or see the person at the root of the affliction. Back in his village he had seen it often—most recently in the stammering and flustered exchanges between Haney and Suse. The two had been teased by him and his friends, which they had borne well. But Gar himself had always been safe from this particular fever. He had endured it but one day a year, when she arrived.

Concentrate on your duties!

Shaking his head to clear it, Gar reminded himself of the small hill of broken wagons and mouldering cargo piled beside the entrance to the worm. Eadyth had drawn their gazes to the grim sight as a reminder to follow her orders and pay attention. He had taken it to heart.

He had also wondered what her hair would look like if let down.

‘Tis a madness of the body. Naught else. Madness brought on by this cursed climb. All men suffer weakness of the flesh during long journeys.

But, as he plodded on, adjusting his rope and watching wagon wheels roll along the edge of oblivion, Gar couldn’t help but think of his differing reaction to Fari. The caravan guard was saucy and kind-hearted, with a ready laugh and a wit as ample as her bosom. He had caught her fancy for reasons he still found unclear; some combination of his looks and woeful ignorance of the world outside Meadowhay had enticed her.

Whether Fari’s motives were selfless or sensual, she had been a true ally to him. In addition to training with quarterstaves, she had taught Gar no less than four different card games on their way to Caliah. More, she had been watchful about not letting the other guards fleece him whilst he learned.

It wasn't as if Fari caused him no worry. His young blood ran hot like most men. With a lush body and ready smile, he could imagine the guardswoman handling his…sword…with the same confidence she wielded the weapons of her trade. His heart had never wavered, but his desire had been stirred more than once.

He worried about drinking more than he ought at one of the market fairs the caravan stopped at, and being too soused to resist an advance. Or what he might do if Fari boldly ran her hands over his body while checking his fighting form. He didn’t think she would be so coarse—or that he would truly succumb to such temptations—but the need for vigilance had frayed his nerves.

And yet…the true reason his idylls had turned to Fari was the most damning of all. After examining his feelings, Gar was forced to admit that her potent charms had not provoked even a tenth of the reaction he felt upon seeing the strange Caliahan woman fall from the sky.

Madness. Perhaps even a test? I don't believe Aris would play games to lead me astray, but what of the other gods? Be strong. Her geas and my vow are one and the same. Aristhre…my beloved…I am coming to you.

A flicker in the open sky broke Gar’s concentration.

For an awful moment he thought someone had plummeted from the Worm, but the figure silhouetted against the sky was all wrong. Too small, with stubby arms and legs. And it wasn't falling…it was swinging. All at once terror seized his heart for a different reason, for he suddenly recognized the flopping form.

“Halt the wagon!” he called over his shoulder. There was no time for further warning. He dropped the guide rope and ran.

With no room on the exposed path Gar was forced to go over or under every wagon. The sharp details he’d been so intent upon dissolved into a blur. He crawled between wheels and oxen. He leapt up on lashed boxes and past cursing drivers. Between each wagon, confused loaders scrambled out of his way. Yells and shouts followed, but the roar in his ears muddled it all. He entered the flickering darkness of the next tunnel half-blind.

“Make way!” he shouted.

On the inside loop the gap was just wide enough for Gar to shove past. His shoulders scraped against wood and stone and even more loaders who had to flatten themselves against the wall. A burning pain scored his upper arm when one man didn't lift his torch clear in time.

“Make way!” His voice bounced back and tangled with its echoes. It sounded like a dozen Gars were struggling up the narrow passage. Make way. Make way. At the top of the slope he dove under a wagon halfway through the turn outside.

Scrambling up into daylight, Gar was dazzled by the blinding blue sky. He blinked until the dark shape of the next wagon resolved. And then he saw how the thing had happened. The caravan had bunched up on this stretch due to a cracked spoke. A carpenter had been mending it while the driver and loader stood ready to help.

But now, having heard his shouts as he’d made his way up the tunnel, all eyes were focused on him . And—gods grant mercy—so was Eadyth. The guide was busy crawling out from underneath the broken wagon. In one fluid motion she tossed a wooden mallet onto the stone and came to her feet. Fury rolled off her.

“What in festering creation are you doing, Devout?” she shouted.

He had no time to explain, so instead he pointed up the Worm, silently willing her to understand he was pointing past the obstruction blocking their view.

“Help her,” he pleaded.

Eadyth’s eyes narrowed…and then flew wide. She abruptly swung around and started climbing over the top of the wagon. Her instinctive trust was a balm to his frenzied senses, but there was no time to enjoy it. He fell to his hands and knees and crawled, hoping that one of them wouldn’t be too late.

Gar pictured little Merey’s face: smiling, gap-toothed, and sweet as the honey cakes her mother made as one of the caravan’s cooks. But Merey was her father’s daughter, “two ears off the same stalk,” as that kindly woman put it, and Merey’s father was a driver. His little girl loved oxen and wagons.

And stowing away in the cargo.

Gar didn’t know how she had done it, how the child had managed to secret herself in the wagon and avoid the watchful eyes of both her mother and the guards still gathered far below. But he had recognized the floppy sack doll swinging wildly over the side of the cliff and knew it was a treasured possession.

As he scraped over the assorted tools still on the ground, Gar cursed his decision to go under. His brain was conjuring feverish images of what was happening—or what might be about to happen.

Merey had seen Eadyth descending on the rope. Her mouth had probably fallen open in awe, showing off every endearing gap in her teeth. Childish wonder had sparked an idea, and no doubt Merey had possessed the ball of twine needed to carry it out.

In the rocking wagon, climbing up and up, she had clumsily tied up her dolly, eager to have it descend the cliff like Eadyth had. She must have shown such patience for a child, waiting quietly for the wagon to halt so she could sneak out and play her game—and the splintered spoke had obliged her.

Sheltered deep amidst boxes and sacks, Merey would have had no notion of the danger. She would not know how to brace against the wind that often gusted up the channeled passages of the Worm, how it tugged and pulled with the strength of her beloved cattle.

How it dragged everything and everyone toward the lethal edge.

5

EADYTH

D evout. She had almost forgotten him in the arduous struggle up the Worm. She and her runners had spread over multiple levels of the twisting road, giving orders and dealing with vexing troubles like that damned wheel. But suddenly he was there, with his strange religious tattoo and earnest face. The way her eyes wanted to snag on that face was trouble.

Eadyth could almost sense his distracting presence even as she clambered over the packed wagon in search of whatever he’d sought to warn them of. All at once she felt beset. Troubles behind her, below her, and ahead. Troubles within.

But a child was the last thing she expected to find.

Eadyth jumped down into the driver’s box, her gasp of surprise hidden by the thump of her sandals. She stared at the little girl crouched beside the road, at its very edge. Like a delicate cup set carelessly atop a high shelf. The girl was working something with her hands, it looked like…string?

Eadyth didn’t move. She wasn’t frozen with fear, but by uncertainty. To be rash now could spell the child’s doom. But a gust could pummel them all at any moment. She licked her lips, thinking.

Below her came a scuffle. Devout would soon emerge from under the wagon, between the two oxen. Both cattle seemed calm, but what if one of them should bellow in surprise? She had to take a risk.

“Little one,” she called. Her voice, distinct and carrying, had always been a gift.

The girl’s shoulders jerked. Carefully—thank the infinite unknown—she rose to her feet and turned around. Her long copper-colored hair was messy in the appealing way of children. She had freckles and a look of guilt that would have been comical in less fraught circumstances. She was so lovely it hurt Eadyth’s heart.

“Come away from the edge, little one,” Eadyth said. Her smile trembled, but the child wouldn’t spot it from this distance.

Her eyes dropped to the girl’s knotted hands, which still gripped a length of twine. She could see it cutting a groove across the girl’s tunic as it wrapped around her waist and fell out of sight. Something weighted was on the other end.

Whatever it is, Devout must have spotted it.

Whatever it was, it would soon become the wind’s plaything.

“I was…doing what you did,” the girl said, “with the cliff.”

Utterly bewildered, Eadyth’s reply was the reflexive one of an adult speaking to any playing child. “Were you? That sounds clever. But now⁠—”

With a scrape and quiet grunt, a broad-shouldered form rose into view practically between her feet. The little girl looked from Eadyth to Devout, her big innocent eyes blinking.

“Hi, Gar,” the child said. Was that Devout’s name?

“Hello, Merey,” he answered. “Do me a kindness and head to the wall there.” He pointed. “All right? It’s safer and I won’t fret.”

“Is Momma mad?” the little girl asked in a shrinking voice. Her eyes cut to Eadyth, who quickly shook her head.

“You may be in for a scolding,” Gar said easily. Eadyth wondered if Merey could hear the quaver in his voice as she could. “But that’s all. To the wall now.”

Merey blinked and glanced over her shoulder. It was an ungainly pose and Eadyth’s entire body tensed to leap. “What about Waitha?”

“Just pull her with you.” Gar’s voice was threatening to turn strident. “Please , Merey.”

The girl bit her lip…and took a step away from the ledge.

“There now,” Gar said, relief infusing every word. “Keep going.”

And that’s when Saith-Agyth, the goddess of fortune, showed her bitch face.

A broad-chested man with the same color hair as Merey’s shot up from the front of the next wagon. Clearly the girl’s father, he’d likely heard his daughter’s name on the breeze.

“Who’s back there?” he yelled.

Before Eadyth could signal him, the burly driver made a racket leaping onto the cargo. Eadyth saw the little girl’s body go stiff with the noise. The man kept climbing up a pile of lashed barrels until his head was high enough to brush the ceiling of the cliff-carved notch. The moment his boots hit the lid on top, the hollow thunk sent Merey shuffling back in pure startlement.

“No!” Eadyth hissed to herself, not wanting to add to Merey’s brewing panic.

“Merey—” Gar began.

“MEREY!” bellowed her father, finally seeing where his daughter stood.

Addlepated fool! Could he not grasp the situation perched on a dagger’s blade? But the man, his features contorted into a bulging mask of shock and fear, paid Eadyth’s imploring face no mind.

“Da?” The little girl looked up, the whites of her eyes practically glowing in the shaded light. “Do…do not be angry with me…”

Before aught could be done, the thing was decided by an ill wind.

Doubled in strength as if to make up for its lateness, the roaring gust might have been sent by one of the unspeakable gods—Eadyth was sure not even Saith-Agyth would be so cruel.

Eadyth’s hair tore loose and whipped about her face. She staggered under the gale, her garments wrenched to-and-fro about her slight frame. Merey’s father saved himself only by bracing his arms against the ceiling. The oxen lowed and even Gar swayed in his sheltered spot, forced to set his hands on their broad backs to steady himself.

Merey stood no chance. She tried to balance, but her feet were close together from trying to make herself small. Eadyth watched in agony as the girl put one leg back to brace against the onslaught…and set her foot down in open air.

Without thought, Eadyth leapt.

The moment stretched like flowing tree sap, and Eadyth suddenly saw everything with the harsh clarity of midday. It was as if Vu, the missing god of time, had returned to affect this lone instant.

Devout’s face was upturned, his jaw slack as he followed her jump. His eyes…they made her think of the fast-running streams beyond Easthalf, the way their waters shimmered over brown stones whose flecks caught the sun. Then the oxen’s curved horns were passing beneath her sandals—how long had her left shin strap been frayed?

That will need mending , she thought absurdly.

Past Gar, past the oxen, the stone floor rose up to meet her. Eadyth didn’t care. She kept her attention on Merey. The girl’s gaze was draining into empty terror as she realized what she’d done. She was slipping away…falling…her arms coming up as her body began its long trip to the plain below. That cursed yellow soil! Glutted on the blood of creation and still thirsty.

Eadyth reached out. The seams of her knuckles were filled with grime and she could see four perfect crescents of dirt under the nails of her splayed fingers.

Slow…too slow!

A distant jolt shook her body as her foot hit the stone floor, stopping her descent just as she needed to fall faster. Her arm still reached towards Merey’s. Never again would she think her own hands small, not after seeing them beside the miniature hand of a child. The gap was narrowing, but it wouldn’t be enough. Not…enough!

Pain exploded across Eadyth’s knee, sending a shockwave up her limbs. All her muscles went slack.

Save for her hand.

A band of iron cinched around Eadyth’s torso just as she passed the point of no return. She looked down at Merey’s face. Tears of pain and fear were cutting tracks through the dust on the girls cheeks. Eadyth followed the line of her little shoulder and extended arm. She gazed upon their clasped hands in dumb surprise and realized her fingers were already aching with the force of her grip. Far below them awaited the Grave of Creation. Sickly. Terrifying.

Thwarted.

The band of iron slowly drew Eadyth back, and Eadyth pulled Merey with her. She felt warmth and smelled sweat and heard a man’s ragged gasps and knew the iron for a man’s arms. His arms.

With one mighty heave, Devout wrenched both of them away from death.

He slammed onto his back as her own back slammed into his chest and little Merey knocked Eadyth’s breath loose. But still she drew her arms about the child and clutched her. All was pain and gasping and crying and joy.

“Ah! Merey…sweet foolish lass…” The weight left Eadyth as her father scooped up the sobbing girl.

Eadyth and Devout were too spent to rise. Then she felt a strange lurch atop her strange perch and let her head loll to the side. Devout was flopping his hand in an ungainly circle. She squinted, trying to wring meaning through the haze of pain. Why was twine wrapped around his fingers?

Devout’s hand flopped, and another winding accumulated across his palm. He continued rolling his hand, gasping with the effort. She felt each rise of his chest in her whole body. The twine wrapped again…and again, and then she saw a rounded shape appear at the ledge. Slowly, one pained movement after another, Devout hauled the girl’s worn doll back over the edge of the cliff.

That makes three lives you saved , she thought.

Eadyth settled her head against his shoulder and listened to the weeping child and the silent wail of her throbbing knee. Her laugh, when it came, was as dusty as the rock enfolding them.

6

GAR

“S he’s in there?” Gar asked.

He eyed the partially-laden wagon, the only one with oxen still yoked. The other cattle had been corralled for the night as the camp busied itself settling down. Laughter and music were already starting up amidst the various wagon circles, but it sounded shrill to Gar’s ears, nearly frantic.

“You’re sure?” he pressed. His own nerves were being stubbornly fretful. The Worm lay behind them, yet pebbles were still tossing about his insides. They seemed to grow bigger the longer he stared at the lone vehicle.

“Aye,” Fari answered, raising her voice to be heard above the first notes of Dregga’s flute. “Hathos and his retinue are staying at the Pickled Wolf. Her final duty is to see their belongings delivered.”

Fari’s hair was rimmed in red-gold from the nearest campfire, but Gar couldn't make out her expression. The sun was full down now, leaving a dull orange strip along the horizon.

He nodded, restively running his hand up the strap of his canvas bag. “I thank you, Fari. For the salve and the direction.” He hesitated. “I thank you for all of it,” he added more quietly. “Your watchfulness, your guidance—and teaching me cards and the quarterstaff. Everything.”

“Trying to teach you the quarterstaff,” she corrected.

He laughed, but it caught on an unexpected lump in his throat. “Aye. Trying.”

Over by the fire, finger cymbals joined the flute. Of a certainty, clapping would soon be added to the bright sound; Gar had grown accustomed to the rhythms of a caravan these last months.

“You're not coming back,” Fari stated, her tone as inscrutable as her face.

“Caliah was my destination.”

“Because a woman is waiting for you.” It was the explanation Gar gave to all who asked. Fari had never asked, yet she still knew. Because a caravan was a village of sorts.

“Aye,” he agreed.

“Who?” Now the clapping began, scattered but gaining focus. When he didn't answer, Fari made an impatient sound between irritation and amusement. “Is it the guide?”

Gar’s breath hitched. He shook his head quickly, almost a shiver. “No.” His palm sought out the geas in the gloom, but, like always, it felt the same as normal skin. In the dark he wasn't even sure his hand was on it.

“Then why go with her?” Fari sounded almost accusing. Or knowing. She was wrong—of course she was wrong—but his cheeks still warmed at her tone. He tightened his grip on his arm.

“I require a guide,” he said.

She couldn't gainsay that. No outsider would after seeing the streets of Caliah.

Hours before, when his assigned wagon had taken the last turn and entered the final tunnel, Gar had felt like he’d spent a week on the Worm. When the roof ended and the confining walls opened onto a wide ramp, he had nearly gotten his foot run over due to gawping at the sky like a dullard. He wasn't solely to blame, because his driver had been gawping too.

They’d eased onto level ground—the first since morning—to find a clifftop bathed in the ruddy red of sunset. To one side lay a view that the gods themselves might have chosen, but he was too grateful at the lack of pressing stone overhead to notice.

Gar had been even less attentive on the trip into the city. Too tired to do aught but trudge toward their encampment, the chaotic impressions had battered him senseless. There had been clashing languages and burbling fountains and the cries of exotic animals. Spires and temples…carved flagstones…towering statues wreathed in the dizzying scents of unknown spices.

If he tried to find the night feast by himself, Caliah would surely swallow him whole. No bones would remain.

“You will need a guide,” Fari finally allowed, her words nearly snatched by one of the breezes that swept the city and lands above the cliff. “But a less expensive one could easily be had at the camp’s outskirts.”

Behind her, sparks whipped and spiraled upward from the dancing campfire, goaded by the wind. She turned to watch, and some trick of the light found her curved cheek and full lips.

“But this way I can…gain use of the wagon,” Gar replied. Gods but he sounded dubious! Like a sneak making up excuses. Mayhap it was Fari’s fault—she seemed intent on treating him with suspicion.

“Mm.” A sound of near agreement. Fari’s lips curved in a smile that he’d seen often in their practices. It usually came just before she revealed the fault in his defenses by knocking him on his arse. “And will you be telling your pining ladylove that yonder guide once sat astride your waist on her knees?”

“Why must you needle me?” Gar spat, more cross with her than he could recall. But even his own anger lanced inward.

Loathe as he was to admit it, the moment she spoke of was etched in his memory. Hours earlier, when Eadyth had sat up to release Merey, her rump had pressed right against his groin. She had sprang up at once, taking no notice, but he had been left in miserable shame, for that part of her was softer than it looked, and it had turned him instantly hard.

His forearm twinged with a constricting ache. Gar forced his squeezing fingers loose. He shut his eyes and let out a shuddering breath, half convinced that when he opened them he would see Meadowhay and the start of his banishment from Aristhre’s sight. Surely his dwelling on that moment with Eadyth would trigger the geas.

“What pains you?” Fari’s mocking tone had turned worrying.

Gar’s eyes snapped open. He was still in the encampment. Still in Caliah. “I…” His chest worked to draw air. “Naught,” he managed at last. “Naught pains me save your barbs.”

“I am only jesting.”

“You have never jested like that before,” he said darkly.

“You think I care if the guide turned your head? I don’t.” Fari’s clipped words undermined the claim. “But I confess to being bewildered. I imagine laying with her would be like twining yourself around a strip of rawhide.”

“I do not intend to lay with any ⁠—”

“Do not mistake my words for nobility,” she continued, heedless of him. “I did not want to remind you of your commitment to your ladylove. My intent is entirely selfish.”

“Selfishness? That is why you sting so mercilessly?” His description was apt; Gar felt as if a hornet’s nest had been deposited on his head.

“I sting because…” Fari made a sound of self-disgust. “Bah! I’m too sober to talk of this.” She threaded her fingers through her hair. “But…needs must. Our time grows short.” She gave a resigned breath. “I speak not out of selfishness, but plain jealousy.”

“Jealousy? Of my…my ladylove?” Gar frowned when she didn’t answer. “Fari, have I ever⁠—”

“Nay.” She ducked her head. “Nay. You have not. You have been more noble knight than bumpkin in that way, Gar. But I had hoped…” She stared at a dancing couple in front of the fire, their merry movements silhouetted against the flames. “The road is long,” she said softly. “A man on such a journey won’t be the same at its end.”

Gar’s mouth tightened, for he could not deny that the sights and experiences of the caravan had wrought a change in him. He’d grown beyond the boundaries of his village life like an eager plant bursting its pot.

“I know it’s been but a few months,” Fari continued, as if he’d spoken the thought aloud, “yet look how far you’ve come. Today we reached the end of the world and climbed past it .” She wrapped her arms about her middle. “Are you not changed in every facet? Is your heart truly so constant?” She turned away from the fire and peered into the dark. “Mayhap it is…but mayhap you should consider the lass standing before you instead of a ladylove who sounds more vision than vixen—or yonder bony twig.”

Gar’s anger ignited like a barn fire.

It rose up inside him, hot and ready to consume everything in reach. But before he could do more than draw breath to vent its flames, Fari darted forward and kissed his cheek.

“Sorry,” she whispered, and there was something so tender and small in it that he was flummoxed into silence, the fires snuffed as fast as they’d reared. Fari stepped back and rubbed her arms. “The driver comes,” she said.

Indeed, a surly shadow was stalking toward the half-empty wagon, his displeasure at not sitting before one of the campfires evident in his stride.

“Come.” She walked with him toward the wagon, her gait holding the easy grace of a trained warrior.

Still reeling, Gar followed in silence. Partway there she stopped and faced him. He held his breath…only to be surprised when Fari clapped him on the shoulder. The gesture reminded him of the dozens of times she’d done so in their morning sparring sessions, always as a form of encouragement.

“I go no further. Continue on and seek your fortune, Gar of…” He heard more than saw her smile. “…Marblestay?”

His laugh was a blessing, for it eased the lump that was suddenly back in his throat. “Meadowhay.”

“If you say so.” Pause. “Think fondly of me.”

“I will, Fari,” he said, his voice thick. This farewell, at least, carried no shame; it was the sorrow of parting from a friend. “And you me.”

“Every time I encounter a knave who leaves his left knee unguarded,” she said lightly, but there were tears at the edges of it. Fari reached over and untwisted the bag strap on his shoulder. “There. Go on, then. Off with you.”

7

EADYTH

S omeone was crawling into her wagon, and they were trying to be quiet about it.

Eadyth cleared the cobwebs from her mind, mentally cursing herself for almost falling asleep. Her instincts held her body still. Thank the gods she’d kept her borrowed lantern hooded; it was doubtful the trespasser could make out more than her shape. Slowly, she sent her hand creeping towards her pouch.

Cracking her eyes, Eadyth watched a brawny form steal over the wagon’s side. A man, then, and one who moved with practiced ease. She felt the small handle of the shank settle perfectly into her palm. Steadying its point with a practiced thumb, she waited until he straddled the side wall.

Now.

Eadyth rolled into a crouch, unable to suppress a wince as every tired joint complained. “Don’t move.” She kept the pain from her voice, making it as cold and calm as a mountain stream.

The figure froze—or tried to. As she watched, he wobbled, both hands braced on the wood to keep his nethers from a painful rendezvous with the narrow edge.

“It’s me,” he said frantically.

She frowned. Something about his build and voice was familiar, but she was too exhausted and groggy to match it up.

“G-Gar,” the man said. Then he shook his head. “Devout . You call me Devout.”

Sharp recognition jabbed her with a shiv of its own—harder than it should have, and with a worrying amount of exhilaration attached. Damn her heart…‘twas always less guarded when she was tired. She mercilessly suppressed the reaction.

“What do you want?”

“T-to travel into Caliah. I have business there and thought to spare my le-egs .” The last word sounded comically wavery, as his balance atop the wall wobbled.

Eadyth couldn’t help her amused snort. This was no skilled cutpurse, simply a loader who knew his way around wagons and cargo. And she understood his desire to avoid walking another step all too well.

“Best make your way over, then,” she said grudgingly.

“My th-thanks.”

She opened the shutter of the small lantern to allow him better sight. A soft yellow glow filled the wagon like pooling liquid.

Devout finished clambering over the side. He still wore the same dirty clothes used on the worm, meaning neither of them had changed. She felt a certain kinship over that. Tugging a laden canvas bag off his shoulder, he set it down and arranged himself crosslegged against the opposite wall. It was clear he was giving her space, which Eadyth appreciated.

“How is the girl?” she asked on a sudden impulse.

“Merey? She is well-recovered, though her parents will likely be on the verge of fits for days.” He smiled. “They may well leash her to a stake for the next year of her life.” The smile vanished. “What is that?”

She followed his eyes—like river stones , sighed her dimwitted heart—down to the weapon in her hand. The light gleamed off its polished point.

“What does it look like?”

His throat worked, a sign he was more nervous that he appeared. “A monster’s tooth.”

“Carved bone,” she corrected, “but it bites just the same. ‘Tis a shank, and most guides carry one.” They eyed each other. She expected him to break the stare, but he didn't. Her joints were getting more insistent that she sit, yet she found herself equally reluctant to look away.

The wood beneath them swayed, breaking the spell. They both blinked as the delayed driver finished climbing up into the box.

“All’s well?” the man called back. It was delivered in the manner of a poisoner disappointed his concoction wasn't having an effect.

Eadyth was used to tired drivers wishing her ill. “Drive on,” she replied evenly.

Devout gestured. “You might want to sit⁠—”

The reins slapped and the wagon lurched into motion. She and Devout’s bodies rocked, and her injured knee chose just that moment to abandon her like a lazy urchin. She was unable to prevent a cry of pain as she fell from her haunches back against the boards.

“Eadyth! Are you all right?”

She cursed at the sting, equally disgruntled that his asking should please her so. “Fine.”

“Your knee still pains you,” he said over the clatter of wheels and hooves.

She looked up from her cradled leg to discover him leaning forward with a intent expression. He appeared about to crawl over. For a moment, Eadyth’s heart jumped with fear…but nay, his warm eyes held no malice. Their brimming concern made her traitorous wench of a heart bump for another reason.

“Aye,” she agreed, sliding the shank back into her pouch to have something to do.

“The wound needs cleaning.”

“Aye ,” she said again, unable to hide her irritation. It was one more thing added to a long list. Along with eating, bathing, and arguing with Adonn over her wages, she had to wash and rewrap her knee before she could finally sleep.

“May I?”

Eadyth waited, confounded. Her brow pinched until she could feel the dust in the furrow between her eyes. “May you what?”

A faint wash of color darkened Devout’s tan cheeks. “May I help clean your wound? I feel respon—that is, the caravan bears some of the blame. We should have done better keeping a watch on Merey.”

If this was a ploy to get her clothes off so he could avail himself of her top and bottom lips it was either a simpleton’s gambit…or a highly skilled one. But Devout seemed truly abashed. She sighed and rubbed at the grit where her brows met.

“Do you truly think I would let you accompany me to my room?”

“Oh! N-nay, I meant to dress it here.” His shy smile, paired with the rest of his manner, made her body feel unaccountably strange, like the first time she’d plunged down the Headstone on a drop sling. “You learn to do much on the move when you travel with a caravan,” he explained. “Look⁠—”

Pulling his bag onto his lap, he opened it and rummaged around, removing a chipped jug and a small wooden container. He set both on the floor of the wagon before going back for a strip of clean white fabric.

“I brought water to wash your knee and linen to wrap it,” he said. “And I’ve asked one of the guards for some of the salve she uses. It works miracles .”

“Is this the guard who fancies you?” Eadyth asked. Infinite unknown! What possessed her to say that, and in an acerbic tone no less?

He seemed startled. “Uh, how do you know that?”

“After the Worm I do a final check of the wagon train while it drives to the encampment.” She shrugged. “I made an effort to find you and learn of the child we’d saved, but you were busy talking to that red-headed guard.” Her elbow was resting on your shoulder , she nearly added before biting the words off.

“Oh.” He looked down. One of his hands fiddled with the jug before settling it back. “Well…yes. That was Fari. I suppose she does fancy me—or did. We’re just friends.” This last admission was gruff, accompanied by an even deeper coloring in his cheeks.

“Why?” Eadyth asked, immediately regretting it. With that single word she heard all of her implied questions. Why aren’t you lovers? Why did she fail to win your attentions?

Why not consider a Caliahan woman instead?

The thought made her stomach go ticklish, the way river rushes whispered along her calves when she hiked beside certain streams.

“No matter,” she blurted. “I care not.” There was a dangerous moment then, a quiet into which Devout might have spoken, and she suddenly could not bear to hear what he might say. “Go on, then.” She gestured at her knee. “As you will.”

“I can dress the wound?” he asked hesitantly.

“Aye.”

It took most of her flagging will not to jerk like a grasspringer when his fingers gently touched her pant cuff. Even more to keep her breathing steady as he rolled it up, his calloused palm sliding along her calf to position her injured knee over his crossed legs. The sensation was much stronger than the touch of any rushes.

He uncorked the jug, then found himself hard-pressed to keep it from spilling when the wagon slid into a rut.

She snickered, happy to release some of her nerves. “Take care, Devout.”

“Gar,” he reminded her quietly. “And this might be cold.”

Eadyth jumped as he poured a small trickle of water over the crude bandage on her knee. It was cool, but not enough to numb the wound beneath. She gritted her teeth as he soaked it to loosen the hold of her dried blood.

“Gar,” she repeated to distract herself. “Whence do you hale?”

“Meadowhay.” He set the jug down and started on the knot holding the bandage on. She’d tied it hastily, so it came undone easily. “You won't know of it. It's very small and far away. Take a breath.”

The name was vaguely familiar, though she had no inkling where she’d heard it. But before Eadyth could set her mind to remembering, Gar tugged the bandage free.

“RIDIST’S BLEEDING BALLS,” she bellowed, thumping her head against the sidewall. Through a red haze she caught what sounded like a laugh from the driver—probably because she’d named him “Knobknees” for the climb up the Worm.

“I'm truly sorry,” Gar said, hastily pouring water onto a piece of linen. “I tried to be fast.”

“That you were, Devout,” she gasped. “Very fast indeed.” Her whole body twitched as Gar settled a wet square over the wound. His large hands applied pressure from above and below, which felt…less bad.

“Had to be done,” he said, as if she’d angrily demanded he explain. “The old bandage was caked in filth.” He moved his hand over the cloth, gently angling the cold relief across the whole of her knee as he carefully scrubbed away the dried blood.

Eadyth found her breath evening as the treatment numbed the throbbing. “Had to use a strip off my breeches,” she muttered. “Didn't have time to do more.”

“I know.” He checked the wound, then reapplied the square. “Put your hand over it for me?” Gently taking her wrist, he directed it to the cleaning cloth. “That’s good. Now for the salve.”

Gar pulled off the simple wooden cap of the container, and a strong herbal scent permeated the back of the wagon. By chance his rough fingertips brushed her hand as he wiped them on the damp linen. Her breath hitched. Despite her efforts, a fresh memory shoved forward like a rude drunk at a crowded bar.

After she’d handed the rescued child off to her father, the motion had placed…certain parts of her against certain parts of him, and a bright little spark had shot up from the apex of her thighs like a work of fire about to burst. Embarrassed, Eadyth had hastily shoved herself off Devout—off Gar—but not before the motion had created another little pulse of unexpected pleasure.

She was no wanton, and the memory of it made blood rush to her face. Thank the infinite unknown that he was busy gathering white paste onto a fingertip and took no notice.

“This will sting before it brings relief,” he warned. “I am sorry for⁠—”

“Good ,” Eadyth said too loudly. He looked up, and his eyes widened at her flushed visage. She looked away. “I mean, I do not mind. Proceed.”

He had been too modest. Describing the healing salve as “stinging” did it a disservice. Fire seemed to envelop her knee as he rubbed it into the wound. A Zhuddish torturer would do well to obtain some for their grim tasks.

Even as the pain made tears spring to her eyes, Eadyth was still grateful for the distraction. This, at least, was the sort of blaze she understood.

8

GAR

S he should feel dry as parchment, Gar thought, and have a voice like scraping rocks.

But Eadyth’s skin—a paler gold where it was untouched by the sun—wasn’t dry. It felt soft and smooth beneath his fingers as he wrapped the clean bandage around her leg and carefully tied it.

The guide had gone silent, and he was both pleased and troubled by it. Pleased, because it meant she was no longer in pain, and troubled, because he didn’t know what the quiet signified—nor did he wish to. But their lack of conversation dug a well for uneasy musings to fill.

I am doing naught but helping our guide , he thought. It had a strained quality even in his mind.

He willed himself to stop noticing things. To stop dwelling on the warmth of her flesh or the glimpse of her thigh where she’d hiked her pant leg up. Yet his fingers trembled as he finished tying the knot. He glanced up.

Eadyth was watching him. She’d untied her hair while he worked, and the loose chin-length curls perfectly framed her face. Her eyes were dark and velvety, like the rich bolts of cloth Hathos was fond of buying for trade.

His breath labored as he slid quickly away, holding Eadyth’s leg just long enough to lay it gently against the boards. “It’s done,” he murmured. “Should heal much better now.” He pressed hard into the opposite sidewall until his shoulder blades twinged. My love’s eyes are violet , he reminded himself angrily, not velvet.

Gar’s irritation toward himself was well deserved…but there was a sliver—so small it gleamed like a knife’s edge—reserved for his goddess too. Was Aristhre paying no mind at all? Did she not care if his eyes wandered or his body felt the pull of a stranger’s? If another’s sharp wit and stout courage touched his heart? It was said that some gods played games using mortals as the pieces, but surely not Aris?

“Why do you do that?” Eadyth’s question rose above the rattle of wheels on cobblestone.

Gar blinked and looked up, grateful the light was low so he couldn’t study her as intently as he might. “Do what?” he asked.

“Cover up your tattoo.” She nodded at it while rolling her pant leg down.

He stared, uncomprehending…then glanced at his hand, which was once more gripping his forearm just above the wrist. Oh. He hadn't even been aware of it. Worse, he was squeezing his arm as if the geas could be made to cry out like a captive animal.

At least then I would know it were alive.

He released his hold, abashed by the unkind thought. A dull ache pulsed through his arm as the constriction eased. After a moment he moved his fingers to restore circulation.

“ ‘Tis a nervous habit,” Gar said.

Eadyth didn't respond. Their bodies rocked gently as the oxen plodded their way deeper into Caliah. They were starting to pass taller buildings now, including those decorative towers that the inhabitants of this place seemed to love.

“Are you a shrinepriest?” she asked after a time. He shook his head. “An acolyte?”

“Nay.”

That thinking furrow appeared between Eadyth’s brows. He tried not to find it appealing and failed. She leaned forward, the clean bandage a flash of white in the torn knee of her pants.

“I called you ‘Devout’ because of that mark. It is a holy symbol, is it not?”

Gar’s throat felt dry. “Aristhre’s.”

“I thought I recognized it. The square…represents a table,” she said slowly. “The circles are plates, but also the four seasons.” She nodded to herself. “Aye, that’s right. The goddess of seasons, festivals and feasts.”

“Yes,” he confirmed. And she has the most beautiful eyes in all of creation. The velvet ones regarding him with open curiosity didn’t even compare. They didn’t . He cleared his throat. “Are you a follower?”

She was quick to shake her head. “I worship no gods.” Her dark tone forbade further prying. “But she is celebrated here by many.”

Gar was surprised a woman who would throw herself from a cliff while trusting her life to a single rope would not at least pray to Saith-Agyth, the goddess of fortune. He set it aside, too eager to ask the question their conversation was leading to.

“Do you know if Aristhre appears here during festivals?”

Eadyth looked mildly alarmed. “You mean…the actual goddess? Her divine presence?”

“Or maybe an…aspect? A version of her unique to Caliah?” It was impossible to keep the breathlessness out of his voice. But, as Eadyth slowly moved her head side to side, Gar’s rekindled hopes felt smothered to the smallest ember.

“Your face tells a tale,” Eadyth ventured. “If you aren’t a shrinepriest or acolyte, I am guessing you must be a pilgrim of some kind.”

He shook his head miserably. “Not as such.”

She blew out a breath and showed her palms. “Then I own I am confused.”

“Aye,” Gar answered. “As am I. Increasingly.” He found his hand creeping towards the silent geas and forced it back to his side.

“You told me the name of your village,” Eadyth said suddenly, “but not of your journey. How far have you traveled?”

The invitation to speak of less difficult subjects was welcome. Gar briefly swept his face with his hands. “Know you the human kingdom to the west?”

“I should hope so. Caliah receives much trade and many travelers from there.” Her look turned impish. “And all must climb the Headstone once they arrive…”

“Oh! Aye. Th-that’s the way of it.” Gar’s cheeks burned with embarrassment. How had he forgotten Eadyth’s profession? Of course she knew of lands to the west! Why did he act like a drooling babe when talking to her? “You must think me hollow-headed.”

“I think you are very tired,” she said with a smirk, but her tone wasn't unkind. “Your village lies within that vast kingdom?”

He nodded, grateful she didn't tease him. “It lies close to its western end,” he explained. “And thus I have traveled the breadth of that realm and the wilds beyond to be here. My journey with Hathos’s caravan has lasted for three months and more besides.”

Her eyes were solemn. “That is a very long way.”

“At first I was scared to be so far from Meadowhay and everyone I knew,” Gar admitted. “But, as the weeks passed, I became familiar with my fellow caravaners. I found that I liked them. I made new friends and learned which travelers were knaves to be avoided. As it happens, a caravan is not so different from a village.”

Eadyth laughed. It was a quiet, intimate sound—as if her mirth was a secret she was sharing—and Gar was disconcerted at its effect on him.

“Truly?” she asked.

He shrugged, helpless not to feel a hint of her good humor. “Near enough. Once I settled in, the journey through the settled lands became pleasant. Hard work every day, but nothing that would overtax a practiced field hand.”

“You were a field hand in your village?”

“Aye.”

“That explains some things,” she said, and it did not seem an insult. “What sights have you seen on your trip?”

A smile came unbidden to his face. “Much to impress a village bumpkin. Busy markets that would fit the entirety of Meadowhay inside with room to spare. And a festival with real works of fire!” He instinctively looked up, remembering. “When they exploded against the night sky, each one competed with the moon.” He thought some more. “Oh! And I glimpsed Stonestump Keep with my own eyes—from a distance, I own, but close enough to confirm the ballads spoke true of its impossibly high walls.”

“It all sounds lovely,” Eadyth said, her tone wistful.

“Have you traveled, then?” asked Gar.

She shook her head. “I have a room to call my own in Westhalf, and such requires constant work to support. But sometimes I roam the hills beyond Easthalf. I like to watch the wind ripple through the long grass.”

“Easthalf?” Gar said, bemused.

“The city is made of four districts.” Eadyth held up four fingers. “Westhalf, where we are headed. Northhalf, which hosts the caravan encampments. Easthalf, where none wish to dwell but many do, and Southhalf, where the trading markets are found.”

Gar eyed her quizzically. “That is…four halves.”

“It is a very crowded city.” Her eyes twinkled. “Why have you come then, Gar of Meadowhay? If you are neither priest, nor acolyte, nor pilgrim, what brings you to Caliah?”

This was it. The chance to ask for help. Even if Eadyth’s work as a guide was limited to the path up the Headstone, she still lived in the city and seemed knowledgable. “I wish to attend the night feast.”

The effect his words had was unexpected. Eadyth stiffened, then slowly leaned back. “Which one?” she said, her tone noticeably cooler.

He frowned. “I don’t understand.”

“The ‘night feast’ is a summer holiday in Caliah. It is celebrated in many ways. There are dances and banquets, and sacred meals held in the home.” Something about the way she said it seemed evasive, but Gar couldn’t put his finger on why.

“What does it signify?” he asked.

“Plenty,” Eadyth said, making a careless gesture. “That is, the having of plenty. It is a celebration of being free from want. Having food in one’s larder and means in one’s pocket—enough to share with those in need. It is held at night so that the summer heat will not detract from the gaiety.”

Gar felt his earlier eagerness return. This sounded like his beloved Aristhre. A festival with generosity at its heart. He tried to keep his voice level as his pulse started to race. “Is there…one dance or feast that is more prominent? Such that there could be no mistaking an invitation to it?”

Eadyth’s brow fell into a near scowl. “When outsiders speak of the night feast,” she said quietly, “they only mean one. The week-long revelry of the Undergarden market.”

That must be it. He was feeling closer to Aris than he had even in the strange dream this morning. “What is that?”

“The grandest celebration of all,” she said softly, those velvet eyes on him, “hosted by the Trade Council and their supporters. ‘Tis a banquet to display their amassed wealth and power, and the stories told about its excesses have become legend.”

A twinge of unease marred his fervor. Excesses? Eadyth’s phrasing suddenly reminded him of something similar Hathos had said about the night feast, just before Gar had joined the caravan. But surely the celebration had some redeeming quality?

Perhaps you do love me, Gar, but only a piece of me.

Months ago, in Meadowhay, Aristhre had warned him that her other aspects were different. He had tried to prepare himself for a version of her that would be strange to him…but what if she were truly unrecognizable? The Deeds of Spring , a book about Aris’s kindness and benevolence, held no baseness in its pages, no greed. She may be the goddess of seasons, but her innate nature would still hew to that essential goodness…would it not?

“How…how does one get to this Undergarden?” he said, dispirited by the touch of worry that came with the asking.

“Alas, their generosity extends only to themselves. Field hands would be unlikely to gain entry—no matter how far they’ve traveled. Still…” her eyes swept down him, and he felt as if he’d been laid bare. “With shoulders and…hands like those,” she added very quietly, “methinks some at the night feast would consider you good sport.”

Her comments about his body circled Gar’s mind like invaders at the walls of Stonestump Keep. He felt both secure and hemmed-in. He jostled his head back and forth to clear it.

“I am not seeking m-mindless pleasure. I am only looking for…” He nearly said her name. Eadyth cocked her head in interest, seeming to sense the confession that trembled on his tongue. “…a chance to visit,” he finished lamely. “And a guide to take me.”

A large allotment of silence seemed to join their wagon’s cargo. They listened to the clop-clop of the oxen and the crackle of wheels over uneven stone. In the distance could be heard a chorus of drunks singing a bawdy song off-key.

“When we arrive at the Pickled Wolf, you will be able to find a guide easily enough,” Eadyth said at last. “I suggest you set-out on the morrow at dusk. You will want your strength.”

“Would you—” Gar’s voice faltered. He cleared his throat. “Eadyth…would you show me? I know you work at the cliff, but it is clear you can be trusted. It would mean a great deal.” Something about her presence reassured him, though he knew not why. Indeed, a part of him warned that it would be wise to spend no more time with her.

“Cliff or Caliah, my guidance is not cheap,” she said. All at once her gaze refused to meet his. One of her hands lightly fluttered at her bandaged knee.

“Name your price.”

Eadyth’s jaw firmed. The almost-scowl was back, boring a hole into the floor of the wagon. “Three gates.”

Gar suppressed a gasp. That was more than a week’s wages! The only sensible response was to reject it and say nothing more.

“Two gates,” he said in a strangled voice.

Eadyth's head flew up. Her chin-length hair settled about her face in a way he refused to find beguiling. Her eyes searched his as a torch-lit archway passed overhead. She opened her mouth. Closed it. Then finally said, “Tomorrow. Before sunset. Find me in my room at the Wolf betwixt the first and second floors. I will take you to the Undergarden night feast.”

A mix of exhilaration and nerves assailed him, but Gar nodded his head eagerly just the same. They rattled and bounced deeper into the city, saying no more but thinking much—at least, he was. Tomorrow, at long last, he would see his sweet Aristhre once more.

9

GAR

G ar made his way carefully along the busy street, doing his best not to bump into anyone or step in the waste gutters along the sides. Sweat was already plastering his hair to his forehead, though in truth he didn’t know if it was the oppressive summer heat or his nerves causing it.

Ahead lay the Pickled Wolf, its carved sign depicting a mangy specimen curled around a keg. The sizable building reminded him of last night’s journey.

After the wagon had arrived at the Wolf—an inn that looked much finer than its name would suggest—he and Eadyth had separated. She had seen to offloading the luggage of Hathos’s retinue, and he had set about securing a place to sleep.

Thanks to a lofthand willing to glance the other way, Gar had found shelter in the attached stable at the cost of a few brass hobs.

“We call ‘em ‘tacks’ here,” the friendly youth had informed him—though not so friendly he didn't take three to overlook Gar’s presence. But with the money saved from skipping the inn, Gar was certain he’d be able to afford both a bathhouse and Eadyth’s steep fee.

On the morrow—after brushing off all the hay—Gar spent his morning cautiously exploring Westhalf. His prior travels had seasoned him well enough that he didn’t gawp at the stupendous crowds and tall buildings, but there was no doubt Caliah was the largest and busiest city he had yet visited.

The twisting roads were a tangled warren that only the locals seemed able to navigate, and time-and-again he found himself distracted by sights that made it easy to become lost. More than once he’d been brought to a standstill by large glass windows on an opulent shop or the height of a sky-scratching spire, only to lose his direction when his gaze returned to the street.

His midday meal, purchased from a cart vendor, consisted of a spicy stew poured onto thick fragrant bread that absorbed most of it. Locals ate the sodden disc with skill and ease, but he’d ended up with half of the delicious stew on his travel jerkin, laughing helplessly by the end of his ordeal.

When the sun reached its apex he managed to find the bath house he'd discovered in his earlier rambles. There he paid a quarter-gate to avail himself of a private chamber, a purchase that felt more akin to necessity than extravagance.

Gar stripped out of his filthy clothes and sank into the steaming water with a groan. The heat loosened tired muscles and tense limbs so well that he did naught but soak for a good while. Only when the water started to cool did he reluctantly grab the block of soap.

As he scrubbed himself clean, he thought back to Meadowhay and the secluded pool he’d used to wash up before the spring festival. The predictable routine of his life had been completely upended that night, when he had offered his violet to Aristhre and asked her to dance.

I have seen dried violets once or twice, but never a fresh blossom. Not in all the times I’ve witnessed your festival. Curious.

She had accepted his offer…and then wrenched him out of the village and dropped him in a heap on the distant high hill as punishment for stealing a kiss.

Gar smiled as he ran the soap over his arms, remembering. Not long after that she had given her kisses freely, and after that they had made love. He still dreamt of their passionate coupling often, and he yearned for more despite the way her divine energy had overwhelmed his mortal body.

He glanced down at the geas, shimmering not from magic, but plain water and soap. He ran his thumb over the symbols, shifting the suds around. “Soon, my Aris,” he breathed. Then he dunked himself to rinse.

After drying, Gar carefully pulled a bundle from the very bottom of his travel bag. The garments had endured their long storage well apart from some wrinkles.

He tugged on the leggings, which proved a tighter fit after all the leagues he’d walked, and frowned at his bare feet. There would be no choice of footwear. Sighing, Gar put his worn-out sandals back on. They were dirty, and by now the ties were a collection of knotted cords, but his “sturdy” field boots had come apart after a single week on the road.

Pulling the linen shirt over his head, he secured it with a belt of violet cloth he’d obtained at Havitov trade station—his sole purchase on the entire journey. Last came the purple vest. The garment was still fine, but up close it showed the wear of a trip through the frightening “high roads” used by the gods.

Although more faded and frayed, Gar’s outfit was still recognizably the one he’d worn to the spring festival months earlier. He was ready.

Now, arriving back beneath the sign of the Pickled Wolf—a mere quarter hour after taking his leave of the bath house—Gar was feeling altogether less confident. He had managed to keep his clothes clean, but the heat was making his shirt stick to his body and no one else was dressed in festival garb. His misgivings had begun to multiply like Meadowhay gophers.

At least he’d soon be out of the sun.

“You .”

The harsh whisper was so close that Gar gave a startled jump. A figure was leaning against the Wolf’s wall, his dingy brown robes blending in with the dirt clinging to its stone foundations. The stranger was hunched and thin, and his face was entirely hidden by a cowl. Gar swallowed. The man was…sinister.

“It is you,” came the rasping voice from the recess beneath the hood. Gar looked over his shoulder, but there was no one else the man could have been speaking to. “We have been blessed.”

He gestured Gar to come closer, his forearm flashing pale as one voluminous sleeve slid to his elbow. Despite being dressed in heavy garments, there was no sweat upon the man’s skin. An intricate line started at his wrist and spiraled upward along his arm. A tattooed string of…words? If so, the script was foreign.

“Here. Here ,” the man hissed. “We must speak. Questions have been asked. You are the answer we seek.”

Cold ran down Gar’s spine despite the oppressive air. He’d not had a bad experience in any of the cities visited by the caravan, but there were many tales shared around the campfire. Stories of blood cults and depraved sorcery. He took a step back from the cloaked figure.

“Be it difficult or a delight, the truth must alight,” the figure insisted, almost like he was chanting to himself. He pushed off from the wall and shuffled forward, closing the distance faster than seemed possible.

That was all the prompting Gar needed. Dodging around the man, he practically tossed himself through the inn’s entrance. He stumbled to a halt, blinking rapidly to accustom his eyes.The interior was dim and smokey, but he finally noticed a hired ruffian standing near the doorway to deter troublemakers.

The ruffian eyed him as Gar moved to stand close. Gar opened his mouth before hesitating. He looked back at the entrance. No hooded shape stood there, ready to lunge.

“Problem, lad?” the scarred man asked in a bored voice.

Gar waited, but the unnerving man did not follow him inside. Eventually, he offered the ruffian a vague smile and shrugged. Resolutely facing the common room, he ignored the vulnerable tingle between his shoulder blades.

The Pickled Wolf’s overwarm air smelled of good ale and savory food. Once he passed the entrance, Gar found it brightly lit by hanging lanterns giving off little haze. He was glad he’d not asked the price of staying—judging by the quality of the lamp oil even the shared space would have been beyond his means.

Gar located the broad set of stairs at the back and made his way among the partially-filled tables. He quickened his pace when he spotted the small, unassuming door on the landing. That had to be Eadyth's room.

“Ho there, young man!”

Being surprised by yet another voice made Gar’s body go stiff, but then an unbidden smile came to his face. Unlike the rogue outside, this voice was familiar even after being roughened from too much pipe smoke. Gar searched the crowd until he located his former caravan master.

Hathos was seated at a large round table in the corner with several men and one woman. They looked very alike, as if the entire group were in an unspoken competition to outdo one another in either jewels or girth.

Hathos is winning on both counts , he thought wryly.

“It is you. Come!” Hathos beckoned, his rings glittering.

Gar dutifully stepped away from the base of the stairs and made his way to the table. At least four different currencies were piled at the center of it, and everyone was holding cards for a complicated-looking game he doubted even Fari would know.

“Hale and well met, Master Hathos,” he said politely.

The caravan master set his elbow on the wood and looked him over. “You scrub up good, loader, uh…” He raised an inquiring eyebrow.

“Gar,” Gar supplied.

“Gar! Would have remembered if I weren’t so deep in the bowl.” He waved a hand at the elaborate pipe sitting beside him on a curious metal stand, ruddy smoke curling up from its lip. “Red ghost can’t be found in the west,” he said in a mock whisper, as if imparting a great secret, “so I am fond of partaking in it here in Caliah.”

“Red ghost?” Gar had never heard of the unpleasant-smelling herb.

“It robs the wits,” Hathos explained. “But, you see, it makes ample restitution.”

The table laughed as if a fine jest had just been shared. Unsure how to respond, Gar offered an uncertain smile.

“A shame it doesn’t steal your sense for cards, Hathos,” one of the others grumbled.

“None can match me at liora,” the caravaner bragged, which Gar assumed was the name of what they were playing. “I would trounce you lot even were I laid in my grave—but enough! A moment to talk to this one.” His eyes focused, somewhat slowly, on Gar. “I promised you, did I not, lad?”

“Promised me?” Gar repeated. It wasn't easy following this disjointed conversation when his own thoughts were already burdened.

Hathos pointed a florid finger. “The summer market is abustle and will be for days yet. I told you my beasts would pull through. Dependable as a pure maiden’s heart, just as I spoke it.”

Finally Gar could give a genuine smile. “Oh, aye, Master Hathos, just as you said. We made it to Caliah in time for the night feast.”

This brought a frown to the caravaner’s face. His voice lowered until it was sliding on gravel. “Still intent on going, are you?”

“Aye,” Gar said, but quickly added, “It is not as you might think. I do not go for…” He glanced at the other merchants, who seemed busy rearranging their cards. “…debauchery. I have other motives.”

“As you say, lad,” Hathos allowed, looking baldly skeptical. “As you say. Well! You’ve been much-seasoned on the trade roads and you seem smart enough to avoid the worst of it. I’ll leave you to it. You were a fine loader, and I’d be happy to take you for the return trip.”

Gar felt his shoulders go back with pride. “Thank you.”

“At twice the wage, mind you—now that you need no teaching. Especially after you helped young Merey.”

Feeling strangely bashful, Gar bowed somewhat clumsily. “I am grateful for that offer, and also for you taking me on when I knew little.” Then he frowned as something occurred to him. “How did you hear of Merey, Master Hathos?”

“Yon lass up the stairs reported of your deeds.”

Gar’s heart hastened in a way that felt…unseemly. He should not be so affected to know that Eadyth had spoken of him, yet he could not deny he was pleased.

Hathos made to say more, but the lone female merchant angrily reminded him it was his play and he was holding up the game. He laughed. “May the goddess of fortune show you her good face, Gar.” With that declaration, Hathos bent his attention back to his cards.

‘Tis another goddess’s face I long to see , Gar thought, unable to avoid touching the geas under his sleeve. He went up the steps eagerly, unwilling to question any other reason for his enthusiasm.

10

GAR

“Y ou came.”

Gar met Eadyth’s gaze from the narrow gap in the doorway.

“As I said I would,” he answered. He forced himself not to fidget. She had opened up almost as soon as his knuckles had rapped upon the door. Her space must be very small.

“And you are…still intent on seeing the Undergarden night feast?”

He cleared his throat and nodded. “Aye.”

“Even should I take you,” she said, “ ‘tis no guarantee they will allow you within.”

Gar began to feel she was delaying on purpose. “I understand,” he answered firmly. More timidly than intended, he added, “Is aught amiss? D-do you no longer wish to act as my guide?”

Eadyth bit her lip…and then he sensed more than saw her shrug behind the door. “Nay. There is nothing. Let us go.”

He caught only a slice of Eadyth’s room as she stepped out. A glimpse of a small window with open shutters overlooking a high-arched roof across a narrow lane. And a bed. Sturdy, with a rope frame and two well-stuffed ticks stacked beneath a quilt. A large, almost decadent down pillow lay on top.

Eadyth shut the door, wiggling the handle to make the lockbar fall. She narrowed her eyes. “You seem overheated, Devout. Don't dress so heavily before sundown.” She indicated herself by way of example.

While he was hot, Gar wasn't about to admit that his red cheeks came from seeing Eadyth’s comfortable-looking bed, not the warm air. Worse, her clothing was not easing his flush.

Eadyth wore a thin billowy tunic over fitted leggings. The tunic was sleeveless, showing the guide’s well-exercised shoulders to advantage, their proud tan only complementing the paler gold of her complexion. Her glossy black curls were bouncier than he’d seen them, cozying up to her fine features like a protective storm cloud. Stormy too, were the dark velvet eyes watching his.

She took a breath and set her gaze past him, toward the exit. “Follow on.”

They went belowstairs and into the main room, which had gotten busier in the brief time since Gar had first entered the Wolf. He was relieved to finally see a few bright tunics resembling festival garb. A loud peal of laughter came from the corner where Hathos and the other merchants played, but he didn’t turn to look. In seconds they were outside.

Gar quickly checked the wall where the menacing robed figure had been lurking. The man was gone. He let out a breath, then returned his attention to Eadyth.

She’d been appraising him. Caught, she looked quickly away, squinting at the ground as if his face had flashed into her eyes like the sun. “Have you no hat, Gar?”

He blinked. “Aye. I do. I wear it often—or I did—while traveling with the caravan.”

“Put it on,” she advised.

He licked his lips. “Ahh…it does not…” His legs shuffled. “It looks silly.”

The corners of Eadyth’s mouth tipped up, but she kept her gaze on the cobbles. “Methinks ‘tis more silly to fall prostrate from the late day heat. Look here⁠—”

She drew a near shapeless piece of felt from behind her back. Gar had thought it a pouch in the dim light of the tavern, but realized the thing had been wedged under her belt. Unrolling it, she set the rumpled form onto her head, where it resolved into a floppy black hat. She spread her hands.

“Thus do I exchange all comeliness for good sense. Now…put on your hat .”

Stifling a grumble, Gar slid his bag off his shoulders and rooted around inside. He wanted to point out that Eadyth’s mortally wounded hat did not, in fact, take anything away from her comeliness. It added an endearing quality instead, softening her sharper aspects. He noticed this in a…disinterested way, merely as an observer of people.

“Does your tattoo oft pain you?” Eadyth said, breaking into his reverie.

“N-nay.” Hastily removing his hand from his arm, Gar returned to the bag and at last pulled out his frayed straw hat. He eyed it with dismay. “It’s very bumpkinish.”

“More bumpkinish than a man with no hat and sweat pouring down his face?”

Gar didn’t bother to hide his grumbling this time. Shaking out the hat, he plunked it onto his head, vaguely enjoying the familiar scent of straw that surrounded him.

Eadyth laughed. The husky sound grabbed the back of his neck and reined in his breath like an oxen pulled to stop.

“Much better, Gar of Meadowhay.”

An unwelcome pleasure spread into his chest. “You recall my village?”

Her tanned shoulders rose into a shrug. “From where else would you hale with such a hat? Truly only a place named ‘Meadowhay.’ ”

He studied her face, but her smile was not mocking. Her eyes were…soft.

“I suppose you have the right of it,” he said gruffly, making a show of closing his bag and slinging it over his shoulder. “And…I own you were also right in making me put it on.” The hat’s wide brim was already bringing relief to his face and chest.

Gar couldn’t see Eadyth’s eyes beneath her battered felt, but her soft lips—no longer chapped, he noticed—curled up.

“I am a guide, am I not?” she answered.

Without waiting for a reply, she set off down the street.

The pace was quick, and Gar had to hasten to keep up. His larger stature should have made it easy to follow, but instead he discovered that the busy streets of Caliah favored a small frame and nimble feet. A few times she looked back at him, smirking to see how far behind he’d fallen.

“You’ve been walking behind plows too long,” she teased.

“A rat may find its way where a dog will rap its nose,” he shot back, ducking to avoid a man carrying a heap of baskets on a long board across his shoulders.

The board grazed his hat and knocked it off. He saved it from a rolling cart at the last moment, muttering an oath that would have made his priggish Auntie break a branch across his backside.

“Are you calling me a rat ?” Eadyth asked, delighted.

“I am calling you agile…like a rat,” he answered.

She laughed again, and Gar jammed his hat back onto his head to distract himself from smiling too broadly at the sound.

“I'll slow my pace to ‘overfed country ox,’ that way—” Eadyth broke off as a loud rattling sound rose up from the corner ahead. She cursed and darted back. “Flatten!" she told him, her slim arm surprisingly strong across his abdomen.

Gar stumbled, thinking he was sure to fall, when the sun-warmed bricks of the nearest building caught his back. All around him the crowd was doing the same, scrambling to clear a narrow aisle in the center of the busy street.

The rattling grew into a deafening din as Gar saw an odd cart hove into view. Pulled by two galloping horses, the conveyance only grew more peculiar as it neared. The entire thing was naught but a small curved platform with a waist-high wall at the front and two massive wheels on either side. The ironshod rims were causing the unbearable racket. There was no room for cargo, and barely enough for the two young men hooting and shouting as they whipped the horses into a frenzy.

The cart thundered past, and Gar did not need Eadyth to remind him to press himself harder into the wall. Indeed, his own arm shot out to protectively cover her lower back as she flattened herself beside him belly first.

He turned his head and found her dark gaze. This time it seemed there was nowhere else to look. They stared at each other as the clamor of the cart faded away, leaving behind the angry curses of surrounding Caliahans. Slowly the crowd started to drift back into the street. They didn't move.

“What was that?” he asked.

“Chariot race,” she said.

“Chariot? Is that what those carts are called?”

She nodded, her cheek brushing the wall. “They run timed races down busy roads for gold and false glory. ‘Tis a plague caused by idle young lordlings with too many tusks to spend.”

Gar suddenly thought of Narder Ealbed, the country squire of Meadowhay. Pompous and self-important, he caused no end of grumbling among the other villagers. Yet his influence forced all to act as if he were admired.

“Even a rustic like me knows of that pox,” he said darkly.

“And to make it worse, most of those fools are from Trade Council families, which means naught will be done to punish them until some innocent gets run down—or an angry mob takes their vengeance. Then things will calm until the young knaves grow bored and the whole of it starts again.” A tired smile crooked her mouth. “Life in Caliah.”

Why did they still linger here? Why was he lingering?

Eadyth wet her lips. There was no artifice in it, just the result of hanging dust from the chariot, but Gar found his gaze pulled to her mouth.

I should not be noticing such things. Not like this. As soon as he thought it, he became aware that his arm was still flush against her. He could feel the soft curve of her lower back and realized his hand was splayed across one slim hip.

“Gar,” she said, “there are other night feasts.”

He looked at her like a dullard, the meaning of the words delayed by the distraction of her nearness. “Other feasts?”

Eadyth nodded, her soft cheek again skimming warm stone. “Before the Worm was widened, cargo from western lands used to be raised up the cliff. It was slow and dangerous, and the practice ceased once the road was improved. But the space where the hoists used to sit remains.” Her gaze unfocused as she spoke. “ ‘Tis a wide expanse paved in ancient stone, open to the breeze, with frond trees to add shade.”

“Like a park?” He had learned about parks at the caravan’s first stop in a true city.

“Aye. Similar. Usually the Westmost Terrace serves as a place of ease for the wealthy,” she answered. “But for three nights a year it is open to all who wish to celebrate the night feast in the old way. The proper way. Tonight is one of the three.” Pause. “I could show you, Gar. The view from the top of the cliff will snatch your breath.”

How he wanted to go. The agreement was almost out of his mouth before his laggardly brain caught up. He sucked in a breath, cold flooding his body, when he realized how close he’d been to succumbing to…what? Madness. Madness masquerading as attraction, a tormenting sweetness shared with Eadyth that stemmed from yesterday’s fraught rescue. He must tell her now lest he be lost.

Carefully releasing his hold from her back, Gar pulled his hand into his side. It began to drift across his midsection as he spoke. “Eadyth…I…I have come to Caliah to find someone.”

She went still. Something in her eyes seemed to gutter out, and he knew with sickening certainty it had been hope.

“A woman?” Her voice remained level.

Gar nodded. “Aye.” Then, forcing himself to speak true, added, “One I have loved nearly all my days. I have…pledged my heart to her. For all time.”

Eadyth’s eyes trailed along his arm, to where Gar’s hand had unerringly gone. It was wrapped around the hidden geas once more.

“It seems you show this woman as much veneration as you do that goddess.”

“Aye,” he rasped, and a pained huff of amusement followed. The confession of his love’s name had never been closer to falling from his lips.

She studied his face so avidly it was as if she sought the shape of some truth hiding beneath its surface. Then…her attention withdrew inward. Eadyth’s gaze cooled along with her expression, and her smile, when it came, was the practiced one of a paid guide. His heart gave a pained twitch to see it.

“Well then,” she said, every word crisp and neat, “we should not tarry. You must deliver your heart to your beloved, and it so happens my occupation is the safe transport of valued goods. This way.”

With a sure foot, Eadyth strode back into the center of the lane. Moving even quicker than before, she guided Gar through confusing turns and past meandering loops, forcing him to step lively lest he lose distance. His direction felt as confused as his mind, and he would have been worried they traveled in circles if not for glimpses of the setting sun between buildings.

They were indeed heading for Southhalf and its night feast, and Gar’s innards were beginning to war in earnest. Which side would win—excitement or unease—he knew not.

11

EADYTH

S outhhalf’s wide avenues had always served to funnel the wind of the southern plains, and now that the sun had set, those winds blew cool and inviting.

Eadyth’s short hair whipped about as the breeze dried the last of the sweat on her face. She found she was enjoying the walk—and the company—muchly. Even her knee had barely twinged on the lengthy trip thanks to that same companion’s careful ministrations.

Behind her, Gar made yet another wordless sound of awe. Many times during their trip she had heard him gasp and laugh at the sights of Caliah. It brought a smile to her face each time, though she hid it swiftly.

“Eadyth, what are these places? They’re beautiful.”

Gar was referring to the auction markets on either side of the road. The vast roofed galleries were little more than pointed arches and rows of thin carved columns. But now Gar’s remark prompted Eadyth to gaze into their shadowy recesses anew. The endless ranks of columns formed receding lines that met and sprang apart as they walked, a pleasing trick of perspective.

“In the daytime they hold auctions here. But at night the wares must be stored elsewhere by city law.” She fell silent, briefly entranced by the mesmerizing rows. Gar was right; they were beautiful. Like most Caliahans she recognized commerce before all, so of course she had missed this simple splendor. “They are very fine in the dusklight,” she said softly.

“And the streets are so smooth.” His reply came just off her shoulder, so near that she felt a tingle along her neck. The wide thoroughfare and its flat white flagstones—each the size of a table—had made it easier for Gar to stay close.

Around them, revelers were starting to appear in earnest, most of them in sizable groups. The torches had been doubled for the celebration, and firelight shone off their glossy velvet and delicate lace. The obvious finery of the others made Eadyth feel more exposed, but at least she didn’t feel isolated, not with Gar beside her. Perhaps that was why he walked so closely. As a pair they might have been companions. Or dance partners.

Or lovers.

A loud boom resounded through her chest, and for an instant she thought it was her heart. Then two more shook her body.

“Works of fire!” Gar declared. His pure joy brought another smile to Eadyth’s lips, temporarily overcoming the nettlesome feelings his presence had conjured in her breast. She looked up.

BOOM. BOOM.

Blossoms of light lit the sky in vibrant green. The crowd laughed and clapped. As fiery points trailed away from the explosions, their motes slowly going dark, more works filled the air. Large bright balls and smaller sparkling flashes that crackled and popped as golden sparks spun out behind them.

The final work was the greatest of all. Eadyth had to resist taking a step back as half the sky was filled by a violet burst that echoed with a resonant thump in her chest. Even the jaded carousers around them made hushed sounds of awe.

She turned to Gar. The light reflecting off of the planes of his face made him appear uncommonly handsome. Or maybe it was the exhilaration so openly displayed on his features. He met her eyes, his smile wide and happy.

“My favorite color,” he admitted.

The words caused the oddest twinge in her heart. Unable to give voice to the strange warmth, she inanely replied, “This is why outsiders travel here. The Southhalf night feast contains sights unlike any other—and they say there are greater marvels in the Undergarden.”

Alongside unsavory deeds of all kinds…if the rumors were true.

True or not, the stories had spread far from Caliah and enticed outlandish nobles and foreign merchants to travel vast distances. Now they came every year in search of rare pleasures. They brought yet more wealth, but rarely was it given to fashion new wonders. Instead, gossipmongers whispered about piles of gold spent on lavish and vulgar displays.

“You didn’t tell me of the masks,” Gar said, sounding bemused.

“Oh. Those are recent.” She punctuated her clipped reply by setting off at a fast pace. There was a scuffling slap of sandals behind her as Gar hastened to catch up.

The custom of donning masks had arisen in the last few years. Not all in Southhalf wore them, but they were common enough. Made of thin wood—usually painted gold—the masks depicted faces of hilarity and laughter.

Their exaggerated expressions made Eadyth want to shudder.

“Coins…” she muttered as they walked along.

“What?” Gar said, overhearing.

“Now they are pressing coins into the wood.” Even as she said it, a woman in rich fabrics staggered past, her mask holding a gate coin on each cheek and a full tusk affixed to the forehead. “ ‘Tis a mockery.” Her teeth were starting to ache from being clenched.

“It’s…always been like this? Apart from the masks?”

“Nay,” she said, “it grows a bit more debauched every year.” Come away , she wanted to plead. Only come away from this overindulgence lest it taint you. But she could not say it. She was only a guide, and he had his lady to meet. So she stopped and uttered the only words that were proper: “We are here.”

Pivoting on her heels, she gestured to what looked like a gradual slope, as if the road had started to run along the top of a hill. But a cursory inspection revealed that the ground didn't incline. It was a step. Vast and broad, it only went down a few inches. Another followed after. Then another, and another. Narrowing and deepening as they went, the steps turned into proper stairs near the distant bottom. Far below, torchlight could be seen glinting off polished rock walls.

“The Undergarden,” Eadyth explained. “ ‘Tis the richest market in Caliah, and it dwells in a natural cavern below the earth.” Her brows lifted significantly. “They say it was used for holy rites in ancient times.”

“It used to be sacred ground…but no longer?” Her client sounded troubled. Good.

“They keep a shrine to Bojar to appease the gods.” Could there be a more suitable patron of the Undergarden than the self-absorbed god of nobility? “But such a place was too suited to the comforts of the Trade Lords not to be used for more. All else is given over to shops, lodgings, and…houses of pleasure.”

Gar did not reply. Slowly he doffed his simple villager’s hat and rolled it up, his white knuckles revealing the shape of his mood. He replaced it in his pack, moving slower than he ought.

Taking off her own hat, Eadyth tucked into her belt. “Come.”

She set a foot onto the first wide step. It was lengthy enough to require a short walk before the next. The sounds of Gar’s sandals were more hesitant than before. A harsh satisfaction rose within her at his reticence. Mayhap it was pettiness.

Or my own selfish wants , she thought.

It unnerved her, this…desire for a foreign field hand. Infinite unknown, but her head was clouded around him!

They continued on in silence. The steps gradually grew deeper and narrower. Others were making their way down beside them, and soon laughter and talking began to echo off of the smooth walls rising on either side. By the time they reached the final step they were part of a small crowd.

“It’s closed,” Gar muttered, his apprehension apparent.

Beyond the compact entranceway at the bottom lay a gate of gold. Made of narrow fluted bars joined by delicately patterned screens, Eadyth knew it would withstand all but the heaviest rams despite its dainty look. Laughter and harp music rolled through from the passage beyond.

Closed and defended. Eadyth eyed the two massive warriors on either side of the gate. They wore banded armor, and their shoulders were covered by spaulders overlaid in burnished brass.

“Treasury guards,” Eadyth observed. “They answer only to the Trade Council.” She didn’t add that they were posted to keep out the uninvited, for their crossed halberds in front of the closed gate spoke it plainly.

Beside her, Gar stiffened. Following his look, she watched a tittering group of revelers interacting with the guards. Unlike she and him, this lot wore the same finery as everyone else, showing off sumptuous robes or, in one woman’s case, naught but sheer silks and a mask. All produced a thin disc inscribed with an intricate pattern. A third soldier—thinner and more ostentatious in his filigreed brass helmet—stepped forward to examine each medallion carefully.

“Welcome to the night feast.” He nodded at the warriors. The halberds separated, and the gate swung open on noiseless hinges. The group vanished inside, their excitement making them stumble and push. The nearly naked woman squealed in delight as one of the men groped her arse. They vanished around the corner.

The gate closed again with a faint rattle.

“I…” Gar looked around, and finally met Eadyth’s watchful gaze. “I don’t…I wasn’t told how to get in. What are those medallions?”

“I know naught of it,” she answered honestly. “Perhaps they are offered by the Trade Council…or made available to buy.”

They watched as another group was admitted. Eadyth spotted a few of the others beginning to note their hesitation—and their lack of costly garb.

“I must get inside,” Gar said, seemingly to himself. His hand clutched his hidden tattoo like it were a wound.

Eadyth should have felt naught but relief, relief that Gar would not be swallowed up into that perfumed pit. And she was relieved…but his obvious distress still tightened her throat. She had to resist offering him a comforting hand. So intently did she want to touch him that her fingers twitched against her leggings.

“I tried to warn you,” she said gently.

She hadn’t known of the medallions, but all Caliahans understood that the wealthy attendees of the Undergarden gave only hollow words to the night feast’s intent. Not a gate’s worth of gold would flow out, and every luxury on offer would circulate only within. She opened her mouth to tell him, but Gar strode forward before she could speak.

“I pray your pardon,” Gar said hurriedly to the man in the brass helmet, “but I must go inside.”

The man’s lip curled, but Gar’s head was bowed and he didn’t see. “Medallion. ” The word was slow, as if prised from the man’s throat. His duty required him to ask, but it was clear he thought nothing of the caravaner before him.

“I do not have a medallion, but I must go within. I am meeting⁠—”

“Rabble,” said the guard.

Gar looked up, blinking. His cheeks started to color, which sent another shard of hurt into Eadyth. Her sympathy felt dangerously akin to protectiveness. She took a step closer.

“Rabble?” Gar echoed, his voice hoarse.

Torchlight flashed off the man’s helmet as he looked over his shoulder. “Rabble ,” he repeated. And Eadyth realized he hadn’t been talking to Gar at all, he had simply been issuing an order.

One of the warriors at the gate fluidly stepped away from his post. He shoved through the crowd to stand beside the helmeted man, looming over Gar. Eadyth took another step before she realized she had no idea what she was planning to do. Her body swayed forward nonetheless.

“Leave,” grunted the massive warrior, his threatening manner flooding the narrow chamber with a menace colder than any water. “Whilst you still have use of your legs.”

12

EADYTH

“P lease, goodmen, I mean no offense. I have traveled for three months to⁠—”

Gar’s pained cry echoed off the walls, his words swept away with his feet. The hulking guard had struck a cruel blow, swinging the haft of his halberd behind his knees. Gar landed hard on the stone, suppressing another cry.

Eadyth was frozen in horror. Around her, exclamations sounded from the crowd. They were sounds of excitement, not dismay; this was entertainment to them.

“Stand if you’re able,” said Brass Helmet coldly, “crawl if you aren’t. This is your final chance. One more word and you’ll be tossed in the open stockade for a month.”

Eadyth gasped, the shock of this threat returning her to life. The open stockade sat on a hill in Easthalf, so-called because it was completely exposed to the sun. It was for violent and habitual criminals, and any confined there had to rely on friends and family to provide them with food and water. For a foreigner it would mean a slow death.

Rushing over, she crouched beside Gar. He had risen to his hands and knees, his face a grimace of pain. As he tried to get one leg up, she saw an ugly gash from his impact with the rough floor. His nice leggings had been torn open and were reddened with blood. An injured knee.

Just like hers.

Something made of equal parts rage and sorrow twisted tight inside Eadyth, sharp as a fire-hardened spear point.

“Can you rise?”

“I…Eadyth, I don’t understand. Have I…what have I done wrong?”

Despite the looming guards, Eadyth got the feeling he was referring to something else. She decided to fall back on pragmatism.

“I don’t know, but we cannot stay here. Come now, stand up.”

With her pulling on his arm, Gar managed to wobble to his feet. He kept blinking, and his eyes seemed hazed. Gods…he may have struck his head on the stone! The spear point inside her sharpened further.

“I…no…I must…” He took a confused step towards the gate.

“Take him,” commanded the helmeted man suddenly. “Hand him off to the men up top. One month in the stockade.”

The large guard took a step towards them, and before she realized she’d done it Eadyth was brandishing her shiv. The bone blade gleamed in the torchlight and the warrior stopped, frowning. He seemed confused as to why this slight woman was giving him pause. Eadyth suspected he was seeing the murderous fury burning in her gaze.

“Touch either of us,” she said softly, “and they'll need five sacks to haul your remains up the stairs.” The guard took half-a-step back. Eadyth tightened her grip around Gar’s arm. “We’re leaving.”

“Both of you,” shouted the helmeted guard, addressing his men in a near shriek. “Seize them .”

The bottom dropped from Eadyth’s stomach as the other burly warrior shuffled toward them, the sharp point of his halberd leading. She hastily muscled Gar behind her as she raised the tiny tooth of her shiv to defend them both.

GO.

NO.

FURTHER.

The voice was nowhere and everywhere, thrumming along Eadyth’s limbs like her bones were plucked strings. The hair on the back of her neck prickled as every instinct warned of immense power beyond that of the natural order.

Divinity.

YOU DARE TREAT MY GUEST POORLY?

The torches ringing the chamber exploded into golden fire! Shouts of surprise and pain rebounded off the walls as the light grew searing. Eadyth shut her eyes, seeing gold even through her lids. Slowly it faded.

After a moment she risked a look, blinking rapidly at the riot of afterimages. Her returning vision showed party-goers stumbling about or clutching their faces. She squinted against the glare which was still brighter than any torch.

The previously dim antechamber was lit like noonday, but none would mistake it for sunlight. The gold incandescence felt heavy, like being enfolded in sumptuous fabric. They might have been inside a shining translucent coin or a goblet of boiling wine.

YOU CONTINUE TO TEST MY PATIENCE.

The implied threat sent the revelers to their knees, all arrogance obliterated in the presence of a god. The warriors threw their halberds down and prostrated themselves on the floor. There was a loud scrape as their leader scratched his brass helmet against the stone trying to get his head lower. His incoherent mumbles sounded like prayers.

Only she and Gar remained standing.

Eadyth’s stomach was beset by a maelstrom. Her feelings churned there, sending gales through every part of her body. She felt awe. Fright. Something deeper. Impulses moved like dark shapes in her mind. An anger, formless and deep—from the threat to Gar’s life? And…torment , a terrible anguish spreading like a stain over her heart though she knew not why.

“Aris?”

Gar’s voice pulled Eadyth from her stupor. When she saw the frantic hope on his face, her anguish thickened like tar. Finally she understood from whence it came. And with the knowledge arrived an epiphany that threatened to buckle her knees.

Aris. He had said “Aris.” Was that short for…Aristhre ? An image of his tattoo flashed across her mind’s eye and she gasped again.

The harsh echo of her breath caught Gar’s attention.

“Eadyth?”

“Y-you said…you called her…by name,” she breathed. The others around them were all but forgotten, a carpet of clashing quivering fabrics shaped vaguely like people. It was only her, and Gar, and…

I have come to Caliah to find someone.

Her mouth went slack as she stared at him. Slowly, she shook her head. The divine voice, those imperious words…had been in a woman’s register.

“This can’t be…it can’t .” Her pain and anger were knitting together like a vine, choking the life out of any remaining fear and awe.

Gar took a step towards her, narrowly missing someone’s splayed hand in his haste. “I wanted to tell you,” he said, his voice urgent. “I didn’t think you would believe.”

She didn’t. She couldn’t . A goddess. Aris…Aristhre? Was that possible? No. It wasn't possible. She opened her mouth to tell him, to warn him of…something . What? Curse her muddled head! All she got out was his name before her mortal voice was overwhelmed.

YOU HAVE DONE WELL, GAR. I AM PLEASED.

A series of loud pops made the cowering revelers clutch even tighter against the ground. Eadyth sought the source of the noise and again felt a shock.

The delicately fashioned metal gate was glowing . As she watched, it shimmered in the manner of distant hills on a summer’s day. Then came a final pop and it tore loose, floating into the air, rippling like a blanket on a drying line. The gate turned horizontal…and then fell. Instead of a clang, it landed with a muffled thump.

The sturdy metal bars and latticework had been turned into gold braid.

TAKE YOUR REWARD. JOIN ME.

Gar’s expression was equal parts bemused and overwhelmed. He stepped onto the improvised carpet laid before the open gateway. The Undergarden entrance seemed to swell to Eadyth’s eyes, yawning more invitingly than before. The music floating through seemed finer and the laughter more refined. A scent of flowers wafted out on a faint stirring of air.

Nausea turned her insides. Eadyth could not remain here. She would not watch him go. Her move towards the stairs was almost a lurch.

“Eadyth,” Gar called after her.

No. She did not wish to listen. She concentrated on picking her way past the prone forms clustered at the bottom of the stairs. Her focus was such that she jerked when warm fingers grasped her arm.

“Wait, ” Gar pleaded. The vehemence with which he said it seemed to surprise them both. He blinked, seemingly at a loss. Awkwardly his hand fell away. “I…I still have to pay you.”

Bile lashed up her throat. Despite the correctness of it—being paid for the service he’d hired her to do—his words were drops of poison. She shook her head and stayed his hand when it moved toward his belt pouch. Even the simple sensation of the hairs on his wrist made her heart ache.

“Keep your coin. Perchance you will still have need of it.”

“Eadyth, I⁠—”

“Safe travels, Devout. May you find what you seek.” She cursed her wavering voice even as she found herself reluctant to stop touching him. Gathering a breath, she made her hand drop.

Without the warmth of his skin to hold it back, her ire surged anew. She nearly said something then, but the words were out of reach, locked behind the anger. Her eyes stung with the force of them as she turned away. This strange man had no right to upend her life like this! Using her animosity like a yoked beast, Eadyth climbed the stairs at a ferocious pace.

She may have heard Gar’s voice calling after her, but the echoes and her own swift steps made the sound indistinct.

Emerging at last into cool breeze, Eadyth faced north and set the same punishing speed, striding away from Gar and his goddess . But she could not outrun her rage. It seemed to bubble up from the very well of her spirit, an old and potent fury.

Why should she be so wroth? It was madness. Gar had not pledged himself to her , but to another before they had even met. Aristhre. Eadyth’s nails bit into her palm as her anger doubled, then trebled. She had never been so furious. It frightened her.

A man stumbled into her path. Red robes threaded with gold sat beneath a face of nearly the same hue. The lout laughed, prising the lank hair plastered to his face with a few clumsy fingers.

“S-sorry…” He giggled, then squinted at her. “Preeetty. C-comely little w-wench you are.” He raised an arm in her direction, his fingers still holding the mask he’d likely worn before becoming soused.

Eadyth wrenched the mask out of his hand.

“What are—” the man sputtered, then fell silent as Eadyth turned and dashed the hideous face into a marble wall.

The expensive carving flew into splinters, sending the eight coins that had been set into it in all directions. They pinged and flashed as they vanished into the dark. A nearby crowd—standing only by virtue of being packed tightly—roared with laughter as the drunk gaped.

She threw the remnants on the ground.

“MOCKERY!” she shouted at him, at all of them.

She could feel the rapid beat of her pulse in her throat, a war drum throbbing in time with her scorn. Gripping the man by the shoulders, she shoved him against the wall hard enough for his breath to leave in a whoosh.

“You mock the night feast,” she said, staring into his wide eyes. “You shame yourselves and disrespect the gods.”

She thought again of golden flames and a voice that shook the air with sultry power. And just like that Eadyth’s anger blew out, a snuffed candle. It left her insides dark, coated with sadness and an unnameable yearning that roiled like smoke from the extinguished wick.

Leaning close, she pinned the drunk with her hands and her gaze. “Know this…the gods walk among you .”

Eadyth released the man and stalked away from the Undergarden. Away from Gar and his divine fate.

The onlooking revelers had grown very quiet, and grew quieter still as Eadyth passed close by. None were smiling anymore. Except for the masks.

13

GAR

W ith Eadyth gone, the antechamber suddenly felt oppressive. Gar looked down at the people who had so recently mocked him. All remained pressed to the ground. Some prayed, while others fought to calm their breaths, every exhale sharp with fear. He dropped his gaze to the head guard, seeing his own warped reflection on the man’s helmet. That version of him wore a blank face.

He felt no triumph or satisfaction. His expression was flat because he could make no sense of the chaos within him. In truth, Gar wasn’t sure what his riotous feelings even meant. He turned his attention to the open gate.

It was this city that deserved the blame. This place. Everything was confounding his mind and clouding his emotions. Before Caliah, Gar’s heart had been as a compass needle, never straying. So what other choice was there but to go through? Gar had to keep trusting in Aristhre. In the journey itself.

He slowly picked his way over outflung limbs and flattened bodies and stepped onto the lumpy gold cords that had once been metal bars.

This was the only path he understood.

In all of his time in Meadowhay he had dreamt of none but Aristhre. He had daydreamt of her. From that first glimpse as a child, thoughts of the goddess had bubbled up like a bottomless spring. He'd passed season after season thinking of Aris, absorbing her stories and tales until he became one of the best tellers. And every year he was gifted one perfect night to bask in her kindness and beauty.

Fifteen nights. Fifteen years. Long enough for the loyalty of a boy to become the yearning of a man. Certain enough to know he was in love.

Gar was not a fool. Not on this subject. He understood that loving from afar was a recipe for madness. The temptation to believe that Aristhre must be aware of him—solely due to his constant awareness—was hard to fight. But he’d learned to guard against such idle fancies, to shake off the false hopes that multiplied like fleas on a dog.

She knows me not , was a saying he oft repeated in his mind in those years.

If it had been any other woman he would have made his feelings known. He had seen the results of unspoken affections in some of his friends, watched with dismay as they festered into bitter draughts. If she had been anyone but a goddess!

But the woman his heart had chosen was Aristhre.

So Gar had taught himself a new kind of faith. Not the belief of a worshipper, but the quiet conviction that all would be well if he spoke his heart when the time was right.

He resolved not to contort himself into an unfamiliar shape, or put on airs as Narder Ealbed did. No…he would simply educate his mind to the best of his ability, dress as well as he could afford, and become the best version of himself before daring to ask Aristhre to dance. If I do this , he’d told himself, all will be well whether she says yea or nay.

It had not been an easy conviction to hold on to.

Some days he had envisioned her refusing him in a dozen different ways, over and over, each time followed by his quiet acceptance. He had undertaken it as a kind of preparation, picturing it happening until tears fell. But better that than succumb to false imaginings. He would not build an illusory love story on ground that had not even been broken; on that he was resolved.

This had been Gar’s way of loving Aris—of hoping to love her—for years. It was his personal faith, and he had followed it until he was…Devout.

The nickname brought a smile to his lips.

No! Stop that.

Gritting his teeth, Gar took a step, then another. He must not think of the slim woman running back up the stairs. It was not his business to fret over whether she had arrived at the top unscathed or wonder where was she going or, gods, if he had hurt her in some unforgivable way…

Cease , he reminded himself harshly. No more faltering! I am here for Aristhre.

Steeling himself with the resolve he'd practiced for years, Gar stepped through the entrance and started walking.

The floor beneath his sandals was level and smooth. The walls of the passage were less so, sometimes bulging out or varying in width from floor to ceiling—hints of the natural tunnel this must have been in the ancient past. The distant sounds of laughter and music seemed to intensify, and his hair ruffled as a fresh aromatic breeze flowed down the corridor.

The way was not straight, but drifted first in one direction, then another. Orange streaks started to appear in the gray stone. The bright veins seemed to dance under the hung lanterns, making it seem as if the passage was swaying. Gar stumbled more than once.

The tunnel changed direction a final time, and the sound of gaiety and music grew much louder. Up ahead, the passage widened into a large, dimly lit space. He hurried along, grateful to emerge into something closer to open air.

Gar wasn't ready for the sight that greeted him. He stumbled again, this time nearly oversetting his balance. He just managed to avoid a sprawl onto the hard stone as his sandals regained their purchase.

The Undergarden was vast .

Eadyth had said it was a cavern, but it didn't feel like a cavern in the slightest. Above him, the ceiling climbed sharply until it vanished into shadow. Ahead of him the floor turned into a broad ramp sloping down. A dozen or more stone buildings—shops judging by the signs—ringed the immense space, all of them backed against the outer wall and leaving a dark space in the center. Windows and torches gleamed from windows and poles, picking out the indistinct motion of a thronged mob.

It looked like a village from some children's fae tale.

Gar stepped deeper into the colossal grotto, his mind in a daze. Passing cautiously between the two nearest buildings, he arrived at a wider road circling the cave in a loop. Here was the thick crowd of revelers, every one attired in festival garb that made Gar feel like a beggar wearing rags.

He paused at the edge to watch the shuffling, chaotic group. Frowning, he ran his sandal over the lip of the road. Had the thoroughfare been carved, or had the rock simply worn deeper over time? Flickering light snagged on the carved creases of masks and glanced off gleaming teeth in laughing mouths.

Find me in the center.

Gar’s shoulders leapt. Though the voice sounded in his head, he had not conjured it.

Do not make me wait. Each word was a sultry and playful caress, ending with the echo of a feminine laugh.

He stared intently at the nearby crowd, but none showed the slightest reaction. Unlike before, this divine speech had been intended solely for him.

Gar rubbed his chin. He was still unsure of his knotted feelings, but his heart had begun hammering like mad. Grabbing the strap of his bag to hold it close, he stepped into the crowd of festival-goers.

It was akin to being swept up in a river.

Forced in the direction of everyone else, Gar found himself hurrying lest he be trampled. All around was laughter and chatter, but he caught only snatches amidst the noise and music.

“Did a servant sneak in? At least his shoulders are a sight…”

“…Diri claimed she heard divine speech in the tunnel. Such a liar…”

“…have any more moon pellets, Stia? Thank the gods.”

The light brightened and dimmed as they hurried past tall poles topped by metal baskets filled with blazing wood. Musicians performed at the base of each, but none played the same tune. The merry notes clashed discordantly in the shadows between, making Gar grimace. The light continued to play tricks, slithering along shining fabrics and soaking into velvet coats, making him blink. It was as if the noise and shadows had joined into one visual and auditory attack. Gar’s head began to throb.

He found himself pushing through the crowd almost desperately, trying to ford the living river. His body was jostled and elbowed, but he pressed on. Amazingly, he could still smell the flowers that had led him through the entrance, but the delicate scent was being swamped by aromas of fried bread, sour ale, and human bodies.

It felt like long minutes before the crowd at last thinned. He staggered to a halt at the far side, placing his hands on his knees and sucking in air that suddenly felt fresh again.

A hurdy-gurdy player in a crumpled hat watched him from the base of the nearest pole. The musician’s hand never stopped turning the tiny crank that made his instrument drone, its sound transmuted into a ferocious jig by his fingers dancing over the keys.

Gar suddenly thought of old Coen perched at the edge of the village green in Meadowhay, his bald pate gleaming in the sun as he played his hurdy-gurdy to “make the grass grow.” He was as fond of that old joke as he was of the playing.

A wave of homesickness hit, strong enough to steal his breath.

As wondrous as the Undergarden was, it seemed endlessly far from the comforts of Meadowhay. Did the summer aspect of Aristhre relish these strident crowds and their gaudy riches? These people were as unlike Gar as this minstrel’s frantic music was unlike any tune Coen might play.

Trying to ignore his growing apprehension, he doggedly returned to his task. Aris had told him to find her in the center of the Undergarden, but the mysterious middle of the far-reaching cavern was blocked off by a gilded fence, one that showed no sign of becoming braid.

Gar wandered beside the barrier in the same direction as before, stepping around the light poles and their assorted musicians and tumblers. The interior was cloaked in darkness, offering nothing save the pleasing scent of growing things.

There! An opening! His quickened gait came to an abrupt end. Two heavily muscled men were stationed on the path inside. Though attired in simple tunics, both sported astonishing capes of crimson fur. The beast—or monster—that had surrendered that pelt must have been terrifying.

Eastern barbarians , Gar thought in wonder, for these men could be nothing else. Many of the caravaners had spoken of the nomads who wandered the trackless plains past Caliah. According to the tales, their days were filled with fighting, both against monsters and fellow nomads—and sometimes even the orc clans that dwelled there.

“H-hail goodmen, I…” His voice faltered and he cleared his throat. “I need to get inside,” he said.

“No,” replied one of the guards. The other folded his bronzed arms and flexed muscles which made their scars jump.

“I was told⁠—”

“Guests of the Kutuk only!” The man’s harsh accent was pure menace. “Go or be shattered .”

Gar went.

He kept circling the center until he was no longer knew where he was. How much further before he went around the entire Undergarden and arrived back where he started?

A girlish giggle—surprisingly close—tugged him from his thoughts. “There you are,” said a woman’s voice.

Gar’s pulse raced even though he didn’t recognize it. Aristhre’s human speech might sound completely different here—he wouldn’t know until she spoke in a mortal tongue. He craned to find the source of the words.

A young woman stepped from behind the fire pole in front of him. Her dress was made up of countless gossamer layers that revealed hints of skin as the light caught it. She was stunning…but somehow Gar knew it wasn’t her .

“Come along,” she instructed. She walked ahead of him, her hips rocking in a calculated sway. For an instant her sheer garments showed the cleft of a luscious rear before her motion turned it opaque once more.

Gar struggled to swallow with a throat that had gone completely dry. After staring like a petrified loon for far too long, he got his legs moving and did as he’d been told.

14

GAR

T he woman led Gar along the barrier. With the teeming crowd on one side and the tall fence on the other, he felt hemmed in despite the steady air flowing past. His new guide was barefoot, he noticed, but the rough stone didn't seem to trouble her.

“My name is Tania,” she informed him, glancing over her shoulder.

Her look back occurred just as her flawless rear was again revealed through her clothes, and Gar’s cheeks heated at being caught staring. Tania’s lips curved in a knowing smile.

“I’m G-Gar.”

She tittered. “I know.”

They arrived at a new opening in the fence. A man in loose pants stood next to it, shirtless and barefoot. Every female head in the crowd faced towards him in passing, like flowers following the sun. A few of them wore brazenly hungry expressions. He took no notice.

“You found him,” the man observed, sounding amused.

“I looked for the one dressed like a villager,” Tania answered simply. “I like his shoulders.”

He turned an appraising gaze on Gar. “Not bad,” he agreed.

Gar felt his discomfort grow. Was he a fresh cut on display at the butcher’s? Who were these people? They didn't seem magical as far as he could tell, not like the divine messengers in stories, but there was something about them that made him uneasy. They were too…flawless.

He stopped to ask a question, but Tania took his hand before he could voice it. She tugged him toward the open gateway. “Go on,” she said with a smile. “She’s waiting for you.”

She swung him gently inside before letting go, positioning herself on the opposite side of the opening. They were…guards? Gar blinked. This pair could not have been more different from the hulking barbarians at the other entrance.

“Follow the path,” Tania bade him. Then she bit her bottom lip, assessing him as boldly as the passing women sizing up her partner. “Mayhap we’ll see each other later.”

Gar backed away…and turned to face the dark interior of the Undergarden. He walked quickly, eager to vanish into the gloom. He was not trying to hide , he told himself. He required a…moment of solitude, that was all. Tania’s playful laugh followed him into the shadows.

It took time for his eyes to adjust to the limited light. Here, the way was lit by paper lanterns hanging off small posts, their meager glow revealing a flagstone path amidst lush foliage. That explained the smell of growing things; the center of the cave was filled with plants!

Gar felt foolish for being surprised. Why else would this otherworldly place be called the “Undergarden”? He touched the tip of a verdant fern, puzzled. But how did anything grow down here? Further on there was even a heap of flowering honeysuckle, its hornlike blossoms perfuming the air. He shook his head.

A nearby spark flared. Then another. As his eyes grew fully accustomed, Gar spotted countless twinkles of yellow within the dark undergrowth and in the very air. Fireflies.

He marveled at the insects as they drifted about emitting their wondrous flashes. In Meadowhay he’d been taught that fireflies came from the world’s edge, where all fae spirits coalesced out of formless creation. It was believed they fed on sunlight and went where it tasted best. To see them was an omen of a good harvest.

As Gar watched he noticed a curious gathering of sparks even higher, bright and cold as ice chips. These didn’t wink so much as twinkle. Stars. An astonished laugh escaped him. Of course the Undergarden had a large circular hole in its roof. It explained everything.

Gar ambled down the meandering path with a measure of calm he hadn't possessed since entering the cave. The surroundings continued to ease his tension as he walked. This place called to mind the high hill outside Meadowhay where he and his love had “dallied.” There, on a carpet of grass braided by Aristhre’s magic, Gar had felt at peace for the first time in his life.

Maybe…maybe all would still turn out as he hoped.

With a final twist of the path the undergrowth stopped and his feet sank into damp grass. Their wet blades tickled his exposed toes, but Gar hardly noticed.

“What is this?” he murmured.

Instead of the lone woman he’d expected to see, Gar was looking at a wide clearing filled end-to-end with a massive pavilion. It was the grandest tent he’d ever beheld, requiring a row of poles in front and what must have been a tree trunk to support a hill of canvas at the back.

His veins hummed as he slowly approached the heavily-curtained entrance. A pair of lanterns revealed the pavilion to be a deep plum color—a shade whose dyes were costly even in tiny amounts. Here too, it seemed all was to be wealth and luxury.

Despite Gar’s steps making little sound, a slender arm drew back the curtain as he neared it. Golden radiance spilled out, glittering off the bedewed lawn. Licking his lips nervously, Gar ducked his head and stepped in.

The air inside was warm and perfumed. A series of beautiful glass lamps hung overhead, their light falling over thick carpets with patterns so intricate that Gar’s eyes got lost trying to follow them. Plump pillows with tufts of braid on each corner were scattered around low tables heaped with assorted fruits.

“Welcome,” breathed a woman beside him. She was dark-skinned, with glossy braids of hair pinned up to leave her slender neck uncovered. The pearls tipping each pin seemed to glow in the amber light, but Gar’s attention was elsewhere.

The woman was topless.

Her breasts were magnificent, full and round, with dark nipples angled ever-so-slightly up as if demanding his attention. Below them, her taut belly disappeared into a loin cloth hanging loosely from generous hips.

“I am Nona. Are you thirsty?” Her voice was husky and soft.

Gar managed an answer that sounded like a stammered “wuh.”

“Here.”

A metal cup that might have been pure silver was set into his hands. It was all he could do to hold it steady while the half-nude woman poured pale liquid into it from a carafe. The scent of strong wine joined the already laden air.

“Drink.” She placed two slender fingers under the bottom and lifted to illustrate. Gar needed no further prompting.

The cold metal touched his lips and the wine went down his throat with ease. Despite its pale appearance, the taste of rich spices hit the back of his throat. A comforting warmth immediately encircled his limbs and chest.

Nona looked down and made a noise of distress. “You’ve been injured . We must tend to it.”

“Oh, I can⁠—”

She shushed him, laying a slender finger against his stunned lips.

Staring into his eyes, Nona slowly sank to her knees before him. Something in her smile made Gar’s breath quicken, and he hastily broke eye contact. He watched her soft hands brush the sides of his knee, making his leg twitch.

Nona laughed softly, then expertly tore the hole in his leggings wider. A bowl of steaming water had appeared from…somewhere…and she now removed a soaked cloth from it, squeezing out the water.

With almost reverent motions she began gently cleaning his skinned knee. Again Gar was forced to look away. Every glance offered a view of Nona’s naked breasts, and his body was helplessly responding to the sight.

Aristhre had been the first naked woman he’d seen—and he’d wanted no others! But the sight of this woman was twisting his brain into knots. Guilt and longing warred with base arousal until he was gulping the strangely thick wine once more, seeking a refuge from the tumult inside him.

Gar lowered the empty cup and took a deep breath. He found little relief from the air. Despite its sweet scent it felt heavy and cloying. With the golden light it made him feel like a bug trapped in honey.

“There. ‘Twas just a minor cut.” Nona leaned forward and brushed a kiss on his inner thigh. “All better.”

Even through his leggings Gar swore he’d feel the softness of her lips. His breath labored even harder in the thick air.

Nona rose to her feet wearing a self-satisfied expression. “Shall I fetch more wine?” She made to take his emptied cup, but he pulled his hand away.

“Who…who are you?” he spluttered. Why did his tongue suddenly feel so thick?

“We are attendants,” Nona answered, gesturing.

We? Gar blinked and turned, surprised to see that two more women now occupied the tent, both seated at one of the low tables. Where had they come from? One was tall and willowy, the other buxom and lush. Both beautiful. Both topless.

“We love to attend,” said the tall one, biting into a strawberry. Her friend’s slow smile was equally suggestive.

The calming effect of his walk through the park had frayed to nothing. Gar was unraveling. Despite his overheated blood—spiced by the lust lingering in the air like perfume—his hands felt icy.

“W-where,” he stammered. He frowned, feeling as if every word was fighting him. “Where is⁠—”

“Our mistress lies within,” the buxom woman said smoothly, gesturing toward the back wall.

Gar beheld a sumptuous curtain of shimmering silk he was certain hadn’t been there before. Neither had the male guard who now stood beside it. This one might have been the twin of the man outside save for his paler complexion and the addition of an unusual curved blade at his hip. It gleamed like the cups, as if it too were silver.

“Enter,” he curtly instructed.

The cup was prised from Gar’s grip, and soft feminine hands guided him forward. One cupped his rear, making him jump and setting off a chorus of girlish laughs. The curtain brushed across his face like a spiderweb, blurring the view of what lay beyond. It slid up and over as he stumbled through.

He found himself in the large circular chamber he’d glimpsed outside, the one held up by a single tremendous pole. The carpets felt deeper here, the light thicker. Incense hazed the air with exotic-smelling herbs that tickled his lungs.

Hearing a muffled thump behind him, Gar whipped around. A heavy canvas barrier had dropped across the only exit. All outside noises had ceased, leaving silence to gather along with the shadows.

Slowly he turned back. The space was empty save for a large and luxurious bed on the far side. Its occupant was obscured by an encircling veil, but he easily made out the shape of a reclining woman. His breath caught.

She lay on her side, her head propped up on one hand. The other hand gently drifted up and down the sumptuous flare of a hip, barely caressing it with her fingers.

At last you are here , whispered the divine voice in his mind.

Gar didn't move. It was as if the thick air had bled into his joints and locked him in place. She laughed softly. It was a darkly rich sound, wrapping around him like a warm breeze.

“Still you make me wait? ” she said aloud. “It is not wise to test a goddess’s patience, Gar. ” Her divine speech seemed to sink into his body and pool in his chest.

The woman shifted, rising onto her knees, and moved closer. At the edge of the bed she fell onto her hands, adopting a pose that emphasized the swell of her breasts between her arms.

“Come, my mortal. All of this delay has made me wanton. ”

Gar’s head was filled with wool, but his roaring blood and straining body responded on sheer instinct. He strode stiffly forward and parted the final veil.

15

GAR

T ania, Nona, and the other women he'd met had all been alluring. Each beautiful in a different way. But the woman before him was beauty itself.

She smiled at him, her gold-painted lips pursing, and moved to make room on the bed. He watched her lay back into a nest of pillows that hugged her curves like adoring servants.

“Aris?” Gar asked. The word cracked in his throat, like a battered possession he’d dragged with him out of the Grave of Creation.

“Who else? ” she answered, her voice throaty and teasing.

Everything about her was vibrant. Her eyes were bright, their charm enhanced by more gold paint on her lids. Two sublime shades of honey—her hair and her skin—both glowed beneath the sensual pulse of a divine aura. Her gown was the color of summer sunlight.

“Feast your starving eyes. ”

The iridescent dress seemed to shimmer, its warm hues changing as she arched her body towards him. The material clung like water, leaving nothing hidden. Every feminine curve was on display, from the dip of her belly button to her lush thighs as they rubbed together. Gar’s body thrummed like a plucked mandolin string as he eyed her peaked nipples and perfect breasts.

“You’ve traveled far to be here. ” One foot peeked out from the hem of her gown as she extended her leg. Even her toenails were painted gold.

“I did as my love bade me,” he said haltingly. He’d wanted to say “as you bade me,” but it felt wrong. This aspect was too different from what he’d been expecting.

Her aura flared in a way that was almost…restive…before settling back into a soothing ripple. “You have been so ardent in your affections, Gar. ” Pause. “You deserve my affections in return. ”

He took half a step closer, swayed by the sultry invitation of her words. ‘Twas only a few feet to the bed now, and yet he did not move to climb on.

I am being a fool , he thought. Aloud, he stammered, “You l-look different.”

“We are far from Meadowhay. ” Her golden nails trailed four ripples across her gown as she ran them along her lower belly. “Do you find fault with this body? ”

Gar shook his head. In truth, her comeliness was such that his mouth kept tripping over his tongue, yet he could not understand the profound change.

“It is just…y-you looked different in the dream we shared.” Aristhre had been older in the dream, her body more lush and her manner confident, but he’d still recognized her pert nose and determined jawline. Now she was…entirely changed.

The goddess’s laugh was light, amused, and ever-so-slightly chiding. “Dreams are not my sphere, Gar. The fancies your mortal mind conjures while at rest are your own. ”

He blinked. “We did not…dream together?”

“You and I shared no dream. ” Her golden lids turned hooded. “But I will make you feel pleasure that mortals only dream of. I will attend to you, Gar. With my mouth and my hands and my body. ”

Gar shuffled forward, his knees touching the bed. His heart was galloping like a runaway horse and blood was rushing to his groin. Her knowing smile spread wider.

“And when you feel as if there is no more pleasure to be had, I will summon my attendants to minister to us both. ”

His stomach clenched, feeling as if a ball of ice had been shoved there. An unpleasant mix of anxiety, guilt, and base desire traveled his limbs like a shiver. “Attendants?”

“Of course. This is the night feast. ” She grinned. “And you dine with a goddess. We shall sate every appetite, my fervent field hand. ”

“A-Aris,” he stumbled over her name, “I…I don’t want that.” Despite the hot flush coursing across his skin, he spoke from the certainty at his core.

“Oh no? ” She laughed. “I assure you, Gar, everyone wants that. ”

His mouth worked, but nothing came out. He could not deny the tempting images conjured by her confident words. There had been some adventurous girls from his time in Meadowhay who would have been eager to indulge in such things. Gar knew the way desire could boil blood, and he never judged a fellow field hand—man or woman—if they chose to take a lover.

But it wasn’t the same for him. He was a “crop from a different field” as the saying went in Meadowhay, and he had always believed Aristhre to be similar to him. What had happened between them at the spring festival had proven it…or so he’d thought.

“Why do you still tarry? ” She sounded puzzled.

A bleak laugh threatened to escape. Had Gar not tarried for most of his life? Waiting…preparing…hoping. Not just to voice his feelings to a goddess, but to feel love in full bloom. His soul yearned for it as dry crops yearned for rain.

“I think my promises have addled you. ” She looked delighted.

He had first seen it as a happy child. It was in the way his parents spoke to one another, or how they could make each other smile with naught but a touch or a single word. Later, as a solemn boy mourning their loss, Gar had learned to see it in others. In the gnarled hands of an old farmer and his wife, clasped tight as they walked to the shrine on their day of ease. In the identical smiles of a maiden and her suitor when they saw each other for the first time that day.

In his own heart when Aristhre revealed the color of her eyes.

“I…” He swallowed. “I want…”

“To lose yourself in pleasure. ” She raised her brows knowingly. “I can sense the way your body heats when I mention my attendants. ” The side of her mouth hitched up. “Which one appeals to you the most? Perhaps Nona, the one whose nipples sit up like an obedient dog? Or is it Tania? I can assure you her tongue is most attentive. ”

Gar was struck dumb. The heavy wine from before had become mixed with raw desire, turning the sluggish flow of his thoughts to mud. To honey. Overly sweet and stifling.

When he didn't respond, she shrugged a shoulder. “It matters not. We shall have them both. ”

“N-no,” he gasped. Sweat was coating his forehead with the effort of it. He had been robbed of the words to explain, but he knew the truth of his heart.

A flicker of annoyance crossed the goddess’s flawless features. “Come, Gar, do not be staid. ” Her nose wrinkled. “It is…provincial. Summer is upon us, and it is time to leave the innocent notions of spring behind. ”

“May…may I see your eyes? Please. ” It was a rasp, a plea on the edge of begging.

Aris’s eyes would settle all of it, the strangeness he was feeling and the knot in his stomach. All would vanish the moment he saw that violet hue that ran through his memories like a nourishing stream. Things would somehow make sense.

The goddess dismissed his request with a wave. “In time, my sweet. For now…” She pointed at his groin, and Gar felt a blush climb his face. “The outline of your cock reveals what you truly wish to see. ”

She grabbed her the hem of her dress. Flashing that same wicked grin, the otherworldly material began to rise up her perfect calves. Up…and up. She wiggled her hips and pulled the bunched fabric past the shapely curve of her flawless rear. Watching him, she let her knees fall open.

Gar’s head swam. His limbs shook. A goddess lay before him, her legs splayed and her sex bare and glistening. The lips of her quim were parted to reveal her inner wetness, waiting to receive his body in mutual rapture.

He yearned for it. For her. His entire body began to quiver as if every muscle had contracted at the same time.

Seeming to enjoy his paralysis, she trailed her slim fingers up her sides, watching him watch her. Moving with agonizing slowness, she freed one ample breast from her bodice, pinching its hard peak and groaning. Then, with an utterly shameless leer, she lifted her breast and lowered her mouth to suckle her own nipple.

A faint sound of longing emerged from the back of Gar’s throat.

The goddess released her aroused flesh with a satisfied pop. A thin strand of saliva stretched between her nipple and her mouth, breaking as she raised her head.

“Come here ,” she breathed. Her ragged voice was no longer that of a seductress, but a woman driven by need.

Gar needed…he needed to think .

How? No thought was possible looking at the carnal vision before him. He tried closing his eyes, but it didn't help. The darkness behind his lids offered naught save half-formed images of eager coupling. Eyes lined with gold…golden lips working down his body…supple legs wrapped tight around his waist as his cock plunged again and again…this and more swam in and out of the roiling shadows of his mind. Then the faces of her attendants appeared, their bodies slippery with oil and their own desire.

He could lose himself in such pleasures—he should want to. His own body was straining towards the divine, pleading at him with pure primitive lust. What was wrong with him?

“I want…” he gasped. To breathe. To sit. To speak without the cotton in his head. He wanted to take himself in hand and force a savage satisfying release. It would need only a few strokes! Mayhap it could dull the maddening ardor wrapping him in silken cords, dragging him toward the goddess on the bed.

“You want me ,” she said, and even in his addled state he sensed her impatience. “I can see it. Soon enough I will feel it betwixt my thighs. Enough with this churlishness. ”

Something in her tone made his eyes spring open. She had risen onto her knees, and he moaned at the raw sensuality on display. The gown was gone. Her hand was vigorously working between her legs as she stared at him with a beguiling mix of pleasure and annoyance. Her divine aura flared in time to her short sharp breaths.

“Making a goddess…come to you…is impudent. ” She gasped and her eyes fluttered. “I will…punish you for that. ”

Why did he fight this? All it was doing was delaying what could not be stopped. The only result he could effect was a painful erection, and that had been achieved thrice over. Yet still he opened his mouth to try one final time.

“A-Aris⁠—”

“SILENCE ,” she cried, her face still poised between anger and release. “I’m close…and ‘twill be your fingers I come upon. ”

Her hand shot out and grabbed his wrist.

CRACK.

The world split asunder.

16

GAR

L ightning rent Gar’s bones.

It coursed through his body, burning along his limbs before doubling back, rebounding, etching fire in its path. It sought an outlet, a release, and found it in his forearm. Power poured from the geas like water bursting a retaining wall. The pressure …his arm would be torn away like a dam in a flood!

With agonizing slowness the sensation eased. Gar’s strained gasps became audible as the roaring in his head lessened. He kept his eyes shut tight as the remnants of the power jolted and jumped through his body, making him twitch. The last of the strange force faded in time with a keening from his own tortured throat. He coughed and lay still.

Despite its suddenness, a part of him had been poised for what had happened. For failure. He knew too well what it was—who it was—who had undone him. She had prised open his heart without even trying. With naught but a secretive laugh and a velvet gaze.

I'm sorry , he thought.

Gar’s eyes fluttered open. He blinked, trying to deny what he was seeing, but the plum color was unmistakable. It was the ceiling of the tent. He took it in, unable to comprehend why he was still here. Sitting up with a groan, he propped his body against the central pole. There he sat, his forearm throbbing and his vision fuzzy.

How could he still be in Caliah? Aristhre had made the terms of the geas clear. Surely his rejection of her…feast…had assured his fate.

Gar coughed again. An anguish that went far deeper than aching limbs was drawing close, threatening to pull him under. Despite this miserable end to their shared time, he would mourn the loss of Aristhre—his Aristhre, goddess of the spring festival—to the end of his days. He sank his head into his hand.

“I’m bleeding. ”

The whisper came from everywhere, but Gar instinctively looked to the bed. His air left in a rush. She was still here.

The goddess sat in an ungainly heap, her legs crossed and her hair in disarray. A blanket had been hurriedly pulled over her middle with one arm. The other was held aloft. Her amber eyes were fixed upon it with a look of dismayed wonder.

Gods did not bleed like mortals. Gar watched, his breath shocked to stillness, at the thin stream of blood slowly running down her arm. It was no color and all colors. Like liquid diamond catching the sun. It hurt his eyes to see, but he could not look away.

She clenched her hand and hissed. Gar was alarmed to see her fingers. They looked…withered —as if their very life had been drained away.

“What can I do?” he asked hoarsely. He felt foolish for even voicing the question, but she looked to be in pain.

Ignoring him, the goddess continued to stare at her wound. After a long moment she set her shoulders. Raising her other hand, she clasped her injured arm and squeezed. There was a flash of light. Startled, Gar banged a shoulder blade into the pole and bit back a fresh cry of hurt.

The goddess was whole once more. The blood gone, the arm flawless. Her shoulders rounded as she exhaled a sigh. Her aura, however, continued to dance over her skin like a licking flame. Her eyes snapped to his. Gar swallowed as the impression of a fire grew. Both aura and gaze flared like a burning field in a dry season.

“Get. Out. ”

Fear ascended Gar’s spine like a caravan climbing the worm. The words had been remote, as vast as the sky. They had not come from a person, but a power beyond mortal ken. His limbs barely cooperated as he struggled to stand using the pole as a support.

“Aris—”

“SPEAK NOT THAT NAME. ”

The bed was gone. The rugs had vanished. Gar cried out, clutching at the pole until it too was removed. He staggered into the emptied space. The canvas walls of the tent seemed to breath in…before flinging outward! They expanded endlessly. To the horizon, beyond it. He gasped in fright.

The goddess loomed before him, somehow filling the dim endless space. She was an infinity that touched the sky even as she stood before him, her face contorted in rage. Gar’s mind began to buckle under the strain of trying to comprehend the impossible visions assailing him.

“YOU COURT YOUR DOOM WITH THE FORCES YOU INVOKE. ”

Gar shut his eyes, unable to tolerate the eye-twisting sight anymore. He understood now how feeble his understanding had been. A field hand seeking a divine hand? Madness. It had always been madness. He was an animal to them, an insect. Misery rose up, damping the worst of his fear.

“I am sorry,” he whispered.

There came a sudden sense of stillness. He squeezed his eyes tighter and awaited the end.

The world lurched and spun. Thrown off-balance, Gar stumbled, his back striking a solid object. The tent pole. All at once he could smell canvas and perfume and hear the faint wheeze of his breath. The air had returned to life. He opened his eyes.

All was as it had been, save the bed was gone. The goddess stood before him in the same dress as before. Perfect. Beautiful. Terrifying. Nothing seemed out of place in her appearance, and yet she looked…tired. As he watched, not daring to move, she pinched the bridge of her nose and closed her eyes.

“Gar of Meadowhay ,” she intoned wearily, “begone from my sight. ”

He didn’t trust himself to answer. Sliding around the pole until his back was to her, he pushed off and hobbled away. Half-blind, he groped through tendrils of incense until he found the silken curtain out of the inner chamber. The cries and rapid whispers of the scared attendants hurried him from the tent.

Gar tottered down the path, pausing only to cast up his accounts halfway. Tasting acid and cloying spices, he threw up again.

He did not remember the trip out of the Undergarden clearly.

There was shoving. A boisterous crowd. The sound of a mask being knocked askew and thunking to the stone amidst shouting. His sight must have recovered in the tunnel, for the drawn and fearful expressions of the treasury guards at the entrance were vivid. They all backed away from him.

Steps. Deep steps that widened slowly as he went up…up…up. Broader and more shallow steps. He started to run. His movement turned fast and reckless, but his pace didn't slow. Gar ran until his legs felt like rotten wood. When the stairs ended he lost his balance and nearly sprawled across Southhalf’s broad flagstones. Only then did he finally halt.

He stood in the cool night air, hands on his knees. His legs wobbled, but sitting felt too dangerous—he doubted he would be able to get up.

The ache in his legs became a kind of refuge, something to distract from lurking heartbreak. Gar clung to the runaway gallop of his pulse and the tight stitch in his side. To burning muscles and complaining feet and laboring lungs. Sensations meant safety.

Except for one. The soreness in his arm.

The geas kept thrumming at odd intervals, sending waves of residual tingling through his body. Had it left a scar? Had he broken the mark so completely that the magic had abandoned him in Caliah as punishment?

Unable to put if off any longer, Gar unbuttoned the cuff of his shirt and wrenched the sleeve up his forearm, grunting at the pain.

The geas was still there.

Gar blinked. In truth, Aristhre’s symbol seemed less faded, its violet color more vibrant—as if it had been burned anew. He touched the reddened flesh around it and shivered as pins and nettles rolled across his skin. The odd feeling was familiar…almost comforting.

Mortal flesh does not channel divine energy easily.

Aristhre’s words that night on the high hill. This was why he should be trying to ignore the geas—dwelling on it drew him back to Aristhre. Back down the torturous path to…whatever insanity he'd just escaped.

Slowly, painfully, Gar straightened his spine. Around him, celebrants of the night feast laughed and drank, ignoring him. He tilted his head up. The skies over Caliah were more clear than Meadowhay’s…a thousand dazzling stars almost close enough to touch. His lips worked as tried to frame a question. Useless. He knew not what—nor who—to ask.

The stars watched him, some steadily, others twinkling like they were only half-interested. Did the First and Last Keep dwell up there, as sages claimed, or did it lie somewhere else? Mayhap an impossibly distant land where no mortal could go. It mattered not…his tormented mind refused to work.

“Aris…” he said. Even this wasn’t a question—Gar didn’t know what it was. What she was. His soul had come unmoored. A noise emerged from the back of Gar’s throat. It sounded like grief, perhaps the only response that suited in place of a question. The stars didn't answer.

He started walking.

Amidst the chaos in his head came brief snatches of clarity, islands of reasoned thought. He decided the best course was to go back the way he’d come. There were lots of reasons to return to Westhalf. It had ample inns, and it was the easiest way to Northhalf, where he could rejoin the caravan’s encampment if he chose.

Gar…there are other night feasts.

A faint line appeared on his forehead as he recalled Eadyth’s words. The memory bemused him. Not because he didn’t understand it, but because it was the first recollection since his escape that made him feel something like hope.

He stopped.

Eadyth had been speaking of a place called…the Westmost Terrace. Aye, that was the name. She had described a view that would rob his breath. Such a sight…might it not help a man reclaim understanding of his shattered world? Perhaps. And…and he could see Eadyth again.

For the first time since his banishment, Gar felt his mind grow steadier. He scrubbed his hands over his face, wondering how he’d managed to avoid a collision in his heedless path through the still-thronged streets. He frowned, only belatedly realizing that the sounds of a crowd had long departed.

Formless creation…where in Zhud was he? Gar had been avoiding as many faces as he could, choosing the quieter streets and darkened byways. In his stupor he had wandered into isolated, tangled lanes—maybe even into Easthalf, the dangerous quarter that Eadyth had warned him of.

Gar cursed, rubbing his forehead. He was standing in a narrow lane more crooked than a Mulberry branch. Strings of dirty laundry hung like cobwebs above him, and the only light was a guttering lamp set next to a brothel. Gar looked at the sign carved to resemble a woman on her back, her spread legs pointing skyward. “The Harlot’s” had been burned onto one limb, and “Secret” onto the other. He cursed again.

“It’s you .” The sibilant whisper cut through the silence like a hidden blade.

Gar whipped around, and nearly wept from sheer exhaustion. Gods, he was too tired to face this new obstacle—or, as it happened, this old one.

The sinister man from before, the one who had been leaning against the wall of the Pickled Wolf, shuffled into the middle of the lane. In this isolated street his thin form seemed more bent, more threatening. But surely Gar could fend him off? Even if the stranger were armed, Gar outweighed him and knew himself to be much younger.

Unless the crazed figure possessed some form of deviant spellwork.

Gar swallowed. “Leave me be.” He tried to sound firm, but his voice was thready and tired.

“We have been blessed,” the man said, repeating the phrase he had spoken before. The sameness of it made the hair on the back of Gar’s neck rise.

Perhaps the best option would be to run after all.

He turned to make a quick escape and stopped short. Three more figures had appeared with absolute silence, blocking the way forward. His jaw clenched tight. These new arrivals wore the same coarse robes as the first man, their faces concealed by the same deep cowls.

Behind Gar, the original man’s strange whisper filled the alley. “Be it difficult or a delight…”

“…the truth must alight,” intoned the three men astride his path.

“Fuck,” said Gar.

17

GAR

T he lane had fallen unnaturally still. Even the distant noise of merrymaking was absent. Gar swallowed…and took a step towards a narrow alley on the opposite side of the road. One of the three figures in front broke off to block it. This one was sturdier than the others and easily filled the gap.

Dragon’s balls…

Gar stumbled back into the small slice of street he’d been hemmed into. Now his best chance lay behind him, past the sinister man who seemed to be in charge. Steeling himself, he turned to barrel through and recoiled when he realized the leader had advanced much closer—without making a sound!

The man’s tapered fingers drew back his cowl. Gar flinched. His rictus-like visage lacked all spare flesh, as if its owner barely ate. A thick leather patch covered one eye, whilst the other was so wide there was bloodshot white all around the iris. His bare head was tattooed with a spiral of intricate inked script that looked like the words on his arm that Gar had glimpsed before.

“Questions have been asked ,” the man whispered. “You are the answer we seek.” With a blur of motion he flipped up his eyepatch.

Gar cried out and looked away, making a half-remembered sign to ward off evil gazes. Terrifying stories had circulated Meadowhay in his youth, tales of spellworkers who had traded an eye to one of the unspeakable gods in exchange for a jewel that would curse all who saw it.

He fled a few scant steps before drawing too near to the other acolytes. They were all advancing upon him now.

“To Zhud with you!” he shouted.

Gar retreated towards the wall. It's hard stone met his back. He sucked in air to voice a futile call for help, then stilled. An edge was digging into his spine. A corner? With a quick glance over his shoulder, his shout turned to a cry of relief. A notch—so tight he would have to go sideways—hid in the darkness between buildings.

With a desperate lunge he shoved into the narrow space. Rough stone scratched against his vest and tore off buttons as he frantically pushed deeper. He progressed painfully slowly, dread coursing through him at the thought of bony fingers snatching his arm and pulling him back.

After a mercifully short distance Gar scraped out of the confining notch. His harsh exhales rebounded off the walls of a dimly lit courtyard. Its only other occupant was a statue of a dancing lady; she regarded him silently from atop her plinth in the center of a burbling fountain.

Gar struggled to control his panicked breaths. He had to keep moving! He coughed, taking a few steps deeper into the high-walled space. His sore legs still trembled from his dash out of the Undergarden, but he might be able to lose them in the maze of streets if he could stay far enough ahead. He risked a glance behind him.

The gap was gone.

Gar stared, unbelieving, at the sandstone blocks forming the corner he’d just come from. The wall appeared seamless in the moonlight.

“What in formless creation…” he whispered.

“Gar of Meadowhay. ”

He froze. His body—his very blood—turned to ice. The male voice had come from behind him, and its graveled tone would have been frightening even without the resonance of divine might.

Please , he thought helplessly, I cannot endure any more.

With the last of his strength, he faced the courtyard.

The dancing woman was gone. In its place stood a new statue, a broad-shouldered man in voluminous robes. Something in its hands gleamed faintly.

“I will ask. You will answer. ”

Gar’s lips trembled. After all that had occurred, he was afraid his mouth might not cooperate no matter what questions the statue asked. Had he become a plaything of gods?

He clutched his chest as the stone figure suddenly moved. It was coming closer—no, it was getting bigger .

“Table of Ages keep me…” he murmured.

The statue grew impossibly large, until the plinth was no more than an upended brick under its giant boots. Then it stepped off. Gar fell to his knees as one enormous foot crashed down! A spray of water shot up and the fountain overflowed. Cold liquid rushed past Gar’s legs, soaking his leggings and making his teeth chatter.

Color bloomed across the figure’s surface, painting the elaborate robes in vivid reds and blues. Bright gold trim flared to life, complementing the rich brown skin of the statue—which was no longer a statue.

“SPEAK TRUE OR EARN DIRE PUNISHMENT. ”

The god approached, shaking the ground with each step. He towered three times the height of a man, higher than the courtyard walls. Gar fell to his hands, his battered mind reeling from the immense deity before him. How many displays of supernatural power could a mortal mind endure?

He cast his eyes to the water trickling past his fingers. He didn't have to see the god’s face to know he wore a bejeweled eyepatch and had braids gathered in a large, gold-banded topknot. Gar had already seen the book in his hands, its leather black from age and shut with pale yellow clasps that seared the eyes when they reflected light. The book.

The Electrum Tome. Just like shrinepriest Cemond had described in his tales of the gods. He had said it contained everything the intelligent races had ever learned—and it was updated by its owner every day.

Okomor, the god of knowledge.

Gar felt like he might throw up.

“DO YOU HEED ME? ”

Feeling every syllable tremble through the stones under his palms, Gar nodded. He kept nodding.

“THEN TELL ME…WHERE IS ARISTHRE? ”

The question was a simple one, but it took an agonizing moment for Gar to comprehend it. The god of knowledge wanted to know where Aristhre was? It made no sense! He was a god . He knew all. Unless…it wasn't Okomor, but some trickery—mayhap by a another god. Was someone trying to hurt Aris?

“ANSWER ME ,” boomed Thunder rolled despite the gleaming stars, and a flash left vivid marks over his blinking eyes.

“I…” He struggled to speak—to think.

The only intelligible answer he could offer didn’t feel like the right one. Confused memories of thick syrupy wine and a goddess’s wanton gaze crashed into him. Gar’s stomach contracted in what he realized was both humiliation and shame. The depth of the feeling shocked him.

Cold stings began to pelt his back and rattle against the tiles. Hail. Ice was falling from the stars above. “WHERE. IS. ARISTHRE? ”

He opened his mouth to speak, but his reluctance was even stronger than before. Wooden masks and topless attendants and jarring laughter spun through his mind. No…to tell Okomor—if it was Okomor—what he had seen in the Undergarden would betray his cherished memories of a different goddess, a kind one. He could not give up the Aristhre who blessed Meadowhay every year.

But he could tell the truth of his heart without lying.

“I went to the Undergarden to find the goddess who visits our village,” he said. His throat felt hot. “She wasn't there.” The corners of Gar’s eyes began to sting. “I wish…I wish she had been. I…” Tears welled, clinging to his lashes like he’d once clung to hopes of reaching Caliah.

Pinpricks of ice continued to fall against his back, but they seemed gentler than before. The ground shuddered.

“Raise your head. ”

Gar gasped. Okomor had set the Electrum Tome onto the flagstones before him. He blinked rapidly at the gleaming metal clasps. It was the size of a table.

“Place your hand on it .” The divine speech was softer, the rumble of a distant earthquake. “Pray to me so that I might know your mind. ”

Gar didn't dare disobey. He reached out, his arm trembling, and set his pale fingers on the divine artifact. The metal was icy, but the leather felt warm and soothing.

“M-most divine one,” Gar began haltingly, “I…”

He swallowed. The moment his prayer was uttered, Okomor would know what he had seen and done. Again he felt a wave of profound hurt and humiliation—why did it churn inside him like a tempest? By the gods, he was exhausted .

“Wise Okomor,” he prayed, not knowing his next words until they tumbled out. “I am lost .” A shuddering exhale tore from his lungs. “I believed myself strong. I believed my path set. But when I reached the end of it…” Gar’s lips worked, and he had to force himself to continue. “ ‘Twas a false road.” Heat ran down his cheek in a line. “Oh Seer of the First and Last Keep…I do not know what’s true anymore.” Dark velvet eyes met his in intimate lantern light, and his body shook harder. “My heart is torn. I have no path. Please…where is Aristhre?”

Gar’s slid hand off the book. His palm burned and prickled from the divine contact. He waited, on his hands and knees, for Okomor’s punishment.

“The truth ,” spoke the god at last. “I see it now. ”

The patter of hail faded and stopped. Gradually, the oppressive air seemed to lighten. A gentle breeze brushed Gar’s cheek, cooling the path of his tear. He realized he could hear distant laughter and the noise of a crowd. The night feast, and only a few streets away. He clenched his fingertips against the stone, bracing.

“That’s enough of that, I think,” spoke a gravelly, quiet voice. “Stand up.”

Gar’s brow furrowed. Slowly he lifted his head. The man before him was of an ordinary size. No…still not a man. A god. Okomor retained his finery, and hints of his powerful aura licked about the hem of his robe and across his shoulders, but the towering entity of limitless power was gone. Gar’s mind spun like a drunkard trying to find the tavern exit.

“You’ve had a most trying day,” Okomor observed.

18

GAR

“T here is a bench against yonder wall.” Despite his gruff tones, the god of knowledge sounded sympathetic. “Arise and take your ease.”

Okomor’s mortal speech was perfect, making Gar think of Aristhre’s faint accent when she used the common tongue. The reminder sent a fresh pulse of grief through him, and he was slow to respond.

“I shouldn’t help you stand—your tissues are heavily saturated with divine energy. ’Twould be best to let it dissipate, but if you must have aid…”

Picturing the god of knowledge helping him up like a fellow field hand shocked Gar back to himself. He practically scrambled to his feet just to escape the absurdity of it. Testing his weight with a grimace, he took ginger steps towards the bench. As he passed before Okomor his shoulders hunched.

“You expect a trick,” mused the low voice behind him. Then it scoffed. “Of course you do, you’ve endured nothing but tricks tonight.”

The god waited while Gar unsteadily turned and sat heavily on the bench. Then he gave the mortal a tight smile. It was such an ordinary expression that Gar was even more unnerved.

“You may speak,” he said after a moment.

Gar felt tangle-tongued to be placed on the spot. “Y-you are Okomor,” he eventually managed; his voice was near to a rasp.

“I am,” agreed Okomor.

“Th-the god,” Gar pointed out rather stupidly.

“The god,” he agreed. “And yet you stand two d‘rils taller than me.” Okomor’s smile loosened, showing white teeth. “A d’ril is an elven unit of measurement. Humans are almost entirely unaware of it, but I admire its precision.”

“You were taller before.” Gar clutched the sides of the bench as a tremor ran down his arms. “Much taller.”

The god’s expression tightened. “I appeared as I did because I had to know certain things,” he said. “I would have preferred a less…stern…visitation, but I could see you were already fearful.”

“Stern,” echoed Gar tonelessly.

“Playing to your fright was the most effective choice,” Okomor said. He sounded…defensive? Gar’s cheek twitched. Gods should never sound defensive. “But I shall offer recompense in the form of truth. It may help assuage your fear.” He cocked his head. “What know you of the Adamant World?”

Gar worried the inside of his cheek.

“This is no trial and I am no schoolmaster,” Okomor said. “Simply answer as best you can.”

“It is the h-holy name of creation.”

Okomor nodded approvingly. “Your shrinepriest is diligent in his teachings. Do you know what it means?”

“It is…” Gar struggled to remember Cemond’s lessons—he was oft drowsy on Shrineday morning. “…the opposite of formless creation?”

Okomor nodded again. “Creation that is bound by the will of the Paired Monarchs and the gods of the First and Last Keep. Held adamant.” His lips quirked. “There is more, of course, but mortal minds would not comprehend. The knowledge I seek to impart is that this world is not easily altered. Not even by a god. It is far easier to alter your senses. Behold.”

With an almost careless motion, the god of knowledge passed his hand in front of Gar’s eyes.

The courtyard transformed so quickly that Gar shoved himself back against the wall. Gone was the scattered hail and partially crumbled pedestal. Instead, the statue of the dancing lady serenely regarded him atop her murmuring fountain. Slowly Gar leaned forward, hands on his knees, and had another surprise—his leggings were dry.

“With such high walls and only one mortal watching,” Okomor explained, “it was a trifle to turn myself into the terrifying vision you beheld.”

Gar’s attention roved over the peaceful courtyard. Even the notch in the wall was back. He stifled a groan…his aching noggin was too small to contain the contradictions of his senses. He recalled the shaking ground and icy water perfectly, all etched into his memory with vivid detail. He shook his head.

“W-why do you reveal this, most divine one?” he stammered. Surely it was forbidden knowledge. Was he being allowed to know the trickery of the gods because he was soon to be struck from existence?

“To reach the clouds one must first build a tower,” Okomor said patiently. “This truth pertains to later truths.” He ran a finger along the edge of the Electrum Tome and sighed. “Had I known what you’d suffered,” he added gravely, “I would have chosen a different way to reveal myself. After thinking on it, I shouldn’t have sent my cultists to find you.”

“Cultists?” Gar asked. “The…men in robes?”

Okomor gave him a half-shrug. The god’s mortal-like mannerisms were almost as boggling to Gar as his giant statue form.

“Most of my followers are naught but studious monks,” Okomor explained, “but my Caliahan sect is…uniquely zealous.” He smiled faintly, his gaze turning abstracted. “It’s a rather fascinating outcome. Centuries ago there was an ancient order of sun ritualists in this area. When they met an orc warband for the first time, they were thrown into utter chaos. The ritualists had never encountered iron, and a schism occurred when one of their number, a blacksmith by trade⁠—”

Gar’s throat made a faint choking noise. Okomor blinked, then an amused smile tilted the corners of his mouth.

“There I go again. You look like an overwhelmed student dreading an exam.”

“M-merciful Okomor, I am⁠—”

The god of knowledge laughed. He actually laughed . It sounded so…commonplace. Gar felt faint.

“Be at ease, young mortal. I am not about to smite you for being bored. All make that face eventually when I start to go on.” He leaned in. “I am aware that I love obscure knowledge more than, well, everyone else .”

“A-aye, most divine one.” Something Okomor had said before suddenly rebounded in his sluggish mind. “Wait…f-forgive me for talking⁠—”

“Speak. I pledge you are safe.”

Gar wet his lips. “A moment ago you spoke of what I…suffered.” He glanced at Okomor nervously. “Please…what have I suffered?” If any being could clear the wool from his mind, it would be the god of knowledge.

Okomor’s dark eyebrows drew together. “I’m afraid I cannot speak of what occurred in the Undergarden. There are divine edicts that must be followed. But know this: severe consequences will result.”

Gar shoulders instinctively rose. “I beg that you do not draw this out, most divine one. What is to be my punishment?”

The god’s noise of disbelief made Gar flinch, but his entire body jumped when the divine being sat swiftly beside him. “And why would you be punished?” Okomor asked softly. His tone was so mild that Gar’s brow furrowed.

“ ‘Twas I who sought the night feast,” he said uncertainly. Again he was struck by that awful note of humiliation. He struggled to push it from his mind.

“Mortal,” Okomor began, then shook his head. “Gar , hear me. You were treated most cruelly this night. You’ve done naught wrong. There is no blame to be laid at your feet for what happened in that place.”

That couldn't be right. If it were true, then why did he feel so awful? Surely he must have committed an offense against the divine order. He had overstepped his place and the cost would likely be dire—if not his life, then surely his heart.

Okomor regarded Gar as if he were made of glass and every thought was on display. He cocked his head, considering, and then spoke slowly. “In time you may come to know more, but for now I can tell you this.” He pointed at Gar’s arm. “That symbol protected you.”

“The geas?” Gar set his hand carefully over the hidden symbol, wincing as the bruised flesh complained. He remembered the pain coursing down his veins, seeking an outlet, and finding it in Aristhre’s mark.

“The threat it repelled was greater than the geas was made for, yet the divine conduit endured. It possessed hidden strength…much like you.”

Okomor’s compliment was the most out-of-place thing Gar had yet experienced in this remarkable conversation, but it flushed him with warmth all the same. “I just want to understand,” he said quietly.

The god nodded, as if he knew every single question hiding behind this vague statement. “Understanding often arrives last,” he responded just as cryptically. Then, placing the Electrum Tome beside him, he slapped his hands on his knees in a manner Gar had seen many an old farmer use. “But let us make make haste in our words. My time grows short and I am needed elsewhere.” He shifted to face Gar, his rough timbre coming to the fore. “Aristhre’s geas remains strong, which means two things. First, she is in no danger.” Okomor looked thoughtful. “Second, she is here . In Caliah.”

19

GAR

G ar knew he could put it off no longer. Resigned, he opened his mouth to glumly relate what had happened in the Undergarden. Okomor raised his hand, silencing him with a pointed stare. The god offered an enigmatic smile to Gar’s confused squint.

“As I say, I cannot speak more on it…but you are incorrect. Although Aristhre did act unwisely.“

“Unwisely?” Gar was still hung up on being called incorrect. Did Okomor realize Gar had been about to confess his encounter with the goddess?

“Yes,” Okomor said simply. It might have been an answer to both questions. “Being unwise is not the sole purview of mortals,” he went on. “Your Shrinepriest Cemond is thorough, so I am sure you know tales of our shortcomings.” His expression darkened. “Bojar alone fills books.”

Gar knew the stories, or most of them. he had spent many mornings in his youth listening to Cemond recount them on the green. The misdeeds of the gods—especially Bojar—had been plentiful in ancient days, before the Paired Monarchs meted out divine punishments and established edicts to protect mortals. The tales still served as entertainment and lessons.

He frowned, thinking of the night’s events. Protection from the gods was far less sturdy than he'd been taught.

“How was Aris—uh, Aristhre, unwise?” Gar asked carefully.

“She was rash,” Okomor said. His brows drew so low that a corner of his eyepatch was covered. “Acting without heeding all possible outcomes.” He sighed. “She sought out Sahne’s help in devising a melody.”

Sahne? It took a moment for Gar to recall the obscure god. “The…Celestial Composer?”

Apart from the Paired Monarchs themselves, Sahne was the deity Gar understood the least. They were neither male nor female, and unlike the vast domains controlled by the others, Sahne’s sole area was music. What’s more, they asserted that existence was a song—one that they had composed.

“Shrinepriest Cemond taught us little of Sahne.”

“A wise man who knows his limits,” Okomor said approvingly. “More arrogant shrinepriests have tied their brains into metaphysical knots attempting to understand the Celestial Composer.” The deity’s chuckle held only a trace of humor.

“Does Sahne speak the truth? The world is…music?” An image of an all-powerful god turning the crank of a divine hurdy-gurdy sifted into Gar’s head. He blinked it away.

“It is a pompous simplification to say that the Adamant World is music,” Okomor said at once. His mouth flattened. “However …few understand the tapestry of reality as well as Sahne.” The stiff lines of his body betrayed his reluctance to acknowledge this.

“You spoke of a…melody?” Trying to grasp Okomor’s meaning was akin to staying in a wagon careening down a hill.

A faint smile touched the god’s lips. “Try to imagine a tune. One cunningly devised not to be played on its own, but to fit between the notes of an existing song. If it is seamless enough, all who hear it assume it belongs there.” His humor soured. “Sahne was likely eager to show off, and I suspect the result unwittingly ensnared Aristhre. You see? Arrogance is ever our weakness.”

“Ensnared?” Despite all that had happened, Gar’s heart leapt in alarm.

“As I have said, she is not in danger.” Okomor turned away to pick up his tome. “But, as any musician could tell you, truly great melodies play the bard more than the bard plays them.”

“Wise one,” Gar pleaded, rubbing at his forehead, “I am trying to follow your words, but my knowledge of…of philosophy is scant.” In truth, he had never felt more stupid.

The god offered his enigmatic smile. “Don’t assert your lack of wits too quickly, mortal. Some men simply need time to ruminate on a problem. Now then”—Okomor stood in one fluid motion—“I will speak with Sahne as soon as I am able. As for you…” He considered Gar, tapping his bottom lip. “…a gift. Something real to make up for all the falsehoods you’ve endured. Your clothes, I think.”

Gar looked down at his filthy pants and begrimed shirt. He could feel the gaping rent in the back of his vest from where it had snagged sliding into the courtyard.

“That style hales from the western half of North Kingdom. I could easily mark it even if I lacked knowledge of your origins. A fine look often adopted by merchants and tradesman.”

Gar looked up, bemused. “Oh…um, aye.”

“Try to appreciate that your garments are the result of generations of tailors, one after the other, resewing and adapting what came before. Patterns based upon patterns, copies on copies.” Okomor pointed. “Those garments have wandered very far from their original inspiration.”

“I…aye,” he repeated helplessly, not knowing what else to offer.

“Hundreds of years ago, your clothes began as courtly garb worn by the nobility of Grivene. It was cunningly adopted by merchants eager to appear as wealthy and important as the lords they were copying. That is why some version of it remains popular with tradesmen to this day. Go on, say ‘aye.’ ”

“Aye,” Gar responded, this time with a rueful smile.

Okomor’s laugh was as raspy as his voice. “Let us see if I can make your clothes remember their distant ancestry.”

The god’s blunt fingers drifted down the front of the Electrum Tome. Gar gasped as his clothing twitched and whipped about his limbs. The gap in his vest closed up tight, pulling his shoulders back.

“What are⁠—”

The rest of the garment squeezed, stealing his speech. At first it felt confining, but it quickly adjusted. Within seconds the vest followed his proportions perfectly, tailored like something a noble would wear. The fabric grew glossy and rich before his eyes, its faded purple color brightening to match the violet of his belt.

His leggings darkened from brown to black, and he hastily curled his toes as his sandals grew caps. Wide leather ties sprang from the soles, rearing like snakes. He stifled a shout as they darted towards his legs, criss-crossing over his feet and wrapping snugly up his calves in a pleasing pattern.

Then his shirt leapt about. The linen’s weave turned finer than he’d ever seen before lightening into a hue so white it almost glowed. Delicate violet embroidery bloomed about his cuffs and tickled his neck as it adorned a newly-sprouted short collar.

“A very satisfactory outcome,” Okomor declared with relish. “One might think you a lordling from the Trade Council families were it not for the glimmer of intelligence in your eyes.” He chuckled at his own joke. “Ah, and let us scour that stench of incense away.”

Gar sucked in a breath as his hair stood out from his scalp and scalding heat wrapped his limbs. As the intense warmth faded, he detected the faint smell of soap.

“There. Your hair and skin have recalled the bath you took earlier.”

Gar remained very still, as if the new finery coating him from head to toe might transform again—perhaps into an ill-tempered creature.

“Move freely, mortal. The miracle is complete.”

Slowly Gar loosened until he felt his knees start to buckle. He hastily stumbled back into balance. “Th-thank you, divine one.”

“You are welcome.” Okomor tipped his head to Gar, his manner oddly solemn. “Now, I must away. If you should speak of this encounter with your fellows, do not mention its…informality. Such is not the usual way of the gods.”

“Why treat with me differently?” Gar blurted, feeling half-mad to be demanding an answer from a divine being.

The brow over the god’s jeweled eyepatch arched. “Your knowledge has earned it.”

“My knowledge? I am a…a bumpkin,” Gar protested.

“Yet you know something beyond the reach of learned shrinepriests and religious scholars alike.” He leaned forward. “Aristhre’s true eye color.” Seeing that Gar was too dumbfounded to answer, he tapped the Electrum Tome. “You stand at the center of many trickles, mortal. Trickles turn to streams, then torrents, then vast rivers. I speak not of water, but wisdom.”

The god’s posture straightened even as his mouth crooked. Gar heard Okomor’s parting words in his head.

Farewell, Gar of Meadowhay. Your possibilities do not bore me.

At first it seemed the air rippled, like heat off of a flame, but it soon took on that twisting quality that Gar knew well after witnessing so many of Aristhre’s arrivals. He squinted against discomfort as the very material of creation warped around the god of knowledge. A nimbus of brightness turned the richly appointed deity into a shrinking silhouette receding into a vast distance. Then, with a blinding flash, he was gone.

Gar stood, stupefied, for a full minute.

At last he brought up a trembling hand and pressed cold fingers against his heated brow. The action brought the elaborate cuff of his remade shirt into view, sealing the truth of the encounter into his memory.

His mind was still grappling with all of it, from the initial encounter with the cultists to the surreal conversation itself. He sensed an important revelation was near, but his disordered thoughts concealed it like a hedge of brambles.

He needed to cut through.

Dropping his hand, Gar gently gripped Aris’s geas, using the twinge of pain to focus his efforts. This was where he needed to begin. The truth of the geas would unlock the rest. Exhaling a shaky breath, he spoke to help his fevered brain along.

“It remains intact,” he whispered. “Okomor confirmed it. Even on my journey, when I felt naught, it was active. It protected me. It…still protects me.”

Gods, how he wished he could talk to someone about this! Cemond might have answers for him, but he had no desire to speak with his shrinepriest. More than anything he yearned to talk to Ead⁠—

Gar’s entire body staggered. Anyone watching would have assumed a blow had been struck. He sucked in a sharp breath, than another, as Okomor’s words came back to him.

Some men simply need time to ruminate on a problem.

The clouds in his head cleared with an almost painful intensity. Gar’s whole world settled into an astonishing new configuration, and his heart hammered with the wrenching shock of it.

Westhalf. He had to get back to Westhalf.

Fresh hope sent energy coursing along his limbs as Gar’s feet began to move. Locating an arched exit, he quickened his pace towards the streets of Caliah. He was now closer than he’d ever been, and yet half a city still lay between him and his goal. As he broke into a jog, he sent a prayer of thanks.

“Praises to you, wise Okomor,” he panted. A tremulous smile touched his lips. “I am enlightened .”

20

EADYTH

E adyth turned her face into the breeze blowing off of the great cliff. It had always seemed a kind of magic to her that the choking dust far below never rose high enough to engulf Caliah. Instead, the wind brought smells of distant greenery from the other side of that cursed plain.

The lands that Gar called home.

She ground her teeth, suddenly not wishing to dwell on the moonlit view. And the wind was…overeager, carrying traces of wildflowers along with everything else. On another evening she would have been delighted, but tonight their floral scent merely deepened her gloom.

The slap of a sandal heralded someone coming from the festivities behind her. She briefly closed her eyes and willed her face not to look pinched.

“Well met, my lady,” said a man’s shy voice. “I was wondering if you would partake in the next dance with—” The man frowned as Eadyth turned to regard him. For a moment he seemed completely befuddled, then his face cleared. “Oh. ‘Tis you, Eadyth. I did not realize.”

Her carefully composed expression collapsed into a glower. “What is this jest I am being subjected to? All day it has been thus! Cow-eyed stares—like I’m naught but a stranger—until recognition dawns. I live in the inn where you tend bar, Atwik! It’s not funny, it's maddening .”

Atwik flushed. “I apologize, Eadyth. ‘Twas no jest, I just…I didn't recognize you for a moment.”

Her anger slackened at the man’s flustered embarrassment. She waved a tired hand. “Ugh…pay me no mind, my temper is foul.”

“That’s a poor omen on a day of plenty.” He offered a hesitant smile. “In fairness to me, you are not usually dressed in that manner.”

Eadyth looked down at herself, and this time it was her own cheeks that warmed. She had changed upon arriving back at the Wolf, as if casting off her outfit might also remove the pained memories of Southhalf.

Her sleeveless tunic and leggings had been replaced with a fitted tabard and hose. She usually didn’t bother with the latter—having to tie the individual legs to her smallclothes was a pain—but she’d once bought this pair on a whim after admiring their lilac hue. With the colorful hose on her legs and the warm citrine against her throat, Eadyth’s white tabard seemed brighter, its delicate linen akin to a flowing dress.

“One should always wear fetching garb to the night feast,” she mumbled.

Atwik looked troubled, clearly not up to the task of deciphering Eadyth’s mood. He fidgeted. “If you don’t wish to dance, promise me you’ll at least attend the victuals. The seed cakes are fit for the Table of Ages.”

Eadyth mustered a wan smile and nodded. “Very well. Let us go.”

She followed Atwik, and the two strode away from the cliff. They passed beneath the frond trees, their long leaves whispering in the wind, and headed towards the revels. Soon they were surrounded by smiling faces and animated conversation.

All were wearing their best night feast attire. The costumes were simple and hand dyed, but their muted colors were bold compared to the drab clothing most Caliahan’s could afford.

She laughed as Atwik was quickly pulled into a jig by the curvy barmaid who tended at the Crooked Scale. He gave Eadyth a helpless look, but the man could scarce contain his delight. She waved as they vanished into the boisterous crowd of dancers. The quality of the playing wobbled as the volunteer musicians took turns, but their enthusiasm couldn't be faulted.

“There you is, Eadyth!” yelled a caustic voice. The sturdy woman had been one of her runners yesterday. Tonight her cheeks were ruddy with drink. “We was worried you was looking below for another caravan to guide!”

“Best change out of that clean linen if’n you’re going down the Headstone,” called a man with a grin, pointing with a turkey leg.

Surrounded by the good-natured jesting of her fellows, Eadyth’s spirits lifted. The laborers and farmers of Caliah had but little respite from the toil of their lives, but for these few nights a year their expressions were jovial and their eyes were merry. It soothed her heart like the most potent of salves.

Fulfilling her promise to Atwik, she made her way to the feast tables. Each was heaped with homemade dishes and desserts, every one brought by a cook eager to share a favored recipe. Even now late arrivals were placing down food with pride on their faces.

“Goat meatballs,” said a woman with a kerchief over her hair, nodding at Eadyth. “Hope you saved some room, slight thing like you.”

Eadyth smiled and took one of the meatballs between her fingers. It was still hot as she bit into it. Her eyes closed as the complex flavors broke across her tongue. Delicious.

“Make them every night feast and never take home a one,” the woman declared. “My husband preps the spices and meat, and I roll them up and cook them.” She leaned forward. “Take ‘em off the fire for a bit in the middle. That's the key. Keeps them moist within and lets the glaze form without.”

“Thank you,” Eadyth said, smiling. “It’s amazing.”

“Happy night feast,” the woman said, her face radiant with Eadyth’s compliment.

“And to you,” Eadyth replied warmly.

She moved on to try the seed cakes and found them just as sweet as Atwik had said. As she sampled and savored, she found her body beginning to sway to the dreamlike notes of a nearby lyre player. The pain in her spirit lingered, but being here eased it. Eadyth dearly loved festivals and feasts—the true ones, where bonds of friendship and family were strengthened in celebration.

“Who is that?” asked a pale girl on the other side of the table. She tapped her freckled friend and they both turned their eyes toward the edge of the torchlight. “Never seen him around.”

An ember of hope flared in Eadyth’s breast. Silly! She shook her head, scolding herself. It seemed her heart was still beset by girlish infatuation despite the diversions of the feast.

“Don’t know,” said the pale girl’s freckled friend. “Clothes are too fine for our lot. Keep’s mercy, I hope he isn't a drunk lordling about to cause a ruckus.”

Eadyth stubbornly kept her gaze on the food. Gar wasn’t here. He was in the Undergarden, “communing” with a goddess.

The first girl giggled. “Hair’s too shaggy for them lot. Trade Council brats always use oil.” She made a thoughtful sound. “I think he’s comely.”

Eadyth’s eyes went up against her will. She found the broad-shouldered man lurking at the edge of the celebration. His clothes were fine. Not just rich, but elegant. He seemed to be studying the crowd intently. They were right about his shaggy hair. A bit long, but she liked it. It made him⁠—

Her breath caught. A moment later it returned at double the pace. It was him. He was here. Gar had come to the Westmost Terrace.

At that exact second his head turned. Their gazes met. Eadyth’s heart stuttered in her chest at the way his entire face came to life. Gar’s relief—his relief at seeing her —was writ plain. She did not know what to do with it. It felt like a secret too big to contain, one that would bounce around her insides until it spilled out.

“He has eyes for that girl across from us,” Freckled murmured to her friend, but the words passed over Eadyth without meaning.

“That’s Eadyth, silly.”

“Oh! So it is. Hmm…maybe she knows him.”

Eadyth took a step back, still holding a half-forgotten seed cake. Her other hand lifted to uselessly touch her loose curls before fluttering down. What in Zhud was she doing ? It was impossible to look away from him.

Gar began walking. His eyes stayed on her face until her cheeks began to heat under the scrutiny. She took more steps back but didn't turn away. She couldn't. She wanted…she wanted him to…what? Before she could pull an answer from the chaos swirling inside her, he was there.

“Eadyth.”

Gar stopped scant feet from her, shifting his weight nervously. His own chest was rising and falling. Mayhap he’d been running—or was just as anxious as she found herself. She said nothing.

“I feared you wouldn't be here,” he continued in a strained voice. His light brown eyes searched her face, and she had to fight another irrational urge to smooth her hair. She could feel his stare in her belly.

“You came,” she managed to say, feeling inane. Then, like an ox-brained simpleton, she mutely held out the seed cake.

Gar blinked, and took it. “Thank you,” he said.

Her face burned at how witless she must seem right now. “Did…did you find her? Your…the one you were looking for?” She couldn’t bring herself to say “goddess.”

“Yes.” He breathed it like a sigh. Then he blinked again, rapidly, and looked down at the seedcake. “I mean…no. Not like you’re thinking. She…she wasn’t there.” His eyes came back to hers as if he couldn’t stop them.

Infinite unknown, he should stop gazing at her that way! She might combust—and not entirely from embarrassment. Besides, there was clearly a great deal he wasn’t telling her.

“Are you sure, Devout?” She forced a goading tone. “Because you are wearing finery that would cost more than a few tusks.” And he wore it well , curse him. “It looks like a gift to me.” Eadyth bit the inside of her cheek with her teeth. Shuddering Zhud! She’d been trying to sound sarcastic and instead came off as jealous.

Perhaps she was jealous. A little.

Gar shook his head in vigorous denial. “ ‘Twas a gift, yes, but not what you imagine.”

“How do you know what I imagine?” She hated how snappish she sounded.

“You think it was—” Gar stopped abruptly. He studied her until she wanted to stamp her foot with impatience.

“Speak ,” she commanded through gritted teeth.

He laughed. The infuriating field hand was laughing at her!

Her expression quickly sobered his. He winced. “I am sorry,” Gar said in haste. “I wasn't making fun. It is only…you made me so happy just now.”

Happy? She scrutinized him, but he didn't seem drunk. “It has been too trying a day for nonsense.”

“Aye,” he agreed, “it has.”

He ran his hand through his hair, and Eadyth was briefly diverted by the urge to thread her own fingers through those untidy locks. She resolutely brought her attention back to his face.

“I was just…happy to see how much you cared,” Gar said intently. “That is why I laughed.” He glanced down at his attire. “As for these…they are an apology, I suppose. Or an attempt to aid my quest—I am uncertain on that.” Pause. “Do you like the color?”

The rich fabric of his vest saved its violet tint from garishness. In truth it was lovely; it would surely complement her lilac hose if they danced together—not that she was dwelling on such frivolities.

All Eadyth could think to answer was, “You said it was your favorite.”

“It is,” he agreed. Then his tone sank to more intimate depths. “ ‘Tis the most beautiful color I know.”

Something in her throat tightened, though she knew not why.

“W-what are you doing here, Devout?”

As she watched, he seemed to consider and discard various replies. Finally, perhaps to have an excuse not to speak, he ate the seed cake in two rapid bites. Eadyth raised her eyebrows.

He swallowed with some difficulty. “I came here to, uh…”

“…sample the seed cakes?” Eadyth prompted. She was starting to be charmed by his awkward manner. A smile began to tease her lips, and she wasn’t able to hide it before he noticed.

Gar gave a huff of amusement, suddenly looking sheepish. “I came to ask you to dance,” he said, staring at his feet. Then his head rose and those soft brown eyes held her in place. “And I’m praying you’ll say yes.”

21

GAR

G ar clenched his fists so he wouldn't tangle his fingers together. Waiting for Eadyth’s reply was a torment. Gods…she was beguiling by torchlight.

She always had been.

Eadyth bit her lip, stealing both his concentration and his air. He had to take care or she would capture every breath—she possessed the means in that garb. The dress-like tabard hugged her slender form perfectly, its high slits giving tantalizing glimpses of the pale purple hose clinging to her thighs.

“I…” She hesitated. “I am not given to dancing much,” she said at last.

“Then you won’t stand out,” he answered, nodding to the country dancers further along the terrace. Eadyth swiveled to follow his gaze. The participants were in two bedraggled rows, their members laughing and bumping into each another whenever their steps—or sobriety—didn’t quite match.

And there, at last, was Eadyth’s full smile. It trembled at the edges, but it was undeniable, and it turned the velvet of her dark eyes more rich than any material Gar was wearing. He tried not to linger on her face, but the lure proved too strong. With her sharp cheeks and soft lips framed by a becoming halo of curls, how could he not gawp like an ox-kicked fool?

The flush on Eadyth’s cheeks darkened. He’d noticed that color more than once and dared to hope he was the cause.

“You’re staring.” She brought up a hand to nervously adjust her broach, which only succeeded in pulling Gar’s eyes from her face down to her slender neck and exposed collar bones. Her pale gold skin went perfectly with the citrine stone resting against it.

“I may be,” he murmured.

That seemed to make her more flustered. “If…if you wish to dance, then let us join this one. I know the song.”

She quickly turned and made for the revelers. Gar’s heart thundered in his chest as she took her place at the end of one row. An echo from the past. It had been two similar rows where he and Aristhre had once stood across from each other—only this time their places would be reversed. He took the empty spot, feeling as if he might have stepped into a dream.

Eadyth dipped a curtsy and he bowed in response. Then, as the flute and fiddle reached the end of one measure and started the next, Gar and Eadyth joined the dance.

It was a variation of “The Plowshare’s Purse,” and Gar was reassured when he recognized the steps. He grinned as he and Eadyth moved towards one another and away. They clapped, spun, and did it again. After the third time Eadyth’s smile was back, and it only grew as they continued.

The beat picked up, signaling the next part. Starting at the front, paired dancers met in the middle and danced down the length of the line. Some clasped hands, while others simply capered and laughed. Upon reaching the end they separated back to their sides. Gar and Eadyth moved steadily towards the front, and he began to feel anxious. Would she want to hold hands or keep her distance?

They arrived at the head of the rows. His stomach tightened. As they drew close, Gar faltered, his steps artless as he fell out of the beat. He swallowed, trying to rebuild his courage. Then, just before he could reach out, it was Eadyth who offered her arms. She turned her palms up in invitation, eyes wide and vulnerable in a way he’d never seen.

Laughing in sheer joy, Gar set his bigger hands in hers. Eadyth’s gaze relit in an instant. They danced down the line sideways, facing one another. A dumb smile broke across his face, which seemed to turn her own incandescent. When they separated at the end, he wasn’t imagining the reluctance with which her fingers relinquished his.

Everyone spun one final time to a flourish of the fiddle, and the tune came to a close. Cheers, laughter, and clapping erupted.

“Off with you lot,” shouted the fiddler with a comical wave. “If I don’t get a turn at the honey bread I’m not playing another Zhudding note!” He received more raucous applause as he started comically jogging towards the feast tables.

Without the music, Gar could sense they were in danger of slipping back into painful silence and choked-off words. All at once his partner seemed self-conscious, studiously studying the dispersing crowd.

“You were right,” he said forcefully.

Her eyes darted back to his, and a mote of humor sparked. “I find I often am. About what, pray tell? My ungainly dancing?”

“That this is the only night feast worthy of the name.”

She searched for the truth of it in his face, and then something in her whole manner seemed to loosen. Her smile grew softer, and he felt an answering pang in his chest.

“The Undergarden was not to your liking?”

“Nay. It was a dream, but the kind that comes when one is lying in a sickbed.” He took a step towards her, and this time she didn’t retreat. “I finally feel awake—or else the fever’s gone and my dream grows as sweet as the seedcake you shared.”

“I am…glad of it.” She bit her lip again, and this time seemed to take special notice when Gar’s gaze lingered on her mouth. “Would you like to visit the feast table again?” she asked. He rejoiced to hear the breathless quality in her voice.

“What about, um, the view from the cliff? Do you recall telling of it?”

“Oh! Yes, ‘tis otherworldly at night. Come and see.” She gestured and he followed.

Eadyth led him past the outer row of torches. Beyond lay the gently swaying silhouettes of strange trees. These must be the frond trees she’d mentioned before. He eyed their tall curving trucks and the thick leaves that splayed from the top in the same manner as a bursting work of fire. Eadyth glanced back and noticed he was lagging behind.

“They won’t attack,” she teased.

“ ‘Tis the ground I fear more. Is it even?” he asked uneasily.

In the dark he was afraid that the wide slabs would end and he would embarrass himself with a twisted ankle—if he didn't simply stumble over the edge of the great cliff. He sensed more than saw her amused reaction.

“I won't let you fall, Gar.”

Something funny happened to his stomach. It was the first time she’d spoken his name since he’d arrived, and the sensation felt very much like falling. Then she stepped forward and took his hand, and that felt like being caught.

“Come,” she said quietly.

Placing his trust in Eadyth, they passed below the whispering trees and out to where the moon shed ghostly light over the ancient stonework. When they drew close to the cliff’s edge a strong breeze began to toss their clothes and lift their hair. It was nothing like the hot dusty wind that had thrashed them in the narrow turnings of the Worm.

Eadyth stopped, but didn't let go of his hand. “Do you smell that?” she asked.

Gar inhaled. “Wildflowers,” he said, unable to hide his wonder.

“Their scent carries over the Grave of Creation.” She pointed. “There are wide meadows over there that are almost even in height with the cliff.”

“I remember them,” Gar said, picturing the seemingly endless fields dotted with every color but the one he’d yearned to see. It had been the last beautiful thing before the long descent toward the blasted plain.

“They are too far to be seen even in the day,” Eadyth said quietly, “but it scarcely matters. The view at night is no less worthy.”

Gar nodded, already falling under its spell. His lips parted as he took in the vast pool of mist before him. Beneath the stars and moonlight it seemed to glow, its gentle undulations giving the impression that they stood on the shore of an unearthly lake.

“It looks almost like water.”

“An ocean,” she said at once. “An ocean akin to the endless sea of formless creation.” Her gaze had turned remote.

Gar studied Eadyth’s moon-limned features very closely, his heart racing with nervous excitement. “I’ve never seen an ocean.”

She blinked, seeming to come back to herself. “Oh…nor have I. I simply picture it as such. Sometimes I am given to strange fancies.”

He didn't answer. Far behind them, a hand drum started up a new beat. The sonorous sound of a hurdy-gurdy joined, quickly breaking into a lively dance.

The idea came at once.

It wasn't exactly the same tune, but the tempo was nearly identical. Before he could second-guess the impulse, he turned to Eadyth and raised their joined hands. “Dance with me,” he urged. “This time one of the dances from my village.”

“I wouldn't know any,” she protested.

“That’s all well, I can show you. The song is close to one they perform in Meadowhay. Would you try for me?”

Eadyth looked towards the distant torchlight, unsure. Then she exhaled and firmed her shoulders. “How do we begin?”

22

GAR

“F irst we separate, like so.”

Gar dropped Eadyth’s hand and moved back. She followed.

“Now, step to the drum like I’m doing.”

He took a simple step to his left, then right, repeating until they were moving together. The moon aided them, providing just enough light to see by. When Eadyth seemed comfortable, Gar added a shift back in the middle, repeating the motion carefully while she watched. A glimmer marked her smile when she matched him.

“Good…and now we come together.”

Slowly, Gar guided her through the first movements of Meadowhay’s blossom dance. The steps came easily after fifteen years of practice, but he was very aware that this was only his second time dancing with a partner.

You only performed this dance with your chosen.

“You’re picking it up quickly,” he said in an encouraging tone.

“I must have learned this one in my youth.” She sounded bemused.

“That might be.”

Gar doubted the blossom dance existed in a place like Caliah. The steps were more intricate than a country dance, more suited to villagers who had time to practice in winter. It usually took long hours to learn the coordination.

They came together again, only this time the dance required them to switch places. Gar opened his mouth to give the instruction, but Eadyth moved smoothly past before he uttered a word. She even did the tricky half-turn in the middle, facing him before flowing to the opposite side. She seemed not to realize what she’d done, but Gar’s joy was so fierce his body could scarce hold it.

He stopped giving instruction and surrendered to the moment.

In Meadowhay, the elders taught that a well-executed blossom dance symbolized a fruitful marriage. It required partners to understand one another, to give—and give way—with grace and harmony.

They met again for another intimate half-turn. This time, like the previous spring, Gar boldly brushed his palm along her warm back. He heard Eadyth’s breath catch over the distant music, but she didn’t stop dancing.

Meadowhay’s drunks liked to put forth a different wisdom. They joked that the blossom dance symbolized an earthier form of giving. Four-finger Rancis oft pounded the stump of his arm onto the tavern’s creaky corner table and shouted the long list of villagers with winter birthdays as his proof.

The music crept up, and Gar sent a quick prayer to the goddess of fortune’s good face—this Caliahan song went faster at nearly the same pace as Meadowhay’s. It would suffice. When they came together for the final part, Gar didn’t have to warn her, he simply raised his hands and she clasped them tight.

One thing the villagers of Meadowhay all agreed on, fusty elders and noisy drunks alike, was that a flawless blossom dance boded well for the happiness of the dancers.

He loved the feel of Eadyth’s small, calloused fingers in his as they spun together. Faster and faster…until the world was a blur and Gar’s memories mixed like melted wax. He saw both dances in his mind, each overlapping the other. Eadyth and Aristhre under moonlight and firelight, in Meadowhay and Caliah.

Inside his heart.

The hurdy-gurdy ended with a resonant drone as the hand drum rattled to an impressive finger roll. Gar and Eadyth spun to a halt, their breaths coming in ragged heaves. They stared at each other across tightly clasped hands. He could feel the broad smile on his face and she seemed to surprise herself with a giggle before returning it, flushed with triumph. The drumming stopped.

“You danced it perfectly,” Gar said in a low voice.

“I don’t know how,” she said, her bosom rising and falling from the exertion.

“I have a notion.”

“You do?” She cocked her head. “I do not follow.”

“Nor did I…not for a long while—but oft I am called ‘stoneheaded.’ ”

Eadyth gave an amused snort. “That suits.”

Gar squeezed her hands the way her smiles squeezed his heart. It was time. One last jolt of apprehension ran through him, but only from the import of the moment. The dance was done, and he knew the truth.

“May I kiss you?” he asked softly.

She went still. Gar held onto her hands. They felt warm in his suddenly cold fingers. The last time he had performed this dance he had stolen a kiss out of desperation. This time he would act only with permission.

“You…want to kiss me?” Eadyth repeated faintly. The whites of her wide eyes reflected the moon.

Gar nodded. “I do. May I?”

Those eyes, dark velvet rimmed with moonlight, searched his face. She looked exhilarated…afraid. He thought he understood why, but he believed her desire would overcome her fear. He had faith.

Finally, a nod. Small, but unmistakable. Her lips parted.

With a herd of tiny oxen trampling around in his stomach, Gar slowly lowered his head…and kissed Eadyth.

Her lips were soft, so soft—yet with a hint of roughness from the wind and dry air of her occupation. She inhaled sharply.

He pulled back, worried she’d changed her mind. They stared at each other. Then Eadyth closed the gap. Tilting up her chin, she pressed her lips to his with devastating deliberation. She kissed him back, moving along the length of his mouth to brush soft whispers of sensation that sent want coursing through him.

Small, confident fingers trailed up the back of his neck, their calloused tips making him dizzy as she deepened the kiss. Her tongue licked his bottom lip, inviting his own to play. He eagerly complied, and their tongues began a different kind of dance. Eadyth’s other hand threaded into his hair and gripped as if she were afraid of letting go. They kissed until her faint moan of desire instilled a need to have her closer, all of her.

Gar wrapped his arm around her lower back, pulling her body flush with his. He was only half aware of his other palm drifting up her arm, raising goosebumps in its wake. His index finger found the strap of her tabard and ducked under, while his thumb sought other diversions. Eadyth’s breath came hot against his mouth when he brushed it along the delicate swell of her breast.

He broke the kiss with a groan.

“Wait,” he gasped. “We…” He swallowed, trying to recover his words. Seeing the outline of her hardened nipple against the thin linen of her tabard didn't help. He forced his eyes closed.“We must speak first. There is…something you have to know.”

Eadyth stayed within the loop of his arm, but he felt her body grow tense—as if preparing for a blow.

“What?” She said it harshly, between breathes just as heavy as his. “If you have lied to me, or if this is about that other woman, that—” She bit off the word, refusing to say it.

“I have not lied.” Gar spoke urgently, silently willing her patience. “Only listen a moment.”

Reluctantly letting her go, he undid the button on his shirt cuff with trembling fingers. He pushed the sleeve up and turned his inner arm to face the moon. Aristhre’s symbol appeared almost black in the stark light.

“This mark,” he began, surprised his voice remained steady, “is no mere tattoo. ‘Tis a geas.”

Eadyth’s fingers drifted toward his arm seemingly on their own. His skin yearned for her touch, but she stopped maddeningly short. “A geas?” she repeated, her voice subdued.

“Aye. A mark of magic placed by the goddess Aristhre herself.”

Eadyth’s fingers curled in and she pulled her hand away.

“This mark protected me tonight,” Gar persisted, “even when I knew not my enemy. And I learned that its power has not waned since it was set, even when my belief—my faith—faltered on the long road here.” He swallowed. “But it will not do so again. I swear it.”

“I don’t…what are you telling me, Gar?”

“Follow close,” he urged. “The terms of the geas were exact. The symbol remains as long as I fulfill them.”

For long seconds there was no response. Then, warily, she asked, “What are the terms?” Her expression was dubious, but it wasn't shuttered, not yet.

Gar quoted the words etched in his memory. “ ‘Should you betray me in your heart, or seek intimacy with another, you will find yourself back in Meadowhay, forever banned from my sight.’ Those were the words she spoke to me at the beginning of spring.”

Eadyth’s mouth fell open. She took a big step back, and Gar had to restrain himself from following. He watched her hand rise to her face, her fingers touch the lips she had shared with his. “But we…you …did. You sought intimacies just now.”

Gar nodded gravely. “Aye. With you. And yet here I remain. With you.”

A sudden gust blew Eadyth’s hair about her face, almost hiding the minute shake of her head. “You are…deceiving me. Or telling fae tales. That mark is no geas.”

“It is,” Gar replied fervently. “I’ve felt its power. ‘Tis mighty, Eadyth. Strong as the goddess who crafted it.”

He dared to take a step closer. Eadyth went rigid. His gaze sought hers in the dark without success.

“My faith may have stumbled, but not my heart. Never that. It remained true.” He offered a tired smile, unsure if she could even see it. “My heart knew better than its owner, who has been baffled from the first moment he set foot in this confounding city.”

“Stop!” It was a sibilant hiss. Eadyth held up a shaking hand. “Speak no further. I-I must think.”

“My heart remains true,” Gar persisted quietly. “For I am here. I have not betrayed the geas or her words. Your words.” Pause. “Aristhre.”

Eadyth stumbled back, whipping her head frantically. “Stop. Cease this at once! You-you know not of what you speak. ‘Tis nonsense. A twisted jape—all of it. It could be nothing else!”

Gar’s eyes began to burn as emotion overcame the last of his control. He went down on his knees before her, and his voice cracked as he spoke the pent-up truth at the wellspring of his soul.

“I have found you, my love,” he breathed. “At the edge of the world…I have found you at last.”

“Gar…” Eadyth’s face was leeched of color, pale in the dark. “Please. Don’t say…don't—” Her mouth worked, but she was unable to continue.

His chest constricted at the sound of her distress. He’d been uncertain how Eadyth would respond to the truth, but he hadn't expected fear . He frowned, and willed his sluggish legs to rise.

“Wait. Eadyth, it’s all right. There is nothing to be frightened of. Just let me…” He grimaced as a cramp tightened his calf. “Agh. I swear all will be⁠—”

She fled.

Gar watched, stunned, as Eadyth dashed into the dark. His hasty effort to follow only caused him to trip and sprawl, knocking his head against the dusty stone and braining himself half-senseless. The new stars in his vision vied with the pitiless stars of the firmament overhead. He lay on his back, blinking up at the dizzying mix.

The sounds of Eadyth’s retreating footsteps faded into the night.

23

GAR

G ar’s despair had been short-lived.

As the soft wind had cooled his brow in the aftermath of Eadyth’s flight, his head had cleared enough for him to revisit their conversation. While he was unlikely to ever sow a field of wisdom, the events of tonight had planted a few fresh stalks.

If only they had matured faster.

“I’m a lout,” he muttered to himself.

He had repeated this phrase perhaps a hundred times since he had picked himself up and started back towards the heart of Westhalf.

It had taken but little time to realize how things must have felt from Eadyth’s perspective. In truth, he was uncertain if there even existed a way he might have lessened the shock…but the memory of her stricken form in the dark made him feel like an oaf all the same.

Eadyth was Aristhre, of that he was certain. His remaining in Caliah proved it. Somehow, through some artifice of Sahne the Celestial Composer, she had become entangled in the guise of a mortal. And her…mask…was so strongly affixed that Aris hadn’t come back to herself when he’d revealed the truth. It had been Eadyth who had run from him, not Aristhre.

“Blundering lout,” he amended.

What must it feel like to be told your entire life was naught but a ruse? Surely it would feel awful in the moment—even suffocating. Being revealed as divine would offer little comfort when you’d been poleaxed with the raw fact of not existing . The idea sent a cold shiver through him even now.

The streets of Caliah were oddly deserted despite the early hour. Then again, Gar supposed most of the folk who lived in Westhalf were either attending the celebrations at the Westmost terrace or celebrating privately in their homes. Or roaming Southhalf as part of a drunken mob.

Whatever the cause, it still didn’t make the streets easy to navigate.

In the final reckoning, his getting lost proved to be yet another boon worthy of Saith-Agyth. Whether or not the goddess of fortune had turned Gar around so that he stumbled upon the back of the Pickled Wolf, it proved tremendously lucky either way.

At first he had been confused. He had even circled the building twice in an effort to make sense of it. Slowly, his stupefaction transformed into awestruck certainty. Here was proof none could deny. As the saying went in Meadowhay, he had found a pair of oxen to pull a stuck wagon loose.

The inside of the Pickled Wolf was nearly as empty as the streets.

“Where is everyone?” he asked the door guard.

The man looked at him as if he were daft. “ ‘Tizzit not the night feast?” He worked a wad of cheweed from one cheek to the other, and spit into a cup. “Theys be back in th’ early hours, hootin’ and yabbin’ and drinkin’ till sunrise to keep theys hangovers at bay.” He spit again.

Gar quickly moved past the distasteful sight and into the sleepy interior.

The riffle of cards and a drunken laugh made him pause at the base of the stairs.

“There he is…” drawled a raspy voice.

“Master Hathos?”

The caravan master was in the same seat as before, only now the large round table sat empty and he was sprawled bonelessly in the chair. As Gar watched with curiosity, the merchant shuffled the deck of playing cards with perfect dexterity—even as his large head wobbled about.

“Ya listened to old Hathos, you did. Yer a good lad, Garth.”

Gar didn’t bother to correct him; the merchant was so deep in his cups that he’d need a rope to reach the rim.

“Did you see the Undergarden?” Hathos asked.

Gar nodded. “It was as you said.”

Hathos nodded sagely. “ ‘Course it was.” His head kept nodding sagely for some time before he managed to still it. “Did you like it?”

Gar shook his head.

“ ‘Course you didn’t. You aren’t like ‘em. Not jaded.” He leaned forward, and for a moment Gar thought he was about to plant into the table, but he pulled back at the last instant. “Neither am I,” he confessed in a noisy whisper. “It’s a see -cret, but thas why I’m here.” He tried to wink, but his lid wasn't entirely cooperative. “The others left.”

“I see that,” Gar said.

“ ‘Course you do. Good lad.” He frowned, chasing after a thought. After a time he seemed to catch it. “Fools! The lot of ‘em. I don’t gamble past my stake, understand? And I don’t whore. I’ve a wife in Ninegates—didja know that?”

Gar fought to keep a smile off his face. “I did not, sir.”

“Married way back. Back when the city was…was…Sevengates?” He blinked once, then again. “Lost the route—what were we discussing, lad?”

“Your wife?”

“Love her. Buxom comely lass.” He mimed an exaggerated curve over his chest and roared a laugh that faded quickly to a wheeze. “Don’t see ‘er for half the year, mind…” He shook his head in a manner much like his oxen. “But we just love each other twice as much in half the time. That’s merchant effi…efficiencence…” He blew out a breath and gave up. “That’s merchant brains.”

“Aye, Master Hathos.”

The other man squinted at him. “You chasing that guide girl?”

Gar’s heart leapt. “You saw her?”

“Ran up the stairs some time back. Slip of a thing…” A note of warning glinted in his bleary stare. “That girl want you chasin’ her?”

Gar thought of Aristhre’s mark, dark and vivid against his skin. “She does,” he said gravely. “I need to make sure she’s all right.”

“All right…all right…” Hathos echoed. He waved his hand. “Won’t keep you. Just like I said, wasn’t it?” His head began to sink as he talked. “Suited for a…a proper lass, you are.” His large noggin came to rest on the table, and he sighed in relief. “Pure hearted maiden…” he mumbled.

Gar watched his breathing turn deep and even, then silently wished him a peaceful rest. Unable to wait an instant more, he ascended the stairs.

His nerves flared to life with each step. By the time he set foot on the landing betwixt floors, he could feel his heart rattling his ribs. He took a breath and tried to swallow using a throat that had constricted tight. It was such a small door to shelter something so vibrant.

All will be well whether she says yea or nay.

With the delicate strands of his renewed faith gathered, Gar knocked gently upon the wood.

He waited, listening to the thud of his pulse. Would she refuse to answer? Was she trying to sleep? Formless creation…what if she had left entirely ? What if Aristhre had come back to herself and chosen to vanish back to the First and Last Keep rather than talk⁠—

A rattle of metal sounded on the other side of the door.

Gar’s held breath whooshed out as the lockbar went up. Slowly, the door scraped just wide enough to make a scant gap. He saw a plain wall lit by lamplight before Eadyth’s face filled the opening.

His entire body loosened with relief. “Eadyth,” he breathed.

“Go away.” Her voice was duller than he’d ever heard it.

The words should have stung, but he was too concerned with her bleak expression and red-rimmed eyes to care. Gods, how he wanted to take her in his arms and simply hold her until she felt better! But he had to tread delicately. Ignoring the twitch in his fingers, Gar instead let his true feelings show in his gaze.

“Is that what you really want?” he asked softly. “Only say it again and I…will depart.” It was difficult to speak around the lump in his throat.

Eadyth’s dark eyes met his before skimming off. She said nothing.

“You’ve been crying,” he ventured.

As if his words recalled her to the task, she sniffled. Blinking, she quickly rubbed the back of her hand against her nose. “It doesn't signify.”

“It signifies everything .” The taut earnestness in his words brought her gaze back. It stayed longer before darting away.

“Eadyth—”

“Don’t speak of it.” Her voice shook with emotion. “I will come apart if you say her name.”

“I will say nothing,” he quickly promised, his voice ragged. “I would simply like to hold you…if you’ll let me.”

Her eyes caught Gar’s and this time they didn't look away. Dark and shining, like a distant storm covering the true lay of the land. Gar waited, his heart tripping under a burden of mingled yearning and hope.

Eadyth stepped back, pulling her door wide.

24

GAR

G ar stepped over the threshold almost gingerly, not sure what would happen. The room beyond was ordinary and tidy. There was the comfortable-looking rope bed he’d seen prior, only now the blankets were rumpled and the large down pillow looked as if someone had been hugging it. The rest of the furnishings were just as plain. A sturdy table with a wash basin and a small wardrobe. The standing mirror had been fine once, but was blemished with age. None of the trappings were rich, but they went well together.

The door closed behind him. Gar turned to behold Eadyth standing in front of it, clutching her elbows. “It isn't true,” she said.

He wordlessly opened his arms.

Her throat worked…and she rushed forward. All at once her palms were against his chest and her face was nuzzling into the crook between his shoulder and his neck. Gar wrapped his arms around her and held her close. The sobs came a second later, shaking her smaller frame.

“It’s all right,” he whispered, his own chest tight with sympathy.

He rested his chin lightly on her head and rocked her back and forth…back and forth. Part of him itched to do more, to take some action that might make her feel better, but a wiser part understood that this was the best course. To hold her near and offer the warmth of his body and heart.

After a minute, Eadyth’s crying subsided. He gently ran his hands up and down her back, and risked pressing a kiss into her fragrant hair.

“I can’t remember my parents.” Her voice was a muffled whisper. She raised her head, and he saw guilt and confusion in welling eyes. “Why can’t I remember them?”

Gar said nothing. He knew why, and he suspected she did as well, but he wouldn’t make the mistake of being too eager again. Instead, he met her gaze with silent support, making it clear he was here and wouldn’t push. Raising one hand, he gently ran it down her hair.

“I…I think mayhap I am overtired,” she tried. It sounded unconvincing, and her bleak expression suggested she thought the same. “There must be a reason, Gar. One that isn't absurd. Tell me…am I soused?”

“Did you have strong spirits at the feast?” he asked gently.

She shook her head. “Nay. Only a goblet of wine.” She took in a fortifying breath. “And there is more. I cannot recall guiding the expedition before yours. That is…strange. Do you agree?”

He nodded, quickly trying to decide what to say next. After a brief mental debate, he offered, “Can you recall the details of any caravan apart from mine?”

“I’ve been a caravan guide for years . There are dozens…” She trailed off. As he watched, fresh tears gathered in her eyes. He pulled her in as she wept silently, her shoulders hitching with the force of it. “What is wrong with me?” she cried, shaking her head until the curls tickled his chin. “What is wrong with everyone else? The last few days they have stared at me as if in a fog, like…like I am a stranger .”

Gar remained silent. He stroked her hair again, and turned to look out her small window. The shutters were open, and he could see the arched dormer on the other side of the lane, its tiny window gleaming with candlelight. He stared at the flickering little flame for a time.

“Eadyth…will you come outside for a moment? The fresh air will do you good, and I’ve something to show you.”

She raised her head, and he saw a hint of the shrewd stare he’d come to admire. “What is it?”

A significant look was his only answer.

Eadyth gently pushed her palms against his chest and he released her. She stepped back and gave him a wary look. After a moment, she swiped her hand under her eyes to scrub the tears.

“You don’t have to,” he added, keeping his voice low. “I am content to stay here as long as you’ll let me.”

She sniffed and blinked rapidly. Then she set her hands on her hips and tossed her head. Her defiant look wasn’t wholly convincing, but Gar knew the courage running underneath was strong and true.

“Lead on,” she said.

Gar carefully took her hand. Now it was Eadyth’s fingers that felt cold. He laced them with his and raised his eyebrows to ask if that was all right. She gave a small nod and a valiant attempt at a smile that made his spirit swell with affection.

He guided her out of the room and down the stairs, past the sleeping form of Hathos and the bored-looking guard. Once outside, he paused to let her take in the cool night breeze. Smoke and spices and squalor…the essence of Caliah.

“Ready?” he asked after a minute. She set her jaw and squeezed his hand, as if not trusting herself to speak. He led her around the corner of the inn at an easy pace. At the next corner he turned onto a small lane and went only a little further before stopping. Her puzzled eyes asked the next question.

“We’re here,” he confirmed.

Eadyth exhaled, and her body loosened perceptibly. Gar wanted to ask what she’d been expecting—or dreading—but now wasn't the time. So he waited, watching as her brow furrowed.

“We’re behind the Wolf.”

“Aye.”

He did his best to hide the tension drawing every muscle tight, but it was a losing battle. How Eadyth reacted to this final proof would decide…everything. There was an audible shake in his breath as he filled his lungs. Looking up, he spied the steep roof and its projecting dormer on the opposite side of the lane. The candle was still lit.

“Gar?”

Curse him, he was delaying now, too worried about the outcome. She didn’t deserve that. He cleared his throat.

“Eadyth…where is your window?”

She stared at him, uncomprehending. “My window?”

“Aye. The one that looks out on yon rooftop.” He nodded up at the dormer. “Point it out to me.”

She looked at him like his wits were in question, then turned and stared up at the wall of the Pickled Wolf.

The bare, windowless wall.

Time passed. Eadyth might have been a woman from a fae tale, cursed into lifelike stone. Only her hair, tossed by the faint breeze, made it seem otherwise.

“The crossbeam,” Gar said quietly. “The one halfway up. That’s where the landing betwixt the stairs ends.”

He moved closer, careful to take deliberate steps so she didn’t startle. Her back was rigid, her shoulders hunched.

“Dear heart…” The name left his tongue without thinking. “…if your room were natural, your floor would be right above us .”

Eadyth’s head tilted back like a jerked puppet. He followed her look to the dark strip of sky between the buildings. There the stars gleamed, offering little comfort.

Silence. The seconds slid past, each one starting to feel like a fixed painting. The ball of ice in Gar’s belly seemed to grow colder. The breeze petered out—as if the very world held its breath.

“Eadyth?” he asked.

“No,” she whispered, “not Eadyth.”

A gale split open the world.

Gar staggered under the surprise onslaught. Wind! Naught but wind, yet it pushed and shoved like an angry spirit. It pummeled his body when he tried to stand firm, and his surprised shout was lost in the terrific roar.

He was forced back a step, then another. His hair whipped painfully about his scalp and he felt every button on his vest pressed hard against his torso by the ceaseless maelstrom.

Up and down the street, torches blinked out as though they’d been blown tapers. Gar squinted into the tempest of wind, his tears drying before they could bring relief. He had to get to Eadyth! Her slim form would be vulnerable to such an unnatural wind.

But there she stood. Completely still amidst the tumult. Gar could scarce believe his burning eyes. Only the very ends of her tabard flapped about. She…she was the cause of the gale, its center and source!

A glow was rising from Eadyth’s skin. It curled up in delicate wisps and licks, a flame of no color that consumed nothing. The aura gradually enveloped her clothes, climbing down the edges of her tabard like a leisurely vine. The otherworldly luminance was painfully beautiful. Unquestionable.

Awe stole what little air he’d been left by the wind. As a roof tile flew past, Gar remembered to draw breath. His chest strained to expand, to fill his lungs not only enough to breathe, but to shout . He had to get through, to speak the word closest to his soul. Fear clutched him as his sandals began to slide. His balance wavered. He was going to be blown off his feet!

“Aris! ” he screamed.

Silence crashed upon them like a collapsed building. The wind ceased as unnaturally as it began, and Gar—angled far forward—fell heavily onto his side with a startled exclamation. Far down the lane, an oversized boot hanging above a cobbler’s shop squealed as it swung back on rusty hinges.

At first he could only focus on gasping. Gar inhaled greedily, over and over, until tatters of reason knit back together. Wearily, he raised his head.

Eadyth stood in the same place as before. Her head was hung and her own shoulders rose and fell with the force of her respiration. The aura was gone. Beyond, the complaining cobbler’s sign at last swung to a noisy stop.

“Ari—” A vicious cough racked Gar’s body.

The woman before him whipped around, concern animating her features. She quickly ran over as he dry-retched hard enough to make the cobblestones blur in his sight. She kneeled before him, clutching his arms.

“Gar,” she pleaded. “My sweet Gar, tell me you are well!”

Then he heard it. The faintest trace of an exotic accent. One he’d last heard in his dreams. Before that, long before, it had been upon the road outside Meadowhay. A trembling smile came to his lips. He managed to lift his gaze once more…and found it captured by hers.

She searched his face with a distraught expression. “Gar, are you senseless? Say something!”

Lost in the iridescent violet eyes before him, he was struck dumb. His own put-upon eyes began to tear. “I…” he rasped.

“Tell me you are well ,” Aristhre urged.

He slowly reached up and cupped her cheek with a shaking hand. “I am now,” he whispered.

25

GAR

A risthre—who still resembled Eadyth in all but her eyes—had to help Gar return to the inn. He was grateful to rely upon her newly acquired strength. If the guard at the door noticed the much smaller woman supporting him with a slim arm about his waist, he said naught. With great care she guided him up the stairs and back into her room.

After shutting the door, she busied herself with a water pitcher. Gar propped himself against the wall and stared out the window. It was beyond words…the view was perfectly ordinary despite not being there .

“Here.” A clay cup was pressed tenderly into his hands. “Drink.”

He took long swallows, thankful for the cool refreshment. When he lowered the cup, Aristhre stood before him, a look of regret on her face.

“Aris,” he murmured. “What’s wrong?”

She hesitated, but seemed unable to keep herself from stepping closer. She lay one hand on his jaw and rested the other against his chest. He sighed.

“Before we speak of aught else, know this: it was no test, Gar .”

“What?” he replied, unsure of her meaning.

“I was not testing you,” she repeated, her thumb gently stroking his cheek. “ ‘Twas not some ploy to divine your loyalty or deceive you. I would never undertake something so cruel.” Her eyes turned soft and liquid. “I was going to tell you as soon as you saw me. I had hoped we might…court as mortals do. Spend a day together before celebrating the night feast.” A bright tear tracked down her cheek. “Only I became mired in mortality.”

Gar reached up and carefully wiped the moisture away with his thumb. Knowing that he could—that she would let him—was a new wonder.

In a hoarse tone he replied, “I have been no less lost. Only in the last hours have I started to guess at things. But that was one certainty I held to. You do not toy with mortals.” His laugh was tired. “ ‘Twas one of the reasons I could make no sense of what was happening to me.”

Aristhre stiffened at his words, her hands falling away. “I had forgotten. The Undergarden. You went there to seek me.” Her expression darkened with swiftly mounting fury that was not for him. “And there was another waiting for you. One who tried to…entice you. ” The last two words made the walls shudder with divine resonance. Dust sifted down, and a sick feeling twisted Gar’s insides.

“Please, Aris,” he said quickly, “I have seen much anger this night.” He rubbed his forehead. “I have endured words yoked to such power that they fell like blows, threats that made me feel like a lowly bug under an upraised foot. Please don’t…” His eyes slipped shut on a sigh.

Please don’t be like them.

The weight of the air seemed to lighten around his body. When he raised his lids, Aristhre’s violet gaze was composed once more. She smiled ruefully.

“Forgive me, Gar. I should not dwell on things which pain you. Not here. I will find out later from the others…and act accordingly.” A threat glinted like a pulled dagger in her gaze before vanishing with a blink. “But tonight is for us.”

Gar sagged with relief. He nodded, letting his frame slide a few inches down the wall. Aristhre poured him more water and said nothing while he drank. After setting the cup and pitcher back down, she simply…watched him.

“I missed you,” she said after a time.

Something loosened in his chest, letting out emotions that made his limbs tremble. “I missed you too.” Gingerly, Gar reached up to touch the dark curls of her hair. “It surpasses all strangeness,” he said with wonder.

The side of her mouth lifted. “My appearance?”

“You were—you are— someone different.” He tilted his head to the side. “And yet…not. Even as Eadyth your manner was familiar. The way you held yourself, the things you said.” Pause. “Your…irritation at any and all knavery.”

Her eyebrows raised, and Gar was pleased to see humor spark to life in her face. “Do you accuse me of being waspish?”

“I accuse you of being Aristhre,” he answered, offering his most disarming grin. It worked, coaxing the other corner of her mouth up.

“I almost remembered when I laid eyes on you,” she admitted. “But my body was flushed from the descent down the cliff, and I had not felt such a heady mix of fear and excitement in ages. I fell back under the sway of my guise.”

Her guise , he thought, trying to understand. Worn almost like a mask. But not like any mask he knew, and one far removed from the garish false faces of Southhalf. “This is the guise that Sahne helped you to, um, craft?”

Her eyes flew wide. “You know of that?”

“Nay, but I did…sort of…talk with Okomor.” He gave a sympathetic expression as warmth bloomed on Aris’s cheeks. “He was looking for you but found me. That is when he spoke of the Celestial Composer’s aid.” Gar’s head threatened to spin with fresh disbelief. Talking of the gods like they were no more than his fellow folk in Meadowhay!

Aristhre was too mortified to notice his dazed mien. “I am embarrassed beyond measure,” she said faintly. “I have been foolish twice over. Hasty in seeking a mortal shell and prideful in thinking I could master it.” She looked at him. “I do not blame Sahne…I think they were eager to show their skills to a goddess who had never attempted a guise.”

“How did you…become lost?”

“I did not understand what a mortal shell truly was. It is not really a disguise at all, but a cunningly reshaped reflection.” She twined one of her dark glossy curls around her finger and eyed it fondly. “One that is easy to believe when you behold it.”

Lost in a reflection… “It reminds me of a peddler of curios who once visited Meadowhay,” Gar shared. “He erected a tent and filled it with mirrors and glass fashioned in Ninegates. The tent wasn’t big, but the mirrors made it seem endless. I got a sore nose bumping into all of them! Couldn’t stop giggling.”

She canted her head, an amused look in her eyes. “His name is Bert, though he styles himself ‘Ertio the Mysterious.’ He prays to me before his arrival in every village. ‘Tis an apt comparison, Gar.” Her smile turned wistful. “I would very much like to see you enjoying such a diversion.”

He was startled into a laugh. “Staggering about with a red nose? I probably looked drunk as a wheelbarrow.”

“I find it most becoming when you are happy.”

Gar blushed. A heady, almost shy feeling stole over him from the breathy warmth of her tone.

“This room also reminds me of the mirrors,” he said, trying to forestall his cheeks from steaming. “How is such a thing done?”

A look of pride came over her. “Not easily,” Aristhre admitted, “and the method would be difficult to explain in the time we have.”

All thoughts of embarrassment fled. Gar straightened, his posture going rigid. “Why do you say that? Is our time is short? We’ve only just reunited!”

“Oh, Gar…” A shadow fell across her face. In an instant all levity between them vanished, and Aris looked so crestfallen that Gar nearly pulled her to him. The urge to soothe helped cushion the blow of her next words. “I am sorry, but this mortal shell has become…cracked. It will not last.”

“What does that mean?” New worry rose up inside him. “Are you well?”

She nodded at once. “I am perfectly fine . It is thanks to you that I’ve returned to myself. But…” Her eyes flicked down his body and her mouth tightened, as if seeing something he couldn’t. “…the things you have experienced in Caliah have bathed you in divine power. Your physical health will be endangered if you absorb much more.” She spread her hands. “Once this shell falls away my being near could harm you.”

Gar remembered the ache in his bones and the burrs in his joints after their hilltop coupling. It had taken days for the pain to fully fade. And still he thought to beg her. He had traveled for months …surely they could tarry together a day or two?

Before he could voice his longing, her touch at his wrist stole all thought.

Aristhre’s agile fingers undid the button at his cuff and delicately raised his sleeve. The ticklish brush of her nails made his flesh thrum with sudden awareness. He held his breath as she touched the geas, every sensation like the taut thrum of a laundry line tied to his…mannish qualities.

“I too am disappointed,” she said softly.

Something in her voice made him look to her face.

Aristhre’s numinous gaze was heavy-lidded and fixed on his forearm. Her hand continued to gently stroke up and down his skin. Her interest seemed…less than chaste. Surely that was a fantasy of his own devising—one spurred by endless weeks on the road. Mayhap this aspect was unaware how easily such touches could stir desire.

“What matters most,” she said distractedly, “is that you were true to me, and I to you.” She sighed, swiping her thumb across the mark. It sent a fresh pluck straight to his groin.

“A-Aris,” he warned. “You are⁠—”

“Forgive me,” she interrupted, “I am sorry, and I know it to be unseemly…but I seem to find myself afire with lust.” Her golden cheeks colored. “I felt I should own up to it.”

Gar’s jaw fell open. He hadn’t misinterpreted the sultry cast in her eyes. Dragon’s balls. If her body was aflame, then his own felt on the verge of an inferno after that confession.

Aristhre shook her head. “I do not know why I seem to find you more handsome every time we meet, but I cannot deny it. As Eadyth it was maddening. You distracted me so!” She hastily removed her hand. “But I would not press this body’s affections on you unwanted.”

The absence of her touch was like being left in a winter storm—or placed back inside that tent of mirrors. Gar’s mind stumbled around, and it took far too long to make sense of what she had said.

“You…” he struggled. “You think your affections w-would be unwanted?”

Aristhre hesitated. “This body is made for guiding caravans. My hips are no longer as womanly, and my…” Her hands fluttered around her chest before wringing into her tabard.

Gar had never seen Aristhre act so uncertain. He was seized with an irrational desire to laugh. The absurdity of it! A cheeky part of him wanted to expunge her fears by telling her to peer at his painfully tight pants, but a wiser part prevailed; the truth of his heart would serve better than a saucy jape.

“Aris…it is you I find beautiful.” He hoped his honesty shone clear in his words. “I would find every version of you to be lovely.”

“You cannot make such promises.” A darkness gathered behind her eyes, surprising him. “I wear the faces of many women, Gar. You haven’t yet witnessed all of them. Some might…frighten you.”

He blinked. Then shook his head with finality. “I am earnest . Mayhap some aspects would require getting used to,” he allowed, “but I would find every Aris to be lovely in time.”

Her moodiness departed abruptly as it had arrived, supplanted by a sudden look of pragmatism. “Aye?” She gestured at herself. “How much time?”

Gar scoffed. “Are you jesting? In that body? None. ”

“Speak true!”

“I am!” He awkwardly rubbed the back of his head. “I, um, found you fetching from the start. Too fetching. I avow I was unable to stop staring at you as Eadyth. I thought I had turned craven…or fickle in my affections.” He cleared his throat. “And yesterday, after we pulled Merey to safety…do you recall how we ended up? You astride my waist?” He cleared his throat again. “I thought I, uh, was going to rip a hole in my breeches.”

Aristhre’s stunned look slowly softened into something like bashfulness. Her dark lashes brushed closed over cheeks that had become rosily tinted. The sight made her sharp features and soft lips even more beautiful.

“You were the most comely woman in Meadowhay,” he breathed, “and you are the most comely woman in Caliah.”

Aris’s lips parted. Her lids rose and her violet gaze found his. He saw desire and fondness and…something more, something deeper that stirred his heart.

The room lurched.

Gar stumbled, clutching the wall at his back to steady him. The floor trembled before going still. Had it been an earthquake? One look at Aristhre’s apologetic expression told him it was something else.

“The mortal shell is weakening,” she confirmed. “We must make haste.”

“Haste? What⁠—”

Before he could say more her hands dove into his hair, gripped hard, and dragged his lips to hers.

26

GAR

A risthre’s kiss was hungry, fueled by need, and Gar felt it everywhere .

Her hands ran up and down his neck, never quite settling. She nibbled at his lips before resuming the frantic press of her own, and it wasn’t long before her tongue swiped at the seam of his mouth. Gar let it in and they tasted each other with abandon.

The sensations coaxed wordless, ever more desperate sounds of want from each of them. It was thrilling to realize she was every bit as needful and unsettled as he. Gar trailed his hands down along her arms and settled them onto her arse, which was soft but tight, just like the rest of her athletic frame.

The last time they’d made love, Aristhre’s divine power had surrounded them. Gar had found it exhilarating, but it had also been overwhelming—even intimidating. Now all he could feel was Aristhre’s warm lips and soft flesh. He squeezed her rear and she emitted a soft, shuddery moan, rolling her lower half against the stiff front of his leggings. His response was even louder.

The room’s lone lamp cast the contours of her body in sharp relief. Aris’s nipples were harder than they’d been after the kiss on the West Terrace, peaked like ripe berries beneath her linen tabard. That gave him an idea.

Stooping down, he seized one into his mouth, sucking it through the thin material. Aristhre startled, making an “oh” sound, before her arms wrapped around his head and held him in place. Only after the weave was soaked through did he stop laving with his tongue. He stood to admire his work.

Aristhre’s eyes were hazed with sensual hunger. Her breath was heaving and the shadow of her areola was visible through the wet linen. It was an erotic sight, and it made him hard to the point of aching. He moved to attend to her other breast, but her arms held him at bay.

“Wait,” she gasped. “I want to taste you.”

He dove in and they exchanged another passionate kiss. Then she licked his lower lip and pulled back with a quiet laugh. “Not like that, my sweet.”

She sank to her knees before him. By the time his lust-addled brain caught up she already had his pants laces undone.

“Aris…”

Gar’s heart was pounding, hardly daring to believe the eagerness in her eyes as she wrenched down his pants and smallclothes. His cock sprang forth and the sight only seemed to spur her enthusiasm. Her excited exhale against the sensitive head of his penis made it jump.

She gave a husky laugh and boldly grabbed him. He groaned as she slowly moved her fisted hand up and down. She licked the underside once…and again. The third time she waggled her tongue across his sensitive flesh, making his body jerk.

“Good?” she asked. She moved her thumb across the same spot, watching his face closely.

A shuddering breath was her answer, but he nodded like his head wasn’t fastened very tight. She grinned. He couldn’t stop staring at the sensual scene before him; his eyes were held as firmly by her lascivious expression as his cock was ruled by her hand.

“I’ve never done this,” she said. “I was too shy as a mortal, and as a goddess…” she shrugged. “No god ever tempted me, and the power within my body made it too great to risk the first time we were together…but I wanted to.”

She took him into her warm mouth and he gasped with the feel of it. Another sound of pleasure was wrung from him as she swirled her tongue around him. When she released him he felt the cool air on his thoroughly slicked shaft.

“Oh yes,” she breathed, running her hand up and down his length. “I wanted this.” Her other hand squeezed his thigh, seeming to approve of his trembling legs. “And in this body I can have it.”

She took him into her mouth once more and began to move her head with abandon. He was helpless not to thrust in response. He tried to be gentle, but it was difficult not to chase the rising pleasure centered in his groin. When next she freed him, she asked, “Is there aught that will please you more? Tell me .”

“M-my balls,” he said in a ragged voice. “Play with them.” He had no experience with this, but the bawdy tales he had heard as a field hand had imparted some learning.

He moaned as she sank her mouth back around him. Then her slender fingers began to tease his testicles and his entire body was bowing towards her as the pleasure and pressure doubled, then trebled. He was poised on the edge of a tremendous release.

“Aris ,” he warned. “I…I’m about to⁠—”

Her tongue gave no quarter. She licked and sucked, pausing to rub the sensitive spot beneath the head of his penis. “Do it,” she demanded, engulfing him again.

Gar tipped over the edge and managed to pull in once ecstatic breath before a burst of intense pleasure radiated out from his center. He groaned as his cock jumped in her warm mouth, and the sight of her throat moving as she swallowed all he had to give only increased the ferocity of his orgasm.

In the aftermath, his trembling legs proved powerless to hold him upright. He glimpsed Aris’s well-pleased smile as he fell out of her mouth, but she gripped his hips before he could tumble into a heap. She eased him onto the wooden floor, his pants still tangled about his knees.

“Gods…” he wheezed.

“Goddess ,” she corrected, her violet eyes alight with mischief and triumph. Then a girlish titter escaped. It was so unaffected, so like a maiden of Meadowhay, that his heart felt squeezed by joy. It was a glimpse of her mortal self, he realized, the one that must still reside beneath untold centuries of experience. He was humbled beyond all measure by her openness with him.

Reaching out, he caressed the softness of her cheek with his fingertips. “Fair Aris,” he whispered. I love you , he thought.

Her eyes seemed to grow more vivid, as if she’d heard everything. She bit her lip. “I have always taken pride in undertaking a task well.” Pause. “I assume I should be proud?”

He laughed. “Aye…you worked a miracle with your tongue.”

“A miracle with naught but a mortal countenance,” she replied a tad smugly.

Gar shook his head, grinning. “Okomor said that arrogance is the weakness of the gods.”

“It is,” she replied. Her lips tilted wickedly. “But I heard—and tasted—your pleasure. So ‘tis not arrogance in this instance.”

“Nay,” he agreed with a chuckle. Then, in a teasing tone, suggested, “Though mayhap it was beginner’s luck.”

Aristhre tried to look cross, but her lips kept threatening to smile. “Methinks my mortal lover is trying to be clever and get me to insist on proving myself.”

The thought made his manhood stir despite his tiredness, but he was already yearning for her in a different way. “Not just yet,” he said again. “I was hoping for some beginner's luck of my own.”

Aristhre looked puzzled as he awkwardly rolled to his knees. Pulling up his smallclothes, Gar wrestled his leggings back on, but left them unlaced.

“What are⁠—”

She fell silent as he took her hands in his. He drew up one and kissed her knuckle, then repeated it with the other. “I wish you to rise, and stand there.” He gestured at the wall. “Right where I stood,” he said pointedly.

If he did not mistake his eyes, a faint flush was creeping up Aristhre’s neck from beneath her bodice, but she said nothing. Instead, she rose to her feet, her uncanny grace unable to mask a restive anticipation. She took one step and turned to face him. Slowly she leaned against the wall, her legs apart and her breaths not quite steady.

Gar feasted on the sight of her. With Aris’s shapely legs spread, her tabard fell between them like a long loin cloth. Her bare thighs—tiny triangles of gold skin—were visible between the pale purple hose and the split in the tabard.

With his own breathing more than a little uneven, Gar set his palms on her legs, just above her knees. He slowly moved his hands up, skimming the clinging material. Aristhre inhaled sharply. As his thumbs brushed the bare skin above her hose, her thighs squirmed.

The involuntary movement crumbled all restraint. Gar quickly located the ties alongside each hip and tugged the simple knots loose. His hand quickly covered hers when she went to roll down the hose.

“No.” Gar’s voice was ragged with desire. “Please…leave them on.”

Wantoness flared in her eyes. “As you wish.”

27

GAR

A risthre’s arms slid down the wall. Her fingers clutched at it as Gar’s thumbs hooked the waist of her smallclothes. She made a small, needy sound as he worked them past her hips. The heady smell of her arousal fully woke his cock, and he had to adjust his breeches before lifting her feet out of the garment. He tossed it behind him.

“Set your leg here,” he instructed, giving a gentle tug behind one knee. Aristhre let him guide it up onto his shoulder. He leaned close, until the warmth of her inner thigh was against his neck, and impatiently threw the trailing length of the tabard over his other shoulder.

For a moment he simply marveled. Aris was shockingly wet, her exposed curls glistening. Before he could stop himself, he reverently ran his thumb over the lips of her exposed sex, mentally groaning at the slippery feel.

Aris’s body shuddered under his touch. She made another noise, quiet but desperate. It worked on his blood like the potent apple brandy that sometimes made the rounds in Meadowhay. His head buzzed with the need to hear more sounds from her. Louder sounds.

Gar enthusiastically pressed his tongue to her folds and was rewarded when she cried out. His hands found the backs of her thighs, half warm skin and half lilac hose, and pulled her towards his impatient mouth. He licked up and down her quim, enjoying every variation of Aris’s answering whimpers. Her musk and taste were intoxicating, but he kept his wits; it didn’t take long to learn she made the most noise—and ground her body the hardest—when he lapped at the apex of her cunny.

He focused his attentions there, trying different ways of using his tongue. Aristhre’s moaning grew steadily, the pauses shorter as her breath quickened. Her hands twined into his hair and gently gripped his scalp to guide him. He was an obedient student, going where bade.

“There. And u-use your fingers,” she pleaded.

Gar eagerly raised two fingers toward her writhing hips. He ran them along her slit before gently sliding them into her blazing core. Aris’s body welcomed them with ease. He began sliding them in and out, unable to keep his own hips from thrusting in helpless yearning.

The muscles in Aristhre’s thighs went rigid as he switched to a rapid side-to-side motion with his tongue. Her cries grew louder, more desperate. Gar’s cock was throbbing in response to both her ecstasy and the sounds his fingers were making each time he pushed into her opening.

“Gar. ” She shuddered, and her body pulsed around him once. A mere prelude to a coming storm. “Wicked…attentive maaan .” She moaned the last word. “I’m going to…you’re making me—” Her mouth hung open as her lower half rolled helplessly against his lapping tongue. She was on the precipice.

With sudden inspiration, Gar ran a hand up her smooth belly until he found the swell of a breast. He savored the feel of her ripe nipple under his palm, then quickly took it in his fingers. Lightly rolling it, he pressed the tip of his tongue hard against her most sensitive spot

Aris sucked in a breath, her body convulsed, and she came.

Gar quickly pulled his arm down to hold her steady, splaying his hand across her firm arse as she bucked. His goddess cried out in guttural release, her grip tightening around his hair to the point of pain. He felt her pussy clench around his still moving fingers as pleasure tore through her. He tongued her through the orgasm and into the aftermath until, with a final shudder, she pushed him away with a breathless laugh.

The floor wobbled beneath them.

Gar threw out a hand and just managed to stop himself from toppling over. The boards grew steady after a few fraught seconds, and he quickly looked about. Hopefully the bewitched room wasn’t about to tumble onto the street.

“Formless creation,” he said. “It’s gone cockeyed.”

The room had stretched . It was now several feet wider on one side. The wash basin and mirror were further away, and the wall they sat against no longer squared to the room, but canted out like a half-open door. From above it would resemble like a lopsided rectangle.

Aristhre’s disoriented groan made him whip back to check on her. His breath caught. She had altered as well! Her form was taller than before, with more womanly curves. And her face!

“What?” she asked, looking dazed.

Eadyth’s sharp features had softened without entirely departing. Gar recognized Aristhre’s high cheekbones from Meadowhay, and her nose had become a touch more pert, mirroring her spring aspect. Longer lashes brushed her cheeks as she blinked to clear her vision.

Her violet eyes focused slowly, and it was uncertain whether her bewilderment stemmed from her transformation…or Gar’s earlier tongue-lashing.

“Your hair…” Gar said, his lagging brain offering the last detail first.

Aristhre looked at him distractedly, then gathered up a few locks. She peered at the loosened curls and unusual coloring with pursed lips. Her formerly black tresses had become a striking mix of blond and dark brown.

“It’s the shell,” she muttered after a moment. Her chest heaved a deep sigh. “It grows very thin.”

Aris’s pensive expression prompted Gar to press a worried hand to her leg. Despite the change in her countenance, he still didn’t feel the strange buzz of divine power thrumming across her skin.

“But all remains well?”

She nodded, pushing the errant blonde and brown strands behind an ear. “My lover is…talented at making his goddess fly apart, it seems.” Her smile was rueful, but there was satisfaction in the words.

Her gaze lingered on his. As Gar watched, a look of sudden determination overtook her prior languor.

“We will not be denied,” she declared. Before he could answer, Aris started gathering up her tabard with purposeful motions. She fought it over her head and tossed it to the floor. “I am not sated. Are you?”

Gar’s mouth went dry. Apart from her citrine choker and hose—which were snugged extra tight on her newly generous thighs—Aristhre’s nakedness was on full display. Her breasts had grown along with her curves, although the same peaked nipples still demanded his attention. But it was her refreshed hunger that he found most intoxicating. Aris’s covetous gaze, disheveled hair, and wet, swollen sex promised a glorious renewal of their lovemaking.

She reached down to take his hands, and tugged him onto unsteady legs. “Take me to bed,” she told him, her violet eyes alight. “I need you inside me.”

It was surprising to discover he could grow even harder than he'd been.

Together, they helped Gar remove his clothes and added another tangled heap to the floor. Aristhre ran her hands across his shoulders and chest, admiring his form with parted lips. Then she shook her head, muttering about “scant time,” and forced herself away. Moving to the bed, her lovely rear beckoning, she shoved the blanket off before climbing on.

Aris settled her torso against the single large pillow. Then, with her eyes locked on Gar’s, she let her legs fall open.

He practically leapt onto the mattress. The ropes creaked, and she exhaled a breathy laugh. Then he was crawling over her lithe form, positioning his body above hers, and her expression turned ravenous in a blink. There was the briefest pause before their lips crashed together in mutual passion. The kiss was searing, desperate, set off by mutual sounds of longing.

Her hands clutched at his shoulders, his back, his arse. She pulled, making her desire clear even as their tongues battled. He broke the kiss and paused to suckle the nipple he’d missed before, Aris moaned, but renewed her pulling.

“Now, my sweet,” she demanded. “Please. ”

Gar was happy to do as requested—his attempt at being a masterful lover was no match for his ardent need to join their bodies. They both knew this would not be a soft coupling. He positioned his hips above her splayed thighs…and seated himself with one thrust.

They both cried out from the sensation. Her arms fell away to clutch the bed’s ticking as Gar moved inside her with short, desperate motions. He wouldn’t last long, not with the erotic sight of Aris’s breasts bouncing each time he slammed home. The pleasure was already pooling in his groin.

“Aris,” he panted, “Your aura…”

Divine energy was beginning to gather in wisps over the rounded contours of her shoulders, twining itself about her upper arms like smoke. The heated air suddenly felt charged in a different way. Her divinity was returning.

She shook her head fiercely, as if in denial. “Don’t stop,” she begged, moving her hands up and down his chest. She lifted her head, hooded eyes intent on watching his cock enter her. “Don’t stop,” she repeated. “I think—” Her thighs suddenly gripped his hips tight. She rocked her head back hard, fanning her brown-blonde hair across the pillow. “Infinite unknown,” she gasped. “You…you drive me on so.”

Her aura was growing stronger, pure colorless power that made her hair began to rise and float. It didn’t matter. He could not bring himself to stop partaking in her body.

Aristhre’s thighs tightened further on another ragged exhale, and he felt her cunny clench hard. “Unhhh. Faster…”

He did his best to comply, but this only brought his own crisis closer. “So wet,” he grunted, “yet you grip me…” …like a goddess , he thought. “Dearest, I cannot⁠—”

Aristhre breathing sharpened. Her belly tightened as her inner muscles spasmed. “A-already?” she cried. For a moment Gar thought she was dismayed he wouldn’t last, but then her gasps blurred into a wail. Her pelvis rose from the bed, and Gar realized she was speaking of her own release.

As her pussy contracted around his cock, the sounds of her ecstasy were all it took for a bright ball of pleasure to explode into one of the greatest orgasms of his life.

His cock jumped from the force of it, emptying his seed into her even as he kept thrusting. Together, they rode the shimmering waves of pleasure that crashed on far shores and rolled back along their straining limbs. Their shouts mingled like their bodies as the seemingly endless feeling slowly abated into delicious vestiges and aftershocks.

At last, they lay still. After a time, their sweat-slicked limbs found each other and, without a word, they pulled themselves into a tight hug.

“Hold…these hose are too tight ,” she complained with a breathless laugh. She made to sit, but Gar gently pressed her back down.

“Allow me, my lady.”

He ran a playful finger between her breasts and down her belly as he sat up, turning Aristhre’s laugh turn into a partial squeal.

“Don’t tickle ,” she scolded, but her smile was soft and she made no real effort to stop his attentions.

She lay there, her reformed aura flaring with sensual sleepiness, while Gar rolled each legging down and tugged it loose. Aris sighed and stretched when he was done.

“Thank you, my sweet.”

He resumed his place beside her, and, before she could say aught, pulled her halfway onto his chest. Aristhre’s divinity was apparent now, and his skin tingled where one delectable breast pushed against his body.

“We should not—” she began.

“Only for a minute or two,” he murmured.

She relented, and began tracing idle patterns on his skin. Just as the whispers of sensation from her fingers began to make him drowsy, she raised her head to regard him.

“What?” he asked softly.

Aristhre shook her head, saying nothing, but there was a look in her eyes that made every weary footstep from Meadowhay to Caliah worth the trip—ten times over. Twenty.

“Aris…”

She shushed him. With slow deliberation she leaned down to press the most tender of kisses over his beating heart. Gar’s pulse, spurred by profound joy, quickened beneath her lips.

28

GAR

“W e must distance ourselves, Gar. Already it has been too long.”

Gar didn’t think it had been nearly long enough, and Aristhre’s reluctant tone seemed to agree with him. Yet still she rose from his chest and carefully slid off the bed. He started to do the same, but she bade him to lie back.

“You need to rest. You are exhausted.”

Before his instinctive protest could be voiced, she silenced him with a look that could best be described as “exasperated goddess.”

“Will you truly deny what is evident?” she said. Though Aris had suppressed her aura, he caught a lick of its energy as she raised her eyebrows. “Don’t get mannish.”

A surprised, almost giddy laugh burst from him. “Mannish?” he asked. “Is that what I am being?”

Her plush lips threatened to smile. “It is.”

“I think you like me when I’m mannish,” he challenged. He waggled his own eyebrows in a ridiculous way.

“Thou art a stoneheaded flirt,” she declared archly. Then she snorted—an extra delightful sound coming from a goddess—and her smile emerged like a ray of sun. “And yet I am taken with you all the same.”

Gar grinned. It was as if he could feel her affection collecting in his soul, fortifying every piece of him.

Aristhre bent down to retrieve the blanket from the floor. She made to drape it over him.

“I still need to wash—” His mouth snapped shut as invisible forces winded along his limbs and over his startled flesh. “Be care -ful,” he yelped as Aristhre directed what felt like solidified air around his nethers—including his manhood, which was given suspiciously thorough attention.

“You are washed,” she said, her innocent tone undermined by the poorly concealed smirk that followed. She completed her own ablutions with a simple turn, her aura briefly flaring to life like a twirled dress.

Still half-bewildered from his magical scrubbing, Gar allowed himself to be tucked beneath the blanket. “There’s no need to fuss,” he grumbled, even as he cozied himself into the down pillow. The moment his head was cushioned, his jaws sprang apart in a massive yawn. “That was naught but habit,” he muttered. “I am wi…ide awake.” He scowled at being interrupted by a second yawn.

“I want you to rest . I'll be right back.” Aris raised her arm, and layers of sheer otherworldly fabric began to coalesce around her body.

Gar made a feeble noise of protest. “Must you?” he mock-complained.

Her arm dropped, and the layers of material faded into nothingness. She placed her hand on her hip, flaunting her beautifully bared curves. “As you wish,” she said, offering an impish smile.

He nestled deeper into the pillow with a contented sigh. “You make my every dream come true,” he murmured.

“We’ll see.” The secretive smile broadened.

Speaking of dreams… “Aris, may I ask you something?” When she nodded, Gar said, “Your appearance. Why hasn't it changed to match what I saw in our shared dream?”

The woman before him was still the enticing mix of Aris and Eadyth, right down to the brown-blonde tumble of her hair. The summer aspect he’d seen at the bottom of the Headstone was present in small ways, but mostly just in the maturity of her bearing and those lush, kissable lips—which were now pursing.

“Why do you ask?” The words held a formality that hadn't been present before.

Gar groaned. “No, pray do not misunderstand. My words sound blunt, but I am only curious.” Would he ever master the art of delicacy? “ ‘Twas not about the comeliness I see before me,” he said softly. “You know how besotted I am with every version of you I've seen.” And every version I haven’t , he added silently.

Aristhre scrutinized his face and seemed to find the truth in his words. The set of her shoulders eased. “I apologize. In addition to my visage there are other…echoes of Eadyth.” Pause. “She had doubts about her looks.”

“Ill-founded ones,” Gar said, winking. Thank the gods being cheeky was one thing he knew how to do well.

Caught off-guard, Aris smiled. She ducked her head shyly, running her disordered locks behind her ears with her hands. “Mayhap,” she admitted. “And to answer your question, it seems my rash adventure has permanently altered my summer aspect.” She didn't sound displeased, and Gar was glad to see defiance in the way she raised her chin. “Eadyth is akin to a new stone laid in the jewelry of my being.” She tapped her broach for emphasis.

“One most suited for Caliah,” he said with conviction.

She gazed at him tenderly, then turned away.

“Where are you going?”

“Not far,” she promised.

For now. The gloomy thought came to him unbidden, and he batted it away like a buzzing fly. He didn’t want to face it. Not yet.

Arriving at the window, Aristhre stretched out her hand. A blur of yellow flitted into the room. A bird? The small chirping finch landed on Aris’s finger with an orderly flap of wings. It's tiny head twitched to look around as she whispered to it. Then she fluttered her fingers and it flew back into the night.

“Did you just talk to a bird?” Gar asked, eyes wide.

“No. Birds have little to discuss.” Aris’s lips crooked. “She is relaying a message for me.”

He sat up a little straighter, stifling another yawn. “What message?” In truth, his eyelids were growing heavy; it was damned vexing.

“I will tell you if I receive the answer I'm hoping for. I don't wish to disappoint you.”

Aris returned to the bed, trailing her graceful fingers along the ticking. Her nakedness held too much to appreciate, a loveliness beyond the carnal. Gods…she was all that was worthy in a woman. Kindness, virtue, and fire—with none of the blinding perfection that had nearly driven him out of his skull in the Undergarden.

“Come back to bed,” he entreated. “I give my word I won't seduce you.”

“I would not allow it,” she said firmly. And then her eyes traced his blanketed form and she bit her lip.

The doubt that flickered across her face made him feel taller than a tower of Okomor statues. But even if Aris would allow herself to be drawn into another bout of lovemaking, he knew she would feel genuinely guilty afterward. Gar didn’t want that. And, if he were honest with himself, he was in no rush to encounter the bone-deep pain that had accompanied their hilltop bedsport—hillsport?—a second time.

“I’ll behave,” he said, unable to keep a mournful tone from his voice.

She hummed uncertainly, but then raised the blanket and slid in beside him. It was wonderful. It was maddening. The few inches between their bodies was an unbridgeable chasm.

Her head settled on the same broad pillow, and they stared into each other’s eyes. Goddess and man. Mortal and divine.

“Gar…you don’t have to continue this. You know that, right?”

He frowned. Mayhap he was sleepier than he thought.

“Continue?” he asked.

“The journey.” Her eyes flicked towards the geas, out of sight beneath the blanket. “You are not compelled. I…I just wanted you to know that.”

Gar didn’t answer. There was something in her expression, an edge of frustration. Could it relate to something he had done? It didn't feel that way.

“I could…” she swallowed. “I could remove the geas. It is still possible.”

No…there was something she wasn’t saying. This conversation wasn’t about him, it was about them. He was certain Aris wasn't rejecting him, not after all that had happened. But what was he missing?

“Are you saying my journey is over?” he asked. “That we can be together as I have hoped?” Gar didn’t believe that either. It wasn't…right. But he waited. When her eyes slid from his, he knew he’d hit upon that much of the truth.

“Gar…I…” her mouth worked. She sighed, and tried again. “I can end the geas.”

“And then what?”

Her mouth firmed. “And then you can return to Meadowhay. Where you will be safe.” She grimaced faintly. “Where I won’t worry about what may happen to you.”

Gar continued to study her. She continued to avoid his gaze.

Slowly—very slowly—he was beginning to make sense of the complicated world he had stepped into. As he watched fleeting expressions of bitterness and anger chase each other over Aris’s face, a new understanding dawned.

“Know the bounds of the field before you plant,” he muttered.

Her brow furrowed. “What?”

“It’s a saying in Meadowhay.” One that suited despite its humble origin. The divine “crops” of this particular field may be beyond him, but Gar knew he’d just discovered a boundary line. Formless creation…knowing there were such lines in matters of the gods nearly cooked his brain.

“I am aware of the adage,” Aris was saying hesitantly. “Why do you⁠—”

“You can’t accept my suit, can you?” he said. “Even if you wanted to. You aren't allowed.”

Her eyes widened in surprise before flooding with warmth. “Clever Gar,” she said wistfully. Then her gaze filled with a sadness that sent unease tromping through his innards.

29

GAR

G ar didn’t fully understand. He didn't know if Aristhre could have agreed to his proposal at the spring festival, only that any such chance had long departed. The simple villager who dwelled within his breast was scoffing at his certainty, but the seasoned traveler he was becoming was far less surprised.

It made a strange kind of sense.

While a man and woman might easily start a life in his village, he and Aris had journeyed far from Meadowhay in more ways than one. The distance felt as vast as the gulf between a goddess and a man, or the impassible inches separating two yearning bodies in a warm bed.

“When I gave you permission to court me,” Aris told him quietly, “I created naught but a simple geas…at the time it seemed the best way to make you reconsider the dangers.” She shook her head without lifting it from the pillow, and a lock of hair caught at the corner of her mouth. “I might have guessed it would acquire a force of its own.”

Her body stilled as Gar delicately pinched the errant strands, guiding them away from her lips without touching her.

“Thank you.” Her throat worked, and again he saw that glimmer of emotion that went deeper than fondness and affection—at least he thought it did. He wanted to name it, to declare it and have her reciprocate, but Aristhre spoke on.

“Some paths are carved in the foundations of existence, Gar. Even the gods do not know when one will…manifest underfoot.”

“And one has manifested here?” he guessed, raising his marked arm under the blanket.

She nodded. “It is noteworthy that you sensed it. You might have been an accomplished spellworker in another life.”

“There’s a brazen claim,” Gar said doubtfully. “Do you know I spent most of my journey worried that your mark was naught but a tattoo?”

Aris smiled. “This power is different from divine energy. Older. Only the Paired Monarchs seem to understand it…and they keep their counsel.” Her levity faded. “I sent you to Caliah to dissuade you, but I should have known better. You were too stubborn, too…brave. Every step you have taken since has empowered the geas, grown it beyond me. Beyond us . You tread a sacred path now. A questing way.”

Gar’s heart thumped, both from Aristhre declaring him brave…and the import of her news. Exhilaration warred with queasiness in his stomach. He’d been more right than he could have guessed.

“What does that mean?”

“I can give only broad answers.” She lay her hand on the pillow between them. “Such paths will test you to your limits…and oft push you past them.” Her mouth tightened. “Destiny may be guiding you, my sweet, but this is not a fae tale. There are no certainties. Death waits along every questing way, and it hungers for your failure.”

Gar searched her face, seeking words to ease the distress he could see in her eyes—the task helped him ignore his own knotting gut. “I will walk any path if you lie at the end of it, Aris.”

The goddess’s hollowed-out laugh held no humor. “It is easy to say such things, Gar, but I do not know where the path leads.” She rolled onto her back “I can set the next step, but where you will go is not the same as what you may find.” She worried her lips with her teeth. “And I sense shapes in the dark, the outlines of things that may yet be…and grow afraid.”

“What do you fear?” He wanted to rub his palm over her bare shoulder, soothe with his touch, but that might make things worse. So he strove to infuse comfort into his words instead. “Surely a goddess has little to be afraid of.”

Aristhre’s aura flared like a fiery crown. Its appearance was so sudden that Gar drew back on the pillow. The lashing, agitated energy mirrored the anger in her gaze as she answered him, each word landing like a spear jab. “Do you think my heart so impervious?”

His breath seized. The meaning of Aristhre’s response, the wonderful truth behind it, was as clear as her outraged eyes…and his mistake had robbed the moment of joy. Gar realized, too late, that his effort to cajole her out of melancholy had been callous.

I’m still naught but a blundering lout. “Aris…” He tried to go on, but found that her admission had raised a lump in his throat. Of course he'd known this was no dalliance, but to hear the woman he loved acknowledge the same? He coughed. “I’m sorry,” he said roughly. “Truly. Please forgive me.”

He offered his hand without thinking, then winced at his stupidity. But Aris’s fingertips gently clasped his before he could pull them back. Dangerous or not, he sighed in relief. That tingle of power was reassuring when it was her power.

“Go back to Meadowhay.” Aristhre pleaded, her words fierce with hope. “You can still go back, Gar. Do so and I will come to you every month. We will spend time together. Mayhap I can even fashion another mortal shell. We could tarry a day or even more.” Her beautiful eyes entreated his.

It was tempting…more tempting than her earlier promise. After the spring festival she had offered one night a year to keep him from making the dangerous trek to Caliah. This offer was better in every way. A chance to see his goddess each month, to while away time as mortals—albeit briefly.

But it still wasn’t enough.

He tightened his fingers on hers, welcoming the sensation of her essence. “Fair Aris,” he began, “if you tell me there is no other way, that this is the only way I can be with you…then I will turn back today.” He swallowed. “But if there exists a way to dwell by your side permanently…” As your husband , he thought. “…as your consort,” he said, “then I must walk it.”

Aristhre’s eyes had turned more ethereal as he spoke, a violet-hued liquid sunset. Closing them, she slowly brought his hand up and pressed her lips to it. When she broke the kiss, Gar felt a trail of heat along the seam of his fingers. A tear.

“Don’t cry,” he whispered.

Letting his hand go, Aristhre sat up beside him and arranged herself in a cross-legged pose. She pulled the blanket over her naked shoulders and settled a solemn expression upon him. Her aura rose up, making the hairs on his arms rise with it. Save for the sparkle in her lashes, she was the picture of a remote and powerful goddess.

“Gar of Meadowhay ,” she pronounced in the divine speech. “My mark remains upon you. You fulfill it as long as you remain true. ” She faltered, her chin dipping, to gather herself. Raising her head, she was a commanding deity once more. “Seek me in the heart of the plains, beneath the mountain known as Ironhome. ”

Gar’s abdomen tensed. The east? The endless plains? In his kingdom it was said that they could hold no history, as none had succeeded in taming so much as a hillock. The only thing that came out of the plains were impossible-sounding legends about nightmarish monsters. Formless creation…he wondered if even Okomor’s book had aught to say about such trackless wilds.

“No roads exist ,” Aristhre warned, as if she sensed him wavering, “and the trails change every season. You will require a guide to shepherd you past barbarian tribes and orc clans. You will be pressed to survive myriad hardships and the ferocious beasts that roam the land. ”

Her words conjured a memory. He thought of the hulking barbarians in the Undergarden, recalling their dense capes of crimson fur. The hide of those cloaks had been an inch thick! What manner of creature could have worn it?

“Neither my spring nor summer aspect will aid you ,” Aristhre said. “As before, there will be no divine guidance. ” For a moment the remote look faded from her eyes, and she studied him with such intensity that his heart twinged. “But I will be watching.” A promise.

“I am glad of that,” he said, not quite trusting his voice.

Resuming her tall bearing, the goddess asked, “Do you wish to reconsider? ”

Months ago she had asked the same question. He remembered the sun’s jagged rays in his eyes and the high hill standing in the distance, its slopes bedecked with tatters of morning mist. Now it was night, and he was abed in a strange room that was not a room, but his answer was unchanged. Sitting up to face her, Gar squared his shoulders and set his jaw.

“I will seek the mountain of Ironhome,” he vowed.

Aristhre’s lips trembled for a bare instant, so quick he wasn’t sure if he’d imagined it. She nodded.

“So be it. You must arrive before the end of autumn, when the tribes and clans gather for the Contest of Iron. I warn you now, my autumn aspect may…try your expectations. ” Was there a nervous edge in her regal tone?

Feeling chagrined, Gar’s answer came easily. “Expectations oft lead a man astray.” Caliah had taught him much on that score. “I say again it is you I find beautiful. No matter your aspect, you will ever be radiant in my eyes.”

Aris’s aura faded to reveal a faint wash of pink coloring her cheeks. She made a noise then, a wordless sound between a sigh and a sob as she reached out…and stopped. Her fingers wavered an inch from his cheek. “Gar,” she breathed, “swear to me you will be careful.”

“I will,” he promised, wishing he could take her hand again. “Do not fear I will lack for caution. The path may be shrouded, but I have already tasted the joy at its end.” He dared to kiss one of her poised fingers, earning the reward of her upturned lips. “Only a fool would squander this chance. Is Gar of Meadowhay a fool? Nay.” He cocked his head. “Stoneheaded? A flirt? Well…” He waggled his hand and shrugged.

She laughed then. It sounded somewhat forced, but the humor in her eyes was real enough. “I already know the answer to that.”

“You goddesses know everything.”

“T’would not take a goddess to see it,” she teased.

“Aye, I expect not.”

They shared a quiet moment, lingering in each other’s gazes.

A loud thump sounded at the window. Gar leaned to stare past Aristhre, expecting to see a small bird. He started violently.

“Shuddering Zhud!”

The owl was massive, its round yellow eyes looking distinctly unimpressed from its perch on the sill. Gar eyed the gouged wood beneath its clinging, fist-sized talons.

“That beast may have eaten your finch,” he murmured.

“It has brought my answer.” Aris stood up, blocking his view of the owl but offering the much-preferred sight of her unclothed backside. She strode over to the great bird so blithely that he almost called out a warning—before remembering who she was.

Aristhre leaned close, her brows pinched, as the bird nearly touched its beak to her ear. Her face broke into such a beauteous smile that Gar’s heart jolted in his chest. Gods…to see her happy like that every day.

“Give him my honored thanks,” Aris told the owl.

It leapt from the sill, its flapping wings fading into the night. She faced him with a mysterious smile.

“It is time to sleep.”

30

GAR

A sinking feeling enveloped Gar. Why was Aristhre acting happy about this?

“I’m not that tired,” he said mulishly. As if summoned by the lie, a yawn stretched his jaws wide enough to pop. Dragon’s balls.

“You need to sleep,” she retorted, stepping closer. Her naked breasts had suddenly become the cruelest of taunts.

“I want to be with you longer.”

Aris’s smile grew wider, and at last blossomed into the bright one he never tired of. “You shall. Fethir has given his permission. We will be allowed to commune in his realm.”

“Fethir? The god of sleep?” Understanding dawned. “You mean⁠—”

“We will share a dream,” she said, unable to hide her own excitement. Pulling back the covers, she slid in beside him. The deliberate space she left between them still felt like a chasm, but Gar knew she was keeping him safe.

With a wave of Aris’s hand, the lamp overhead extinguished. In the dark her aura was just visible as a faint glow. It grew brighter as she leaned forward to delicately brush her lips against his.

“Sleep well, my sweet,” she breathed.

“If you are with me it is assured,” he whispered.

Gar thought it would take a long time to slip under. The promise that they would be together—to be able to touch and embrace—made him thrum with anticipation. But, as Aris stilled beside him, laying her head near his on the single large pillow, a final titanic yawn gripped him. Within mere moments he felt consciousness drift away.

It was the best dream of his life.

Aris met him in the village square of Meadowhay, attired in the same gossamer dress she wore to the spring festival. The elder folk were chatting in front of the shrine as they did, while others went around their business. No one paid them any mind. It felt good to be home.

His goddess took his hand, and they danced in the sunlight while Bila played her fiddle from the broad stoop in front of the tavern.

Aristhre laughed as she spun around, her blonde hair flung out like a shimmering curtain, and he thrilled to bring her back into the circle of his arms and hold her close. Aris’s fond smile slowly turned sultry. Her violet gaze flashed with wicked intent, and the dream changed.

Gar and Aristhre stood on the high hill. It was dusk, and the grandest sunset he’d ever witnessed was painting the sky in yellows, oranges, and reds. He wasn’t wearing clothes, but it wasn’t like one of those dreams where a lack of clothes meant embarrassment—for Aris was there, and she was also naked.

It was one of those dreams.

They made love, awash in the colors of dusk, and time seemed to stretch and contract as lazily as Aristhre’s languid sighs and moans. Theirs was a slow, exquisite coupling, and it never seemed to end. When they both finally cried out in mutual release, the waves of pleasure went on for what felt like hours.

Another blur, and Gar was seeing different waves, distant blue furrows that were far bigger than the pond ripples he was used to. They rolled endlessly beneath a sky colored an even richer blue. Gar looked down. He was wearing naught but his leggings, and his bare feet stood in warm sand that ran in both directions towards far away cliffs.

Aris took his hand. She was once more attired in her spring dress, but he saw that she wore lilac hose and had Eadyth’s dark, curly hair. She noticed it whipping in the breeze and her mouth crooked in amusement. “This will not be the last time I dream of being Eadyth.”

He chuckled. “I think that is to be expected.” He looked back out over the vast water, marveling as it crashed against the sand in blinding foamy white. “Is this an ocean?”

“It is,” she said, her teeth as bright as the foam. “I wanted you to see.”

He wrapped his hand around hers, and they walked for a time along the sand, letting the cool water lap over their ankles.

The dream went on, changing times and places. They teased, they talked, they made love…and then they did it all again. Aristhre was the one constant. Her appearance sometimes shifted—influenced by her many aspects—but she was always Aris, and her smile was the same.

Just as Gar began to wonder if he had died in his sleep and arrived in an afterlife more rewarding than he deserved, Aristhre told him it was time to wake up.

She appeared as her Meadowhay aspect, but with a citrine broach around her neck. They stood in Caliah amidst the streets of Westhalf. She gripped his hands in hers as a rooster’s raucous call greeted the dawn-lit sky.

“We must depart now, my sweet.”

“I do not want to,” he said simply.

“Nor I,” she agreed.

They came together in a final passionate kiss. It left his mouth tingling and his heart racing, and he wondered if she had kissed him in the waking world as well.

Then a jarring shock traveled up his leg, and the dream world dissolved.

Another impact, and Gar awoke into groggy uncertainty. The third arrived with a spark of pain across the bottom of his sandaled foot.

“Oyea! Up with ya, miscreant.”

Gar blinked heavy-lidded eyes, finding himself peering up at a lanky drooping man with a lanky, drooping mustache. The man wore a coif, but a greasy lock of hair had escaped to curl over his blotchy forehead.

“Who are you?” Gar asked. His voice was rusty after the long sleep.

“Adonn,” the man spat. “The innkeep of this fine establishment you are squatting in .”

Gar stared up, digesting the man’s words slowly. He turned to look around and winced as his back complained.

“Ah,” he said.

He was betwixt the first and second floors of the Pickled Wolf, leaning against the bare wall where a door had once stood. He’d been in this position for some time judging by the stiffness. There could be no doubt, then. She was gone.

“Don’t know how you were overlooked,” Adonn grumbled, “but I won’t stand for it. That’ll be one gate or I call the guard.”

With his head still reeling from Aristhre’s absence, Gar fumbled at his belt pouch. The gate would cost him dearly, and he would need money for a guide. So it went. He could always eat light—or not at all—for a few days.

Gar frowned at the weight of the leather bag. It was practically bulging in his hands. Unlacing it, he peered inside. A sizable number of gates glinted back at him, as well as two grimy white discs that could only be the valuable tusks he’d heard of.

Eadyth’s earnings , he thought suddenly, and knew it for truth.

“Pay,” Adonn demanded. “Now. ”

He reared back for another kick, but Gar quickly retracted his foot. He glared at the innkeep, then quickly fished a gate out from his replenished pouch.

“Here.”

Adonn stared suspiciously at the coin, rubbing it with a greasy thumb for good measure. Satisfied, he turned and started down the steps. “You can avail yourself of breakfast,” he said grudgingly over one shoulder. “Included in the price.”

“Hold,” Gar called after him, hastily adding, “good innkeep.”

Adonn turned with the speed of a broken mill wheel, his teeth clenched. “What.”

“I have a question.” He licked dry lips. “Do…do you recall Eadyth?”

Adonn eyed him like he was mad, but then a flicker of recognition passed over his features. “Wait…Eadyth? Aye. She’s a guide. Used her a few times.”

His face grew confused. He blinked slowly, and brought his eyes up to the wall above Gar. He seemed uneasy for a moment, but then shook his head and waved his hands, dismissing Gar and the landing as if neither was worth the trouble.

“Where is she anyway?” he asked abruptly, almost pushing the question out.

Gar climbed slowly to his feet, wincing as pins-and-needles raced through his limbs. He offered the suspicious innkeep a tired smile. “Gone,” he said. “She left.”

“Where to?”

“East,” he replied, moving down the steps with Adonn. “Into the plains.”

Adonn snorted. “Must be barmy,” he muttered under his breath. “Who goes east ?”

Giving into the oddest impulse, Gar laughed, and felt his heart grow inexplicably light. The remnants of the dream still wrapped him like a warm cloak, and soon he would get to leave the crowded streets of Caliah.

“The woman I love,” he answered, laughing again at the strange wonderful thing his life had become.

Adonn’s reply was a surly snort he probably reserved for raving madmen. Gar grinned. The innkeep could think what he liked, but Gar was looking forward to fresh air and open spaces—and to a mountain that towered impossibly high above a flat endless plain, a mountain he had glimpsed last night in a dream shared with a goddess.

Aristhre was going east.

And Gar of Meadowhay was going with her.

EPILOGUE

ARISTHRE

A risthre stepped off of the high road into lush ferns and delicate azalea bushes. The plants’ leaves whipped from the disturbed air, shedding their morning dew in a glitter of moisture. She ran her finger along the seam of one leaf and glanced up. The sky visible through the hole in the Undergarden’s roof was the color of a fading bruise.

Walking unhurriedly through the thick foliage, Aris emerged onto a simple flagstone path. She dried her dress with a twitch of two fingers, and turned to face the ostentatious plum-colored tent dominating the clearing ahead.

Desora had left the way completely open. There were no wards, no barriers, and no warnings acting on either mortal or divine senses. Aristhre would have shattered any obstacle in her way regardless, but she appreciated being able to skip the fuss.

She found her sister in the inner chamber, lounging on a bed of silk and covered by an assortment of furs. She was not alone.

“Good morning, sister,” Desora said in a throaty voice. “You look…different. Did you have a happy night feast? I did.” She stretched her legs luxuriantly, but kept her arms around the sleeping man on one side and the sleeping woman on the other.

“I would speak with you,” Aristhre said.

Desora mock-shivered. “Spoken as frigidly as that dreadful winter aspect of yours.” She sighed. “But I expected no less.”

“Alone ,” Aris clarified.

Her sister rolled her eyes. She turned her head to whisper to one mortal, then the other. Gently prising her arms from beneath the stirring lovers, she pushed herself up against the pillows while they rose. Aristhre masked her presence with a thought, waiting for the unwitting pair to stumble sleepily from the chamber.

“There.” Desora lazily waved a palm and clothed herself in a conjured gown of pale yellow trimmed in gold. Dropping the heavy canvas barrier with a flutter of fingers, she sealed it with a ward. “And now none will hear us even if you scream at me.”

Aristhre clenched her fists. The urge to do just that—and perhaps twist her sister’s tasteless tent into a heap of torn cloth and splintered wood—was a powerful temptation.

“Your actions were repulsive ,” she seethed, every word trembling with emotion. “I am used to the disrespect you show me, but your wanton cruelty to Gar⁠—”

“Don’t you mean your Gar?” Desora shot back waspishly.

“You abused a mortal!” Aristhre shouted, surprising a jump out of her sister.

An image of Gar came then, the first time Eadyth had spotted him at the Westmost Terrace—after his harrowing ordeal in the Undergarden. He’d been brimming with eagerness, but she hadn’t missed the tired smudges beneath his eyes or the echoes of pain in his expression.

“My disgust would be the same had you treated any mortal that way,” she ground out, “but this…anger? The rage you feel pressing against your senses? Yes, sister,” she said softly, “that is from what you did to my Gar.” Aristhre didn't dispute Desora’s insinuation of possessiveness, she reveled in it.

The goddess of beauty, lust, and love finally seemed to realize her affectation of carelessness had been a dangerous mistake. She sat forward, her face suddenly drawn. “Aristhre, I was only⁠—”

“If you ever go near…” Aris began. She halted, forced to restrain the power rising within her like a trapped tempest.

Desora watched with wide eyes as Aristhre’s aura surged about her body, a reflection of the inner battle she waged with her own dark impulses. It took a worryingly long time to subside.

“If you ever go near him again,” Aris repeated, her voice half as loud and twice as dangerous, “I will tear you from this world. I will drag you out over the sea of formless creation, bind you with my wrath, and bleed your essence into its bottomless depths .”

It was no idle threat. Both of them knew that Aristhre’s centuries of quiet service had provided her with a well of power much greater than her narrow embodiment would suggest.

A brittle silence fell over the tent. Desora did nothing for a moment, then tried for a casual shrug. She abandoned it halfway through. “It does not matter anyway.” The goddess’s perfect complexion had never looked so pale. “The Monarchs already know. I wonder, Aris…were you the one to tell them?”

“I have been with Gar,” Aristhre answered. It was news to her—welcome news.

“Then it must have been Okomor.” Desora’s finger idly toyed with the bedding. “As I say, it matters not. I am being summoned to the Host of Ages early.”

Aristhre crushed the mote of sympathy she suddenly felt. Her sister had never fared well in the shallows beyond the edge of the Adamant World, where the eternal campaign against besieging monsters was waged. All gods were required to participate, but Desora had not been a fighter in her mortal life, and her embodiment was the antithesis of war. Worse, this was the First King’s year; his ruthlessness as commanding general was known to all the gods.

“A longer stint in the shallows may serve to remind you how fortunate we are to be in this world, and how important it is to fulfill our entire embodiment.” She didn’t need to point out that Desora had been a poor steward of love in recent decades. “It is a fitting punishment.” Aristhre meant it, but the stubborn mote of sympathy was not entirely extinguished. She turned to go.

“Your geas cut deep, sister,” Desora called out. Her voice held nary a trace of her usual petulance.

“Because you acted against your divine purpose.” Aristhre strode toward the silk hangings framing the exit.

Desora waited until Aris’s hands parted the curtain to speak again. “The geas was empowered by my embodiment on both ends.” Aris stilled, but said nothing. “That is why it hurt me so. It was anchored.”

Curse her sister for making her curious! “Anchored?” she forced through gritted teeth.

“By love , dearest sister,” came the tiredly amused voice behind her. “Pure and true. Sweet as a spring rain…or perhaps a summer storm.” Pause. “Did you know the depths of your feelings for him, I wonder?”

This last pathetic barb made Aristhre look over her shoulder. In this moment, more than anything else, Aris felt sorry for the other goddess. She scoffed, not even trying to hide her pity.

“As if I need you to tell me the contents of my own heart.”

* * *

DESORA

The curtains fell closed. The goddess of festivals and feasts was gone.

Desora sank back onto the pillows, staring up at the shadowy recesses above. Her face held no slyness or artifice now—it was too much work to maintain. Besides, it wasn’t as if she could fool herself.

She held up her arm and gazed at it. Her flawless skin showed no signs of the injuries inflicted by Aristhre’s geas, but its memory reminded her of the wound she always carried.

Gradually, a new emotion sifted into her expression. Had any of her attendants seen they would have been shocked. How often does one get a chance to witness despondency marring the goddess of beauty’s perfect face? Part of her was tempted to let them look. Just for the novelty.

Desora closed her eyes, picturing that delicate golden thread linking Aristhre and her mortal. She had glimpsed it when she’d touched him, in the instant before being struck by the geas. Their love had flowed through her spirit like a nourishing stream, and left her feeling parched when it was gone.

The goddess sighed and covered her eyes with the heels of her hands. It would not do to cry over a mere mortal’s paltry offering of love.

Infinite unknown…had she come to this now? Telling herself direct lies? Desora shook her head with a contemptuous sniff. She’d been deceiving herself for much longer than that, laboring mightily these long decades to convince herself that her heart was stone. All for naught.

Because stone also breaks.

“I am sorry, sister,” she murmured into the silken silence. “I did not know.”

Tears slipped from beneath the cages of her palms.

I did not know.

AFTERWORD

You don't have to be a bumpkinish villager to be overwhelmed by Caliah, so congratulations on making it out of the big city! I hope you enjoyed this portion of Gar and Aristhre's journey.

The tone of Summer is very different from Spring, and that's by design. While every entry is a romance, I wanted each season to feel unique. Spring was the meet-cute, Summer is a tense mystery, and Autumn will be a rollicking fantasy adventure! Winter is...no, never mind. I better keep some secrets.

My approach may not be the smartest move in a genre that enjoys consistency, but I'm treating it as a fun experiment; I hope you'll continue on with me when the air turns cool and crisp. Next time there won't be any terrifying roads bored out of a cliff—because there won't be any roads at all!

Thanks for reading. As always, your kind words and continued interest keeps me at the keyboard, filled with gratitude and eager to write. Until next season, my friends!

—K. R. Treadway

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

K. R. Treadway follows his bliss by writing kissing books. He’s still besotted with his wife after twenty years of a shared HEA, and even more of a hopeless romantic than when he started. His website can be found at krtreadway.com .

STORIES BY K. R. TREADWAY

THE WORLD OF CHARLOTTE’S SPIDERS

Modern life…only more feral. These paranormal romances feature kissing, claws, and mate bonds!

Charlotte’s Reject (Novel)

Joseph’s senior year is transformed—literally!—when his wolf shifter bully turns out to be his mate. More info here .

THE ADAMANT WORLD

A land of adventure in a sea of formless creation! Dangerous love interests, exotic combat, and dark sorcery abound in these fantasy romances.

To Love a Goddess: Spring (Short)

Gar of Meadowhay, a humble field hand, risks divine wrath when he asks a goddess to dance.

To Love a Goddess: Summer (Novel)

After a harrowing journey, Gar’s quest threatens to unravel in the menacing maze known as Caliah.

His Orc Charioteer Bride (Novel)

A human captive of the vile Ben-Inar finds himself wedded to an orc warrior woman. More info here .

Details about K. R. Treadway’s latest work can be found at krtreadway.com .

Interested in the Romance for Men community? You can find relevant links here .