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22 | The Approaching Storm

Rain fell outside the Court of Balance. Belthore watched from the window as the waves of Port Vontil washed to shore and then raced out again, his mind heavy and burdened. Behind him, the most high-profile members of his Court took their seats at the oval table and awaited his word. He gazed at their reflections—the anger, worry, or satisfaction already etched on their faces—and heaved a long sigh.

If only war could be avoided. If only he had noticed the unrest sooner and taken Maruble under his wing, as he had the God of Peace all those years ago. Tying back his long, gray hair, Balance caught a glimpse of the lines under his eyes. They were more pronounced today as if age—and perhaps all those restless nights— were finally catching up to him.

War didn't suit him. Not at all.

Belthore turned to the waiting gods. He carefully observed each one and finally said, "There is a traitor among us."

They shifted uncomfortably. Hartley, the God of Peace, was the only that didn't move. His eyes remained glued to the goddess next to him, leaning on the open window sill, her thoughts elsewhere—and for good reason. Not only had her son disgraced the Court, but her husband had been, quite literally, in bed with the enemy.

"Surprise, surprise," chuckled Justice. "We let the God of Death into our midst and are suffering the consequences. If it were up to me, he would have never set foot in this place. He would have been left in Frost Holm to rot."

The Court members whispered to each other, and Balance cleared his throat. The room fell into a hush. "We are not here to argue about the past Loyde, God of Justice, but to discuss the current issue at hand: Athema's orb has been stolen. Her temple lies in ruin, but it was not at the hand of Death himself." Balalace adjusted the sleeve of his robe and asked, "Athema, you believe it was the Derutons who did this, correct?"

The Goddess of Sight blinked as if remembering where she was. She murmured, "It was not all of them. I believe the two leading them—Petir and Petra, they called themselves—were only disguised as villagers. They had Drugan accents."

"Are the rest of your people safe?" asked Balance gently.

"Let those barren villagers be damned," hissed Loyde, slamming his fist on the table. "The God of Death has made his move. If we don't act now, that army he's building in Frost Holm will be at our doorstep."

"Cool your head, Justice," snapped Balance. "If war is indeed on our doorstep, this is not the time to be rash."

"The Derutons who remain in The Sands are safe," replied Athema, finally.

"Your people may not have taken part in the rebellion, but they had to have known an uprising was at hand." Justice leaned back in his seat. "It's strange they did little to prevent it—or even warn you, for that matter. After all you've done."

"Say your next words carefully," warned Hartley.

This time, Loyde snorted. "Do you hear yourselves? There is no time for niceties."

"That's enough." Balance massaged the bridge of his nose. "Leave us, Justice. You may return once you've reeled in that temper."

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Justice stood slowly and growled, "I will not let the godlands be taken by that fool."

Loyde kicked his chair back and stormed out, slamming the door behind him. Silence fell over the room. As the rain continued to pour, Balance wished that he was in bed, eating a bar of chocolate. He waited until Hartley set the fallen chair upright, then turned back to the room. "Is there anyone else who has a complaint?" When no one answered, he continued, "Good, then Hartley, if you may."

"Right," said the God of Peace, scratching his head. "As far as we know, the rebels have left The Sands and taken their spies with them. While we assume the God of Death influences them, we are not sure what his bargaining chip was since he normally does not get involved with the powerless."

"It's my fault." Athema turned away from the window. "The Derutons have suffered for many ages, and while I supplied them with food and water, I did little else to aid them."

"I understand your regret," said Balance gently, "but we'll discuss that in length another time."

When she nodded, Hartley took a deep breath and said, "The Orb, which holds a record of many futures, has been stolen. We understand that Death aims to bend fate to his will. Not only that, but he has armed the Deruton rebels with human weapons—with guns."

This time, the room fell into an uproar. Waving his hands in the air, Hartley did his best to quiet the room, to no avail. Athema turned back to the window silently and at the rain that continued to fall. Belthore swore that even the goddess—who was normally so composed—looked pale. It was not a good sign.

Hartley blew out a long breath—the realization washing over him. He turned to Balance slowly and asked, "How did the rebels reach the orb? It was locked away in Athema's seeing room, wasn't it?"

"Don't tell me it was Dalla?" The Goddess of Grief frowned. "You mentioned that it was someone not in this room, and the Goddess of Memory has been making many trips to Frost Holm as of late."

Realization washed over the room, and every head turned to Dalla's empty seat. Belthore sighed, guilt pulling at him. If it weren't so crucial for her to be here, he would have asked Athema to leave right then.

Hartley furrowed his brow and asked, "Dalla? Why would she know the password?"

"It seems that someone close to Dalla confided in her," said Balance, without giving away too much.

"My husband." Athema stepped forward. Her face, which had been gaunt and pale before, held a glimmer of life. She strode to the front of the room. "I believe he didn't know that Memory was a traitor, or he would not have told her."

"That bastard," huffed Hartley, balling his hands into a fist.

The God of Meditations looked between them, almost boredly. "How important is this orb, Goddess Athema? Will Death really be able to use it without the gift of Sight?"

"I could change the outcome of this war," she said. "I have no doubt."

"Is that true?" asked Grief, looking around. "Then Justice is right—we have no time to waste. We must get it back."

Balance raised his hand. When the room quieted, he said, "War has been on our doorstep for many years. Even though we have avoided it for as long as we can, it was always inevitable. There are those who do not agree with our values and seek to change them—Death being just one in a sea of many. He wishes for a lawless land. A land without regulation. We will not sit back and allow him to ruin what we have taken so long to build."

The Goddess of Grief gasped, and realization washed over the room. The Court of Balance was indeed going to war. It was no longer an idea that was being tossed around. They would fight against their friends and family—against other gods—and some of them would die. The thought alone was enough to make Belthore feel sick to his stomach. Instead of letting it show, he watched each of them steadily with a finger resting on his chin.

"How many?" the God of Meditations asked, idle expression gone. "How many are on Death's side of the war?"

"We cannot say for sure."

Athema met Belthore's eyes. "Three thousand, the last I checked."

This time, the God of Balance shook his head wearily. Three thousand gods? That was plenty enough to win a war under certain conditions, and they had no idea how powerful they were or what weaknesses they had. Balance took a seat at the table. For a moment, he was glad he had barred Loyde from the room. The God of Justice would have immediately started shouting. Right now, the members of his Court needed a moment to let it sink in, like a final breath before the plunge.

War had found them at last.