Aria froze, her entire body going numb for a whole second. Then she dropped the pitcher as if it had grown fangs. It landed on the table, bounced, and fell onto its side. Blue wine poured out immediately, staining the table, forming a stream through the islands of dishes, and dripping finally onto the stone floor.
Around her, the flute solo continued, like a mourner at her funeral.
The spilled wine did not restrict itself to decorous paths. It spread over the table, finding obstacles here and there: a fork, an overturned bowl of rice, a nose. It ran along the line formed by the nose, barely missing the brown lashes hovering over the table, tracing out a pale brown forehead, and then soaking, impudently, a set of short, thick hair.
Drums started, and Aria jumped. She spun around in terror, but her horror had not been discovered. It was merely the next stage in the performance. Dancers leaped in concert – all men – with spears twirling and faces serious. And every eye in the room, from those of the servants lining the walls to those of the gods seated on the dais, were fixed on the performance. Only her assignee, the god whose table stood in the middle of the dais, was out of sync; his head half-planted in a bowl of soup, his hand resting beside the glass of wine he’d been drinking – the wine Aria had served him.
The room was so dim, lit as it was by weak candles along the walls, that Aria dared to hope that her accident would be missed. That did not happen. When she looked around again, she met someone's eyes: the god at the next table. With his thick beard, bald head, and merciless eyes, there was no worse person to attract.
He cast his gaze to the fallen god, then to Aria, and back again to the god. Aria forsook caution. There, with her patron god staring at her in growing alarm, she threw a prayer to another god, one far more merciful.
The watching god crooked a finger at Aria, summoning her.
She let loose another prayer, but Evera, the one she was begging, remained in her seat one table over, watching the performance.
Aria had delayed long enough; her patron's expression was morphing from confusion to anger. So, she turned her gaze respectfully downward, folded her hands in front of her, and hurried off. She had to take the steps down the dais, hurry to the other table, and then climb the steps again. The whole time, she fought back visions of herself fleeing. Even if she could stay ahead of the gods, escape the armed servants, and break free of the palace, she would still need to find somewhere in the world to hide from the most powerful gods in existence.
She reached her destination before she was ready. Her own knife sat tied to her waist and flush against her thigh. Perhaps she could reach it and kill herself before they did something worse to her.
The god looked thoroughly irritated by the time Aria reached him. Perhaps he felt that she had worked too slowly or perhaps he hated the performance. He was never easy to read.
He spoke in a firm tone but low enough that it did not disrupt the music. "What is going on there?" He gestured toward the table she had come from. "How much has Achi drunk?"
Aria considered lying. The split-second delay in her response did not escape him, and it did not please him.
She decided on the truth. Given a choice between dying now and dying later, dying later seemed magnificent.
“Great Conqueror,” she said, “the prince has only had two glasses.”
Technically, he had only had one. He had taken a sip of the second and keeled over.
A voice called from the table on Achi’s other side. “What’s going on, Garo? What is wrong with Achi?”
Hearing Evera’s voice was like being bathed in clean water. It bore all the beauty of new grass after a cleansing rain. Aria turned her eyes toward her and put all the pleading she could into her expression.
Rather than respond, Garo rose. At his full height, he looked formidable. A shirt-sleeved shirt and tight trousers showed off his bulk and thick muscles. He pushed Aria out of his way and took the dais steps with long strides.
Evera, however, beat him to his destination. She teleported to Achi’s side, and Aria, despite her fear, felt a thrill of pleasure at seeing the goddess’ power for the first time. She was everything that Garo could never be, dressed confidently in a simple white gown, her hair left undone and falling in magnificent coils down to her shoulders; barefoot, because dirt would not dare cling to her, and radiating peace even in the gloom of Garo’s palace.
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She leaned over the fallen prince, brow knitted with worry.
“Achi?” she said.
Garo reached her a moment later, having sped up until he was a mere blur. Unlike Evera, he could not teleport, but he could reach any place he wanted to be quicker than his victims hoped.
“Achi,” he said. His voice rose above the music, sharp, and just the tiniest bit alarmed.
The music stopped, and every eye in the room turned to the scene.
Evera picked up Achi’s drinking glass. Only a little wine still remained in it, but Aria saw her eyeing the rest of the spill on the table. She set the glass back down and picked up the pitcher. That held significantly more wine. She dipped a finger into the liquid and licked off the wine that clung to her finger.
Aria quickly glanced around at the room’s exits. There were only two: the small doorway she and the other servants had used and the large, square doorway the guest had arrived through. The larger one was guarded by spear-wielding warriors. It was also further away. The smaller one was closer, but there were more servants gathered by it. And Garo’s servants were always armed.
“Well?” Garo asked Evera.
“I don’t detect anything,” she said, “but that means nothing.”
Garo shook Achi roughly. The prince flopped back and forth but did not stir. Garo cursed, and in his voice, Aria heard not anger but stark terror.
In a flash, Garo was back before Aria, his fist around her neck, dangling almost a foot off the ground. From that position, she could stare straight into his eyes and see pure madness mixed with terror.
“What did you do?!” His voice filled the room like a thunderstorm. The mass of servants cringed and stepped backward as one. Some looked to the doors, desperate to flee as Aria had been, but they seemed to decide that staying still was the safer choice.
Aria struggled to speak, but there was no air in her lungs. She tried to pry Garo’s hands away, but they were less pliable than cold steel.
Gracious Evera came to her rescue.
“She cannot speak, Garo,” Evera said.
Garo did not release her. In fact, he seemed to hold on tighter, but that might have been a trick played by her growing desperation.
“Put her down,” Evera said. “He’s alive. It’s weak, but he has a pulse.”
Even that did not pacify Garo. Aria realized he would really kill her. There was no mercy in his eyes.
“If you kill the only suspect,” Evera said, “what do you think Tivelo will do?”
Garo released Aria, and she fell onto all fours, panting and clutching her neck. She suffered a moment of confusion. The room looked oddly foreign, and her body seemed far away. Before she was fully recovered, however, warriors appeared, forced her to her feet, and twisted her arms behind her back.
Garo strode back over to the prince and felt his pulse, while Evera inspected Aria with a curious expression.
“I didn’t do anything,” Aria said. “He just fell.”
“Well,” a third voice joined the conversation, one of the remaining deities. He glanced around the scene as if he’d happened upon a den of pigs. “This has been lovely, but I think I will leave.”
“No one leaves,” Garo said.
The other god scoffed and unclenched his fist. A glass orb, a finger’s width in diameter, dropped to the ground. It was too tiny to hear, but Aria saw it shatter. Before the spectacle was over, the god had disappeared, taking with him the entourage behind his table.
“I will be leaving as well,” the last deity rose. She was a woman dressed in a flowing purple gown, with jewels glittering from every piece of jewelry. She motioned to her attendants, whose clothing rivalled hers in opulence, and the entire company made for the large exit with no thought for decorum. In less than a minute, only Garo and Evera’s servants were left. Evera’s company, all stunning women in identical white dresses, looked to their mistress for guidance.
“Let’s make Achi comfortable,” Evera said. “You have something acceptable, I presume?”
Garo had no guest rooms worth speaking of. Aria knew that because she’d cleaned enough of them.
“We’ll use mine,” Garo said. There was a note of gratitude in his voice. It sounded odd, as had the fear he had shown earlier. For a God of War to be so soft, Aria decided, this had to be a monumental mess.
“Should we notify Tivelo?” Garo asked.
Evera screwed up her face. “That depends. Do you want to drown in your blood and then hang by your entrails, or just hang by your entrails?”
Garo swore again. “You two,” he pointed in the direction of two random warriors. “Take a message to the Black God. His son is ill, but alive. We are tending to him to the best of our ability. Don’t be fast! But don’t be slow either.”
The warriors - a pair of leather-clad women - dared not challenge the conflicting instructions. They hurried off like a fired arrow, likely relieved to escape the room’s oppressive atmosphere.
“You know,” Evera said. “It’s odd that he’s not already here. The last time Achi stubbed a toe, he was breathing down my neck before one drop of blood fell.” She visibly shivered.
“You,” Garo turned to Aria. “You are going to die. But first, Tivelo will gut you from top to bottom and teach you the names of your insides. If you want that to go quickly, begin recalling every person who touched Achi’s meals. And bring that pitcher with you.” The warriors freed her hands and walked her over to retrieve the pitcher, but they remained close enough to subdue her in moments.