27 - THE GOVERNOR

More arguing followed, until it was decided that we all may as well just sleep and decide what to do in the morning, since it was late and we were all exhausted from the day’s efforts. Amaline was way ahead of us there and had, in fact, actually fallen asleep. Two people, Justinia said, would remain awake at all times while the rest took turns sleeping. I volunteered for guard duty—my mind was racing too fast for me to actually believe I could get any sort of rest. Justinia joined me.

The others claimed their corners and snuffed out all but two lanterns. Silence fell upon the house.

Until Akios started to violently jerk upon the chair, managing almost to lift the front two legs, and making a whole lot of noise in the process.

Justinia and I went into the room. Justinia pulled out the governor’s wax plugs and said, “You really need to stop doing that, governor, or I’ll have to break your legs.”

Through his gag, the governor made more noises. His gag was soaked through with spit. Now, up close, I took the chance to look at the man properly.

He was, I had to admit, a beautiful, regal man.

His hair was shoulder-length, a golden mane. His facial features were strong, like granite, and well-defined. He had perfect, smooth skin, was tall, with broad shoulders and thick arms. Beautiful, yes, but looking at him, it was strange to think that he had lived for three hundred years, that he had walked the earth for so long that it would not be entirely accurate to call him human, insofar that his living experience was so radically different from the norm.

Justinia ripped out his gag.

“Shout or scream,” she said immediately, “and I’ll cut out your fuckin’ tongue. And I’m not playing around.”

Akios Erati, former deputy to the Autarch, sucked in a deep lungful of air, licked his lips, and then, surprising me, smiled.

“I don’t believe that you are playing around,” he said. His voice was smooth and soft, his accent strange and almost lilting. “Thank you for removing the gag. Strange, in all my years, that’s the first time I’ve ever been gagged. Not a pleasant experience.” A pause. “And to whom do I owe the pleasure?”

“None of your fuckin’ business, is it?”

“I dare say that it is.” He shrugged as best he could with his hands tied behind the back of the chair. “Nonetheless. I’d like to make a request.”

“You can shove your request up your—”

“What is it?” I asked. It felt strange to address such a powerful man, but it shouldn’t have. Camillan was right about one thing. He, and even the Autarch, were surely not as different from the rest of us as they liked us to believe.

I expected Akios to say something dramatic, something wise, something clever—instead, he said, “I need to piss. And I would rather not simply piss myself, so…”

Justinia grinned nastily. “Too fucking bad.”

Akios frowned. “I would really appreciate it.”

“I think,” I said gently, “that we’re in a position where we don’t really care what you think.”

His head turned blindly in my direction. “How old are you? You sound so very young. Less than two decades, surely.”

“By a small amount, yes.”

“Interesting. And yet I find myself at your mercy. May I ask, why, exactly, the two of you seem to hate me so much?”

“Surely,” I said, “the answer to that question is obvious.”

“Indulge me.”

“Do not indulge him,” Justinia snapped. “He’s a snake. A clever one. He’s searching for something he can exploit. Give him nothing. Any other requests, governor?”

“Yes, actually, I would love some water—”

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Justinia shoved Akios’s gag back into place, then the wax plugs.

“Surely we could let him empty his bladder,” I said.

“No. He stays where he is. I don’t care a lick if he pisses himself. In fact, the thought of him doing so actually amuses me.”

“But then the room will reek of piss.”

Justinia paused. “While that is true…so be it.” And with that, Justinia turned and exited the room, leaving me alone with one of the most powerful men in the world.

Of course, I couldn’t help myself. I removed his gag and plugs and stood in front of him.

“Ah,” Akios breathed out, “the bitch is gone, is she?”

“Don’t speak about her like that. I may not be as mean as she is, but I’m also not going to just stand here and let you disrespect her.”

Akios nodded slowly. “My apologies, then, young man. May I know your name?”

“I’m afraid not,” I said, although I did want to tell him. I wanted him to know. I wanted the Autarch himself to know what was coming for him. Caution, however, won out.

“And why, dear boy, have you again removed my gag? What shall we discuss?”

“I have questions.”

“As do I.”

“The difference,” I said, “is that you’re tied to a chair, and I’m not.”

“True. But you’ll find that I am difficult to squeeze answers out of. We could always make a deal.”

A deal. I was fully aware of who I was talking to. Of his reputation. Akios hadn’t just been the Autarch’s deputy—he’d been a man known worldwide for his ruthless efficiency, for his cunning, for the critical role he’d planned in expanding the Autarchy and keeping it running smoothly. He was extraordinarily intelligent, dangerously clever. Any deals he offered me, I knew, would be attempts at escape, or otherwise improving his situation. He would try to get information out of me, to destroy us however he could.

I had to be incredibly careful.

“And what’s the deal?”

“I’ll answer one of your questions if you answer one of mine.”

I considered it, then shrugged, and said, “Let’s see. I’ll go first: what is the exact nature of the power that allows you and the other immortals to live for so long?”

Akios’s lips twisted. “How did I know you’d ask that question? I suppose that I do get it a lot. Everyone wants to know. Everyone is always wondering how they might live forever. Is that why you want to know?”

“If I answer that, your question is used up.”

“Nasty,” he said with a grin. “Very well. Let me answer your question. A very long time, Autarch Marak killed a god. That god’s name was Tamatl, and it was a cruel, manipulative deity. Marak ventured into its realm, slew it, and returned to our world with fragments of the god’s power—fragments that he then gifted to we privileged few. So, you could say that divine power runs through my veins.”

I physically recoiled from this. It was even worse than I expected. Just how, exactly, the Autarch had lived for so long was a question that had been fiercely debated by my order of necromancers. It was heresy, sacrilege: to defy the natural order of things, to live beyond the natural scope of one’s life. Few things were as antithetical to us necromancers. The most popular theory had been that the Autarch had discovered a branch of necromancy and was using a crude version of it to consume souls—but the problem with that theory had always been that the sheer number of souls that he and his inner circle would need to consume in order to keep them alive for centuries would’ve been preposterous.

Now I knew that he had simply killed a god instead.

But god was a deceptive word. All necromancers are taught that there is no such thing as actual divinity. God is just a name we use to describe extremely powerful, interdimensional entities, primordial individuals who transcend normal human understanding. These primordial beings are all dangerous, wretched things, more like living diseases than people, each with an endless, burning desire to become more powerful, to dominate the universe, to exist forever.

That was why one of my responsibilities, as the so-called Deathlord Prime, was to destroy all gods.

“Are you still there?” Akios asked.

“I’m still here.”

“It’s my turn to ask a question: who are you? What are you? The others, your friends, they’re Thorns—that much is obvious. But there’s something about you. You’re different.”

“I’m just a man,” I said simply. “From a place you haven’t heard of. Trying to do what’s right.”

“Too vague. That’s an unfair answer. At least give me your name.”

I hesitated. It was probably a bad idea, but I’d said that I would, and I wasn’t a liar, didn’t want to be a liar. And what difference did it make if he had just my given name? Camillan was probably going to kill him soon and, worst case scenario, if he somehow escaped, I wouldn’t show up in any Autarchy records. I wasn’t a citizen.

“Aurion,” I said. “My name is Aurion.”

And the way he smiled at me, then, made me feel like I’d just made a huge mistake.

A chill surged through my veins. Without thinking, I took a step back.

“Aurion,” the governor said, revealing perfect, white teeth. “I’ll remember that name.”