Fifty Years Later.
Upon a bed of alpine grass, a man watches over the mountain range he calls his home. Slopes smeared with screes or compacted dirt stretch beneath him, flowing with the rise and fall of the ridges until they fade into the blue distance. Small plants cling tenaciously to the barren dirt in obstinate defiance of the wind assaulting the steep hills and hazardous inclines. Inscrutable boulders hold vigil alongside him, having settled into their lofty perches long ago. One such monument graces the observatory behind him – a hunched building with an open top. He’s spent the last twelve years living there.
At his feet is the body of an immense eagle, musculature monstrous enough to dwarf his own body, still impaled with the spear that slayed it. Its blood soaks his heavy overcoat from the outside, while his own seeps from within. Just as he killed the Oxkin, so too does its final blow promise to end him in the coming days. With every drop that leaves him, fear of where he’s going are distilled into a far more excruciating terror: fear of what he leaves behind. Yet as he watches the land beneath, the man’s worries begin to fade.
There are two signs of the god’s approach. The first are the strange twistings that fade into the mountainsides. Almost beneath notice, they catch at the corner of a watcher’s eye: light bouncing strangely in places. If you gaze closely enough, they seem almost alive. The second sign comes in the form of the stagnant alps bursting into motion. Grass that fought its way from the inarable soil blooms into wildflowers within moments, while shrubs begin to bristle sideways, sprouting small berries or leaves where there once were none.
Watching this, the man recalls a saying; old and as darkly humorous as grave-dirt. Since the new god’s birth, it’s been dyed a little lighter. It goes like this:
‘Every corpse has at least one friend. The vulture.’
The god appears at the edge of the horizon: a vague smear of black, red and white unmistakeable as anything else. Their gait seems almost sedate, yet the speed at which their legs consume the distance betrays its urgency. More details become apparent as they grows closer: a humanoid form, with human accoutrements – complete with thumbs and a sword – yet still essentially beyond mortals. Divinity is etched into every inch of their beaked skull, ivory plating, and flesh of onyx and crimson.
Soon, they arrive and lowers themself to one knee in front of the man. They silently take in his wound. When finished, it clenches its eyes shut.
“Your liver has been destroyed,” they confess. “You will die.”
The man leans back and digests that diagnosis. “Do you know how long I have?” he asks.
“You’ve been out here a while. It shouldn’t be long.” Weight is placed on each word. “Why did you not stay inside?”
“Thought no one was coming.” He coughs. “Still months until your next visit. We’d starve by then.”
“I see.” They turn their enigmatic gaze onto the monster. “An impressive deed.”
The grass is soft against his back. He feels a deep, inexorable weariness in his bones lightly pushing his agony away.
“Only cost my life.” His voice is a broken murmur, unable to muster the energy for bitterness. “Seems pointless, now.”
“You acted wisely,” the god tells him, “and did what you had to, with the tools at your disposal.”
The man says nothing to that.
They allow him to dwell in the silence for a few more moments. Then, they makes the offer he knew was coming. That all the fallen know, from the moment they lay eyes upon that brooding divinity.
Everyone knows the ritual’s shape: beginning with the god methodically placing themself upon both knees and inclining their inscrutable mask towards the dying. Once there, the fading soul either daubs their blood upon the god’s face, or allows their hand to fall by their side, forgotten. Many plays and Divinities feature this as their central moment. This is a shape carved indelibly into humanity’s memory. An ineffable offer. Depths suggested, yet rarely felt.
Only those performing it know the burden. The sacred vastness of the lowered head, and the infinitely patient god that offers. The cruelty of having to make this simple, binary decision, at life’s terminus.
To depart. To cling; a little lesser, a little longer.
Two petty, mundane options, distilled into a choice that outweighs all others.
“You’ll look after my kid, won’t you?”
“I’m not human.” The god’s three eyes burn. “I do a good impression, but I am a long way from mortal.”
He feels too ill to wince at the pain speaking causes. “But you will.”
“I would do it better, if you accepted my offer.”
The man does not know what waits along either of those roads. But he leaves his blood where it is.
“Why?” the god asks.
He thinks for a while.
“There are moments when the past feels lighter than air.” Each word is arduous and hard-fought. “Like a gentle breeze, or a pair of clouded eyes watching from the trees. But sometimes it seems heavier than the tears of my own child. As if the present is dreamt by a long-buried instant.”
The wind is cool. The sun is warm. Not a good day to die, or to live, or to scream or dance or fight or any number of states in which a mortal can spin – screaming – through their own existence.
Just a good day.
“You’re asking me to choose which I’ll become,” he says. “I don’t want you or my daughter to live in thrall to my memory. I want the breeze to be realer than the past.”
The god looks as if they have walked from elsewhere. From the thoughts of trees, or the whispers of starlight. Some primordial place, far truer than the minds of mortals. But behind their foreign mask lay a pair of achingly human eyes. He could see that they wanted to object. Yet he could tell that they would not.
There’s another saying. A fresher one, for this new era.
‘The Vulture cries for what rot may bring, but in its veins remembers.’
The god holds his hand as the man dies. When they are done, the god forms a cairn of those patient stones and approaches the observatory, to bring out the child waiting within.
The two say goodbye.
----------------------------------------
The next year, that same kid blinks her eyes open to her bedroom gently swaying around her, as it does all hours of the day. Dawn light penetrates through shuttered windows – her cabin is too cheap for proper glass despite the frequent dust-storms that occur around her. Though barely three steps long, the room’s simplicity belies its craftsmanship: dense wood joined together by meticulous craftsmanship. Given the conditions it must endure, sturdiness is a necessity. Every dozen seconds, a vast rumble that rattles everything around her attests to that fact.
One aborted attempt to sit upright is quickly followed by another, more forceful surge. Here, every movement is a little harder than it would be elsewhere. Her limbs weigh heavier than they did on the mountains, and every morning is a reminder that she’s not there, anymore. That her childhood is behind her and fading fast. Alongside her father’s face.
But she still remembers the sensation of his large, ink-stained hand gently shaking her awake. Its absence is keener than its presence ever was.
Beside the cot, her only friend stretches into a mighty yawn, unbothered by the excess weight the surrounding aura forces upon all who live here. The large hound sits down and gazes at her.
The teenager sighs, kicks off the single blanket she has – stifling in the Tempest heat – and slides from her bed. She hops up and down to acclimatise herself to being upright, then slips through the mosquito-net around her bed and shuffles over to the shutters, which she slides open.
After a few moments of squinting, daylight’s glare gives way to the town in which she lives: sparse houses lined atop a lengthy, narrow strip of land resembling the ridgeline of a tall mountain, complete with ropes dangling off its sides and fencing to keep the unwary from stumbling off. A lone windmill spins madly. Even as she watches, the kid sees leather-clad individuals climbing the ropes and passing their harpoons and harnesses off to those working the morning shift. One broad man rubs his eyes as he staggers home, another worker – friend or lover – gripping his shoulders to prevent the rhythmic shaking from throwing both off.
For the land is not land: it’s a stretch of sallow muscle, contracting and elongating according to the movements beneath. The excess weight isn’t just a sign of the girl’s growth, but the divine aura permeating this place commandeering gravity for its own unthinking agenda. The workers are no mere labourers: they are custodian-warriors fighting an eternal battle against decay. And what seems like a mountain is far, far heavier than any formation its size could ever be.
For this is the home of the Order of the Lizard, built atop the back of the god itself. While it continues its inexorable march across the continent, in search of something it may never find.
Cleansed of its sickness as the Vulture’s first great act, five decades ago.
To human civilisation, this was the paradigm shift that inaugurated the new era. To the girl, it’s almost boring.
Almost.
Because with the sun piercing above the horizon to spread its reddened breath along the landscape passing beneath, there’s something magical about it all. In a strange way, she feels as if her father is here, just out of sight. Hidden in the dawn light and the god’s endless journey.
As she watches the town wake, preparing for a day of checking the Lizard and warning those in its path, the feeling slowly recedes. Eventually, the god and those it carries upon its back become a mere place, once more. Her home.
As the hound trots out of her room, the girl begins to dress for the coming day: her father’s old clothes replaced with undergarments, coveralls, harness, and a stained apron. Below, the head cook yells her name and she scurries from the room, belatedly realising she needs to empty her bladder and fearing she won’t get a chance until midday.
The adolescent stomps down the stairs, and whirls through the canteen, dodging stacked furniture and the night-shift custodians lining up for their dinner.
One older woman calls, “Where’s the fire, little chef?” provoking a few of her less tired companions into half-hearted laughter. She scowls and flushes as she hurries into the kitchen.
Inside, the chef – a large man with an impressive beard – smirks as she enters and stands before him, hopping from one foot to another in an effort to avoid wetting her pants.
He snorts. “Go piss, girl. Quickly.”
Upon returning, the two get to work heating last night’s meal for the night workers and preparing servings of porridge for the morning workers using grain and dried fruits donated from a village they passed a few days back. Such donations are customary. The Order of the Lizard’s quartermasters regularly organise shipments themselves, however that’s often unnecessary.
The hours pass in a blur of humidity, stirring, shovelling wood, and the growling of stomachs. Atop Dure’s swaying back, cooking requires constantly resecuring knives and pots by clipping them to their respective places. Her first few weeks saw many a meal spill onto the ground, tightening the cook’s jaw until his teeth threatened to shatter. Now, she’s good enough that none of her slips are dangerous. There’s still a tension in her temples, though.
During a din, she quickly eats her own breakfast then returns to serve portions to those rising for the midday shift, who – due to generally being trainees – constantly wheedle for more food and require rebuffing. At a little past midday, the hound trots back inside the canteen, dragging a sack of food and wood for tomorrow.
“Dog’s back,” she tells the chef. “I’m done.”
“Well trained mutt,” he grunts, busy dicing a set of onions. “Alright. Doing a roast tomorrow tonight, but I got to meet with the quartermaster. Can you handle it alone?”
“The whole thing?”
“It’ll be in the oven before my shift’s over.” He moves over to a mortar and pestle to begin grinding nuts. “Only need to check on it a few times.”
“Should be fine.”
While he nods a dismissal, she’s already slipping out of the kitchen and back up the stairs, moving in the strange, stuttering gait that life on the Lizard demands. Halfway up, she turns to see her friend whining behind her; eyes flicking between her and the door.
“I have more reading to do.”
The whining continues.
“You want me to fall off the side of the god?”
It does not cease.
She sighs. “Fine. Whatever. I’ll grab dad’s journals, then.”
After carefully stuffing the books in a satchel and cinching it tight around her back, she follows the hound outside. Into the sharp wind – intense, like the mountain’s, but carrying too much musty heat to be its equal. She knots her harness to the rope fence beside her, and begins the arduous task of walking across the Lizard’s back without falling.
She’s yet to go a day without failing at least once, and a few minutes after starting the pattern proves itself unbroken as the bridge of one foot catches on the back of another heel. Which sends her immediately onto the back of her furred companion, who bears the blow with grace. Muttering an excuse, she straightens and continues following through the tight concentration of buildings glued, tied, and strapped to the Lizard’s back. They creak dangerously as she passes.
Little has changed since this time the previous day. Late afternoon is always the stillest. Lone flags flutter in the breeze – singular splashes of colour amidst the hard yellow of the Lizard’s back. A windmill catches the gusts above to transform into light beneath – Godsblood long replaced by the more elegant fuels. Above, the clouds drift sluggishly along the sky’s currents. Besides those and the dog, only the girl moves atop Dure. Everyone else is either on the Lizard’s side and underbelly – performing routine checkups and deterring monsters looking for a meal – or in the barracks, sleeping.
The Order of the Lizard is the largest and most honoured amongst its peers, but there’s little splendour in its day-to-day. Not for the first time, the girl wonders why the custodians remain in this life: tending to the body of an uncaring god. Never settling down. Maybe they feel something she doesn’t.
Yet as she reluctantly drags herself along the rope-line, she does notice one difference. Between the buildings, where the Lizard’s ribs begin to curve sharply down, the pulley system – dormant almost every day since she’s arrived – is being cranked by two sleep-deprived Lizardbloods. A visitor is coming.
The girl quickly switches to the rope leading to them and heads over. The dog reluctantly pads after her.
She arrives and hovers in the background for a while. Eventually, one of the Blooded – a gap-toothed, side-burned specimen – replies to her unspoken request.
“Come over and look,” he says with a backwards glance. “We’ve got an important visitor.”
Given permission, she fights against the constant swaying to peer over the side. Far downwards, swaying just above the cracked slopes of the Wastes that the Lizard has chosen to cross, several specks are conversing with a lone rider, whose horse gallops beside the Lizard. Trying to figure out how to get them onto the platform, most likely. Usually, arrivals come in a carriage and cross over using a board. This one decides to simply leap from their horse and trust that the frantic custodians will pull them to safety. Bizarrely, she hears cackling.
“Woah,” the other Lizardblood mutters. “Th’ Hand’s a loon. Guess some rumours’re true.”
The first man grunts an agreement.
When a custodian below tugs a rope, the two Blooded begin cranking the whole platform upwards. It takes little time to reach the top, where the rider dismounts.
She’s a woman on the older end of life – dark hair giving way to grey just as dark skin gives to wrinkles. Two prominent scars nestle on either side of her wry grin. A beautifully embellished lute is strapped to her back. Despite her age, her lean muscle and height combine to make an intimidating figure. Yet her most noticeable feature is lower: a lone, articulated ivory forearm that could be mistaken for a prosthetic, were it not for a way the bone grows into the forearm. That uncanny hand is wrapped around a battered cane.
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The other is occupied dabbing her forehead with a worn old handkerchief. “Woo,” she breathes. “Always an adventure gettin’ here. Guess it’s good thing you folks gave me a…” She pauses for dramatic effect. “Hand.”
Politely, the custodians remain quiet.
Despite the lacking reception – or perhaps because of it – the woman cackles to herself. “Alright, alright. Enough jokes.” She carefully folds the kerchief and slips it into a shirt-pocket. “Y’all tend to th’ fat bastard. I got business here.”
A portly middle-aged woman that the girl recognises as the Order’s quartermaster steps forward to give her a harness. “Forgive me, but you’ll have to go through our safety checks.” the lady says as if she’d rather be saying anything else.
“No. Been here before.”
The quartermaster winces and opens her mouth.
The Hand gives her a tight smile; eyes stretched to an uncanny wideness.
The mouth is closed. Everyone present exchanges glances.
“Do you want a tour?” the gap-toothed Lizardblood asks in defiance of the atmosphere.
In response, the aging woman cocks an eyebrow. “A generous offer, but no. D’you mind if I stay overnight? Been a long ride.”
Continuing the trend of being oblivious, the Blooded answers before the quartermaster can. “Sure.” He shrugs his superior’s glare off with admirable ease.
The Hand audibly supresses a snort. “Alright. Thank you. I’ll be off now.”
While she ties herself to a nearby rope – somewhat awkwardly, due to the stiffness of the ivory – the others, with the exception of the quartermaster, descend back down the side. The portly woman hovers for a few moments, before a scowl from the Hand scares her off.
In short order, the visitor herself begins leaving. Before she does, she notices the teenager and her companion.
“…What’s a kid like you doin’ here?” she asks, eyes narrowing.
The girl shrugs.
The unnerving examination continues for a little longer. When her stare reaches the dog, she pauses, then sighs. “Alright. Well. If you see any rogue gods ‘round here, send ‘em my way. Got some messages.”
The kid bobs her head as the figure cusses and drags herself along the Lizard’s back.
“That’s Kit, right?” she asks her companion. “The one father told me about? The one who helped put everything together?”
The hound grumbles.
“You better go see her.”
Eventually, her friend trots off.
----------------------------------------
Behind the tightly-clustered buildings lining the Lizard’s back, at the very base of its spine, rests a graveyard. Amongst its kind, it is entirely unique. No bodies are buried therein – to dig into Dure’s flesh is cruel and irresponsible. Instead, its markers hold vigil over tokens: ribbons, strips of cloth, funeral urns, masks. Marks of fallen members of divine Orders, brought here to be carried across the land. Bound to the wandering divinity by its own gravity.
Here, an old woman sits by a monument, carved fingers idly plucking the strings of the lute in her lap. Her other hand idly caresses the scars and wrinkles sketched across her face: a map charting decades of life. Two dark eyes watch the cracked land beneath fall back to be consumed by the horizon.
The god walks over to her, body roiling as it shifts forms. When they arrive at her side, they wears the same form they do in tapestries: strange yet familiar, in the way the divine often is.
“Kit,” they greet, voice a unified chorus.
Her fingers continue plucking notes. “This where you been? Pretendin’ t’be a damned dog? Ridiculous.”
“My cousin doesn’t mind the company.”
“Dure. Yer cousin.” She scoffs. “Fat bastard probably don’t even know you’re here.”
They tut. “Maybe not. But you all asked for less interference.” There’s a note of mild rebuke colouring their voice. “Said I was ‘too overbearing’. Is a year too much?”
Kit scoffs. “Askin’ you not to stick yer beak into every single damned detail o’ this organisation and let us do the work we been doin’ for decades ain’t the same as tellin’ you to leave.”
“For a mere year,” they protest.
“A year’s a bloody long time, fool,” she snaps, finally taking her hand off the lute. “Look, we’ve mostly managed, but you know damn well there’s work we can’t do alone.”
They release a long breath, then begins to settle down beside her. Once seated, the god carefully unhooks their swords and placed it across their divine legs. A hand runs over its filagree.
The pair of old friends sit in silence, for a time. Kit’s jaw clenches as she stares at the grave.
“You weren’t gonna tell us?”
“At some point. But he asked not to make a fuss, and I needed to get his daughter settled.”
She shifts in her seat, eyes narrowing to glare at the grave. “Aw, burn what he wants. He’s dead; who cares? Should’ve had a proper funeral.”
“We still can.”
“Sure,” she drawls. “One whole year after th’ fact.”
Perhaps in thought, the youngest god takes its time in replying. “…I think his daughter might need it.”
“Wait.” Kit turns to stare at the god for the first time since they arrived. “That’s his daughter? Thought she looked familiar.”
They snort. “Do you remember the look in his eyes, when he held her the first time?”
“Utterly baffled,” she chuckles. “Like he jus’ watched a frog speak human.”
The god and the Blooded stare at the grave.
“She’s gotten big. Skinny thing – jus’ like he was.”
“Mm,” they agree.
The aging woman leans backwards, ivory hand brushing the hair from her eyes. “Blood. Bhan was one thing. We all knew he didn’t have long. Spent too damned long roamin’ around with Ronnie, tellin’ people what’s what, and not enough listenin’ to us tellin’ him to take a break. But Taja? I…” She clenches her eyes shut. “Gods.”
“Yeah.”
“How’d he pass?”
“Monster attack at the observatory.”
Her face twists. “Shouldn’t let him waste his life starin’ at stars.”
“It wasn’t a waste,” they immediately snap. “He’d worked hard for the council, and he continued to work hard on the mountain. Proved things you barely imagined. Did you even read his reports?”
She raises her mismatched hands limply. “Sorry.” Her head droops. Suddenly, she seems exhausted. “Jus’… Why’d he go so far away?”
“He was never a people person.”
A huff escapes her. “Yeah, that’s one way o’ sayin’ it. Worked magic with an abacus, though. Who knew he’d like numbers so much?”
“I think it surprised him, too.”
There’s a pause.
Kit sighs. “Late sixties is a good run, fer an unblooded.”
“Not good enough.”
“You’d have us all live forever, if you could.” She gives a strange, sad smile. “But none of us’re headed fer eternity.”
There’s a break in the conversation. They examine the tokens beneath the grave: a battered old sword; a well-worn coat; a few sketches of celestial movement, charcoal faded with age. His most important possessions remain with his daughter.
“What did you need me for?” the god suddenly asks.
Kit jumps, then releases a breath. “Don’t do that. Bloody hell.”
“Don’t speak?”
“Shut it.”
The Hand takes a folded missive from a pocket, then produces a pair of glasses from her coat. At that, the god cocks their head.
“Glasses and a note? Your blood should keep your vision and memory fresh.”
“Note’s a bureaucratic thing,” she explains.
“And the spectacles?”
The woman shrugs, poorly concealing a smirk. “Maddie gets me to wear them.”
“She’s really got you leashed, doesn’t she?”
Kit gives the god a meaningful look.
“Urgh.” The divinity’s visage scrunches. “Could have done without that image.”
A long wheeze erupts from her chest. When she’s done, Kit says, “You said it, not me.”
“How is she, anyway?”
Her grin quickly vanishes. “That’s part o’ why I’m here. Let me get through th’ rest, first.
There’s a rough ejection of phlegm as the Hand clears her throat. “First is the Ox,” she begins, enunciation precise. “It’s broken out o’ the valley you lured it into. Burrowed a hole through a mountain – as we expected.”
“Has it hurt anyone?”
“The Order lookouts.”
“…Any survivors?”
“More’n half. Which is better’n it used to be. The new drills are working.”
“The valley didn’t.”
“We knew it wouldn’t be a permanent solution. They’re looking for another, sturdier place to lure it to.”
“…Alright. Tell them to let me know if they need help.”
“You know,” Kit carefully posits, “the Orders are meant to work without yer intervention.”
They ignore the statement. “What about the Fox?”
“Ronnie went into a forest.”
The god jerks where it sits. “Ronnie?! It was meant to be entire troupe!”
“‘Why spend a dozen when you can risk one?’”
“They said that?”
“Eyup. Reckoned if it was a test run, we oughta use as few Faces as possible.”
“I thought they wouldn’t be entertained with too few people.”
“Dash thought so too; told ‘em to wait. Turns out both o’ you were wrong.”
“It worked? The Fox likes plays?”
“Well,” she drawls, “Ronnie’s alive. Guess they like their performance, at least. Seems that Fox’s enjoyin’ th’ toys we sent ‘em, as well. That stopgap’s looking pretty permanent.”
They slump in relief, then release a breath. “…More than the valley, anyway.”
“…Yeah. Movin’ on…”
“Siik? Sash is still in charge of that, correct?”
“Progress’s slow, but steady. With every bit o’ food we give it, and every that year that passes, it gets a little more tolerant o’ human presence. She claims it’ll eat out o’ the hands o’ the next generation.”
“…An optimistic assessment.”
Kit chuckles. “You could say that. But – long story short – that Order’s going well. Siik’s not a problem right now, and no one expects it to become one.”
“And the Owl?”
For the first time, Kit pauses to think. “No immediate concerns,” she eventually replies. “It’s still occupied by the things we’re giving it. Little contraptions; baubles; interestin’ natural formations.”
“Any luck on charting where it’ll roost next?”
“Not much,” the woman admits. “An’ it’s taking less time to dissect what we give it. Dash reviewed the paperwork: soon enough, its appetite’ll outweigh supply.”
“We knew that.”
“We knew that,” she concurs. “The day’s coming soon, though.”
“Right. Any ideas on how to combat that?”
“Well…” Kit runs a hand over her wrinkled cheeks in thought. “A few harebrained ones.”
“Harebrained how?”
“Like getting the Spider and the Owl to meet.”
“…Which, if they even notice each other, will almost certainly mar the progress we’ve made with the former.”
“Dash said that. But it’s an option.”
“Did he say anything else?”
“You know what he’s like. Love’s shooting down other ideas; not so fond o’ making his own. S’why he’s the Order’s inspector.”
“…Damn it.”
“You got any ideas?”
“There’s a finite amount of novel objects on this planet,” it sighs. “We can only fend off the date where there’s no more.”
“We can always make more.”
“Which means economic work.”
Kit groans. “Which means politics. Blood.”
“What about the Dolphin?”
“Jus’ lemme wallow in this fer a bit.” She leans back, voice loosening back into her normal accent. “Gods damn it. Council’ll really like this.”
The god remains silent as the woman beside them gripes for a few more minutes. When she’s finally done, her back straightens. “Right. Dolphin.”
“Any more casualties?”
“…Yeah. Fishers snuck through the Order’s blockade. Or maybe they were god-hunters. Everyone up there hates Yoot, after all.”
“…What did it make them do?”
“We don’t know. Took days to realise they even made it through, and last I heard there weren’t any signs o’ them.”
“…That’s not good.”
“The Northern economy’ll never fully grow with us blockin’ every fisher. It’ll be fully abandoned in a decade if we can’t find a better solution. And if we ever wanna see what’s across the Northern Sea, we can’t keep quarantining it,” Kit states tersely. “We need to deal with the Dolphin. Council wants to give it convicts.”
“Unacceptable,” they snap, before softening. “But you know I can’t step in.”
“Really, someone oughta put a knife in most o’ them nobles.”
They crow a light chuckle. “Thought you gave up the sword.”
“They make it really tempting to pick one back up.” Kit hisses a sigh through clenched teeth. “You sure you can’t do anythin’?”
“If I start meddling in mortal politick, I’ll never stop.” The god sighs. “And while mortal tyrants die, divine ones don’t.”
“You wouldn’t be a tyrant.”
“Come now. You and I both know better.”
Neither of them say anything more to that. Eventually, Kit settles both hands onto her instrument and begins picking out notes once more. Each chord is far apart, creating a hesitant, halting tune belonging entirely to this moment. Beneath them, the ground reflects dimmed light from the darkening sky above. The sun glows orange with fatigue. Soon, it will be abed.
“Though I appreciate you keeping me abreast,” the god says, “you didn’t come here speak of divine matters.”
Her fingers pause on the strings. When she speaks, it’s not to answer the implied question. “Was a real surprise to find out someone had a kid with that surly bastard.”
The god eyes her sideways. “He was a good man.”
“…Yeah,” she mutters. “Gods. Wish I could’ve seen him out.”
“I was there,” they say. “He wasn’t alone.”
“Good,” she whispers, more to herself than anyone else. “Good.”
“…How are your kids?”
A surprised scoff rips from her chest. “Fully grown an’ still can barely keep their head screwed on.” She waves a hand. “Don’t get me started.”
The god’s mask seems to smirk wryly. “By all means, Kit. I wouldn’t ask if I wasn’t interested.”
She glances at them, then points her pupils skywards before suddenly notices she’s still wearing the glasses. The woman huffs as she carefully folds them and slips them into her coat. “Urgh. I dunno where to start.”
“How’s little Tully?”
“Not so little,” she laughs. “Taller’n me and Maddie – a real beanpole o’ a girl. Sweet as molasses an’ possessin’ about as much backbone.”
“She’s kind.”
Kit groans. “One way o’ sayin’ it. Maddie tells me not to worry, but how can I not? She’s a damned librarian – d’you know how vicious scholars are? Came home cryin’ ‘cause someone went an’ yelled at her over the damned…” She pauses in search of the words. “…the way she’s categorisin’ stuff. Fifty years ago, you could count the amount o’ books we had on one hand, an’ now someone’s got the balls to insult my daughter over it?”
“Did you beat them up?”
“Nah, I’ll jus’ get Maddie t’fire them.”
“An abuse of power,” the god observes.
“Really, it’s more like weedin’ out th’ stupid.” The aging mother snorts, wrinkles aglow. “Who insults Maleen Heltia’s daughter? Jus’ a bad idea all-round.” Then she sighs. “Naw, Tully’d be real mad if I did.”
“What about Jana?”
“Says she wants t’join an Order.” The woman sniffs. “Course, she’s got no idea which one. I wanted to get her to join Sash, but she’d probably find that too borin’ so it might be Dash’s instead. He’s always somethin’ new goin’ on.”
“Has she left, yet?”
“Bah. Think it’s a phase. When she was young, she was always sayin’ random stuff like that – reckon it’ll drift out o’ her attention after a while.”
“Kit,” the god says gently. “She’s wanted to do this for several years.”
“Well.” Her teeth grind together. “That’s what Maddie says, too. Guess I can only blame myself. Bad role model.”
The god scoffs. “We’ve been over this – you’re a fine parent, Kit.”
“But- “
“I’m not going to entertain your bellyaching.” They shake their head in disbelief. “What about your eldest?”
“Brick?”
“I can’t get over that name.”
The woman laughs. “We got him too late to give him another one. Wouldn’t be fair.” She shakes her head. “Nah, vicious bastard like him’ll be fine. Maleen’s groomin’ him to take her role, an’ I pity the poor councillor who’s got to deal with him. He’s a real arsehole,” she says admiringly. “Knew it from the moment I first saw him, rootin’ ‘round in them ruins.”
“He has kids of his own, doesn’t he?”
“Yeah, they’re pretty damn cute.” She spends a few minutes gushing about her grandchildren’s escapades – sneaking out; building forts; drawing on walls – before pausing. “Their mother’s Albright stock.” A frown crosses her face. “That’d make Taja’s girl their cousin, I think.”
“That is correct.”
“Her mother died young, didn’t she?”
The god inclines their head silently. “I think it’s why Taja left. He was never good at grief.”
“Yeah,” she whispers. “That’s true.”
Kit plucks at a few strings. The god gazes at the land disappearing behind them.
“You’re here about Maleen,” they say quietly.
The woman nods mutely. Her dark eyes stare blankly towards the ground.
“She’s not doing well?”
“Y’know, she wants to set up a school?” Her words are sudden; disjointed. “Always told me she’d do it, when she retires. That’s what I’m here for – askin’ fer a few years off to help her out.”
The god’s resonant voice is low and gentle. “Kit…”
There’s a stony aspect to her face – suddenly more tightly contained than it was mere minutes before. “I never been scared o’ my own death. But…”
“Are you gonna be alright, when we’re gone?” Kit’s jaw tightens as her voice breaks. “’Cause I don’t think I’m gonna be, when she is. I don’t know who I am without her.”
“It’s bad?”
“She’s old, Vin.” Her eyes are watery. “An’ I’m not. Yer blood’ll keep me here fer another forty years, when she don’t even have ten.”
“You could- “
“I could,” Kit admits. “I could keep her with me. To be my first. But I asked, an’ she doesn’t want to. She jus’ wants to go.” A broken breath escapes her. “Gods, she pisses me off sometimes. Why’d she refuse your blood? I should’ve made her take it.”
“She had her- “
“I know.” Her voice cracks like a whip. “I bloody know, Vin; I get it. I jus’… Even when I gave up my own blade, I always thought I’d end up greasin’ someone else’s. Instead, I’m still here.”
The god’s friend turns sideways to meet their eyes. Her pupils drown in a sea of white. “I’m not ready to let her go,” she whispers.
The divine and the mortal sit side-by-side, gazes meeting one another. One blackened hand places itself upon a dark shoulder, and an ivory one mirrors the gesture. Beneath them, the Lizard casts its twelve eyes ahead: inexorably marching towards a horizon it will never meet.
“When you all depart,” the Vulture tells her, “I will be wretched. Shattered. But I understand my nature. And I understand a bit about yours, too.
“In the deepest parts of my veins, I know that you and I can do this.”
And at the sight of tears springing from behind the god’s mask, Kit finally lets herself cry.
----------------------------------------
An upright pillar casts a slight shadow in the day’s dying light. Soon, the rest of the world will darken to that same shade. But true night is not here yet. The girl is left to sit and wait, charcoal stick and measuring devices folded neatly inside her book – between pages filled with angles and spheres. Each filled with an abortive attempt at determining the scope of her world.
Without the sun, no reference can be found. Without stillness, no measurement is possible.
Instead, she sits, adrift on the Lizard’s head as it doggedly moves along its interminable passage across the earth. As she idly watches it crawl over dusk-ridden mountains, something else appears. A phantom riding the air high above. The first ghost she’s seen in a long time.
When the kid turns her head, she finds her friend behind her; unfurled from canid form into the full span of their divinity. Three multicoloured eyes gaze from behind their mask. A beautifully adorned blade – sheathed as always – rests upon their waist.
“What?” she demands.
They step beside her, adjusting to the Lizard’s swaying easier than any other she’s seen. Having no need of the harness wrapped tight around her chest.
“What?” she repeats, harsher.
They turn their gaze to the stark cliffs that define this land. “This is where I was made a god.”
“The Wastes?”
“The mountain range that borders it. Where the Cult made its home.”
She’s interested, but doesn’t want to show it. “So?”
“For most of recorded history, creatures couldn’t walk this region,” they begin. “The Raven or its people would swoop in and steal them away, to the Cult, where they would face a choice. That’s why the Wastes is as it is, I think – because their constant plucking irrevocably damaged the land.
“When Avri fell, humanity still couldn’t cross.” They point downwards. “If you look at how steep these mountains are, you’ll see why. Not particularly high, but dangerous enough that climbers have learned to stay away. Most people had bigger problems, back then.”
“So it’s impossible,” she snaps unthinkingly.
They cock their head. “Impossible? What are we doing right now?”
The kid looks down. Beneath, the Lizard scales those same mountains.
“Look at how level Dure keeps its spine. You barely even noticed it was climbing.” The god pats the leathery skin they stand upon. “Why do you think it does that? Some feature of its anatomy? Of its blood? Or maybe it’s some ancient remnant of the creature it once was, long ago:
“A creature that carried others upon its back.”
She’s quiet, now. Thinking.
“You’re trying to redo your father’s calculations, correct? Which ones?”
Mutely, she hands him the notebook.
“Hm. Using shadows to calculate the world’s size. This was a collaboration, I believe.” The god’s eyes run over the pages briefly, then flick back to her. “Not that I’m an expert, but the math on this was exhaustively checked.”
“But…” For once, she sounds her age. “He must have missed something. It can’t be right. Our world isn’t that big. This land isn’t that small.”
“I know how you feel.” The god huffs in amusement. “Our whole lives, covering a tiny fraction of the world’s surface. It’s ridiculous. It’s unbelievable. I think Maleen had an entire team of Spiderbloods look over the geometry.”
“They overlooked something.”
“Maybe,” the god admits. “I doubt it’s perfectly accurate. But it’s close enough.”
The teenager scowls. “Close enough for what?”
As she glares at them, the god quirks a thumb sideways.
When her gaze turns it finds a world darkened, revealing the brilliant stars piercing from all angles. From beneath; from above; from beside – veiled in gossamer nebulas of every colour, in every place her stunned eyes can trace. Like she’s staring out of the cliff-edge of existence, only to find infinity staring back.
And she blinks, realising what she’s seeing.
“It’s the ocean,” the girl says. “Reflecting the sky above.”
Impossibly, the god beside her seems to grin. “A small continent, on a large world, adrift in an immense sky.
She stares a little longer. “We’re so small.”
The new god shakes their head, ivory, crimson and onyx skin like a nebula in motion. “And if only eight gods wait in that tiniest sliver of the universe, then who knows how many fill existence in its entirety?”
The stars twinkle all around them. Her eyes are wide. Stunned.
“…More than eight gods?” She blinks up at them. “Aren’t you scared?”
Almost surprised, the god looks at their own hands. At the scars; at the wrinkles; at the blood, coursing through their being. Then they look upon the glittering expanse before them: endless and open, beyond where the eyes can see.
“No,” they say. “Not anymore.”