The Broken God Gareth Hanrahan (all ebook reader TXT) 📖

the Ghierdana to murder a priest as part of the funeral ceremony, to show that the sons of the dragon bow to no god, but in these days of alliance between the isles and the Lyrixian mainland it wouldn’t be politic. At least, it wouldn’t be wise to kill a Lyrixian priest; no doubt Baston would happily murder some cleric from the Sacred Realm of Ishmere and drag the corpse back across the border, but that wouldn’t be wise either. They’ve already strained the bounds of the Armistice this day.

Rasce feels restless no matter how much arax he drinks, and the singing irritates him. There’s too much he doesn’t know about Vyr’s death – and how he feels about Vyr’s death. He had no love for his cousin, but he’s honour-bound to avenge the murder of a Ghierdana. Those papers suggest Vyr was plotting against him, or at least reporting on his efforts in Guerdon – and if Vyr was reporting to Great-Uncle, then Vyr might have lied to the dragon, poured deception in Great-Uncle’s ear.

Worse, it’s a sign that Great-Uncle doesn’t trust Rasce. That Great-Uncle fears Rasce might fail.

He wants to act. To strike. Instead, he feels weighed down, surrounded by obligations and duties. Surrounded by people. It was so much easier to soar heedless, to take and move on, to let the dragon-fire scorch the cities and move on – this connection to Spar is a curse as well as a blessing. He’s aware of Vyr’s body in the house, aware of those who were wounded on Mercy Street. One woman was shot – an accident, her gun went off when the watch grabbed her. She’s dying a few streets away, despite the efforts of the surgeon. The sensation of her blood running down on to the floor mixes with the taste of the arax.

Outside, another obligation. Rasce emerges on to Lanthorn Street and bows before Thyrus.

“My thanks, Great-Aunt, for your assistance earlier.”

“My assistance,” she echoes. “Nearly breaking the truce, and for what? A band of stray dogs from the Wash?”

“Allies. Trustworthy allies, so we can extend our reach beyond the occupation zone.”

The dragon enfolds him in a tent of wing-leather. Thyrus’ green-tinged scales eclipse the world.

“Dragons have servants, not allies,” hisses Thyrus. “Have they all taken the ash?”

“I – almost all, but—”

“Almost all. Ah, you clasp only a handful of disloyal vipers to your bosom! My estimation of your competence only decreases. So tell me, nephew, who shall pay me for my assistance? Who is to blame?” Her eyes burn in the hot darkness of her embrace. “Do I blame the dead boy, for whatever foolishness got him killed? Do I blame you, for breaking the truce line and marching a host down into the free city?” She snarls, acidic spittle steaming on the cobblestones of Lanthorn Street (and distantly, Rasce feels the acid eating into the stones). “Or do I blame my brother? He has still not returned! What did he command you to do?”

“To take control of Guerdon’s trade in yliaster,” replies Rasce. Great-Uncle commanded him to remain silent, but he owes Thyrus a debt.

“Are we pedlars now? Do we grub in the dirt for the leavings of gods to sell on for a few coppers? The margins on yliaster are miserly.” Thyrus hisses again. “End this. Do not cross the border again, for any reason.”

“My Great-Uncle set me a task, and I would sooner die than fail.”

“My child,” says Thyrus, “you are mortal. Death and failure are inevitable for you. You only get to choose which comes first.” Her tone suggests she’s done with the conversation, but Rasce isn’t finished.

“A Ghierdana has been murdered. All of us are honour-bound to avenge him.”

Thyrus yawns, showing him three rows of razor-sharp teeth. A few small gaps, where knives were harvested for her adopted children. Tooth-buds are already sprouting in the gaps. “Bring me those responsible, and I shall devour them.”

“The alchemist Mandel—”

“You have no proof of that.”

“This letter,” says Rasce, producing the sealed letter. “Mandel’s company enchanted the hands that strangled the life from Vyr.”

The dragon breathes softly. Wax melts. Paper scorches and burns. “I am not unsympathetic, child, but young Vyr is dead, and the dead can wait. Sometimes, vengeance must be slow, and it may be all the sweeter for it.” Thyrus spreads her wings, releasing him from the confessional. “Know your place, Chosen, and be the better for it.”

Spar watches the dragon depart, part of his mind following Thyrus as she climbs, circles once over the New City, then strikes out for the designated hunting grounds north of Guerdon. He can feel her, too, with senses he doesn’t have a name for.

I think she may be right. If the Armistice fails, then everybody loses. Secure what you’ve won.

“You owe me,” says Rasce, rising to face the house on Lanthorn Street. “I saved you. We made a bargain, you and I.” He shouts, his voice echoing off the New City. “Show me my enemies!”

Spar tries. Again and again, he reaches out. He can see the pebbles planted by Baston, across the city, gleaming in his mind like a constellation of stars, but it’s too far. He strains until his mind dissolves, until his soul burns, all to no avail. He can no more reach those stars than he can fly.

“Damn you!” Rasce roars. “I shall not fail Great-Uncle!”

Inside Lanthorn Street, Baston rises to investigate the commotion outside. Karla looks down from an upstairs window.

“On Glimmerside,” says Rasce, “you took my strength to fuel the miracle. Do so again, then.”

Spar hesitates. A Stone Man must be cautious. If he takes too much from Rasce, the spiritual loss could kill him – and then Spar himself would be lost, falling back into the abyss. He tries to think – and then Rasce’s knife plunges into the wall of the house, or into Rasce’s own flesh, Spar can’t tell. The overlap is too complete, and his mind’s already scraped over the city from the seawall to