Titan Song Dan Stout (top 20 books to read txt) 📖

“So you’re saying . . .” At some point I’d clenched my fists so tight that the knuckles ached. “What are you saying? That the Path isn’t real?”

“I believe I am one of a few guides on all of Eyjan who has access to the oldest of our records. I wove my knowledge from scraps of documents and oral tradition. Like the pages of a book scraped clean of ink, the original sources for the Path are scrubbed of the truth. But if we take that book and reconstruct the white space, what remains are the ink-black letters. So too the forms of the truth take shape.” Weylan stretched the empty show hand backward, revealing the sly hand. It was empty as well. I blinked. Where the Hells is that rock?

“Why are you telling me this?” The idea of this pompous, condescending deceiver implying that we were similar, that we were anything alike made me so angry, so furious that he’d come to our city and betrayed our trust, betrayed me . . .

“You said it yourself. You are here for the truth. You and I are alike, Detective. Kindred hearts who never stop digging, even on holy ground, when we might upset order, and threaten the wealthy and powerful. Plus, we both have the public’s good graces, at least for now. We can bring the public to pursue the truth. Though it may take a bit of deception to get them there. Just as the Path brought stability and peace.”

I tried to focus on his argument. “What about wars? What about everyday cruelty? Where’s your peace and prosperity when I start each day with fresh homicides?”

He was unnervingly still, almost vulnerable. “Perhaps it is superstition, or perhaps it is an unknowable force. There are those who believe the Path encompasses many worlds and many walkers. They believe that Dream Sight allows us to see through great distances, glimpses of what is and what should never be. For those, Eyjan is a spiritual fulcrum, and the paths of all the worlds hang on the ability of the eight Families to live in harmony. They believe that of all the many worlds, Eyjan is the chosen one. And of all the many walkers of the Path, there is one chosen to help right the scales.” He ruffled his sly hands through the fine fur that fueled the Barekusu economy.

I pressed harder. “You tell me there’s nothing in the vents. If that’s so, then there’s no reason to dig, no reason to bankroll Vandie Cedrow’s operation. No reason for any of it.”

“Poor little Vandra Cedrow. She’s made a great medicine of revenge, hoping to cure her grief. You should understand that, Detective, as one who has done the same.”

“Opening a sinkhole is a far cry from weaving a loved one’s fur into your coat,” I said.

“Yet Vandie is caught, and has announced that Ambassador Paulus is her ally. Now all that’s required is to let the dominoes fall. Do your job, Detective, and all will be well.”

“I doubt that very much.”

“The reason I came to Titanshade,” he said, “is that sometimes, someone is chosen to capture a moment. Moments such as this.” He raised his left arm. When I hadn’t noticed, he’d transferred the second rock to that sly hand. It was a simple deceit, but it infuriated me so much I almost doubled over. I realized what was happening even as I stepped toward him, hands rising. Talking to me alone, the buzzing rocks, the vulnerable, open stance.

Weylan wanted me to attack him.

With his size and strength advantage, I was unlikely to kill him, but an attack would make him a sympathetic figure. A martyr wounded for his cause. I forced myself to hold my position, then to fall back a step.

We stared at one another, me breathing fast, him working his great lips, almost ready to speak. I counted to ten and focused on my breathing. I used every trick the department shrinks had given me to work with, teetering on the edge between rage and restraint.

Then I thought of Talena and her mom, of Jax and Hanford, Guyer and Bryyh. Of Gellica. I thought of all the people who’d suffer if I lost control. I found my center and sucked in a deep, cleansing breath. The buzzing began to recede.

“The chosen, huh?”

I thought of the manna strike, and how I’d been touched by the iridescent rain of manna spraying up from far below ground. I thought about how it pried into my head, whispered things I didn’t want to hear. I thought of the way Weylan had paused during the parade and stared at me in the street, and the way he tried to entrap me now.

“No.” I was sick of being labeled a hero to sell newspapers, sick of being whispered about and speculated about. And damn sick of being manipulated by the buzzing hunger of manna. “I’m not chosen for anything. I’m not special.”

The Barekusu stepped back, irises swirling. He shook his head rapidly, like a dog shedding water. His ears tips flapped and his lips puckered, as if he were singing a silent ooo. I stared, realization dawning that this is what he looked like when he laughed.

It took a moment for him to compose himself, during which he set the white rocks back in their cradles. The buzzing cut off immediately. “Hah. No, little detective, you are not chosen. You are a novelty. A brief-lived human who happened to be in the proximity of great events.”

“I was the first living thing touched by the manna.” For someone who’d just insisted he wasn’t special, even to my ear I sounded offended.

“Were you? Even in the ice plains there are insects and bacteria. Even below ground worms tunnel through the earth. Are any of them touched by fate, any bacteria with a special connection allowing them to alter the course of history?” He shook his head again, though less violently this time. “No.