Goddess Liv Savell (best autobiographies to read .TXT) 📖

“Are these your doing?” She demanded, pointing to the fruit trees. The farmer’s brow creased. “Of course. This is my land.”

“Your land? No one can own land, human.”

“What—I was granted this land. I provide food for Caerthleon. No one has disputed my claim in twenty— What are you doing with my son?”

Va'al sighed and looked up at the sky above them. Brilliant blue, broken by green. Really, all of Illygad seemed to be conspiring against him today—first Enyo and Maoz, now this man, meddling in the affairs of the Gods. At least, he momentarily seemed preoccupied with Enyo. Best to use that time wisely. With a bit of luck, Enyo could keep him distracted long enough for the ritual to go through.

Playfully, Va'al twirled the horn for the little boy, juggling it and then hiding it behind his back. Even with the father so obviously upset and his hand bleeding, the boy giggled.

Children were so easy to beguile.

Va'al handed him the horn with a wink, and the boy grinned, showing off a gap-toothed smile. The God grinned back. “Alright, little one, to play the game all you have to do is say ‘Aryus.’”

The child cocked his head to one side. It was a particularly odd name and a particularly odd game, but, after all, the nice man had given him a horn. After a moment or two, he said the name and blew a sad little note.

Only, nothing happened.

The wind did not stir; the earth did not tremble. The God of Death did not appear.

❂

“Hey!” The father pushed past Enyo, and she spun, grabbing him by the nape of the neck and holding him as one might a kitten. Ember eyes glittered as she watched Aryus’s rebirth.

It was rather anticlimactic, but then perhaps that was just Aryus’s way?

“Aryus?” she asked, but the child didn’t respond, toying with the horn. Her frown was tight. “Va'al?” He seemed equally baffled and peered down at the child, who, upon looking up and seeing his father struggling in Enyo’s grip, started to cry again.

She had never liked it when children cried. Her own children were weaned off the tit as soon as possible; Enyo didn’t see much reason to spend time with them. Of course, she had spoiled Mascen, but he had been different. Better. The rest of her children were abandoned as soon as possible.

And the crying.

“Stop it,” she said, but the child continued. “Did you do it correctly?” she hauled the father over, inspecting the boy’s bleeding hand. The older man was whimpering in a most dissatisfying way.This wasn’t some glorious battle or hunt. It was just catching fish already trapped in a barrel—weeping, sniveling, useless fish. “Quiet,” she commanded, shaking the father. He sucked in his breath, but his son only wailed louder.

Why hadn’t it worked? Why had Aryus not come?

⚀

“Of course I did it correctly,” Va'al snapped, finally fed up with her. He understood the old magic just as well as she. Hadn’t he been the first to escape their banishment?

Va'al had thought that he could not get any more aggravated, but he was rapidly becoming aware of a particularly unpleasant feeling. Like he, the Trickster, was actually the one being tricked.

“The artifact,” he demanded, snatching it back from the child who just began to squall louder. “How do we know it is the right one?”

It would be just like Aryus to leave a fake, to think it some great joke. Always laughing was the Death God.

“What do you mean the right one?” Enyo growled, jerking the father in her temper. He gasped and started praying, his murmured words to Rhan only seeming to anger her more. She dropped him, but when he tried to scramble towards his son, she gripped him by the sides of his face and twisted. The body fell, discarded, neck broken.

The child screamed, and Enyo snarled. “Stop crying now, or I will rip your tongue from your mouth, do you understand, boy?” The child crumpled, shoving his hands into his mouth to keep the sobs muffled. “Better. Va'al, hand me that ridiculous horn.”

Va'al tossed it to her, stalking off. Always, Enyo had to see for herself, as though she did not trust him to do the simplest of tasks. Well, let her, frustrating woman. He would find a way to rid himself of this mortal form even if he had to drag her, kicking and screaming the whole way.

Enyo scraped the edge of her dagger against the horn with a sound like folding steel. Cream paint chipped off in odd flakes to reveal a simple, iron horn beneath. A trick. A joke. A ruse.

So, Aryus’s artifact was no longer an option. What was his next move?

The misfit God looked back at Enyo, his smile widening.

She wasn’t going to like it at all, but there was a much more reasonable Goddess close at hand.

Chapter XI

Tenth Moon, Waning Gibbous: Central Thloegr

Excerpt from the Journal of Etienne d’Etoiles 

Tenth Moon of the Year 1819, Central Thloegr

The Death God’s horn is remarkably plain. It bears no etchings, no seams. The instrument is made of bone in the shape of a simple, curving cylinder, narrow at one end and flared at the other. It is not the horn of an animal—no animal in my knowledge has horns of this size, color, and shape. It seems almost as though it was cast of bone. Molded out of the porous material like clay. This, of course, is conjecture. There are no means available to me to tell how the artifact was created, but its composition is no less than miraculous.

I know so little about these artifacts. Why do the Gods need them? Was it the Gods who made them? Why was I able to summon Enyo with a spell if these artifacts are the true keys to the Gods’ return?

Perhaps even more importantly, why does Enyo want to awaken more Gods? In all my previous observations of her behavior, her