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

on the edge of his awareness since the night before. If all magic came from the same place, then there was only one type of magic—just two ways to access it.

Etienne grabbed for his dagger and sliced open his palm so that blood welled up in a quickly watered pool before casting the blade aside. He dipped his fingers in the stuff, tracing on his skin the runes for the biggest magics he knew; trapping and tracking. Somehow, the blood stayed where he left it, unmarred by rain.

In his belly, the magic pooled, restless as a snake in so poor a container. He had used Thloegran beliefs to summon the power, but he wanted something more complex than any Thloegran intent could give him. So rather than merely aiming the power at Mascen, Etienne began to chant.

It was a familiar spell now, after the months he had spent revising these words on the way to Thlonandras. Not a binding spell, but one of invisible walls, of magic bars.

He had used it on Enyo once, a lifetime ago, to keep her trapped in a tent. This version was stronger, more carefully thought out. And he hoped it would be enough.

Etienne was yelling now, the words harsh against his throat as the magic responded to his spell, coiling out of his body. He had been right. The magic did not care how it was directed, only that it was directed.

For a long moment, nothing happened. Calamity was almost at Mascen’s feet. He went to take another step, to devour the final few inches, his face haughty with victory.

Only to stop, unmoving.

He tried again, pushing on the spell in a way that made Etienne stop mid-chant to groan. Hastily, he replaced spent runes with new, drawing more power to feed into the working.

Mascen moved to try again, to bend towards Calamity.

And nothing happened.

He was trapped every bit as completely as Enyo had been all those long moons ago.

⫸

Etienne’s forgotten blade was in her hand. He had thrown it aside, moments before, after making the cuts in his own flesh that would allow him to imprison Mascen. Meirin could see the God in the periphery of her vision, but his anger paled in comparison to the importance of the knife. It was a simple thing. Straight-edged and leather-wrapped.

She had the knife, the key. Or rather, one of two keys. What was it she was supposed to do next?

Movement flashed in that peripheral scene, Enyo dashing around her contained child. The Goddess’s good hand glinted white, a flash of ivory. She had found the horn in the tumult, while Etienne had cast his spell and Meirin had been too shaken by Mascen’s blow to notice.

Enyo arrived at Meirin’s side in a spray of dirt. Flecks of it freckled the knife—brown marring silver. The horn Enyo pressed on her was likewise sanded with wet clumps. It was so loud beneath the wind, as though the sky were screaming. How was anyone supposed to think like this? Meirin had to stand, to use the keys, but— She felt the heaviness of the bone horn in her palm and the pain of Enyo dragging the dagger against her other hand.

“Say their name. Say Aryus.” Enyo hissed. Her grip on Meirin’s wrist was a manacle.

That was it. They had to bring back the God of Death. To destroy the God of Disaster.

Meirin’s speech was messy and ill-formed, but she repeated after the Goddess. There was a moment of still, no longer than a breath, but in that time, Meirin’s eyes found Etienne. He was outlined in thunderheads and rain, body rigid as he fought Mascen. The mage’s hair stood on end, and his pale skin was parchment inked by his own blood. He was a human, fighting a God. And he was winning.

Then, there was nothing. Meirin collapsed in a spray of delicate, pink petals, out of place in Mascen’s frigid torrent.

“NO!” Mascen roared, reaching forward and yanking the wall down.

“YES!” Enyo jumped to her feet.

A curious smile curved her lips as Meirin sat up, looking at her hands, her legs. Dark eyes swept the clearing and landed on Mascen with a strangled giggle.

“A very pretty thing am I, fluttering in the pale blue sky—delicate, fragile on the wing. Indeed I am a pretty thing. What am I?” Meirin—no, Aryus stood, their smile growing all the wider.

Mascen looked over those assembled to face them: Etienne swayed, but already his bloodied fingers moved over his skin, preparing a second spell. Maoz stood to his left, Calamity gripped in both hands as though he meant to protect his young kin. Enyo and Va’al steadying themselves for a fight. Aryus laughing.

“You’ve fumbled your hand, son,” the Trickster God said, and Mascen disappeared in a fountain of earth and curses. The storm around them lifted.

“Oh, there is the sky.” Aryus chuckled and turned slowly in a circle to face Etienne, where he slumped, pale with blood-loss and effort. “Do you know what I am?”

✶

“Aryus, God of Death,” Etienne said numbly, looking into the eyes of the woman he had come to respect and care for.

The God laughed again. “No, silly. The riddle. Aren’t mages supposed to be clever?”

Etienne looked around the camp, at tents torn from their stakes and belongings scattered by the wind. Delyth stirred slowly but could not seem to push herself up, and the Gods were all looking at him and Aryus, ruffled but unharmed.

How was it that they had done nothing against Mascen? Did they expect mortals to always be doing their dirty work for them?

“Well?” Aryus hummed. “Pale blue sky. Flut-muttering, on the wing buttering?”

Etienne sighed deeply. They had survived at least, though the cost of that survival seemed greater each time they managed it. He made himself look up into Meirin’s face, now contorted into an ill-fitting grin.

“You’re a butterfly,” he said and sent Aryus stumbling back in a fit of breathless giggles.

⥣          ⥣           ⥣

Delyth straightened