She’d fallen in love with Veryon, one of the stonekin. Her youngest brother hadn’t liked the idea of a goddess consorting with a mortal, so he’d lured Veryon to what had then been a pleasant grove, ambushed him there, and killed him.
Gizath hadn’t reckoned with his sister’s wit. She hadn’t fully realized the extent of her brother’s evil. Letar had followed him and Veryon, expecting to intervene in a fight. She’d arrived to see her lover fall with Gizath’s dagger in his back. Then she’d launched herself at her brother’s throat.
Gods had never tried to kill each other before. It didn’t work particularly well. When the other three arrived, Letar and Gizath had only managed to wound each other slightly, but they’d devastated the land for miles nearby. That, as much as Veryon’s death, had convinced the other gods to leave the mortal world after they’d banished Gizath.
The place where they’d fought, the Battlefield, was still there beyond the northern mountains. Even before Thyran, when the north hadn’t been so cut off, travelers and tribesfolk alike had given it wide berth. Olvir had never heard of any living being coming out, certainly not of anybody going in.
“What would I do there?” he asked.
Nobody answered. Nobody could, except the spider, which dropped down from the web and onto the floor of the yurt. It landed on its back, legs curled against its belly. The sight pulled Olvir out of his own distress.
“Poor creature,” he said. Kneeling down, he reached gently for her. “Can we help her?”
“She’s come to the end of her strength,” Gwarill said, sounding only a trace regretful. “There are many paths to the future. Seeing so far as to reliably select the best action is hard on flesh, even such altered flesh as the Weaver’s creatures possess. The prophet will return to Sitha and be reborn.”
The spider was already fading, literally. Her golden shape shimmered, became transparent, then began to vanish from the ends of her legs inward. “Is she in pain?”
“No.”
The web still hung in its place. Olvir got to his feet and looked at it, wanting the message to change but not foolish enough to hope it would. Then he turned his attention to the rest of the room.
All the other people there were watching him. Some were probably expecting tears or anger, perhaps flat refusal. Olvir had all those impulses. He was a normal man. He’d done his duty every day, and while he’d made mistakes, he’d always tried his hardest. This was his reward, it seemed.
All he could do was try to be better than what he carried.
He turned to Gwarill first. “It’s more than I’d have known otherwise. Thank you. Praise be to Sitha, the Builder.”
The rest of the impromptu council echoed him, high and low voices blending together in a quiet chorus.
“We can equip you, once the storm’s properly over,” said Nahon, shaking his graying head as he spoke. “The twistedmen may not notice one man by himself, or there may be a path to the mountains that’ll keep you hidden. Your Sentinel, Emeth…” he added, looking to Vivian as sudden insight struck him. “She talks to the beasts. Perhaps she could find him a clear route?”
“If there is one, she’s the best person to find it,” Vivian said, and then, without changing her tone or drawing a breath, as though she were reporting the watch schedule for the day, she went on. “She’ll be doing so for both of us, by the way.”
* * *
One of the good things about Vivian’s present company was that it was disciplined.
None of the other four in the yurt shouted, leapt immediately to denial, or demanded a full explanation in the wake of her announcement. Gwarill simply nodded; Vivian wondered if he’d known in advance what she’d say. Nahon lifted his eyebrows but looked relieved.
Olvir and Magarteach spoke, essentially at once.
“You don’t have to,” he said. “It’s my duty.”
Magarteach asked, “Why, and why you?”
“Physical dangers aside, we have no clue what the Battlefield does to people who get near it or how the…fragment…will react. You could go into a trance,” she said to Olvir, “or simply fall over, as you did at Oakford. That strikes me as a bad situation in general, doubly so out in the middle of the north.”
“Oh. I hadn’t thought of that, but you’re right,” Olvir frowned. “You’re needed here, though.”
“Katrine is fully as capable of command as I am, only slightly junior.”
Very slightly, said Ulamir, to whom five years had meant as little as a single dawn even when he was alive.
Vivian suppressed a laugh and continued. “At my reforging, Poram gave me the ability to find any place I concentrate on. I’m fairly confident that it’ll be useful in Sir Yoralth’s mission.”
“Damn well would be,” Magarteach said, “even if the mountains are pretty obvious. I’d bet the Battlefield is, too, once you see it from above.”
“That is only so much help from the ground,” Gwarill replied.
