“Rollie, there is no god here. There’s no one to petition or call upon. You have to trust me,” he hissed after him, but it was too late. The acolytes had recognized him, their money-sniffing snoots twitching as they now watched him like sharks who had scented blood in the water.
“Prince Blatz, our god welcomes you. Were we aware of your visit?” The one speaking smelled like salty olives and alcohol twice baked in the sun. Fucking vile.
Topp’s favorite and most familiar mask clinked right back into place as if it had never left. Bored. Rash. Expectant.
The Crown Prince.
“I didn’t realize I had to send word to be received properly.” Pleasantries didn’t belong on a man like him. He gestured to his side. “This is my advisor, Rollickus.”
Rollie pushed up his glasses, looking down his nose at the acolytes, and Topp smirked as they shrunk back unconsciously. The man had absolutely no idea what a natural he was, but Rollie’s aloof countenance was perfection beside his rugged but quiet aggression.
Striding past them, he ignored their startled exclamations and cries for him to wait. His boots cracked against the ceramic tiles as he entered the temple, spraying bits of sand and dirt all over the pristine floors. He stood inside the foyer, not bothering to hide his irritation and distaste. Nose wrinkled and lips curled, he realized they’d managed to make it even more repulsive since the last time he was here. Golden fountains, golden statues, paintings of their god showered in wealth.
Idiots.Everyone knew the god of the dead and the goddess ofpleasure were who to petition for wealth. The god of all gods didn’t even exist. Not that’d he been convinced any of the gods existed until recently. But it was a testament to the temple’s fearmongering that they managed to swindle the people of the White Sands for so much money when no other region even acknowledged the existence of the god of the undead gods. Likely because it was a farce and this temple belonged to an old nature god no one paid attention to anymore.
The acolytes rushed in, the heavy gold-coated doors banging behind them. Topp barked out orders, demanding rooms and food for two. Breathless and red-faced, they stammered after him, assuring him they would find him suitable accommodations. Topp reached over casually, his knife plucking off the pearl holding together the nearest acolyte’s robe. Bending over, he picked up the pearl and examined it. He smiled unpleasantly as he dropped it to the floor with a ping.
“We came for an audience with your god.”
The acolyte clutched his robes to keep them from falling as his eyes blinked in stacks of coins. “Yes, yes, I will pass that on to our high priest.”
Topp patted the man on the head, his voice rumbling. “Good. You do that.”
They’d only been in their shining, marbled rooms for minutes when a knock came. Topp remained lounging in a white wicker chair near the balcony and nodded for Rollie to open the door. In strode a man with blue eyes and light sandy brown hair cut tight. A foreigner most likely then, given most of the people in the White Sands boasted perfect rich tans of medium to deep depths year-round along with dark hair and eyes. The man scanned him boldly before offering a practiced smile.
“Our humble temple is honored to host you, Prince Blatz. The god of the undead gods welcomes you to his home.”
“I’m sure he does.” His words hung in the air awkwardly as the priest quickly ascertained how this meeting was going to go.
Readjusting, the priest got to the point. “You wish to gain anaudience with our god? Does this mean you follow the true path? We would be glad for you to become a member.”
Topp’s mouth almost lifted.The true path.Membership. Maybe he should be more cultured, more open. He’d spent time in so many kingdoms. Visited all the temples. Watched a goddess stalk naked and dripping wet past him only days ago. But in his heart, he was a Kavian—the gods were dead, and if they weren’t then they must be real fucking assholes. All he heard when this little man spoke was the ting of coins and the ramblings of delusion.
He casually rested one elbow on the arm of the wicker chair. “You can guarantee an audience?” Skepticism flattened his tone.
The priest folded his hands at his jeweled waist. “I imagine that idea might be difficult for someone from a godsforsaken land like yours. You never learned how to hear the call of divinity in your ear.” False, condescending empathy oozed from the priest’s words.
Sonofabitch.
Topp smiled and glanced out the window before responding. “I don’t need to hear a voice to know when someone’s full of shit. I can do that all on my own.”
The high priest pretended to be confused. “Why would I work to petition an audience for you when you hold such disregard for our practices? I couldn’t in good conscience call in my god to be greeted by such sacrilegious sentiment.”
Gods, this was why his father didn’t force him to do the endless meetings. Inevitably, there always came a point where the bullshit was so thick that he cracked—and apparently, he wasn’t supposed to call the bullshit, bullshit. That was offensive. People didn’t like that. Too bad he didn’t care. “You’ll do it because I’ll pay you.”
The priest nodded and considered this. “There is a high price, indeed, to feel the presence of the god of gods.”
Topp’s voice became dry. “How else would you pay for your tasteless art?”
He kept his composure as he waited for the priest to reveal his price. The price didn’t matter. Because whatever price they demanded was one he couldn’t pay. It wasn’t like he had access to the royal coffers—he’d left his own capital city in a wagon of corpses.
The priest adjusted his stance, his warm turquoise robes rustling with the movement. “Our house, as you can see, is not in need of funds.”
Topp grew impatient. “So, name your price.”
The priest finally dropped the polite veneer. “We want to know where the girl is. Your ex-girlfriend, betrothed? Wanted by the king of Kava and rumored to be courting death. So much mystery surrounds her, don’t you think?”
Topp fought his beast, overcome with the desire to grab his axes or divest this toad of the air in his lungs. Externally, his mask never slipped. “If it’s not her bounty or mine you’re after, then what could you possibly want?”
