“About that, my lord,” Mavros said, “there is something else you should know.”
“What?” he grumbled.
“The young god is also a mage.”
Cassian turned to his attendant again. Nothing about Mavros’s somber expression suggested that he was jesting.
No such deities had been born with the ability to do witchcraft. Deities were born with divine power, never magic.Why hadn’t the other Council members mentioned this? Surely, if they were aware, they would have.
“Why am I just now learning of this?” Cassian snapped.
“The god was confined in Kaimana until recently. My presumption is that he kept it a secret. According to my insights, Lady Mira banished him five years ago after learning of his ability to use magic.”
It appeared a graver matter took priority atop his never-ending to-do list.
Cassian squeezed the bridge of his nose. Suddenly, he wished the young god had been abusing the power of an ancient relic instead, for the sake of a simpler solution. It was a shame he did not make use of the downtime beneath the wisteria moments ago.
“What shall you have me do?” Mavros asked.
Cassian straightened and peered out along the River’s edge where Nathaira stood. She reminded him of a forest fairy in the folktales that he enjoyed reading in his spare time. Grace and tranquility seemed to be inherently passed down in deities of nature—traits Cassian naturally gravitated to in moments of stress. Nathaira’s presence provided a sense of grounding.
All too similar to a dear friend of Cassian’s, who was now imprisoned in Moros.
Perhaps Cassian would pay the High God of Nature a visit to complain about how much of a nuisance his youngest son was proving to be. Vale would be amused and provide a vexing amount of pride, no doubt.
A pang of guilt caught in his chest. The last thing he wished to do was curse his oldest friend’s son.
“I’ll take care of it,” Cassian said, tone taut. He slipped his hands back inside his trouser pockets, fidgeting with the tips of his fingers. “You are dismissed.”
Mavros bowed his head and stepped back into the inky cloud stirring at his backside, disappearing with the sound of a fractured gust.
Cassian adjusted the starched,crisp cravat around the neck of his high-collared linen shirt. His hands itched to smooth out the wool material of his waistcoat. He double checked for any lint clinging to the lapels of his velvet tailcoat.
It had been ages since he’d stepped foot on Mortal Land. He’d used minimal glamor and shortened his height to an average male human, dulled the sheen of his divine complexion, and warmed the blond of his hair.
There were no rules amongst deities that said they could not show themselves to mortals, but it was not something one often did. Deities typically morphed themselves to show a completely different appearance.
Mortals tended to better worship what they could not see. The illusion of what they believed to be true about their god or goddess fed their hope and prolonged their commitment to prayers.
Not only that, but Cassian had never crossed paths with the young god, giving no reason to worry about being recognized.
Though, despite his efforts to blend in, a quick sweep around the crowded mortal street where he stood was plenty to notice the passersby gawking. Just as he was doubting his decision not to listen to Nathaira and dress a little less lavishly, the door to the apothecary swung open in front of him.
He side-stepped the mortal exiting the establishment, but the elderly man gave a polite smile and held the door open for him. “Here you are.”
Cassian quickly analyzed the man’s leathered, wrinkled skin and yellow tint in his eyes, calculating his time until death. Souls growing old in their mortal bodies hardly seemed fair. He wanted to assure the man that death would be a relief, but he was sure that it’d only make the man suspicious.
Taking a step, Cassian grabbed the edge of the door, giving the mortal a slight head bow in a gesture of appreciation.
“Have a good day, Mister.” The mortal turned on his heel and hobbled off.
Cassian watched his backside grow smaller in the distance, wondering what sort of illness he had that had led him to an apothecary. Or what sort of intentions the young god stealing souls had with sick mortals to beworkingas an apothecary? Poisoning them, perhaps, simply to revive them for his undead army, or using their hair or blood for some kind of nature-bending ritual.
Cassian gave one last look at the outside of the apothecary—the overgrown ivy, the chipped brown paint of the windowpanes.
He inhaled a breath and relaxed his shoulders on his exhale before stepping through the threshold.
A pungent aroma of herbs greeted him. The inside of the establishment was small, only enough room for a few bodies to stand in front of the large wooden counter. On the wall behind it were rows of metal shelves running up to the ceiling, full of clay and glass jars crammed with an assortment of dried herbs and plants.
