The ember of an emotion pulsed, if only slightly. Yes. That did sound sad.
“I believe Aea feels guilt. It should have been her dragged to the sea by her hair. So, she followed, deep in prayer, petitioning that justice win the day.”
Another pulse, however subtle. Another edge of an emotion. Sad.
“What is her crime?”
Gula tucked a knuckle beneath her chin, folding one arm over her chest and looking down on the throng in judgment. “Idolatry. Blasphemy. Witchcraft. Humans are so…”
She let her thought fade as we listened. I could just make out the crowd’s words. One loud, male voice claimed to speak for his deity—the same deity both the accused and accuser served. Wewere familiar with the name and were already exhausted by his people and their bloodlust.
Still, neither of us expected such zeal this far outside of Jerusalem.
They were mortals caught playing the game of gods, and they played it oh so poorly.
“Will you intervene?” I asked.
Gula tilted her head as if the question was as flimsy as the wind-whipped gauze of her dress. “No. I favor Aea. Justice would require that she pay for the crime in the accused’s place. For this reason alone, I believe she does not actually desire true justice.”
I wasn’t sure if I was satisfied with the answer. Uncertainty was uncomfortable, but then again, so were emotions. These were her humans, not mine. I wasn’t sure why I engaged, but I offered, “Perhaps in justice’s stead, you might offer healing to the accused. She could survive the sentencing.”
Boredom colored her response. “The accused does not belong to me. Ifhergod wants to spare her, he’ll send his servants.”
And we both understood her meaning. The god of Jerusalem was busy. He had better things to do than to answer the cries of his faithful. No one would come for the girl.
“You could use her, you know,” Gula said.
My lip curled in distaste. “Is this why you’ve called a meeting?”
“In your war with Heaven, that is,” she clarified. “The accused is one of Heaven’s faithful, is she not? Perhaps, if you find a compassionate angel, they would not look upon today’s events favorably. They might even be disappointed that their king had not sent one of them to intercede.”
Distaste turned into something bitter on the back of my tongue.
“Empires rise and fall,” she said. “Mine did. All do. But when willhis? Now, it is small. Once, the Akkadians were small, until they weren’t. Then the Assyrians were small, until they weren’t. What is to come of this god as his people grow? What will our future hold? But, if Hell were to consider a few pawns…”
Gula wasn’t wrong. That didn’t make it right.
There was no propaganda quite like the unfeeling manipulation of one’s tragedy for another’s personal gain. Moments like these could win defectors to our side.
Humans couldn’t fathom their roles in our wars—used, ignored, and punished all in a battle to which they had not consented. Perhaps the girl’s death would not be in vain, unfair though it was. Maybe Hell would gain a few of Heaven’s soldiers after today’s events.
The victim screamed something as the crowd forced her to her knees. It was a declaration of faith to the very end. Even in the face of her demise, she refused to denounce her deity.
The ember pulsed within me for a third time, so this time I spoke the feeling aloud. “It is sad.”
Unlike the goddess, I did not keep my eyes on the mob as they lifted their stones and carried out their punishment. Sympathy allowed my lids to flutter shut as the bones below began to break.
I was alone beneath the unyielding sun. Gula’s motives smoldered within me. We’d exchanged the necessary words to confirm the alliance of our kingdoms as pantheons renegotiated their borders. The warring humans changed territories often. While gods preferred to remain in their realms, the mortalplane was sliced like cake; some received generous portions, and others were offered slivers.
She had no right to call upon one of Hell’s royal members to suggest manipulation. It was uncouth. It was unacceptable. It was downright unqueenly.
But the small, pulsing emotion didn’t shift to anger, no matter how strongly I felt that it should. Pity took root within me, the choking quality of its vine wrapping around my throat until it was hard to breathe.
I should have gone home.
My head could have hit the pillows of my palace chambers hours ago. My realm had dukes and counts and marquises and generals of war and torture and violence. They wouldn’t have flinched at this display, but perhaps that’s why I was called, and not them.Why should I?
A thrum of my fingers. A twist of my lips. A squint as I peered between the baking sun and the mangled evidence of mortals and their ruthlessness at my feet.
