He sat down beside Seraph, taking her hands in his own. “The Owl was… was like your husband. Even frightened as I was I could not help returning Her smile. She lifted me to my feet, and I saw the Others.” He paused, and Seraph decided not to point out that he’d claimed to be Hinnum again. She would wait until he was finished with what he had to tell her. Hinnum, she thought, Hinnum would know how to save her husband and how to kill the Shadowed—and somehow this illusion was Hinnum.
“The Hunter was not a big man”—the Scholar was saying—“nor did He speak much, but when he was in the room, I was always aware of him, even in the presence of the other gods. The Cormorant looked just like the statue in His temple—they all did really—but the Cormorant looked as though a smile belonged on His face. He wasn’t smiling, but I could see that was the expression he was most comfortable with. I didn’t like the Lark. I don’t know why. Maybe it was the way that She held the child who slept in Her arms, the child who bore the rage and power of the god of war—as if she were a stone or rock, not a child who suffered for other people’s sins.”
The Scholar pulled his hands away from Seraph’s and covered his face. “The Owl called my Lady, and forced the Raven to come to Her Call. Ah, Raven who was, that I could have died before that day.”
He sighed and let his hands fall limply to his sides. When he spoke again, he continued his story with more dispassion.
“When the Raven came, the Lark showed Her the sleeping child, and said, ‘I am no more powerful than your consort was, Raven. In another month I shall not be able to hold His anger asleep in this child. And then his power will ravage this world, and nothing will be able to hold it in check.’
“ ‘This isn’t about the child, or about the Eagle.’ said the Cormorant. ‘It is about the Weaver and the Stalker. The Eagle’s death has weakened the binding that holds them. We must restore the balance.’ ”
The Scholar looked down at his lap. “Then the Weaver spoke. I don’t know what he said because his voice overwhelmed me, and I fainted. When I came to myself, only Raven was there, sitting beside me and stroking my hair.”
Tears fell again down the Scholar’s face, but he seemed not to notice them. “The Raven told me, ‘We give mortals small pieces of our godhood all of the time: you call them gifts: the toddler who can sing a song note perfect; the warrior whose reflexes are faster than most; the midwife whose patients never die of birthing fever.’ ” The Scholar stopped speaking because his voice grew too thick to continue.
“She killed the other gods,” said Seraph, stunned as she realized what must have happened. “Ellevanal said that the Travelers killed their gods and ate them—and he was right.”
“We killed them, the Raven and I,” agreed the Scholar. “They chose to die because it was the only way to save the All of Being. They sacrificed themselves and their souls flew free, leaving only their power behind. The Raven showed me how to divide the power and bind the Orders so when the mortal who bore them died, they would find another Order Bearer.”
“But the Eagle’s power was corrupted,” Seraph whispered. “He was not a willing sacrifice and would not leave His power.” Oh my poor Jes, she thought. “Empaths. You gave empaths the power and rage of the war god’s ghost.”
When Hennea rushed out of the library, she didn’t know what had upset her, just that she could not bear to hear one more of the Scholar’s words. The flood of anger, of pain, was so strong—she had no idea where it had come from.
She walked rapidly with no goal other than to wear out her body and give herself a chance to think. To become calm. A Raven had no business allowing herself to become so upset. Disastrous things happened when a Raven was out of control.
She followed a narrow footpath behind a hedge of roses, found a small fountain, and sat upon the small stone bench in front of it. The roses in the hedge were opened wide to the sun and had no smell at all.
It took a long time, but gradually peace seeped through her bones, leaving her feeling more like herself. She put a hand into the water of the fountain, then drew it out dry. There was a barrier of time between her hand and the cool water where small fish had once lived. She couldn’t touch the water because it didn’t exist in this time, not really.
The memory of how the spell worked was hers. She could break it if she wanted to. She didn’t remember where she’d learned it: she hadn’t known it yesterday.
She didn’t hear him come. There was nothing to warn her, until his hand closed around her wrist, and he pulled her to her feet.
“Jes?” she whispered though she knew better. The hand that gripped her so carefully was burning with cold.
“No.” The Guardian examined her face as pounding fear washed over her, through her, without touching her because she could never fear him. “Jes is where he cannot be hurt.”
She was wrong, she was not immune to fear. The Guardian’s words terrified her.
“You can’t do that,” she said. “You can’t lock him away. He’s an empath—he needs to be with you.”
The Guardian’s lip curled in an expression she’d never seen on Jes’s face, though it was familiar. Achingly familiar. Where had she seen it?
“I do not need advice from you on how to protect Jes,” the Guardian said, and she finally realized he was angry with her—a rage so deep that he’d locked Jes away from it.
“What’s wrong?” she asked. “Is there something new wrong with Tier?”
He snarled at her, the growl of an enraged mountain cat out of a human mouth, then turned on his heel and began striding away, pulling her behind him.
“Papa is dying—or didn’t you know that?” His voice was soft with menace. “Isn’t it important to you?”
“You know me better than that,” Hennea said, trying to answer his anger with control.
As if the calmness of her voice were more than he could bear, the Guardian jerked her to face him and shook her once. The small act of violence only seemed to increase his frustration—he growled, a low, angry sound.
He bent his head and kissed her. It was a hard kiss, born of rage. She felt her bottom lip split under the pressure. When he tasted her blood, he hesitated, then shoved her away from him—though he didn’t release his hold on her wrist.
He was still for a moment, then began striding forward again. “Papa leaves his lute in its pack, and my mother cries herself to sleep every night. They pretend and pretend all day long so they won’t hurt us.” His voice was so low that she felt it as much as heard it.
“That is no different now than it was this morning,” said Hennea. “But your mother and I are getting closer to the answers we need. We know who the Shadowed is. Guardian—”
She let her voice trail off because she recognized the streets the Guardian had taken, she knew where it led—and she didn’t know how she knew.
She looked at Jes’s face and saw that he would not listen to her now, not until he’d given vent to his rage—and maybe not even then. It was not a good thing that he’d locked Jes away. Strong emotions were such a danger to the Eagle: love, hatred… betrayal. She took hope from the long-fingered hand that was wrapped around her wrist: not once had it tightened enough to bruise.
She watched that hand, and let Jes direct her to the end of the street, where a temple much like the one they’d found their first day in Colossae presided. Jes led the way through the temple’s open doors into the antechamber which was covered in thick carpets. There was a second set of steps, four of them, and another doorway. He didn’t pause as the carpets gave way to white marble, but walked to the far end of the room. He grabbed her shoulder with his free hand and held her before him so she stood directly in front of the black marble statue on the dais of the Temple of the Raven.