Malcolm raised his hood and smiled, not a happy expression but one of endured regret. “Life doesn’t always turn out the way we want, but that doesn’t mean it isn’t for the best. Remember that, too. It might help.” He looked up at the sky. “No . . . it probably won’t. There’s no sense in the demon explaining why death is better than immortality. That’s something that has to be experienced to be understood.”
Chapter Eight
Unanswered Questions
I now understand that Aesira is another word for god. There are five, which oddly feels like both too few and too many. — The Book of Brin
Entering the home of Drome, Moya was greeted by two rows of five massive pillars. To either side, broad marble staircases curved like two giants’ arms hugging the grand entry hall. From the checkered-tile floor to the soaring walls and arches, everything was either black or white. Even the torches didn’t flicker with the familiar yellow of fire. Instead, they radiated an unwavering pale brilliance that reminded Moya of how snow reflected a winter’s gray sky. For all her mother’s tales of woe about Phyre, Audrey had failed to mention that the underworld was run by a tyrannical black-and-white-loving overlord. Not that it mattered because Moya wouldn’t have believed the stories, but in retrospect, she would have appreciated the warning.
They found no one inside. The vast and imposing entrance was empty of anything except stone. The soldiers remained in the vestibule while Ezerton continued to lead the way up the stairs. As it happened, both sets circled to the same balcony and met at a single archway. Before it, the polished floor was made up of geometric patterns of a copper-colored stone, at the center of which lay a design like the sun. Rays sprayed out in a way that was similar to the art Moya had seen in Neith. To either side, statues soared. On the left, a man held a short sword in one hand and a torch in the other. The opposing figure was the same man, but this time he held a triangular tool in one hand and a hammer in the other. A bright light emanated from the chamber within.
While the climb hadn’t been far, Moya felt exhausted. “Anyone else winded?”
“I feel . . . heavy,” Tekchin said. “Tired, even.”
The others nodded.
“We don’t have bodies, so how can we be fatigued? Roan? What’s going on?”
“Don’t know.”
“It’s like the rules are changing on us,” Moya said.
“What’s that light, do you suppose?” Gifford asked, squinting at the archway.
“Well, we don’t have eyes,” Roan said. “So it’s something we are interpreting. Power maybe?”
“It’s the presence of Drome,” Rain concluded.
“Seriously? He gives off his own light?” Moya rolled her eyes.
“Why not? He is a god, after all.”
“Malcolm doesn’t glow.” Moya glanced at Tressa, taunting her, but she didn’t bother to reply.
Ezerton stopped at the archway. “Behold, Lord God Drome of Rel.” He beckoned them to enter.
Feeling less sure of herself than she ever had, Moya took slow steps forward. The interior brilliance was blinding, and she put up a hand in defense. Peering through spread fingers, she determined they were entering a white-marbled throne room. Instead of pillars, the roof—if there was one—was held up by statues of giants. Their arms strained to keep the sky in place. Rivers of liquid gold and silver spilled from indescribable heights, falling in cascades and splashing their way down sculptured walls. In the center of everything, a grand chair was placed on a dais at the top of yet another set of stairs.
Upon it sat Drome.
Grand, grinning, and terrifying, he looked to be so solid, broad, and heavy that he might have been another statue—if not for the energy he radiated. High cheekbones held up by cheerful anticipation, wide-set eyes, and a flat nose were all wreathed by a bristling mane. His hair was gold with streaks of silver that suggested the graying of age, yet while Moya was certain this being was old, the color of his hair and beard had nothing to do with that impression.
“What shades of Elan have entered my home?” the god asked.
That could have been worse, Moya thought. He hasn’t snuffed us out of existence. Maybe I misjudged Ink-Head’s intentions. Perhaps I should stop thinking of him as Ink-Head, or possibly stop thinking altogether.
Nothing else was said for quite some time, and Moya stood there, listening to the splash of the precious-metal falls.
Drome shifted his feet, drawing his heels in toward the base of his throne, and he leaned forward so that the long braids of his beard made a coil on the floor. He pointed at each as he counted them off. “Moya, Tekchin, Brin . . .” He hesitated. “Ah—Roan! Yes, Roan and Gifford.” His eyes settled on Tressa, and they narrowed. “Hmm, who are—oh, yes, Konniger’s wife.” His sight slid off her in an instant as something caught his eye. “And of course, Rain!” His gaze remained on the dwarf for a time, and his smile grew brighter. “Nice to see one of my own.”
The god sat back and crossed his legs, revealing a pair of stocky, hairy, muscled calves beneath purple, gold, and silver robes. “Normally, I would welcome you to my realm, but of course you aren’t—welcome, that is. You are intruders, trespassers, troublemakers—rabble-rousers up to no good and no doubt here for nefarious purposes. Never before have I shut the Rel Gate, but when my sister warned me of your coming, I took her advice. As twins, we have divided all that makes us what we are. She hoarded the shrewdness, and I got everything else.” He focused on Rain again. “You know what I mean.”
Rain showed no indication of anything other than perhaps having voluntarily turned to stone.
“Now, let’s get to the point of this visit.” Drome leaned forward once more, this time placing both of his large squarish hands on the sturdy throne’s arms, pushing himself to a more upright position. “How did you get in?”
Drome waited, but no one said a word.
“Did someone help you? Someone on the inside? Arion perhaps?” As Drome’s voice rose, so did Moya’s fear.
She recalled Arion’s words, Drome is the undisputed ruler here . . . he is an Aesira, and I don’t take it as a good sign that he’s interested in you.
What’s an Aesira? Moya wondered, and why do I feel that it’s bad?
Just looking at Drome, at the light he radiated, which according to Roan might be an expression of his power, made Moya suspect that letting him build up to a frenzy wasn’t a good idea.
Her first impulse was to tell him. More than just a thought, it was a compulsion, an almost undeniable desire. Giving him what he asked for would save them—all of them. So strong was the need to grant him his wish that Moya’s mouth opened. But her propensity for standing up when she was told to sit down, for saying no when everyone else said yes, stopped her.
Despite her reputation, Moya hadn’t slept with all the boys in Dahl Rhen. She’d said yes to Heath Coswall but only that one time. Moya had felt sorry for the boy because he’d cried while begging on his knees. He’d proclaimed his love and said that the pain of not being with her was too great. Being young and stupid, she’d picked poorly, and Heath turned out to be a bastard and then some. He spread rumors of her seducing him because there was no way he was going to tell the truth about that night. Moya was angry, but her mother was furious. Seeing how much it pained Audrey, Moya didn’t dispute the rumors, which grew like crabgrass in a garden. It wasn’t long before everyone was sure she had said yes to anyone who had asked, but she hadn’t. After Heath’s lie, she said no hundreds of times. Each one brought stunned looks that she enjoyed seeing. Saying no—refusing to obey, go along, or appease—became ingrained in her and helped to erase in her own mind that one foolish mistake. Over time, it became part of her character. Defiance was one of the pillars of who she was. Being dead hadn’t changed that.