A God of Gods: Dreams of Chaos, #3

By Ashley Chappell

Chaos has chosen an ending. 
After stripping Trotter's chosen dominion away from her, Chaos forced her into the ancient role of the God of Gods. It is now her responsibility, whether or not she chooses to accept it, to bring Death to all Creation. 
Wary of Trotter's new power, the gods of Realm make a deal with devils from their ancient past. But when the gods reappear in Aevum, ragged and terrified by the horrors they've unleashed, they discover that something else is using Trotter's dominion over Death to alter the ending Chaos chose…

In the penultimate book in the DREAMS OF CHAOS series, the stakes have never been higher.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Ashley Chappell
• Release date: Jan 14, 2019
• ISBN: 9781386250890

Ashley Chappell

Ashley Chappell writes satire and young adult epic fantasy featuring expansive world-building and universes filled with magic, mayhem, and monsters. Upcoming releases include expansions of her YA Fantasy Dreams of Chaos series and Hawk of Hell: The Harrowers Book 1, a gritty adventure in which Hell is a job for life. Or rather, a job for the afterlife. Ms. Chappell currently resides in Huntsville, AL. When not writing, reviewing, or burying her nose in one of her well-worn Terry Pratchett or Neil Gaiman novels, she can be found sailing with her husband on their boat ‘Dupracity’ (fans of Kurt Vonnegut may recognize the root of the name).

Book preview

Dreams of Chaos Book 3

Ashley Chappell

Copyright 2017 by Ashley Chappell

All rights reserved.

Discover other titles by Chappell:

Dreams of Chaos Series

Alice Will

Tilt

A God of Gods

A Mother of Gods (Fall 2019)

Other Titles

Of War and Taters

The Firefly Paradox (Short Story)

View samples, news, and extras at:

http://www.ashleychappellbooks.com/

For everyone whose email/text message/Facebook message/Twitter DM/phone call (do people still do that?)/voicemail (why, people, why?) I ignored while working on this book. Or while I was reading. Or possibly playing a game. Also for anyone I ran away from in public at pretty much any time.

It’s not my fault, really. People are scary.

But in the end...

We are all just Dreams of Chaos.

Part One:

The Beginning of the End

Chapter One

Trotter’s knee cracked against the ground as she stumbled, clutching at the explosion of pain in her jaw. Her father held nothing back; his strike would have killed a mortal.

Get up! She scolded herself. This isn’t how it happened and you know it.

She stood slowly, turning to face Stoicese, the god of truth, in all his hatred and fury. But this was just another repeat. She’d seen this face, this anger, again and again for the past several weeks. Months? Possibly more. The kernel of certainty she held in her core that her father would never hurt her, never look on her with such hatred, shriveled more each time she had to face this monster of her own twisted memories.

Dad, please, don’t make me hurt you, Trotter begged as she backed away. The Hall of the Accord in Realm, or this representation of it, left little room for circling away from him. I don’t want to hurt you again!

"Dad, please, Stoicese said, mocking her voice in shrill tones. His mouth twisted into a perverse smile as he took in the hurt and tears streaming from her eyes. You don’t want to hurt me, yet you promised to make me beg for death. Only one of those things can be true, Trotter. Choose," he said, closing the distance between them in less than a blink.

Her head cracked against the wall as he shoved her against it with his face inches from her own, spittle spraying her as he yelled. "Stupid, stupid, child! Did you ever believe you could have it both ways? That you could declare all the gods of Realm your enemies, and not lose your parents in the process?"

Lights flashed behind her eyes with the pain in her head even as the torn flesh of her scalp knitted itself back together. It isn’t real, she reminded herself again, despite how terrifyingly authentic the warm blood felt as it poured down the back of her neck. It’s in my head. I can take control. I think I can take control...

I don’t want to lose you, she said, her voice shaking. "But I can’t forgive them. I don’t even know if I can ever forgive you. You’ve known, or at least suspected, all this time that Chaos had terrible plans for me, and you... you never once tried to stop it from happening. She swallowed back a sob as she tried to free her arms from his iron grip. You let him make me a monster!"

Her father’s face broke into a wry grin as he dropped his hold on her and backed away, laughing. "You actually believe you were ever anything but a monster? As horrible as you think we are, you are still nothing more than a product of two of us. Everything you hate in us was distilled in you at birth. You are the least of us, and yet the worst of us. Didn’t you realize that’s why the gods never have children? What monsters we’d beget..."

That isn’t true! Trotter shouted back, pushing the cascade of raven-black hair out of her face where it had matted in her tears. "Alice was born of two gods just like I was. She was still able to choose to become the goddess of children, to be good and protect people, but my choice was taken away from me. I wanted to protect, too, but Chaos made me a tool of destruction!"

He raised his eyebrows at her as if waiting for her to make some connection. The pure calculating coldness in his gaze made his stern gray eyes more chilling than ever. Her own brow furrowed as she considered what this nightmare was trying to say to her. No, she said, shaking her head. Don’t you dare even say it.

Stoicese laughed again, and Trotter felt the fire rising in her stomach. Aliel’s fire. It was going to happen again, even though she’d tried to change the script. Even that knowledge stoked the flame higher until she thought she’d burst trying to control it.

I shouldn’t have to say it. It should be obvious, even to a child. All coins have two sides. So much darkness must be balanced. It’s just a shame that even Alice’s light won’t be enough to stop the monster you’ve become from destroying the world.

He raised his fist to strike her again and Trotter closed her eyes, letting the flames pour from her. The full fury of Aliel’s power, focused as even the sun goddess had never imagined, consumed the room and everything in it. Her father included.

Trotter tried to lock herself into the darkness behind her lids, tried to hide from the sounds of her father’s screams as he begged her for death to escape the pain. Tried to close herself off from the feeling of his power flowing through her as she granted his wish in her new role as the Goddess of Death. The God of Gods.

But, just like every other time she’d faced her father’s death at her hands, she knew the nightmare wouldn’t stop until she reached the very end. As the scene finally began to fade, her shoulders heaved with sobs that left her gasping for breath.

None of this happened, she forced herself to remember. Don’t let go of the truth!

Her father was alive, and he had tried to embrace her even after she threatened to destroy all of Realm despite the fear he kept leashed behind those same gray eyes. Fear of her. So she’d left, taking all of her rage and hurt and guilt into the one place no one else could ever reach her.

The mind of Chaos himself. This deepest part of his mind underneath all of creation was what she called the Bedrock, and as she slowly pushed deeper through the Bedrock she’d discovered that what lurked blessedly farthest away from reality were nightmares. Nightmares given life by her presence, devouring every terror, fear, or worry she’d brought in with her and then giving them back to her in dreadfully realistic dramas.

She’d endured killing both of her parents, destroying Prowler along with all of Aevum, burning Noevum with Aliel’s fire as it raged beyond her control. She’d lived through these recurring horrors during her search and each time she thought she would die from the grief as they burned away yet another piece of her soul.

But no matter how many of these nightmares snared her, seeking the warmth of her very existence, she couldn’t stop searching. Trotter had made her father a promise; she would make the gods beg for death if she had to. If it meant protecting their own creations from the horrors spawned by the gods’ indifference, she would do it even if it tore her apart. But no one else would die by her hand simply because Chaos had chosen for it to happen. She would not be Death.

She had to find Chaos. Find him, the core of the god-universe that enveloped all of Reality and Dream, and somehow make him release her.

No matter what the cost.

AT THE FARTHEST POINT sunward in the world of Aevum, the seaport city of Sarano seldom has days that are not lovely. It merely has days that are lovelier than others. Today was one of the latter, and on this loveliest of lovely days a brightly colored cloud floated down the main street of the city accompanied by music, shouts, and cheers. This was the first anniversary of the Tilt, and it was also first day of the week-long celebration Mayor Bentley declared to honor the dead as well as the survivors of the flood that had nearly destroyed them. The swirl of emotions shared by the gathered crowd ran the gamut between mourning, gratitude, exhilaration, and heartache, all vying to be released at the same time. Thus, it was only fitting that the healing began with the noise and chaos of a parade.

Why in Thorium’s brass balls did I let them talk me into confetti? Mayor Bentley complained from the corner of his mouth while trying to spit paper shreds from the other. He spotted another onslaught of blue and yellow paper billowing from the roof above them and slammed his mouth and eyes shut until the cloud cleared again. If the cobblestone street hadn’t already made for such a bumpy ride he might have asked the driver of the horse cart to light a fire under the old nags towing them on display at the head of the parade.

Just keep smiling, sir, Captain Ford replied through his own stretched smile. The people need this. Hell, so do we. Celebrating the heroes of the Tilt is the best proof they have that it’s really behind them.

Hero! Bentley said, the word coming out as more growl than statement. I could barely even handle my own sword. Miskarot should be the one up here getting this garbage thrown at her. She was the one who managed to defeat Phage. The rest of us were distraction at best if we weren’t just in her way.

Ford grinned in earnest. Hers is coming, and don’t mention it to her, whatever you do. She’s still so mad about the play that she’s cussing everyone who brings it up.

She never struck me as the type for stage fright.

"I think it has more to do with the reminder of what actually happened that day. It’s bad enough that it reminds everyone else that she wasn’t always human. But it also reminds her that she is a human now."

Bentley saw the faraway look in Ford’s eyes as he spoke; he knew what troubled his old friend. Despite the loving relationship he and Miskarot had grown, on some level, Ford had finally shared one night, he would always feel like a poor consolation prize for the former immortal.

Tugging at his suit jacket against the heat, Bentley looked away from his friend to give him some space with his thoughts and turned his attention back to the crowd. So many eager faces lined the streets. Many of those were citizens he knew well, but filling the spaces next to them where so many others should have been – those lost in the Tilt – were strangers who’d come from all over Aevum to celebrate and mourn their own dead. He spotted weathered faces of the farmers from Ostano alongside the bronzed-skinned tribes from the Abellan and Carathanian jungles. Even a few nobles from Tier Aní, draped in the blue and yellow sashes that marked their connection to the royal bloodline, eschewed the comfort of the covered stands and stood shoulder to shoulder with the sailors and shipwrights who were the life blood of the seaport city. Not to mention a primary source of wealth and status for those nobles from far inland whose income relied on the goods shipped through this port.

His city, he reminded himself with a swell of pride. All of these people had flocked to his city because, in their minds, this was where the world was saved by the actions of a rebellious alliance of humans and magical creatures. None of them knew that Phage hadn’t caused the Tilt in the first place; how would you explain to them that it had been caused and reversed by the Noevans, a race of creatures who preceded humanity and lived on the underside of their flat world? Fortunately for him, the decision had been taken out of his hands. Tyvum, their new governor, sent the request through Erwin that their secret be kept so they could be allowed to rebuild their own home in peace. They’d been dealt as much damage by the mad sun goddess Aliel as Sarano had endured from the flood and Phage combined.  

That didn’t mean they’d fallen out of contact, however. Erwin still visited Crane regularly to exchange ideas as he and the Pratts collaborated remotely on various inventions – some less accidentally terrifying than others – and was willing to deliver messages between Tyvum and Bentley as well. After so many years of tyranny, Tyvum was attempting to build an entirely new government and welcomed the advice and experience of Mayor Bentley. In return, Bentley always welcomed the compassionate wisdom of the former mender.

His hand froze in mid-wave as his train of thought derailed. An older man with frayed cotton overalls and a broad straw hat caught his attention and grinned up at him, winking with bright yellow eyes. A shapeshifter. At least it wasn’t wearing someone he knew. They had a bad habit of copying faces that appealed to them rather than coming up with their own, and nothing was more disconcerting than running into yourself on the street. But since the door to the Wedge was now permanently open, this was one of many things to which the citizens were learning to adapt. Even the fairies had found acceptance as couriers delivering the miracle of instantaneous communications across the face of the world. He smiled and nodded back to the man, wondering if it might have been a shapeshifter he’d met before. Or possibly fought beside.

Behind them, another chorus of squeals erupted as Pearl and her Shiner Witch clan dazzled the children with another illusion. He glanced backward and caught the last of the dragon spiraling into the sky before it burst into a shower of colored sparks to the delight of the crowd. Pearl and her witches bobbed along, flying their broomsticks low to the ground so they could pass candy out to the children. He knew that somewhere even farther back in the parade Tuttle’s Tickle Witches were probably living up to their name, as well. He just hoped Tuttle reminded her clan that this was a family event and goosing, even from a respectable distance, was absolutely not permitted.

He was finally genuinely smiling when the next cloud of confetti showered them from above. But when it cleared, what he saw on the side of the building next to them brought him crashing back to reality.

Ford, do you see what I see? He pointed at the symbol barely visible through the cloud of confetti. It was the same design that had been appearing all over the city: a spiral with a fat tail opening toward the top.

More graffiti, he said, shaking his head. After all we’ve come through to rebuild this city...

And the two young men you captured in the process last week?

Sentenced to a month of labor in custody. They’re assigned to help with rebuilding the floodwalls. But honestly, sir, we didn’t get any useful information out of them. The paint was still on their hands, but they just refused to confess even though they were caught. They just kept smiling these strange, unsettling smiles, Ford grimaced.

Bentley frowned, tapping his fingers on the edge of the carriage seat. Offer them early release if they’ll talk. I want to know whose symbol that is, Captain, and what it means.

Yes, sir. And since you mention it, were you aware that Eric was the one to make those two arrests? That young man seems to have a powerful intuition when it comes to criminals in this city.

He should, having been a criminal in this city for most of his life, Bentley said more gruffly than he intended. That earned a reproachful look from Ford, to which he added, Now I’m not taking anything away from what he’s done. I think what he’s accomplished in the past year is phenomenal, given his background.

"See, that’s the mistake you keep making, sir. What Eric has accomplished is phenomenal for anyone, not just for someone with a spotty history. His arrest record is better than even my most seasoned officers, and he has proven time and again that he has integrity and natural know-how coming out of his ears. That young man was born to do this job."

Bentley nodded in reluctant concession. I might be harboring a bit of a grudge. It’s still hard to stomach that the most skilled thief in the city – who broke into my own home on multiple occasions, no less – is now the star of my police force. But I’ll admit I can see why his background might give him a unique perspective for a patrolman. Maybe even one that could be very useful.

I thought you’d agree, sir. That’s why I’m sure you’ll accept my recommendation of Eric as my successor, he added.

Bentley tensed. Why do I feel like I just walked into a trap?

Ford sighed. It’s just good advice. The best I can offer, sir. Age is the real trap, and I’m getting too old to be your captain. Honestly, I was too old two years ago, but I haven’t had anyone in the force that I trusted to be my replacement. We have good officers in droves, but most of them are soldiers. Not leaders. It might have been a ragtag gang of mostly children, but Eric had led and protected the group we found him with since he was a child himself. He’s the only reason those children survived on the streets as long as they did, even before the Tilt. And Eric is already respected by my men even though he’s half their age in some cases. I think, my old friend, with this in mind it’s time for me to plan my retirement.

Some parade this has turned out to be. It was Bentley’s turn to sigh. He wondered how sorry his forced smile must look to the revelers waving and cheering as they passed. I hope you realize you’ve left me no choice. Now I have to promote you.

Ford choked on the flurry of paper he nearly inhaled in his surprise. I’m sorry? Sir, I don’t think you understood –

No, I understood perfectly. My captain of the past twenty years just threatened to retire and leave me with a boy in his place so wet behind the ears he probably can’t tell when it’s raining. I’m proposing a compromise: I’ll go ahead and name Eric the captain, but only if you let me promote you to major. Yes, he waved off Ford’s protest, I know we haven’t had one since my father reduced the size of the patrol, but there’s no reason we shouldn’t. And given the realm of unknowns this new world seems to be throwing at us, there’s even more reason that we should have one now. Even if he does turn out to be all you believe he can be, he’ll still have much to learn, my old friend. This way you can continue to mentor him while still nearly being a gentleman of leisure. What do you say?"

Well, sir, I’m downright speechless, Ford said, his eyes still wide.

Say yes, or I’ll promote Sgt. Button instead, Bentley said with a smirk.

That clueless old fart? Ford said. I’m in.

They shook hands and finally found genuine smiles for the rest of the parade.

THE WHOLE OF REALM, home of the gods of Aevum, is a patchwork quilt of individual kingdoms built upon the minds of the gods themselves. The borders between the kingdoms are solidly defined because the gods are intensely territorial, but the geography itself is always fluid, a fact that made maps an impossible dream.  The problem here is not merely one of navigation, but one of space. To put it simply, Realm is far too large for the space it occupies, and to compensate for that, the land shifts constantly in search of a balance that is never to be found.

The thaumocartographers struggled for centuries to generate a map that would predict the motions of the kingdoms, but they had yet to uncover the one fatal flaw that would keep them from ever unlocking the dynamics of Realm: the diminished kingdoms.

Though the gods of Realm could not actually die, their dominions tied the gods to their believers and, as humanity evolved past the need for belief, many had diminished over the years. Those who were elemental or violent in nature were forgotten first, and as time passed, their kingdoms diminished along with them until no trace could be found. But the kingdoms were not gone completely, just as their masters were not truly dead. These forgotten kingdoms left unseen gaps between the borders, tiny memories that exerted a kingdom’s worth of pressure on the magical world of Realm.

And it was at the shifting entrance to one of these gaps that a cloaked figure crouched, carving a crude symbol into the ground with a knife carved from the iron-hard bone of a wodebeast. When the last line was in place, the figure spoke the ancient word for ‘open’ and spilled a line of blood from the palm of his other hand into the center of the symbol. A frozen line of white zagged along the ground in front of him, steaming where it met the drops of warm blood, and the air above it shimmered and stretched, as though what was on the other side of that line was now miles distant. The figure rose, pulling the heavy white cloak closed, and stepped across that crack into a forgotten kingdom of ice. He faced back toward the green kingdom beyond and waited patiently, so still and so pale that he was nearly indistinguishable from the mounds of ice and snow that shifted unceasingly around him.

Hours passed as he held open the doorway while frozen winds pelted him from the icy kingdom. At length, his quarry came into view, running toward him from the green distance trailing blood and water behind him. The god, wary of this door that shouldn’t exist, stopped at the edge of the ancient kingdom of ice and glared at the strange observer. In that moment, he weighed his fear of what was behind him against the strangeness of what waited ahead of him.

Can you help me? The god asked, his voice cracking as he gulped air down his dry throat. She’s still after me!

The observer nodded, his long white cloak creaking as the ice settled in its folds cracked and fell away, and gestured to the god to enter. As the god ran in behind him, the observer turned his pale face back out toward the opening once more and smiled at something else approaching fast from the distance. Then he raised his hand and the doorway to the forgotten kingdom sealed with an icy blast of air.

I would have expected a better showing from you, Kaito, God of Storms, the observer said to the god trembling on the ground.

Kaito pushed himself off his knees and braced himself against the cold. Who are you?

The observer pushed the hood of his cloak back and Kaito recoiled from the cold blankness of his rescuer’s eyes. A mere Acolyte. You wouldn’t know me. But my master knows you, young god. He was already ancient by the time your kind was created. And he knew that you would come to me for help on this day.

Kaito shivered and rubbed his face with his hands; his lips and nose were already numb from the freezing wind and the shivering racked his battered body with even more pain. With his wounds still seeping blood as flesh and bone tried to reknit, the god was far too weak still to be immune to the unnatural cold. So you’ll help me? She’ll kill me if you don’t.

Of course I’ll help you, the observer smiled again. And in return, you will help my master. Your first task is a simple one. There’s something in the Hall of the Accord that you’ll need to retrieve.

ERIC’S NARROW BED CREAKED and groaned as he approached it; the sound was music to his ears. He could have found his bunk in the patrol’s barracks in perfect darkness just by the distinctive squeaks of the old metal frame. It, like most of the other beds in the long room, practically hummed with age and years of physical wear. Then again, so did some of the officers who slept upon them.

He grinned at the thought as he changed out of his uniform. The stiff forest green jacket was cut to hang mid-thigh over black trousers with a pleat sharp enough to cut paper. He smoothed both reverently as he hung them underneath his flat-topped hat on the rod by his bunk. The uniforms might feel unbearable sometimes in the wet heat of Sarano, but every time he put it on he felt like he’d put a little more distance between himself and the street urchin he’d been. That urchin had seldom had shirts that weren’t made from old sacks, and he’d certainly never had a change of undershirts. Let alone clean undershirts.

The other day shift officers begin the nightly ritual of complaining about the lumpy mattresses. Eric’s had lumps, too, but he considered each and every one of those lumps a friend. If the other officers had spent most of their lives sleeping in filthy alleys or, when luck was with him, the floor of an abandoned building, they’d have felt much more kindly toward their beds here. This was Eric’s first real bed, and even after almost a year with it he still felt like he was unwrapping a present every time he turned down the bed covers.

But soon he would have to say goodbye to his wonderfully lumpy mattress and its squeaking springs. He slid his boots under the bed and folded his undershirt and belt away into his foot locker before he stretched out on the bed and listened to the noise of the barracks with his eyes closed. This place was so... alive. Growing up on the streets in what the citizens of Sarano had so quaintly called the ‘low-rent district,’ he’d always been with groups of children like him, sometimes with adults to help them and sometimes not. There was relative safety in numbers, though, and children who didn’t join a group usually didn’t survive long on their own. But the nights, no matter how many children were huddled together, were always quiet as death. Once they’d found a safe place to sleep, they couldn’t risk drawing attention to it. That silence sometimes scared him more than if he had been alone. It taught him that even the promise of safety in numbers, the only safety to which they clung, was still only an illusion.

In the barracks, however, the nights were filled with the comfortable buzz of people who knew with ironclad certainty – the kind of certainty that came only with a blissful ignorance that it could even be any other way – that they were safe in their beds. Conversation, snoring, belching, and every other kind of noise drifted across him nightly as a reminder that he, too, was finally safe. And they reminded him that, for the first time in his life, he was home.

But now they wanted to promote him and take all of this away. He’d done everything short of beg Ford to let him stay in the barracks with the other bachelors, but Ford had held his ground. Captains had to stand apart from the men to lead them, he’d said. He opened his eyes and let his gaze drift to the end of the barracks to the heavy wood door of the captain’s quarters. Ford hadn’t used them in many months since he’d begun sharing rooms with Miskarot in the mayor’s mansion, but they hadn’t taken his name off the door until this week. Captain Eric Bartle, it now read. He’d proudly chosen the surname after the Tilt in honor of the man who’d treated him like a son, and even sacrificed himself for Eric. The words practically glowed in fresh white paint against the dark wood. He wondered if he’d still be able to hear his men when he was trapped on the other side of it.  

Then the world turned white as a wadded undershirt struck him in the face. I go away for one blasted week and come back to find out they up and promoted my partner. Just when I had you trained up right, too. Who’ll I get stuck with now, I wonder?

He pulled it off and grimaced in mock disgust. Gross, Marty. Someone without a nose, hopefully. Have you ever washed this? He laughed and hurled the ripe shirt back at the man who’d dropped into the neighboring bunk. Broad shouldered and muscular with a darker complexion than was typical even of Sarano, Marty’s ever-present smile was the only thing that kept the man from being intimidating.

Marty sniffed it and shrugged before tossing the wad into his own locker. It’s still flexible. I figure I don’t have to wash it ‘til it won’t bend no more, he said. He grinned and nodded toward the end of the hall where he’d caught Eric’s gaze lingering. Thinking about what it’s gonna be like up in the royal suite, are ya?

Nah. I was just wondering how I’ll ever get to sleep without your snoring. How’s your brother? Marty’s brother was among several other families who’d lost their homes to the Tilt and chosen to rebuild their lives in Ostano instead. The agricultural city was landlocked and hadn’t suffered the damage that Sarano had, but they’d still lost as many citizens to sickness as they had violence. No city had been safe from looters and raids during that prolonged time of night. For Ostano, that meant a surplus of cheap real estate and farms that direly needed tending; a stark contrast to the now premium cost of intact homes in Sarano.

Gerard and his wife are doin’ real good. I never figured he’d take to farm life that fast. Marty answered, but paused a moment as the lines of his face deepened into a frown. My nephew, though, I don’t know. I think the kid is gettin’ in with a bad crowd.

How so? Eric asked, remembering vaguely that Marty’s ‘kid’ nephew was only a year younger than he was.

Now don’t get me wrong, I’m all for freedom of religion and all, he said, his voice dropping. But Ostano’s had weirder temples crop up than we have. I mean, some of them aren’t even for proper gods, if you know what I mean. They have a place called the Temple of the Sacrament of Daily Ablutions.

Eric stopped short of laughing. Like a holy bath house? Religion had been on the rebound in a big way since the tragedies suffered in the Tilt. Gods that had been nearly lost or forgotten were finding new followers in people who were desperate for reassurance that nothing so terrible would happen again. Of course, in the mad panic to find safety in religion again, some of the churches that had grown overnight had disappeared from favor almost as quickly. But ritualistic bathing? Eric shook his head.

They believe that what separates us from the gods is body odor.

In that case, maybe you should look into joining, Eric said with a wink. But what does that have to do with your nephew?

Here’s the thing: all these new temples are out on the streets with drums, or pamphlets, or painted tunics, you know? But this church the kid’s joined is secretive. He wouldn’t even say where the temple is, if there even is one. Everyone knows about it, but no one seems to care that they don’t have a clue what these loons are up to. Maybe it’s just all the years on the job makin’ me paranoid, but in my mind the only people who keep secrets are people who don’t wanna get caught in something they shouldn’t be doing.

So, who do they worship?

He said it’s the Church of Chaos, Marty said.

Eric pushed himself up on his elbows. "But that’s everything. It’s... He searched for the right words. It’s like a flea worshipping a dog for giving it a place to live. No, wait, it’s more like your fingernail worshipping you for letting it grow on you."

Marty snorted a half-chuckle. Maybe you should leave philosophy to the priests.

Eric rolled his eyes. You get what I’m saying. How does your brother feel about it?

They won’t say a word to him about it. He’s old enough to make his own decisions, I guess. I just can’t help feelin’ this is a bad one.

The barrack officer called for lights out and began snuffing out the lamps. Eric could still see the worried look on his friend’s face, though. Well, look at it this way. It’s probably just a fad like some of the other weird ones here. Your nephew will forget about it before long.

I hope you’re right, man.

IT WAS ONLY A LITTLE past breakfast and Ali Bentley’s stomach was yelling for attention. She wasn’t hungry by any means; in fact, her stomach being full was a big part of her problem. Right now, her battle was with not losing the entire contents of her three-course breakfast.

Mistress Wanella applied slight pressure to the festering wound on the patient’s thigh, causing it to ooze a pinkish-yellow mess of blood and infection, and one of the other girls behind Ali noisily lost her own battle with her stomach. Ali held her breath and forced herself to swallow the saliva flooding her mouth. If she was going to learn medicine, she’d have to see – and smell – worse than this eventually. Let the other girls squeal and faint, she thought. Bentleys don’t flinch.

After you’ve cleaned the wound, you must check thoroughly for any signs of gangrene, Mistress Wanella continued with the demonstration while the patient on the table ground his teeth almost to a powder. Had there not been an audience of pretty teenage girls watching him, he might have cried out. Gangrene is very common in wounds that have gone untreated as long as this one has. If it goes unchecked, entire limbs sometimes must be removed just to save the patient’s life. And we wouldn’t want that, now would we, Mister Poorworth?

No, Mistress Wanella, Mister Poorworth said through his clenched teeth, a bead of sweat running down his cheek.

Ali swallowed again while Mistress Wanella expressed and dabbed the wound one last time. She risked a glance over her shoulder and nodded to herself, feeling proud. The morning class at Haela’s Temple had started with nine white-robed girls; only four stood with her now and two of them had been tittering back and forth in an annoying stream of gossip since they’d arrived.

There now, Mistress Wanella said. Her wimple, long and white with a starched cylindrical rise at the crown of her