The Misjudgment: An Assassin's Blade, #3

By Justin DePaoli

Gods are real, and it's time for them to die.

Astul, an infamous assassin with a woeful reputation, never believed in gods. As luck would have it, they're quite real. And if they have their way, Astul will be quite dead.

A civil war is brewing between the celestial powers. And all of life hangs in the balance. If victory falls into the wrong hands, creation will begin anew. There's only one way to guarantee that doesn't happen, and it involves the assassination of a lifetime.

Gods will die. Or else life will expire.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Justin DePaoli
• Release date: Mar 17, 2020
• ISBN: 9781393485322

Book preview

Chapter 1

Hooves sloshed in cold mud as we rounded the bend of a hillside topped with crusty formations of ancient rock. With the last vestiges of safety behind us, we pushed into the darkness, into the wind and rain, into a narrow channel gouged between two cliffs.

There was Vayle and myself, along with a couple girls and a handful of boys. The greenhorns were sitting high in their saddles, knuckles white around the reins. They had huge, wet baubles for eyes. That was the sort of demeanor I should have expected after explaining that we were heading to a place that crawled with the sort of people you don’t welcome even in your nightmares — a place not even the moon cared to grace with its presence when night fell.

The moon bit was entirely untrue, but it never hurts to keep recruits on their toes — especially since the nightmare part was on point.

Lightning stabbed across the sky, split into a fork of white fire, and vanished. Then came the thunder that rippled through your entire body. Ahead, the narrow pass spilled into a wide expanse. And somewhere a hundred feet or so beyond, huge black trunks rose into a glittery sky.

The Black Rot had been reborn, but its numbers were about to be cut down. Fuck, I muttered as I rode up beside Vayle. Ready for a shit show?

Her teeth chattered, and her hands shivered. Rain glistened on her face. So long as I can purchase appropriate attire.

What did you say to me when I advised packing some extra wool instead of all that lemon shit you drink? I think it was, ‘Why, Astul, it’ll be so hot there I’ll sweat my tits off if I dress like a sheep.’

She glared at me. The wind is colder in the gully than I’d recalled. And I much prefer my lemons and tea to comfort.

Vayle and her bloody lemons. Since she’d given up her gallon-a-day wine habit, she’d turned to some lemon-infused drink with oddly named tea leaves that requires you to boil water, measure a bunch of ingredients and count to exactly three hundred seconds. If you steep the shit for any more or less than three hundred seconds, apparently ghouls will jump out and murder you — at least, that was the way Vayle reacted the one time I made it for her and lost track of the time. The one and only time I made it for her.

I reared Pormillia around, halting the recruits. Bursts of lightning illuminated their faces: some pale and draped with wet hair, a couple the texture of smooth caramel.

You’ve got yourselves five hundred shiny pieces of gold each, I said, tossing a purse to each recruit. If it costs more than that, you’re doing a piss-poor job. But don’t lowball anyone, unless you’re real confident in your swordsmanship. We’ll meet by the entrance in an hour. And remember — you have no affiliation with the Black Rot. Understood?

Heads nodded in acknowledgment. One of the recruits, a girl probably no older than eighteen, said yes and almost followed it with sir. She caught herself just in time.

With the money doled out, I rode toward the towering black trunks. Even as Pormillia trotted beneath their boughs, I couldn’t see the green of their leaves or their needles. Their branches looked like abstract shadows painted upon a midnight canvas.

It wasn’t so much a forest as it was brief pasture of trees. Almost as soon as you were in the thick of them, you were out the other side, where a gloomy plot of run-down clay buildings greeted you. It’s not a place many people like to go. If you had any semblance of humanity in you, a visit here would strip you of it all.

It’s called Burm, and it sits upon a jut of slate. Crude, uneven slabs of broken stone ascend upwards — a path of sorts — to the town gate. Which isn’t really a gate, but rather a series of wooden pikes stabbed into the ground, each of different height.

Vayle and I led the recruits to the steps, where we had them tie up their horses to the wooden posts anchored into the slate on either side. And then the promising and not-so-promising guys and gals were off, into the guts of Burm.

I clambered off Pormillia and turned to Vayle. If anyone wanders over—

I’ll ensure their wandering days are over. She smiled.

Well, I was going to say ‘holler and I’ll come bounding down the steps like your fierce protector.’ But, sure, that’ll work too.

She reached into her satchel and palmed a lemon. I believe you’ve been in greater need of saving than me. Historically speaking.

I looped Pormillia’s tie around the wooden pole and made a loose knot. Don’t forget about Erior.

How could I ever? Enjoy yourself in there, Astul. I know how much you adore visiting Burm.

I rolled my eyes, muttered a disgusted yeah, and trudged up the stone steps.

A man with a headful of thick hair held a gold coin toward the moon. He stuffed his hand in his pocket, produced a small oval lens and placed it against his eye. Then he put the coin in his mouth, bit down softly and gave a satisfying nod to who appeared to be a merchant.

The apparent buyer glared at me with sharp eyes from beneath his gray hood. I quickly disengaged and turned my attention elsewhere. This wasn’t the kind of place where a smart man demonstrates his boldness and masculine pride; doing so often results in the loss of both, along with your life.

The muddy streets of Burm welcomed me in with tables of stolen weaponry and armor being sold for cheap. There were awls and chisels and punches likely taken from now-dead tanners, only a gold each, or five for an assorted package.

A merchant pawed at me as I passed his cart. "What’re those scraggly things on your feet? Have a look at these — leather so fine, they’ll not break down for a hundred years." He had the dead eyes of someone who’d been in the business of killing and stealing, not cobbling.

I continued on, sidestepping a man who’d just had a fresh outta the furnace buckle pushed in his face. He reached across the table, grabbed the merchant by his shirt and pounded his face till his cries were no more. A glance back revealed the merchant’s wares being surrounded by looters now, grimy hands lurching for his assortment of buckles and bracers.

At least this visit to Burm hadn’t seen anyone’s throat slashed yet. When I’d been here a year ago to restock on the same poison Savant Fillick choked down, I’d had blood sprayed in my face on three separate occasions.

Since shady merchants come and go here, I couldn’t rely on a familiar face to sell me what I needed. I’d have to ask around, which was exactly what my recruits were doing. In fact, I was looking to procure the very poison I’d sent them after, but I couldn’t count on a bunch of amateurs. Sending them in here was only a test, to see who was skilled at conversation, at bartering, at surviving in unfriendly conditions. It was possible none of them would acquire the poison, or even make it out of Burm alive. So I needed to take matters into my own hands. A very important client needed this poison, after all. And I don’t like to disappoint.

I stopped off at a lonely bench sitting in an alleyway. Behind the bench sat an affable-looking man, a mop of fading silver hair sprawled across his head.

Not eager to join the action out there? I asked, picking up a dagger from his showcase of weapons.

He grinned, showing me the couple teeth he still had left. Been comin’ here goin’ on, oh… thirty years now, and only ’cause I know where to sell me goods and how to keep me life. Fancy that one there? Three coin. Nabbed it from a first mate. Good steel.

Or, perhaps, good steal. I’ll buy this one and that one, I said, if you can tell me a secret. I need poison. Where can I find it?

The old man hunched over the bench. That one there’s six gold.

Wily old bastard. But it wasn’t as if six gold would break the Rot vault, and I didn’t have much choice in the matter. When you need information, you’ve got to pay up.

Price doesn’t matter, I said. He squirmed at that, a pained look passing over his face upon the realization he could’ve swindled me for so much more.

And the poison? he asked. Not looking for the cheap kind, I gather?

A rather rare concoction.

He rubbed his wrinkly hands together. She deals in discretion. Got herself a handful of hired swords, too, those big ole lunks. Soon as you reach the watering hole over there — he pointed at the main drag from where I’d come — go inside, up the stairs. One of the rooms up there, you’ll see it, ’less you got no eyes. Them lunks won’t let you in without a convincing plea, though.

I dug inside my pocket and pulled some gold out. Here, ten for the all trouble. Keep the daggers, I don’t need ’em.

In most circumstances, a common poison merchant set up on the main drag would do just fine. But this poison had to have particular characteristics, a substance your average merchant rarely has in stock, because it’s too rare… too expensive. The poison I desired couldn’t leave behind the evidence that other toxins do. You know, the black lips, charred throats, mangled guts. Patrick Verdan just had to be a special little snowflake in his request. Oh well. It’d net me ten thousand coins when all was said and done. So long as I departed Burm alive.

The watering hole was named The Drip. It had no door, its windows had been busted out, and most of its chairs and stools were broken. Also, an oily black substance streaked the floor. Rather resembled old blood.

I pushed between the stoic drunks uneasily. Place had the tension of a gathering among family members who despised one another and went to each other’s funerals only to celebrate and thank the gods. You heard only gulps and belches as you passed through, saw eyes veer deviously and throats flinch.

And thankfully that was all I saw and heard by the time I set foot on the steps. Up the stairs I went, casually as I could, till I came to a suffocatingly small second floor. There were only two doors, one of which was open and led into an empty room. The other had four men standing guard over it, their arms thicker than my goddamn legs.

Boys, I said, I don’t want any trouble. Only here to spend my gold.

They wore white linen shirts, sleeves hacked away, necks stretched. Two of ’em had maces heaved over their shoulders, and the other two carried what looked like butcher knives in sword form.

What’s yer name? one of them asked, oily-faced and three-chinned.

Astul, Shepherd of the Black Rot. If your girl in there has been dealing with assassins long enough, she’ll know one of those three names. I promise.

Doesn’t ring a bell.

"Why don’t you go in and ask her what she thinks, hmm?"

Apparently, I used the wrong tone. Because the heads of two studded maces thudded onto the floor, then were hoisted up in a position you might hold as you prepare to scythe away tall stalks of grass. Or the head of an assassin.

Thankfully, there came a knock from behind the closed door, which seemed to startle the burly fuckers.

I straightened myself, ready to meet this mistress of poison. But as the door opened, Three-Chins tackled me to the floor. I would’ve protested with a few choice words, but all his weight landed on my back, punching the air right out of my lungs. I opened my mouth to inhale, found that I could not, and simply lay there, hoping this wasn’t how it would all end — not by the hand of a conjurer, or the teeth of a reaper, or the vengefulness of an angry god, but by a fat fucker in Burm making a bed out of me. He wrapped his arm around my face, rendering me blind.

A meek voice said Oh in a startled sort of way, and tepid footsteps padded away, down the steps.

A spy? asked a woman. Her voice sounded familiar.

Says he’s a shepherd, said one of her bodyguards. Black somethin’ or other.

Let him go! Get off him, now!

Three-Chins rolled off me — thankfully without crushing my ribs. His arm uncoiled from around my face, replaced with the soft touch of a feminine hand.

You were supposed to be dead, she said.

I turned onto my shoulder and snorted in disbelief. "Slenna. You’re the mistress of poison in Burm? Well, fuck me." She’d been a lovely Rot of mine not even a half a year ago, before Braddock’s hunt for my assassins sent her and and her lover, Wevel, fleeing for safety. She should have found better shelter than Burm.

Her eyes narrowed as she looked me up and down. It’s really you, Shepherd? Come here, inside.

She extended a hand and helped me to my feet. I followed her into a cozy candlelit room, the door closing behind me.

Slenna sat on a rickety stool before a tiny round table. Behind her stood a grungy bookshelf, squat glass bottles resting on bowed and warped pewter-gray shelves. Some of the bottles were full, some half-empty. Others were dusty and foggy. All of them were corked, each containing liquid of varying color, from the red of cherries to the green of bile.

She ran a hand through her hair, disturbing a single braid dangling near her ear. I can’t believe it. Everything I’d heard, all the… the stories. How did you… are you the only one left?

Vayle’s outside, watching the horses, I said, shuffling over to the bookshelf.

She is? I’d heard Braddock captured her as well. And the others?

I picked up a small bottle filled with what looked like honey. It was runny, though, similar to water. Kale’s out there still, about six hundred miles away. He’s busy. The others— I looked at her and shrugged. They’ve left this world. Where’s Wevel?

She threw her arms up onto the table, wrinkled black sleeves concealing her hands. There was a disagreement. She looked up, long lashes blinking over her eyes achingly slowly. He wasn’t quick enough with his blade.

Sorry to hear it, I said. I picked another bottle off the shelf, gave it a little shake. What’s with the bottles?

Toxins, Slenna said.

I’m aware. Since when you do you deal in them?

She swiveled around, facing me. Since I assumed Braddock had destroyed the Black Rot. Wevel and I began this operation, and now it’s just me. You won’t believe how fast you can rise in Burm if you have the cheapest or the best.

From what I hear, you deal in the latter. And given the big boys outside here probably aren’t cheap to hire, I’d guess you’re fairly successful.

I sell to the rich, and the rich come to me, because of my discretion. It helps, I suppose, to have in stock every poison anyone could ever want, if killing is your business. Is that why you’re here, Shepherd?

I set the bottle back on the shelf. I need something strong, but it needs to pass through unseen. No burnt lips, no swollen throat. And better yet, it needs to be delayed. Something that, if you added it to the chalice of a lord, he’d sip it unknowingly for a while, lie down at night and then never wake in the morning. Got anything like that?

You’re picky, Shepherd, Slenna said. She got herself off the stool and pinched her lips as she had a look at her shelf of poisons. Her finger trailed from shelf to shelf, till she came to a bottle clear as an unpolluted river. It appeared empty, but upon closer inspection, as she laid it in the palm of my hand, a crystalline liquid lapped against the inserted cork.

Slenna, I said, you’re not by chance giving me water, are you?

She smiled, hooked the single braid of hair behind her ear. It’s venom blended with liquefied seeds of vossifos. The interaction between the two causes slow death of the heart. Only a drop is necessary. It may take days, but all the better if it’s secrecy you want. It’s how the deadliest afflictions take you, no?

I turned the bottle upside down, watched the syrupy liquid fill in the small gap of air. Any catch?

Only its price. Most cannot afford it.

I withdrew a small leather purse from my pocket.

I’ll not take your gold, Slenna said. I’ve made more than enough to cover for a lost bottle.

I placed the bottle deep in my pocket. You know, we’re rebuilding the Black Rot. If you’d like…

Slenna shied away, eyes swinging to her poisons. I don’t think so, Shepherd. Thanks all the same.

The offer’s always there. Once a Rot…

Always a Rot, Slenna concluded, smiling.

I’d better haul my ass out of here, I said. You visit Burm too long, and you might not leave.

Slenna straightened up the bottles on the shelves. For one reason or another. Stay safe out there, Shepherd. Nice to see you’re alive. And send Vayle my regards.

By the way, you might encounter a few more visitors to your shop. I’ve recruits hunting for this poison as well. Part of their training. Give them a hard time for me, will you?

I’ll make them squirm.

I winked at her, then went to leave.

Wait, she said. She knocked on the door, a quick one-two pattern three times over. It’s so the guards outside blindfold anyone waiting; it’s not good for business if just anyone identifies my buyers.

I raised a brow. They didn’t blindfold me.

You probably said something stupid to them. She grinned.

She knew me well. With her go-ahead, I opened the door, walked past Three-Chins and his merry band of brutes, then scurried through the downstairs tavern like a mouse bolting from a hungry feline.

Oil vapors burned into the midnight sky from tall torches placed throughout Burm. I’d once seen a torch hacked in half here and wielded as a fiery weapon of doom against a mob of misfits preying on lone travelers. That particular mob was soon talked about in the past tense, because not all lone travelers are easy targets.

I met up with Vayle outside. She was holding a copper chalice over a brazier.

Really? I said.

What? she said innocently. It makes for a proper boil.

She had some sliced lemons in her other hand, along with a small pouch which contained her tea.

I casually mentioned that the renowned poison dealer of Burm was none other than our precious little Slenna. After answering what questions I could about our brief visit, Vayle asked me what exactly I’d told Slenna about the past four months.

Nothing involving our tiff with a god, I said, if that’s what you’re wondering.

Vayle removed her chalice from the brazier and set it on the ground. That would have likely served as the bait to bring her back. She squeezed two lemon halves into the chalice, then removed a tiny steel infuser from the tea bag.

It was only an offer I extended her, I said. Not a plea to return.

Vayle dumped a heaping of tea leaves into the infuser, then set it inside the chalice. We could have used her, and her talent for recruitment.

I ran a hand gently down Pormillia’s long snout. We’re growing, Vayle. It won’t be long. It snowballs, you know.

It’s been four months, and we have only nine recruits. Half of them never make it. You know this.

We have time, I insisted.

She looked up at me. Do we?

Pormillia threw her face into mine, nestling against my cheek. I don’t know, I said, low enough so only my lovely girl could hear.

We could’ve had two weeks, two months, two years. Hell, an entire lifetime. A time line hadn’t exactly been offered to me. When I’d departed Amortis four months ago, some fucked-up things had happened. Kale, now third in command of the Black Rot, had been tipped off that I had bounty hunters after me. The information was accurate. They came in the middle of the night, conked me right over the bloody head and tried dragging me out of the Hole with my hands bound. Luckily Vayle was nearby. She’d put some ebon in the vagabonds’ throats.

A few weeks later, I’d been ambushed while out trapping. There were six of them, and not one had any interest in killing me. They jumped me, winding rope around my ankles and wrists. Pormillia, as they learned, does not take kindly to strangers attempting to capture her master. She rode in like a furious gale, barreling into them with her muscular chest. As I rose to my feet, I noticed something strange about the ones who hadn’t been trampled to death. Their eyes were blank. Faces pale, featureless. It was as if everything that’d made them human had been sucked right out of them.

If Braddock Glannondil had still been alive, I would’ve pinned the incidents on him. He had a sweet bounty on my head, after all, and probably so very much sweeter if it came intact. But he was dead, and so too was his offer. Sure, his family — uncles, brothers, sister — could’ve honored the bounty, but they had bigger worries, like Kane Calbid laying siege to Erior.

Whoever was after me wanted me alive, which disturbed me. After all, when you hunt something, you aim to kill it. Only three reasons exist for capture: ransom, torture, and the procurement of information from the captive. My life wasn’t worth piss all from a ransom standpoint, and while plenty of people out there would probably delight in cutting off my toes and smashing my balls into bits, few had the resources to make it a reality.

But information? Yeah, I had information. Very covetable information. Such as, for example, oh… the location of a certain book.

Ripheneal had told me I’d made a mistake in burying that damn thing and hiding it away from him. But given he wasn’t permitted to stay in Amortis for long, what he could do about it? Soon as I came back here, though, to the realm of the living, he had the means to make me realize my mistake.

The Black Rot needed to swell in numbers, because Vayle and I both had a grave feeling that a storm was approaching. And a few of us wouldn’t be able to do a damn thing about it.

Eight out of the nine recruits who’d gone into Burm returned after a short while. The ninth never showed. Only one had in his possession the same poison Slenna had given me, but he’d paid for it with his entire purse. The other seven had failed to acquire the stuff. That didn’t mean they wouldn’t make it as Rots, but they weren’t the promising type.

A fight broke out on the steps of Burm. We quickly untied our horses, mounted up and set off on a path back to the Hole, before a degenerate fuck attempted to shank one of us.

A few hours later, we were trotting through a forest. The rosy fingers of dawn swam through the sky, showering us briefly in their cozy light before the thick-leafed canopy sealed shut again.

I think, I said to Vayle, that I’ll take one or two up to Edenvaile with me. Get them used to the routes, blending in, and all that good stuff.

My commander replied in the muddled tones of someone submerged in water. I swung my head around, alarmed that she was seizing, or suffocating, or suffering in some manner. But my neck, it turned so slowly. And my eyes felt like they were lingering in thick syrup, unable to move. My lids gradually closed, lashes falling across my vision in the form of fine hairs.

The musk of a wet, leaf-littered floor retreated, replaced by the cold swirl of winter. As my eyes opened again from their lethargic blink, I found the forest surrounding me was stretching, as if it was a mere canvas and hands were pulling at the edges.

As…sss…tulll. The hiss of my name languished in the air. Ast…ulll. Faster now. Astul! Astul! My world spun around me, and my eyes flicked up and across and down — the directions I’d tried to reach moments ago.

Astul! cried Vayle. She had hold of my shoulder.

Some sense of normalcy returned, but the forest… where had it gone? A snowy fog, or perhaps a hot, concentrated steam, bled in from all around. I couldn’t sense the cold anymore, nor any warmth.

I apologize, said a woman, for the abruptness.

The voice seemed to come from a snowy owl which sat upon the ground. It tucked in its feathers, relaxed its talons, then shed its whiteness, obscuring itself in a cloud of white dandelion puffs.

When the cloud dispersed, a tall, elegant woman stood in the owl’s place. She had skin the color of a translucent opal. A necklace of bark hung around her neck. Strips of cloth, as if sliced haphazardly from bedsheets, adorned her.

For some reason, the thought of withdrawing my sword never crossed my mind. Nor had it crossed Vayle’s.

My name is Polinia, the woman said. Charmed, I’m sure.

The who didn’t interest me — or rather, terrify me — nearly as much as the what.

Not many people I know, I said, can twist a landscape like you’ve done. Or fly around as an owl.

I would hope not, she said. There is, after all, only one goddess of nature.

Let me guess — I’m looking at her.

Her face was round and small and it seemed to glow the color of ripe strawberries when she smiled. It didn’t disarm me, though, sweet as she appeared.

So, I said, another god? How many of you people are there?

The book, she said, ignoring my question entirely. It’s urgent you bring it to me.

Vayle and I exchanged glances.

That’s a hell of a thing to ask, I said, when we’ve never even met. Hell, even Ripheneal got to know me a little before jumping right into the thick of things. Speaking of that bastard, he sent you, didn’t he? I thought he was cleverer than that.

Pardon my manners, she said. I sometimes forget the nuances of conversation. Ripheneal did not send me. He is not aware that I am here, with you. And I would prefer it remain that way. So I cannot linger but for a few moments.

Why, Vayle asked, do you want this book?

Polinia straightened herself, interlocked her fingers. In the wrong hands, it will prove disastrous.

It won’t fall into any hands at all, I said. I made sure of that.

I see. Understand that its absence does not alleviate the risk. If it falls into no hands at all, that is still very much a problem. I am aware of your hesitancy. You worry that I will lose the book to a man like Occrum, or that I will offer it to Ripheneal, who failed to keep it secure. I will do neither of those things, nor will I use it for a power beyond that which I already possess. You often claim your word is gold, but mine is godly.

Polinia aimed her ear toward the left, as if listening intently. She unwound her hands from one another as she clenched her jaw.

"Reacquire the book, and I will find you. Please, Astul, I beg."

A snowdrift converged on this supposed goddess of nature, and through the drift flapped a pair of snowy wings. The owl soared into the air, and the landscape that I’d known to be here since I first made the journey to Burm several years ago was drawn back in, like a band snapping back into place.

The brown of tree trunks crowded us, corralling us in a forest once again. The rain fell like it had before this world had become twisted and stretched. And for a moment, I wondered if it had all been a dream; things like that happened when you courted the nightmares I had. The psyche breaks, and horrors start infiltrating your waking hours.

But something told me it had all been real. And that something was a white owl feather fluttering through the air, landing softly on my saddle.

Chapter 2

Vayle was driving me goddamned insane. We made it back to the Hole on barely any sleep, and she was insisting — insisting — I go get the bloody book.

The answer, for the fourth fucking time, I said, is no. Do you understand the word, Vayle? No. No. It starts with a fucking en and ends with a goddamned oh. No.

She rubbed her temples and paced the vault room of the Hole, where I’d gone to fill a purse in preparation for skipping into the bitter North and delivering Patrick Verdan his precious poison.

Avoidance, she said, "is obviously not going to work. Maybe Kale is setting up the greatest network of spies as we speak, but it will not matter if something like that can happen."

The that she referred to was the troublesome corralling by a goddess. It had everyone on edge, enough so that one recruit had jumped ship and taken his sorry self southward as we’d rounded the bend of the Midland Mountain shelf.

"I’m not digging that bloody book back up. Not for the goddess of nature, not for the god of… whatever Ripheneal is. Not for you, Vayle. I lost a very dear girl over that book. We almost lost our world over that book. I shook my head, angry — so very, very angry — at Vayle’s mere request. No, it stays where it is. Forever."

My commander closed her eyes and pushed a sigh through tightened lips. Tell me you at least have a plan. Reassure me that the Astul I’ve known all my life is still here, somewhere.

What are you talking about?

It appears you are content with running away, Astul.

I knelt before the open vault, leather purse in hand. I reached inside and felt my fingertips swim in the coolness of smooth gold coins.

Astul, Vayle said.

I’m thinking. I closed my hand around as many coins as I could, hovered over the purse and dropped them inside. Again and again, till the glint of yellow peeked through the small opening. That wispy motherfucker I told you about, the demonic-looking bastard there with Ripheneal and Lysa at the Prim.

What about him?

I kicked the vault closed and stood. I’m going to venture a guess here that he’s another god, one that doesn’t get along with those in this realm.

Vayle shrugged. A safe enough guess.

"All right, stay with me here. Polinia tells us she’s not working with Ripheneal. Maybe it’s a lie, maybe it’s the truth. But she’s most probably affiliated with him, yeah? His reasons for wanting the book are probably the same as her reasons for wanting it. So I can’t trust her, or for that matter, any other god or goddess in this realm that might decide to appear from the ether.

"But that wispy bastard, he’s not on good terms with Ripheneal. He’d probably, if I could find him somehow, tell me… I don’t know, something that’d be of help."

Vayle crossed her arms. Tell me you are not intending on starting a war with gods. Given the options, I believe running may actually be the preferable option of the two.

I waved away her concerns. Not a war. Just a way to… you know. Make this all go away. Maybe their existence is tied to the book. Or maybe their weakness is in there. I sighed and kicked a lump of mud across the floor. I don’t know. Maybe you’re right. I should just give the damn thing back to them.

Vayle put a hand on my chest. I wish to live for a long time yet, and I want the same for you. I want the Black Rot to become formidable again, perhaps out of selfishness, so my dream of dismantling the slave trade in the North may be realized. But also out of pride. We have done enough for this world, twice over. Return the book. Let them play their game, just as kings play theirs.

What if it falls into the wrong hands again? I said.

Maybe it will. But it took two thousand years for Occrum to attempt a massacre of this world. If it happens again, we’ll be long gone, and the world can find a new hero. You’ve paid the price already, Astul — a far costlier one than any man should.

I drew the string on the purse and swung it around my finger thoughtfully. Of all the mouths that’d opened and babbled on and on