The Broken God by Gareth Hanrahan (desktop ebook reader .TXT) 📕

chamber, being a temple acolyte of Rhan-Gis means a much better life than the average citizen, but that’s starting from a very low mark. Still, Cari loots the room, grabbing spare clothes, coin, a few other treasures and relics. A sacrificial dagger, too, which always puts her in a good mood. At least, she hopes that’s what she’s grabbing – at one point, she glances out of the balcony window and sees a glorious city of marble and gold, which means she’s falling under the spell of Rhan-Gis. For all she knows, the temple treasures and holy robes she’s stealing will turn out to be handfuls of pebbles and ash when she leaves the city, like fairy treasure in some kid’s story. She slips one of Beard Priest’s robes over her head in a gesture towards a disguise, makes sure Beard Priest is still breathing, finishes the undrugged goblet of wine, and then it’s off on her rescue mission.

She walks swiftly but not hurriedly, head bowed so no one sees her face. That won’t matter when Rhan-Gis comes back, of course, so she doesn’t tarry. Not even when she passes one chapel that’s dripping with jewelled treasures, including a golden sphinx with ruby-eyes the size of pigeon eggs. Spar, you had really better be worth it, she thinks. Myri certainly isn’t.

Up one level, and she finds a door with one of the motley part-masonry part-living guards in front of it. Cari’s getting that sandpaper-itch at the back of her mind, so she has to go for the direct approach. Please be really, really stupid.

“Uh, I’m here for the prisoner. In the name of Rhan-Gis the, uh, glorious.”

The guard frowns, brow furrowing where it meets the half-mask of stone. “Who commanded this? Who are—”

Cari puts the sacrificial knife to his throat, but it doesn’t intimidate him, and she flinches when he moves. He grabs for her, slamming her against the wall. Cari twists away, tries to run, but he tackles her, sending them both to the floor. There’s a brief moment of struggle, and then – shit – the knife ends up in his side. He stares at it in confusion, blood bubbling out of the wound with every gasping breath, and he makes a hideous wheezing noise that stops only when Cari swings her satchel and catches him in the flesh-face with the edge of The Fucking Book. He goes down, and she feels sick to her stomach at what she’s done. The sentry didn’t have it coming, not really. Maybe Rhan-Gis can patch him up. Maybe as he bleeds out, he’ll see the perfect city of his dreams, and be at peace. Please, let him have been an utter bastard. Another virtue of her lost sainthood – she could see, through Spar, who deserved mercy, and who didn’t.

Keys. Door. The floor’s a mess of blood, so all pretence at stealth is gone. Speed’s her only friend now.

Inside is, as she’d hoped, a small row of cells. A rescue mission’s equivalent of a treasury full of gold. Most of the cells are empty, but in one she finds Myri. Unconscious, bound hand and foot, and surrounded by a weird arcane binding circle drawn on to the stone floor. The air above it shimmers. Crossing it wouldn’t be a good idea.

She bends down and starts scraping at the runes with her sacrificial knife, frantically trying to scratch away enough of the inscription to break the spell. The little cell fills with the ozone tang of aetheric discharge. Faster and faster she scrapes, the knife handle slick with sweat or blood.

Come on, before Rhan-Gis comes back. Break.

“Cari,” says a familiar voice behind her. “Look at you. You look like an altar-server who dropped the sacred wine.”

Her heart leaps. Adro’s voice. Impossibly, it’s Adro. She turns around.

Looks into a mask of porcelain.

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

“You’re awake. This is promising.”

Not Karla’s voice. Remote and cold, barely above a whisper.

Rasce opens his eyes. The light is almost blinding, but he makes out a black-clad figure and a pale face that naturally falls into a scowl.

Doctor Vorz.

The bed’s covered with alchemical paraphernalia, knives and scalpels, too, and the white sheets are spotted with red. A complex thaumaturgical pentagram scrawled on the floor. Rasce’s head, though, is clearer now than it has been in weeks. He feels no pain, no fear; it’s like his spine and his skull have been flooded with icy water.

He looks down. Radiating out from where he stabbed himself in the thigh is a ghastly wound, like a grey scab that covers him from his lower ribs to his right ankle. He stares at it, revulsion crawling beneath the icy calm of whatever drugs Vorz used on him. “The plague,” he says, weakly.

“Yes. I cannot tell if the wound became infected due to poor care, or if this is some divine stigmata. The condition can be managed, though, as I’m sure you’re aware.” Vorz pulls the corners of his mouth into an ugly smile, meant to be reassuring. “I am aware of your other condition, too. You have served the dragon well.”

Hope like a spike, breaking the thickness of the ice. He’s done well! The dragon is pleased. “Great-Uncle – you flew back with him? Where is he? I must go to him.” Rasce struggles to stand. The living skin on his right side tugs painfully as it’s held back by the weight of the stone.

Vorz shakes his head. “He has not yet returned to Guerdon. He flew me as far as Lyrix, and there we parted company. He had business to attend to, overseas. He shall return soon. But you have done well, my prince.”

“I dreamed Tallowmen were attacking our yliaster merchants,” says Rasce. He tries to sort dream from vision. Spar, show me, he thinks, but there’s no response.

“That is true, but irrelevant. There are far greater opportunities here. Tell me, what can you see?”

“Nothing.” No visions. He’s earthbound, limited to the perceptions of this body. He can’t even tell