The Gods We Became

INTERLUDE I

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Kissing a god was possibly the most inconvenient thing Maliyah Dalsa had ever done. 

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That action was the first in a long series that had brought her here, shivering on strange soil, the hem of her intricately embroidered baku whipping in the west-bound wind. And she had known Liir would be cold, but she had failed to predict the dampness that came with being surrounded on all sides by the sea. Moisture clung to her furs and her eyelashes. It had invaded her slippers thoroughly during her trek, through fen and forest alike, from the Liiran capital to the tiny port town of Reafe.

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She had grown up with her mother’s insistence that to even look into the eyes of God was a transgression beyond forgiveness. But sin or not, this much was true: Maliyah Dalsa had kissed a god, palms and more. She had survived. Then she had promptly abandoned her home, temple, and family. Maliyah had never been pious for the right reasons, and she supposed any small discomforts accumulated in the months it had taken her to reach Reafe were perhaps well-deserved.

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Through the gauzy material of her Veil, she could see starlight speckling the black belly of the western Reach, past the edge of the town. The Veil too was something she had taken dishonestly, but it was convenient. God-touched by the Faceless Sister, deity of Chaos, Maliyah wore magic woven into her clothes: silver thread for charm, gold for regality, cloth of deep red for the strength of Rava of the Red Sands. She wore the Veil, partly to mark her as the Sister’s dedicant, and mostly to hide her face and her eyes, both of which were warm honey-brown in hue (the eyes a little darker, a little more piercing) and far too expressive for good lying. Covered as she was, she had still imbued the fabric with Guile for good measure.

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These days, good lying was a necessity.

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Plus, anywhere outside of Aramea, the Veil afforded her a wide berth that was a mixture of equal parts fear and hostility. Even now, the few inhabitants of Reafe still about at the late hour looked pointedly away as she passed. The hand-stitched pendant at her throat was a gift from the jealous Sister herself, a charm of Unseeing, and so the townspeople avoided her and would do their best to forget they had laid eyes on Maliyah at all.

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The chiming of the small silver bells adorning her slippers layered into the sounds of the wind as Maliyah made the final few steps of her journey. Reafe was tiny, only a couple dozen structures surrounding a town square made up by the meeting of four roads of packed dirt. The houses were built of stacked stone and thatched roof. A few had owners of enough wealth to import paned glass, which—like Maliyah—came from all the way across the Reach.

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At the end of Reafe’s north-leading road, light spilled from one such structure. This looked to be the largest in the town, boasting a second story and a freestanding barn that was partially open to the night air. The house marked the end of Maliyah’s journey, or so she hoped. She had paid quite a lot of money for information about its occupants—the last of her money, in fact. 

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The walk down the cliffside drive was long and contemplative. To her left, the sea dashed itself endlessly to foam against Liir’s basalt cliffs. Perhaps she had been wrong about all of it, from the first kiss to this foreign shore. Failure loomed large over her shoulder. 

Maliyah Dalsa squared her shoulders and dismissed it. If she failed, the girl she loved would die. She had kissed divinity and could not forget its taste.

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She would not fail. 

 

The Liiran man who opened the door for her was old and weathered, with silver hair shaved short on the sides, the rest tied into a loose knot at the back of his skull. He wore a linen shift gathered to his stout frame by a leather belt above worn trousers. Leather vambraces obscured his forearms from wrist to elbow, and when he stood with one arm propped against the open door, Maliyah saw that they concealed bone-handled knives. 

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Maliyah thought the man seemed old to be carrying knives, but that was hardly her business. She bowed slightly at the waist. “My apologies for disturbing you at this hour. My name is Maliyah of the Cloth, and I come in the service of the Faceless Sister.”

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“Aye, aye,” the man stepped aside and waved her in. She found his lack of concern perturbing, but she was not going to protest what made her life easier. “Not carryin’ any weapons, are you?”

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“No, sire,” Maliyah lied.

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The fabric of her Veil shimmered imperceptibly as he took her at her word. “Come in here, then. You want me to take your cloak?”

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“I’ll keep it, thank you.”

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The silver-haired man led her down a warmly-paneled hallway with a woven rug running down its length. Maliyah wished she’d paused to take off her soaking slippers. But the stranger was ushering her into a wider room, where a fire crackled merrily behind an arrangement of oak furniture. A young Aramean man lounged on a long low bench that Maliyah would have called a divan, though it was not exactly that, because this was Liir and the bench had a high back. He was angular and alert, his eyes narrowing at Maliyah when she entered. 

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A pair of iron-handled flagons sat on a low table before the almost-divan, one for the young man and one for the old, who took up an armchair opposite his companion. Maliyah could smell the ale, and when she looked back at the young man, found a corresponding flush tinging his cheeks.

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“You owe me some money,” the old man said to the young one. One open seat remained, a wide-armed chair with a leather back. Without an invitation to sit, Maliyah sat, her back to the fire. “I told you one would come.”

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“And here I thought the Faceless Sister had forgotten all about me,” the Aramean answered lightly, looking pointedly at Maliyah. His eyes were some indeterminate color in the firelight, keen and untrusting. Maliyah stared back. She could not sense any magic about him. She was hardly intimidated.

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The old man shrugged, leaning forward and taking a deep gulp from his flagon. The Aramean ignored him, still watching Maliyah. “What is your name, servant of the Sister?”

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“She said it’s Melissa, or somethin’ like that.”

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“I am called Maliyah of the Cloth,” Maliyah corrected curtly. She did not take well to men who spoke for her.

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The young man did not react to this information, and made no move to greet her. “Cassian,” he introduced himself shortly. “The drunk old mule is Merric.”

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For all she’d heard of him, Maliyah had really expected Cassian to be more imposing. 

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In the silence that stretched between them, the old man raised his flagon and attempted a smile that came out more like a grimace. “I guess one of us has to apologize for the kid’s manners. They just don’t breed the royals like they used to. I would say it’s been a long day, but really he’s just an arsehole ‘cause his girl is away.”

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“I suppose you’re here for a story, aren’t you?” Cassian asked pointedly.

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Maliyah was surprised by the accuracy of this assertion. Cassian seemed to sense that and pressed on. “I understand. The Sister likes her stories as all gods do, doesn’t she? Gilded, caged, and softened with pretty lies.” He paused, and Maliyah was happy to let this last assumption go uncorrected. “Does that sound right to you, Maliyah of the Cloth?”

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“It is true that I come in search of a story. It is also true I was told its teller lives here.”

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“Teller–s,” Merric interjected. “Plural. Gods know I suffered enough for this brat to have a say in how the whole thing’s told to his grandchildren. Otherwise, he’d have you think he’s a saint.”

Cassian glared at Merric. The old man was unfazed.

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Maliyah inclined her head in agreement. “As you wish. I cannot speak to the stories of other gods, but I seek the story truest and most complete. It is not every day that a god deigns to walk the earth for a second time, and the recording of such a tale is a privilege and an honor.”

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“I have conditions,” Cassian said, hardly waiting for her to finish.

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“Name them,” Maliyah answered, with equal readiness. She cared little for his conditions and would hear the story in whatever way he wished to tell it. She could already sense that there were many bonds fastening Cassian to this place, and a demonstration of empathy was her most readily available weapon. Time was short and his trust was precious.

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Soon enough the Faceless Sister would find out what she had done. 

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“No questions,” Cassian said. “And no interruptions.”

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This seemed reasonable, and Maliyah nodded. 

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“The Faceless Sister was not always a god.” Cassian’s voice softened. “Parts of this story may make you question your faith, Maliyah of the Cloth. And so my last condition is this: in these parts, remember that before she was a god, your Sister was just a little girl.”

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“Oh, Maw’s tits,” Merric muttered, getting up and grabbing the two empty flagons. “I’m going to need another drink before this. Melissa?”

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“Maliyah. And no, thank you. I don’t partake.”

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“Shame.” The old man rolled his shoulders and sighed. “Well, I could fix you something to eat, if you’d like. The dog did get most of the leftovers, but…”

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The aforementioned dog was nowhere in Maliyah’s sight, but the old man failed both to elaborate or to wait for her answer, disappearing back into the hall. Maliyah could feel Cassian’s steady gaze on her throughout this, his expression so intent that she was surprised by the gentleness in his voice when he finally spoke.

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“And how is she?”

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“Who, sire?”

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“Your god.”

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There was a vulnerability in the young man’s eyes that Maliyah hesitated to reject. 

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“Ever-present,” she answered finally. “She is good to her faithful.”

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She watched as Cassian’s face shuttered. He could not sense her lie—her charms ensured as much—but still she hoped she had not made a mistake. She needed him.

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“I see,” was all he said.

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Before she could reply, the old man was back with more alcohol and a bowl of cold stew, which he set before Maliyah. She made no move to touch it, because to eat she would have to remove her Veil, and that was something she was not yet willing to do in the presence of these strange men.

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Cassian didn’t touch his drink either. There was a thoughtful air gathering about him. “The story you seek begins with my mother, Maliyah of the Cloth. Like you, she took the Veil, not long after her youngest child was born.”

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Merric sat down heavily, spilling his drink and swearing. “Gods, if we start with your dear old mum, Cass, I’ll be dead before we’re done tellin’ the damn story.”

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Cassian cut him an irritated look. Maliyah leaned back in her chair. Her magic was one of bonds. Needle and thread were her preferred implementation, but bonds were bonds, physical or emotion. She had the sense that the one tethering the old man to the young Aramean was very strong indeed—each action they took to demonstrate the contrary only assured her further.

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“Very well,” Cassian said icily, sitting back and kicking his heels up onto the low table. “Please, Merric—enlighten us. Where do you think we should begin?”

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“Ah, if you insist!” The old man grinned wolfishly. He seemed suddenly much younger than the lines in his face made him out to be. This man, Maliyah realized, had lived a life steeped in trouble. “Why don’t we start with the first time I saved your sorry ass?”