Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Narinder was the god of death. The One Who Waits. Always had been. Always would be. Therefore, he was above such petty things as grief or regret – neither changed the inevitable, and it was not Death’s place to do either. To do so was unnatural.

He did not grieve. He did not regret. He did not doubt. He did not hear snaps and cracks late in the dark hours. Just because each bone in a body broke in its own way, with its own tone, didn’t mean he had a specific melody memorised.

Left humerus. Right radius followed by the ulna in a two-eighths click-clack. Left tibia, in a dotted quarter note, and then the left fibula as another eighth note crack. Right femur in four places, a sixteenth note build up, and then the rolling triplets of six vertebrae shattering at the neck and spine. The composition ending with the discordant fleshy clatter of a carcass dropping to the floor. Then silence.

The One Who Waits was far too busy for grief, regrets, doubts, and most assuredly music, if such things could even occur to him. Which they could not. He had faith to build, a world to remind of its true master. All creatures would bow their heads to him or break their necks resisting. He cared nothing for whether they were new converts or old. Mercy was no longer the order of the day.

The Herald, the new (and only) name of the creature who’d been the key to his freedom, had been a kindly messenger. He’d tolerated that necessity, as it was the lure for ever more faithful, and the nature of their worship meant nothing so long as they worshipped him. Now that the world was his once more, he had no use for such a soft thing as mercy. It was wasted on those weak enough to beg for it, anyway.

Many welcomed the return of the old ways, and those who did not – those who insisted that things could be different, should be different – were mere dissenters clinging to the false hope and promises he’d allowed the Herald to foster for his own ends. All the Herald had been was an influential but shoddy substitute for him and his glory, and soon, all of the dissenters had either converted once again to the true faith, or suffered the fate of heretics. The followers had known who their true god was. Any who tried to worship a false and broken idol knew the fate they incurred.

He didn’t regret it. He felt no guilt for it. Hearing the cries of the followers as they were sacrificed in his name, who wept and begged for the mercy of a vessel put to use and now disposed of, had no effect on him whatsoever. The cries did not follow a familiar rhythm; how could they? There was no rhythm to hear, no melody save one that perhaps dwelt in the One Who Waits’ memories, but he was killing that memory quickly enough, so it meant nothing. He felt no grief, no pity. They were faithless creatures. This was his right as the true god, and if they wished to live, they could have chosen to obey him.

The name that the Herald had borne as his vessel was now heresy to speak; he couldn’t tolerate hearing it. Not for any personal reason. The reminder invited dissent, that was all, and there was no reason to allow such corrupting rot to remain in his cult. Besides, the memory of the Herald as anything but a faithful key would fade with time, that old title lost to the ages of mortals and forgotten by him, too. It would be.

It must be.

It wasn’t.

Year after year, decade after decade, there would be a new whisper that he’d need to stamp out, and he always did so with ruthless efficiency. One would think guaranteed death would discourage it, but it always rose again.

The One Who Waits supposed that if one wanted a job done right, he must do it himself. Step by tedious step, he wiped the context of the Herald’s existence out of history. First the concept of sheep as a whole. Then the common mentions of the Herald, the sayings, the stories, and the hymns. Once, a very long time ago, music had meant much in his faith, but those days long ago waned to nothing, and so bit by bit, he tore the melodies out of his cult. Wasted breath, in his opinion; spoken word was more than sufficient to praise his glory, and this way, there were no echoes of problematic, stubborn rhythms.

In the end only the Herald’s name remained. That was the last tenuous thread left to his former vessel, and when the stupid creatures under his rule again tried to worship the Herald, he severed that thread as he should have from the start. Even mention of the Herald was heresy now, and he was certain that within a mere three or four generations, it would finally be gone. A millennium of constant prickling dissent finally snuffed out.

Quarter. Two eighths. Dotted quarter. One eighth. Four sixteenths. Triplet. Triplet. Whole. Rest.

Even now, centuries after it first played and centuries spent slowly strangling the memory, the One Who Waits could still hear that old melody, but that was nothing. Nothing but memories, soon to lay dead; he was Death, and Death could never be haunted by anything, ghost or memory or music or regrets. There must always be a god in the Lands of the Old Faith, and so he would remain.

One thousand years to the day, to the minute, that he’d been freed, he felt a new Crown enter the world. The One Who waits began to prepare, calm and sure, because he could not feel fear.

Narinder could, however. He just hadn’t remembered until now.

Naraka, the holy city of the One Who Waits, was a glorious edifice of unsubtle grandeur. Built upon what had once been meagre temple grounds, the towering terraced city was constructed from the ‘bones’ of the Lands of the Old Faith, now under his command. Silk Cradle had been strip-mined for its beautiful maroon stone and iron and coal, the latter used to forge the blacksteel he was fond of, hollowing out the meandering caverns of his sibling’s home. Vast swathes of Darkwood were clear-cut and barren, the timber now the skeleton of the buildings that stood in orderly, undeviating grids. Once, the earth there rarely saw daylight; now his brother’s territory was crisscrossed by the scars of destruction, bare and desiccated beneath the merciless sun. 

Rather than take the earth from his own lands to support Naraka’s terraces, Narinder had it brought from Anura in such quantities that it left his sister’s beloved landscape pitted with craters. It was satisfying to imagine the rich earth buried in the dark to die, trapped beneath stone slabs and cobblestone streets. Lastly, crystal and coral was dredged up from Anchordeep to adorn the holy sites, parks, and grandiose halls of the buildings he liked best, carved beauty that left dead stretches of ghost reefs and precarious crevasses deep below his brother’s once jewel-bright waters.

It was well worth it, of course. The tidy uniformity was as appealing as the most curated of cemeteries, a necropolis of the living: flourishing curls and sweeping curves marked the architecture, the elegance of order accented by the sickle sharp lines and angles cut with exacting precision. Even now, centuries after the foundations were first laid, the buildings were maintained to unyielding precision.

His temple naturally stood at the top, a symmetrical pentagon with five arms and a central tower dominating the top terrace, each point lit with a red beacon that glowed like a candelabra over his lands at night. He liked to stand at the top when he had a moment between his many projects and initiatives, looking out over the city built upon his successful vengeance. It was a monument to triumph. It was beautiful.

Today he stood alone in the atrium at the heart of his temple. There were no attendants, no acolytes; he’d sent them all away, and stood now in the darkness, towering, waiting. The delicate braziers hung between the many pillars would blaze when his prey was brought to him. Not before.

Today was the day the Herald came, one year after the new Crown had come to life. There was no need for them to send word. He’d known, in the way one knew whether it was cold or not. He was ready for them: his soldiers had long been prepared for this, eager to prove themselves after so many centuries since the last time there had been any war or even conflict of note. There was usually no need for anything more than enforcement, and his forces were restless. In the same way he had unyielding standards for the state of Naraka, however, so too did he have unyielding standards for his soldiers. They were all well-trained, and they knew each soul they cut down would be delivered to their god. None would regret the slaughter to come. It was all in his name.

The One Who Waits didn’t need to be present in order to see almost anywhere in his city, so he was watching the opening gates, where his best soldiers waited. The Herald would watch their followers die, fledgling god that they were, and then they would be brought to him. He’d even left the gates open, a taunting welcome – or as welcome as the imposing monoliths of blacksteel could ever be.

Then the One Who Waits frowned. There was only one creature approaching the gates.

The Herald looked much the same as they had when he saw them last, with only cosmetic differences. They weren’t in their godform, despite what one might expect, and there were no followers around them. Instead, they trotted right up to the gates, allowing the One Who Waits to get a better look. 

Their robes were pale grey beneath their white cloak, a round white eye with a horizontal pupil emblazoned on the chest. Their cloak was shorter than the one they’d once worn, its scalloped hem ending just below the elbow; there was a black strip an inch or so above the hem with gilt patterns in a script he didn’t recognise, to match the golden bell at their throat. It wasn’t only the script or the bell that was gold, either, as their left eye had been replaced with an etched golden orb. The Pale Crown with its four peaks featured a round white eye with a horizontal pupil, like the symbol on their robes, so it seemed their Crown hadn’t come without cost. Part of him found that interesting, but not enough to dwell on.

They continued to trot up to the gates, then right through. None of his soldiers seemed to know what to do when the sheep walking past them ignored them utterly, and no force of followers waited to fight his own forces.

Useless, all of them. He would see to their discipline once the Herald was dealt with, as well as their commanding officers. He had been too lenient, it seemed. That would be corrected.

The Herald was halfway up the cobblestone street before his soldiers shook off the surprise. A group about a dozen strong were the first to chase after the lone god, racing past the fearful faces peering through the windows and from the alleys – but before any of them could catch up, the Herald lifted one hand, a soft gold mist glowing in their palm. Despite its softness it still illuminated the street, glittering off the clean windows of the shopfronts, lending their surroundings an atmosphere of… reality, perhaps. It was as if the space around the Herald was now just a little closer to the heart of things.

‘Be at peace,’ they murmured, the words as soft as the mist but vast enough to roll over the street, and the One Who Waits narrowed his eyes as he felt their power take effect. The soldiers who had been chasing the Herald stumbled to a stop as their violent intentions were sapped away… no, he realised as he focussed. The effect was more insidious than that. All emotions were drained from the soldiers, positive and negative alike, leaving only a blank serenity within them and unable to move, let alone rouse a defence.

The One Who Waits had never seen pacification used in such a way, and he disliked it. He’d counteract it if he could, but he wasn’t War, and couldn’t inspire the frenzy of violence in his followers that could overcome the peace they were forced into. He couldn’t counteract it yet, at any rate. He would start looking; there were answers to every question, if one looked hard enough.

With their hand still lifted, the golden mist in their palm, the Herald continued to travel up the terraces towards his temple without a single pause in their steps. As they passed the main streets, soldiers would try to approach, but any who got within range of that pacifying mist were drained like the others before them. The alleys remained full of curious, anxious onlookers – but there were no few who seemed curious in a more furtive way. He’d have to do some reinforcement of his own faith, as well.

Even when those soldiers stationed on the roofs attempted to attack at range, red arrows and darts black with eldritch magic streaking through the air, the Pale Crown would simply dart down and knock the projectile away. The Herald’s Crown was quick, no matter how precise the shot, deflecting the efforts of even the blessed weapons only his finest soldiers were permitted to wield. The pale eye radiated determination; it was unusually animated for a Crown so young. The Red Crown on his head shared his surprise, and while the One Who Waits was annoyed at the way the Herald was approaching unimpeded, Red was much more uneasy.

Caution, it warned him.

The One Who Waits scoffed. ‘Against this? If my soldiers are so weak-willed, then they deserve no concern from me.’

Suit yourself, Red replied in its noncommittal way. Since its return from the head of the Herald, he’d found it to be quieter, more inclined to thoughtful silence than the chattier nature it once had. It was one of the few good things to come from the Herald’s influence, in his opinion; the Crown was an instrument of his divine power, and while he needed it, it needed him far more. He had reminded it of this truth, and the Crown had committed the lesson to memory ever since.

The Herald reached the base of his temple and headed up the stairs, any and all clergy choosing not to get within range. They’d be more useless than the soldiers, so the One Who Waits didn’t care. Once at the top, the Herald paused for a moment to breathe, at which the One Who Waits rolled his eyes. Yes, there were a great many stairs, but they were a god. To be so quickly wearied was frankly insulting. Once they were ready, they opened the doors. The full doors, not the smaller entrances to either side, so their unnatural strength still remained; each of those doors was several hundred pounds of dense wood and blacksteel.

They trotted through the dark temple, the golden mist in their hand lighting the way, and then they were in the central atrium. They were just as small before his might as he remembered. He was almost insulted that they weren’t using their godform, too. There was no other form worthy of a god. Everything else was lesser.

‘One Who Waits,’ they said, voice precisely as he remembered it. The language hadn’t changed in the last millennium, but it had changed in inflection, in ways things were said; they were understandable, but still sounded a strange mix of modern and ancient. ‘I greet thee.’

‘Herald,’ he said, choosing not to return the greeting.

‘That’s the Shepherd to you,’ they returned sharply, abandoning the pretence of formality, their one eye hard as they met his three. ‘I’d offer the Lamb of Mercy, but I think you’ve lost that right.’

‘I will call you whatever I please, Herald,’ the One Who Waits sneered, then stiffened as they replied,

‘Fine, Narinder. You have fun with that. Now here’s what we’re going to do.’

He bared his teeth, outrage flaring and the shadows looming in answer. ‘You dare presume to dictate my actions in my own halls?’

‘I dare, and you’re going to listen,’ they said, uncowed. ‘Here’s what we’re going to do. We’re going to talk, god to god. I don’t care about what, because it’s so I can say I tried. Play nice, and I won’t leave your city catatonic.’

‘You are in my territory, and do not have the power you seem to think you do,’ he snapped coldly. ‘You may affect those with weak wills, but nothing you do is permanent if I do not wish it.’

‘We’ll see about that. I’m pretty determined,’ they said, just as cold. ‘I’ve been working on this for a thousand years, Narinder. You know better than anyone how a thousand years can temper a plan of revenge.’

‘Revenge,’ he repeated in disbelief. ‘You have no wrong to avenge, Herald. You swore yourself to me, then fulfilled your purpose.’

‘Where did I say it’s revenge for me?’ they said, eyebrow rising over their false eye. ‘If it is, it’s only by proxy. This is revenge for the people who gave you everything, sacrificed themselves – sometimes literally – and you betrayed them as soon as I was out of the way.’

‘The followers?’ he scoffed. ‘They were mine, to do with as I pleased.’

‘They were your followers, and you’re only free because I gathered them to worship you,’ the Herald retorted, golden static dancing over their cloak, the Pale Crown glaring just as hard as its master. Atop his head, Red was glaring back, but there was an inscrutable quality to its fury. ‘They pledged themselves to you, because they trusted you would be a god who honoured sacrifices. You owe a debt you’ve never bothered to pay – you killed anyone who dared to wish they didn’t have to suffer.’

‘I culled the weak of heart and faith.’

‘No, you didn’t. What you did was make a mistake. From the instant you and your zealots laid a finger on them, I’ve been here.’

Narinder rolled his eyes at them. ‘So you merely chose to wait until after I was free to betray me. Betray your god.’

‘You stopped being my god when you proved my death was meaningless,’ they said, the static sparking brighter. ‘The followers died for you. My people died for you. I died for you. And you, selfish piece of shit that you are, couldn’t even acknowledge it – you tried to erase us, but I’m not going to let that happen.’

‘So now you ascend to godhood for a petty revenge of no consequence to any but you,’ the One Who Waits sneered at them, his sharp chuckle echoing in the atrium. ‘You are as inconsequential as the vengeance you seek. A pathetic, weak god with domains too soft to stand against one such as I. I am the One Who Waits. I am Death. He Who Lays a Soul to Rest. What could you possibly hope to wield against inevitability?’

The Herald smiled.

‘Yes, you are Death,’ they agreed. ‘But I am the aftermath. I am the softness of the beckoning dark, I am the closure of the revealing light, and you may be the One Who Waits. You may be Death.’

Their teeth were bared, the golden glow of their wool bright enough to blind anything less than another god. ‘But I am Peace. The One Who Welcomes. And you are in my way.’

They crushed the golden mist in their hand, and all the emotions they’d gathered – the drives, the conviction, the experiences of a mortal heart that made a soul into a person – turned to dust in an implosion of divine power. The people who’d been drained would never regain what had been stolen, Narinder knew. Living still, their souls intact, but only husks. The aftermath of loss.

‘I’m also the one who can break peace,’ they added, casually letting that golden powder sluice through their fingers and drift to the floor of his atrium, then turned away. ‘So by all means, Narinder; come after the Shepherd. I’ll be the one waiting this time. I’m sure that will be a novel experience for you.’

They trotted back out of his temple. Narinder would have struck at their exposed back – knew he should have, the Red Crown pointedly trying to remind him of that – but he had a very different problem. He simply stood there and watched the Herald leave, his entire body frozen in place by just how hard his dick was beneath his robes, his breathing too shallow to let himself think clearly.

He hadn’t known his godform could react in such a way. He hadn’t even known he could react in such a way; it must have been aeons since the last time he’d suffered the indignity of any arousal at all. It was an absurd response to the absurd bravado he’d just witnessed, that was all. It wouldn’t happen twice.

He still couldn’t look away from the open door of his temple.

He’d tried to keep the Lamb’s ghost from haunting him: wiping them from history, banishing them from memory. It seemed the price he’d pay for the effort was a god who may well ruin him instead.

The old bone melody was louder, like distant bells, and Narinder couldn’t pretend he didn’t hear it.

‘Repeat yourself.’

The scout standing before the One Who Waits cringed away from his sharp tone. He’d taken to holding court in his atrium some centuries past, and so the worthless creature – a robin, or some kind of bird – stood lonely and small in the centre of the wide space. Ringing the atrium were his many acolytes, clerics, priests, and other clergy. The silent faces were hidden under the shadows of their hoods, the red and black of their robes illuminated by the many braziers and chandeliers hanging above them. His following was far more vast than it had ever been when he’d had to share the population with the rest of the Bishop pantheon, and the utter hush of his congregation made the scout even smaller.

‘Another flock was spotted at the border of Darkwood,’ the robin scout said, managing not to stammer. ‘I returned as fast as I could and let the local patrol captain know, because the Herald was there, but –’

‘The Herald was travelling with that flock specifically?’ he cut through, and the scout nodded. ‘Describe the flock. Leave nothing out.’

‘There were maybe a dozen heretics with the Herald,’ the scout said, straightening up, relaxing; little fool, he thought derisively. ‘They had four of the motor carriages, but the carriages were strange – they were too quiet. Flimsy, though. Easily destroyed.’

The One Who Waits already knew of those, of course. Very little happened within his territories that he didn’t notice. The motor carriages had been a relatively new invention when the Herald emerged from whatever vile hole they’d crawled out of – barely ten years old, he thought – but the Herald had adopted them enthusiastically for their nomadic flocks. Not that the carriages were particularly useful, in the end. Nothing could outrun Death. Not forever. The pitiable machines they put together, little more than wagons with four wheels and fragile chassis easily broken under his soldiers’ boots, only put off the inevitable.

‘And you informed a patrol?’ the One Who Waits asked, knowing the answer to this question as well.

‘Of course, my lord,’ the scout confirmed eagerly. ‘I thought it best for word of the Herald’s flock to get to a higher rank as soon as possible.’

‘And so it did,’ he said and the scout paused. ‘The captain has already received her punishment.’

‘Punishment?’ the scout said in confusion.

‘Unlike your report today, your report to Captain Heon somehow neglected to inform her of the Herald’s presence,’ he said, and the scout took a step back, eyes wide and horrified. ‘Assuming she could stamp out a flock and claim a sliver of valour for her own ambitions, the captain attempted to ambush the heretics, only to find that the Herald was there. In the past two decades, our most wretched enemy has proven themself deadly to the weak; instead of retreating, she made the attempt anyway, and was the only one to escape. That hubris has been disciplined. Your carelessness, however – your incompetence – is the root of the fiasco.’

‘Please, o One Who Waits,’ the scout began to plead, but he held up a skeletal hand.

‘I have no patience for the begging of a creature unworthy of the air required to beg,’ he said coldly. ‘Enjoy your time in the stocks, and pray that you are not there overlong; otherwise we will meet again, and you will not be breathing for that meeting. Take them.’

‘Wait, please!’ the scout cried out, but he ignored the pleas as the creature was dragged away by the nearest soldiers. There were murmurs through the crowd, near-silent though they were; the One Who Waits knew why.

The Herald (he refused to call them otherwise, he’d slipped up once and it wouldn’t happen twice) had learned well from the work of running his cult. They moved swiftly, now that they were crowned. Alarmingly so. More had joined their flock by the year; then it was their flocks, in the plural.

Unlike the One Who Waits, the Herald wasn’t sensible enough (or convenient enough) to consolidate power into one location. Darkwood and Anura were the first lands that the heretics chose to roam, presumably because it was more hospitable. Then Anchordeep was infiltrated, the water-like air no deterrent to the heretics or their carriages. Silk Cradle followed. The Herald’s cult was spreading like a disease, infecting every part of his domain.

Even more frustrating, however, was how the Herald didn’t maintain a single personal flock. They seemed to travel with one or another with neither rhyme nor reason, and they were as likely to be present when his soldiers struck as they were not. For all that the Herald claimed to be Peace, they certainly shredded through his soldiers as freely as they once shredded through heretics in his name. And whenever a flock fell, another rose to take its place.

The numbers were still relatively small, but they were persistent, and it was doing damage in other ways. Soon, questions would arise about the One Who Waits’ strength – they were already beginning, in fact. It had been twenty years since the accursed Herald strolled into his city and left one hundred and thirty soldiers as nothing but empty husks, and yet the Herald’s cult remained. Worse: it was growing.

Narinder stepped into the centre of the atrium himself, all voices instantly silenced as he commanded all attention. ‘Soon, all such incompetence will no longer be a concern,’ he announced, and allowed the murmurs for a moment. ‘Since the day the Herald dared to enter Naraka, I have been cultivating a weapon to lead our righteous crusade against the heretics. One cannot rush these processes, and I am the One Who Waits; the wait is ever worth it. Tomorrow at noon, all the people in Naraka will gather, and I will reveal the weapon at last. Fear not, my faithful. We will crush the Herald as we have crushed all who came before.’

He smiled as the atrium burst into cheers, choosing for once not to enforce his preferred silence. This was a moment of jubilation, and he was inclined to indulge it, knowing what was to come.

It had been a long time since Narinder had needed to raise his own blade, but it was the way of the world sometimes. If you wanted something done right, you had to do it yourself.

The sun shone brilliant and sharp overhead, all of Naraka lit bright and fierce as noon approached. A wind blew through the streets, not too strong but enough to leave fabric fluttering and the lanterns of the street lamps swaying in the breeze; it was a fine day, more than suitable for the reveal of a new phase in the war on the Herald.

The One Who Waits stood at the top of the stairs to his temple, most of the city’s population arrayed below in an excited chorus of curiosity. Those eyes not trained on his godform’s glory were instead trained on the comparably small figure who stood beside him. His mortal form had been untouched since before he was in chains, and none would even realise a god had anything but a godform, so it was an ideal guise to take. The figure beside him at the moment was nothing but an illusion at the moment, of course. So was the Red Crown on the One Who Waits’ head, the true Crown hiding in his hood for the moment.

Judging the crowd was as gathered as it would ever be, the One Who Waits waved a skeletal hand. As one, every single creature below fell silent; all knew that there were consequences for interrupting the One Who Waits, even when the creatures were hidden in a crowd.

‘Today, we take the first step into the future,’ he announced, godly voice ringing out over the roofs and streets, heard by any who weren’t in the crowd below. ‘The course I have charted will lead to certain victory: we will exterminate the Herald and their blasphemous cult once and for all. Two decades have passed as I prepared for this moment, but now you will bear witness to the fruit of godly labours. Move forward, vessel.’

He mentally nudged the illusion of himself to step forward. His actual mortal form was identical to this, save for the third eye, which would be hidden by another illusion. A common black cat, tall and admittedly a bit skinny for a grand warrior, but the One Who Waits doubted it would matter. The deep red of the cloak and robes complemented his fur, trimmed sleek and elegant, and his illusionary face was hard, determined, fearless: it was the stance that would speak, and the drama of the wind shifting the cloak did the rest. Theatre was useful.

‘This is the Cat,’ said the One Who Waits, who’d chosen it because it amused him. ‘I chose him to be my future vessel when he was but a child, within a week of the Herald’s attack. He has been trained ever since, hidden away where he could not be corrupted by any influence, name and history abandoned for the purity of our cause. He will be my Champion, and he will act with my Crown in hand to strike down all the Herald holds dear, weakening them greatly. While he does, I will gather the power to obliterate the Herald once and for all – it is not enough to kill them. They must be destroyed.’ He paused for effect. ‘And they will be destroyed.’

Cheers and shouts of excitement from the crowd below, as was correct and expected. He allowed it for a few moments, enjoying the adulation, then waved his hand once more for silence.

‘Now, I place my Crown on the head of my chosen vessel, and his great work will begin. Wheresoever he goes, you are to treat him as if he were myself: he acts as my hands, and any disobedience or insult will be as if you insult me. Bow your head, vessel.’

It was a necessary evil, but part of him still disliked even making this illusion defer to anything, including himself. He ignored the feeling, knowing it was an illogical twist of pride. He picked up the illusion of the Red Crown and set it on the Cat’s head, and when his ‘vessel’ stood and waved down at the crowd, the cheers were deafening. As it should be.

‘Return to your days,’ he commanded the crowd. ‘Have faith – we will see our enemy slain, the Herald’s body displayed on my temple for all to see for time immemorial. Entrust this task to the Cat: even if he falls to the Herald’s blade, he will rise again more powerful than before, and strike with even greater strength.’

With that, the One Who Waits withdrew, leaving behind the wildly cheering celebration. The illusion of himself followed him obediently into the depths of the temple, and the One Who Waits took a moment to admire the splendid halls, crafted with no tolerance for imperfection. It would be some time until he saw them again, after all.

He soon reached the lavish rooms he’d set aside for his ‘vessel’, which were mainly a cover for the pentacle portal he would emerge from should he be bested. He was realistic; this would be the first time he wore a mortal form in millennia, and it would take time to adjust. He dismissed the illusion at the door, standing alone in the deserted hall, and looked down at the door far too small for his current height. The practice was distasteful to contemplate – his glory deserved nothing less than his divine shape – but a necessity for the moment. Reminding himself of this, he swallowed the distaste, and let his godform go in favour of the shape that had been his when the Red Crown first chose him.

The Red Crown itself returned to his head, a curious sense of relief to it as Narinder walked into the room to adjust his robes in the gilt floor-to-ceiling mirror. Soon he would depart for the barracks, where soldiers were waiting to be selected for his personal squad.

Narinder directed a look at his Crown in the mirror, left eyebrow lifted as he closed his third eye and hid it from sight. ‘And what has you in such a good mood?’ he asked disapprovingly. It better not start acting up, just because he looked different.

Why aren’t you?, Red returned. It’s been a long time since I’ve been wielded in battle, and even longer since it was you who did so. I’ve missed it.

‘Hmf,’ Narinder said, annoyed that it had a point. It wasn’t as if he’d had reason to wield it in his godform, not since before he was in chains. He hadn’t done many things in the time since before he’d been in chains. ‘Well, I will not complain about a zealous Crown. Take care to remember your place, Red. A head wears a Crown, and not the other way around.’

Of course, Red said, more neutral. Good. Should I refer to you by your title still? The new title? Or your name?

Narinder fully intended to say ‘the Cat’, but something stopped him. ‘My name will be sufficient,’ he said instead. It wasn’t as if the Crown could be heard by any but its bearer, another god, or another Crown – and neither of them intended to have a conversation with the Herald or the Pale Crown.

Interestingly, at the thought of the Pale Crown, Narinder felt a swell of hatred from Red. ‘Do you dislike it so quickly?’ he asked, intrigued.

I detest it, Red replied. Narinder suspected there was a second part his Crown wasn’t saying, but he had no further time to waste on idle conversation with a tool, and were it important, Red would be unable to hide it from its bearer. So long as Red was as willing to destroy the Pale Crown as Narinder was to destroy the Herald, then whatever it thought didn’t matter.

‘Good,’ he said instead, then left to decide which soldiers would be blessed to accompany him.

One flock. Two. Three. Five. Ten. Narinder methodically ripped out the Herald’s influence from his personal lands, slaughtering every heretic and burning the caravans until he could melt the carriages for scrap. Some heretics got away, having learned from the Herald how to run and how to hide. Memories from the Herald’s first life, he assumed with disdain, but some reluctant interest as well. When the Herald was vessel still, he’d known they had a spotty memory. Death by beheading, as he recalled. Things didn’t always connect right after that.

Not that it mattered. While there was a part of him admittedly curious about what might have changed, how he could use it to take them down, the rest of him knew better: it was overwhelming strength that would take the Herald down in the end. There was no reason to look that deeply into an enemy, let alone this one.

Even so, he did take some time to attend to some housekeeping he’d been neglecting, removed from the ranks of his soldiers as he’d been. Now that he was on the ground, he was annoyed to find that there was no little work to do. Things had to be handled carefully if all was to go well, the damage minimised – not to the heretics, of course. That was no concern of his. Enforcing codes of conduct that had lain lax without his supervision, disciplining his soldiers for excesses that would amount to grave transgressions were they committed against the faithful, was simply a matter of good management. The tightened rules and stricter enforcement was meant to increase the efficiency of his hunting squads; mercy had nothing to do with it.

With his ranks in far better order, once his personal lands were free of the heretics, he turned his attention to the Lands of the Old Faith. Darkwood first, he decided. Plenty of the Herald’s flocks wandered there. The Herald hadn’t been among the flocks he’d slaughtered, so Narinder figured it was simply a matter of chance. That, or the wretched creature feared the Cat. If they didn’t yet, they would by the end, so that didn’t matter either. He just wondered if they’d already realised the fate awaiting them.

He preferred to take his time hunting the flocks, for all that he knew he should be moving swiftly. Planning ahead, weighing this or that advantage; he could see why his long dead sibling had enjoyed the tactics of War over all else, but Narinder disliked the idea of plans made but never put into use. The determination to act carefully, to act with purpose, was stronger in him than the eagerness for violence. He had to temper himself, and so he did.

The parts of Darkwood that still claimed old-growth forests was a safer path for the flocks, but a harder one, considering the meandering terrain. The newer forests (ancient by mortal measure, being centuries old) were easier, but it was easier for his hunting squads to stalk their prey, too. The flock he and his squad had been tracking for a week was finally settling in to rest for more than a single night, he could tell. The flimsy carriages were arranged in a circle, fabric tents being constructed with thin metal frames; this was a proselytiser caravan, being smaller than some and without any young or infirm heretics. This was his preferred quarry, frankly. He left the work of the regular caravans to others, finding those hunts distasteful.

It wasn’t terribly difficult to attack in the dead of night, but this was about more than simple elimination. There was usually at least one who managed to flee, despite his best efforts and the efforts of his soldiers, but that was useful in its own way. If he struck when they were vulnerable but already awake and able to feel fear, then they would carry word. He saw no reason to waste perfectly good terror when a bit of patience was all he needed to take full advantage of it.

His soldiers crouched in the underbrush, waiting for his signal. Narinder studied the camp as closely as he could, though the centre was swiftly becoming hard to see due to the constructed tents. It was time, and so he whistled. The piercing sound tore through the camp, the heretics shouting in alarm – but his soldiers were already darting in, Narinder hanging back a bit to see if he could catch the straggler for once.

For the first minute or so, the attack was unremarkable – screams of fear, shouts of triumph, the sounds of a one-sided battle swiftly decided. Then, as he darted in to cut off the escape of one of the heretics, he finally heard the voice he’d been waiting for.

‘Lay down your arms,’ the Herald thundered as they stalked out from the centre of the camp, and the soldiers around him fell still, dropping their weapons, made docile in an instant. Weaklings.

Narinder felt something stir in his chest. It made him want to bare his teeth, lunge forward, strike before the opportune moment: it wasn’t the Herald’s peace. It wasn’t fear, either. As the Herald spotted him with his sword still in hand, fury sparked from their cloak and wool like gold, and Narinder knew the feeling’s name. Exhilaration.

‘You,’ the Herald spat.

‘Me,’ he agreed, and darted forward.

The arc of his first strike met the swing of a gauntlet, backhanding the Red Sword away with a clash of sparks. He used that momentum to twist out of the way of the Herald’s next punch, dancing backwards. He could feel the vicious joy in the Red Crown as it met the Pale Gauntlet once again, shoving it aside and sending the Herald skidding back on their hooves.

‘I knew it was you following us,’ they snarled at him, lunging forward to grab the Red Sword and rip it out of his hands. He let it go easily, because the Red Crown had already turned to a serpent and slithered out of the Pale Crown’s bladed fingers, leaping back to his paw. He sprang at them at the same moment the Red Sword hit his palm, so he scored the first hit as his blade pierced the Herald’s side. A minor wound – such a strike couldn’t kill a god – but he’d still hit them first. ‘Take it from me, run while you can – to people like your master? You’re nothing. Barely even a tool.’

‘I am the Cat,’ he replied, deflecting another swipe. ‘And you are weaker than advertised, o ‘Shepherd’.’

There was no point in speaking past that point. Narinder had other things to focus on. The Herald remained as skilled with weapons as they had when they were his vessel, the Pale Crown as responsive in their hands as the Red Crown had once been. An extension of their body, much as the Red Crown was for him.

He hissed in pain as the claws of their gauntlet raked across his face. They gasped when his sword cut their thigh and sank almost to the bone. It was a ferocious, feral battle between the two gods, aiming to kill by any means necessary, aiming to hurt, to bleed, to destroy–

Then Narinder found himself on his back beneath them, the two bleeding profusely from their wounds. The Red Sword was buried in their right shoulder. The Pale Gauntlet was around his throat.

‘Tell your master I say hello, Cat,’ the Herald said coldly. ‘And tell him his taste in vessels has gotten worse.’

Then they snapped his neck with a brutal twist of their hand.

For a moment, Narinder found himself in the Below, but almost immediately flung his soul Above once more, remaking his body before landing on the pentacle portal in his rooms back at the temple. He stood, stretching and cracking his neck as he huffed under his breath. It had been unpleasant, admittedly – housing his godly soul in a mortal body came with certain drawbacks, and painful deaths were one of them, but it was much better than simply looking mortal. A godly soul was powerful, but unhoused, it was more vulnerable to other godly weapons. Best not to risk it.

Still, unpleasant or not, the fight had been invigorating. Moreso than he would’ve liked, Narinder realised after a moment, glancing down at his body and finding that he was hard (painfully so, now that he was paying attention.) He rolled his eyes at himself. At least the reaction made sense in his mortal form, even if it was significantly more difficult to ignore now; the Herald had been sitting on top of him, ferocity and danger incarnate.

Fine. He’d deal with the problem, he decided, then make an appearance to reassure his cult that their god’s champion was immune to death. He waved off the Red Crown, who gladly left with a sense of exasperation (as if this was intentional, Narinder grumbled internally.)

Fifteen minutes later Narinder went to handle the business of being a god, ignoring the lazy thrum of satisfaction in his muscles, as well as the face of the imagined partner, for all that the imagination was twisted with hatred and anger (and better for it.) He didn’t want to see that face in anything but agony, though he’d apparently settle for loathing but willing pleasure. There was nothing wrong with it so long as he didn’t acknowledge it.

The melody was in the back of his head. He ignored it, too.

Again they clashed. And again. Then again.

Narinder killed the Herald twice, crowing his triumph, awaiting their soul each time – but it never arrived. Instead they emerged undamaged with a different flock, as if nothing had happened. They were dying, he was certain of it, but it was as if they lacked a soul to pass on. Narinder knew that wasn’t true; he was Death. He would be able to tell if there was no soul within a shell, and the Herald lived in both the physical sense and the spiritual sense. As if to spite him, their soul instead vanished, and the Pale Crown’s last act was always to vanish the body with it, misting away into nothingness.

They killed Narinder several times, of course – in this form he was inherently weaker than in his godform – but his deaths did little damage to his faith. His cult knew that death was no true consequence for his ‘vessel’, and to have realistic expectations for a mortal fighting a god. It didn’t matter how many times the Cat fell. He would wear away the Herald and their heretics like water could wear down anything, no matter how long it took. The Cat fought in the name of the One Who Waits, of inevitability – and it was inevitability that would strike the Herald down at long last.

Privately, of course, it infuriated the One Who Waits. That the Herald could hold their own against a god far older and far more experienced was galling, though he knew well how potent spite could be as a fuel. It wasn’t simply in battle, either. Their flocks continued to grow and multiply, no matter how many were killed. There was something distasteful about torturing the mere lackeys of the true problem, and so those souls were simply thrown into the afterlives with all the rest of the river of souls he watched over. The One Who Waits was reserving his fury for the Herald themself, and when their soul was finally once more in his grasp they would spend the next millennium begging to be destroyed. Destruction was kinder than the fate he had planned for them.

He didn’t understand at first why their cult was persistent in this way. The flocks knew they were being hunted like beasts. It should have driven the heresy underground, but it wasn’t a deterrent in the slightest. The Herald was by nature an unreachable god, travelling with one flock at a time, devotion and its power difficult to gather without an easy channel; it should at the very least be growing far slower.

The first time he heard rumours of a saint, the One Who Waits finally understood how they were succeeding.

Saints had always struck him as a monumentally stupid decision – what god worthy of worship would deign to lessen themself in that way? To name a saint was to imply that the god’s true divinity rested on another creature’s shoulders, even in the slightest fraction of a splinter of power; it invited dissent. One might choose to follow a saint more than the god, after all. The Herald had been the closest the One Who Waits had ever allowed before he began to erase them from his faith, but they’d only ever been a figure of myth, not of worship. Prayers to them had been heresy, even then – the kind that ended with a rope or a stake in front of a cheering crowd. Mere sacrifice had been too kind for that kind of transgression.

The Herald was not of the same opinion. Their cult was fractured by nature – individual, nomadic flocks answering to the Shepherd, centralised in hierarchy but not location. That was changing, however. Saints were beginning to be named from the martyrs he realised he was making, herders named as conduits for the Shepherd’s guidance for their individual flocks. Any prayers offered to saints or guided by herders simply passed through them into the Shepherd’s hand, concentrated by the smaller, subordinate focus – strong enough that the Shepherd would find no difficulty gathering that faith and devotion, the way they would in loose prayers.

It was dangerous, requiring absolute trust in loyalty, and therefore stupid in one sense. In another, the One Who Waits (extremely grudgingly) had to admit that it was an effective tactic, given how quickly their cult was growing. It would grow beyond their ability to manage eventually, ballooning too fast for the iron rule that a cult that large required, but that was going to be a ways off. Too distant a time table for him to tolerate.

The One Who Waits needed a new plan. A new strategy. It was no longer good enough to simply put out fires – it had already been another twenty years with no real measurable progress, so he had to go after the arsonist, and build from the ashes if necessary. He could afford some damage in faith, or even a great deal if that was what it cost him. He was Death, and he’d recovered from far worse.

He needed to get close to the Herald. Narinder knew just how to do it, too.

Like hunting flocks, Narinder knew he needed to take his time, building up from subtle foundations so carefully that the Herald wouldn’t notice the artifice. He was admittedly also annoyed at the time it was going to take, mostly because the longer the Herald was free to do as they wished, the wider the damage they would deal. He had the patience, however. He’d fought for too long to let that go, and he would be the One Who Waits, or he would be nothing. He set aside the annoyance in favour of a higher goal.

Slowly, over the next five or so years, the hunts were scaled back in terms of ferocity. Narinder chose his soldiers carefully, ones who had the slightest hint of soft hearts. Ones who were willing to occasionally try to ‘hide’ a small act of mercy, such as letting a child escape the slaughter, for instance. Part of Narinder had no taste for killing those, and he’d always left that task to his soldiers. Souls torn from lives that short were rarely of any use to him, he reminded himself. That was all.

The Red Crown was of the same opinion, and for once, he couldn’t entirely blame it for the flickers of relief as it saw true innocents flee. The Red Crown had always had a soft streak – one that had been easy to keep well in hand, however, reined in after the Herald had spoiled it with their softer message as his vessel. It was useful to him to allow it a slightly looser leash these days, and in answer, Red was warming up a bit. He hadn’t noticed just how cold it had been. Narinder decided not to contemplate it too closely; it was doing what he needed it to, and so long as it behaved, the tool through which he wielded his divine might could have a tiny scrap of breathing room.

It wasn’t just his soldiers that he intentionally cultivated some ‘softness’ in. When Narinder faced the Herald, he pulled back on the usual insults and taunts, one by one. He fought slower, more cautiously; sometimes he hesitated before killing one of their heretics, just for a second, where they could see him. After the first five years had passed, he began to reduce the number of hunts – not by much, but just enough to be of notice. Everything had to be done in minute increments; overstepping by even a single mistake would give the ruse away.

He made more appearances in his godform in Naraka, building the illusion that he was growing dissatisfied with his vessel’s performance of late, forced to return to do more of the work himself. It wasn’t a hard illusion to build, frankly. He was of two minds on the matter; over the years, he’d grown accustomed to the mortal form once more, and he felt restless when he needed to stay in the city for an extended period of time. When he wasn’t in the city and free to travel and fight, he was frustrated with how he had to restrain himself, feign any weakness. It was his own plan, but he chafed against it, anyway.

Once he deemed the foundations of the ruse to be strong enough to handle bolder moves, he allowed the Herald to ‘overpower’ him and strike him down. Death was temporary, after all. He lost to them once, twice. He made mistakes in battle he’d never made before. Something was wrong, the rumours began to spread, stoked by the soldiers he chose to bring with him – the chattier types that he wouldn’t have considered worthy beforehand. Their wagging tongues were useful now, and it was with a mix of satisfaction and resentment that he kept track of the whispers. The Cat was faltering, so the rumours went. How long was the One Who Waits willing to tolerate failure?

Twice more the Herald killed him, and each time Narinder feigned growing desperation. Fear. It injured his pride, but he made himself gasp ‘Stop –’ right before they cut his head off for the second death, and the last thing he saw before being safely deposited in the afterlife was the expression shared between Herald and Crown. Their eyes were wide: one lifeless gold, one pale confusion, one stunned darkness.

Now it was time. He was certain the Herald had to have heard the rumours, now. They suspected something wasn’t quite right.

The Red Crown was in his left paw, spear with a sharp wicked point, and he let his anticipation flood his muscles as if it was anxiety instead as the Herald burst out from the panicked mayhem of the flock his soldiers were attacking. They were snarling as they always did, the Pale Crown a sword in their left hand; in the back of his head, he noted that with a faint trace of interest. He’d never noticed their dominant hand was their left, like his was. A tiny detail. He wasn’t quite sure why he noticed.

They were shouting at him, cursing him, furious as he blocked their first swing, twisting the Red Spear in a way that meant they let go of the Pale Sword or broke their wrist. It felt good to stop holding back, for all that he had to disguise it as fear bordering on panic. They weren’t prepared for him anymore, having come to anticipate a far weaker Cat than the one in front of them. For every time they landed a hit, he landed three, stabbing with the point, slicing with the blade, striking with the haft, twisting, tripping, leaping –

Then he was on top of them, the Herald snarling up at him with his spear to their throat. Narinder then chose to hesitate. He thought he chose. It was the plan, he knew it was the plan, but his arm felt like it might have been paralysed whether or not he wanted to be.

The Herald acted precisely the way he’d hoped, striking in his moment of weakness, running his chest through. He toppled off them with a choked off cry, barely managing to land on his knees. When he clutched at his chest, frantically trying to stem the blood, to put off death for even a few seconds more, he glanced over to where they still lay on the ground beside him. The Herald was staring, and he watched them put two and two together. Like he’d been planning for the last decade, he saw their expression in the seconds before he crumpled to the dirt – no longer triumphant, no longer relieved. They were horrified.

After all, why would a vessel of the One Who Waits fear dying – unless he lived in fear of the god that waited for him?

The satisfaction was well worth the pit of dread in his stomach, which was fuelling his feigned fear. There was no need to dread anything. He had succeeded.

For the two months following, he played the part of a god in a tempestuous rage. ‘The Cat’ had been disposed of, the vessel’s name to be struck from the books that had once honoured him, his memory scorned by true believers. He’d fallen prey to the Herald’s heresy. He’d hesitated to deal righteous death to his god’s sworn enemy. For that, he would suffer as the heretics he once slaughtered did.

According to the rumour mill, the Cat had insisted he was true to his god even as the One Who Waits tortured him to death. The screams echoing faintly up from the dungeons of his temple sent chills through those unfortunate enough to hear it. According to others, there’d been no words at all, only pitiful agony. If the Cat denied his transgressions, however, it meant nothing. He would have had no defence for the times he’d spared heretics, his reluctance to hunt as zealously as he once had, or the whispers that he might even regret the deaths he’d caused. He’d even called them ‘murders’, went some of the whispers – as if heretics were people to be pitied, to be mourned.

There was no doubt now. Even if he didn’t worship the Herald, the Cat had been infected by their ideals. If even a drop of mercy lived in him, he must be wiped out. That was why the Cat was no more; the One Who Waits was satisfied that his point had been made about how severe the punishment was for disobedience.

The One Who Waits proclaimed that the Cat had proven he could trust no one alive to carry the burden and glory that was the honour of being his vessel, so he was going Below to seek a soul strong enough to be his champion. With the Cat’s disposal, the next phase of the One Who Waits’ plan could be put into action. He assigned a disciple to run the day to day affairs – the sort of sycophantic creature who would cut its own throat from fear before betraying him – then descended Below after leaving the Red Crown with the disciple. Not much longer, he told himself. A bit longer, and the One Who Waits would be ready to strike the Herald where it hurt.

That night, in his mortal form once more, Narinder stole Red back and fled Naraka into the wilderness as he’d planned.

Narinder set down his pack in the darkness of the small cave, Silk Cradle’s odd hush encompassing even the sounds of small waterfalls and dripping stalactites. This cave was dry, at least; the last month had been spent in the caverns beneath Silk Cradle’s hollow mountains, so it was a pleasant change of pace.

Two months had passed since his flight from the holy city, and they hadn’t been easy ones. He needed to evade his own soldiers, lest any of them discover the Cat was still alive before he wanted them to learn (preferably they’d learn when he carried back the Herald’s head and revealed his ruse.) At the same time, he needed to track down whichever flock the Herald was travelling with; it had been a fruitless search until a week past, and now he’d spent days ‘carelessly’ tracking them as a lure. He was certain they’d at least fight him, which was all the time he needed to try and convince them of his plight, but he couldn’t do that now; he’d caught up with the caravan too late in the night. He’d need to wake early and head over in the morning.

That was an odd frustration he’d found himself having to deal with over the last two months; for the first time, his body was demanding rest. He supposed he hadn’t occupied it for so long an uninterrupted stretch over the past decade, but he didn’t remember needing to sleep nearly so often as he did now.

Stress, said Red, flying down to rest on his bedroll once he’d laid it down, but the Crown sounded uncertain, too. That in and of itself was a new development; it had been extremely cautious, but as the two had spent the last two months solely in one another’s company, the Red Crown had begun to relax more by the day. Just like he hadn’t realised how cold it was, Narinder hadn’t realised how much it was concealing. There were a lot more emotions to his Crown than he could remember it having for a very long time indeed – perhaps before he was freed, before it had sat on the Herald’s head.

‘I suppose if ever stress would decide to inflict weariness on me, it would choose the least convenient time,’ he sighed, and Red snickered. ‘Laugh all you like, you are not the one who needs to sleep every other day for the first time in many millennia.’

I’m not complaining, Red replied as Narinder sat on his bedroll as well. In an effort to not stand out so much should he have to travel where other people were, he’d abandoned the robes he’d long worn and instead adopted the modern clothing that had developed over time. He still wasn’t used to the restrictions of the trousers, nor the way the cuffs of his shirt kept the sleeves affixed so much more stiffly than the robes he knew, but he wasn’t going to sleep nude out in the open, so he made do. He’d get used to it eventually, and at least divine power meant keeping the garments clean wasn’t difficult. The only time I dream is when you do, Red added.

He gave it a curious glance. ‘I knew not you might be capable of such a thing.’

I’d forgotten, it admitted. I haven’t done it since – well.

The two had never actually outright discussed the Red Crown’s time on the Herald’s head. Red had cut itself off quickly, but Narinder could hear and feel the sudden flare of alarm before Red concealed it again.

He frowned. ‘What is wrong?’

Nothing. The point is, yes, I can dream.

‘It does not sound as if nothing is wrong.’

I’d rather not, Red said, and it was… nervous, he realised. It’s not important.

‘Are you afraid of me?’

He hadn’t meant to ask that at all, let alone so bluntly, but he felt Red’s flicker of shock before that was buried, too. It was an answer of its own.

No, Red said, though both of them knew it was lying. I don’t have anything to fear from my Bearer.

This sat wrong with Narinder in a way not much had. He wasn’t sure what Red thought he could do – even if he wanted to, he had no idea how to harm a Crown directly – but whatever was going on, his Crown shouldn’t be afraid of him. Without it, he may yet have divine power, but it was limited; taking a vessel was always a dangerous gamble because of it. And without a Bearer, a Crown could use none of its own power, all but trapped inside itself unless worn.

That was the thought that made Red’s mind twitch, and Narinder realised that was the threat he held. Oh.

He wasn’t sure why it hadn’t occurred to him. That was the way he’d held the reins for the last thousand years, after all, the implicit threat of refusing to use it in any way until it obeyed. That thought sat wrong with him now, too. What was a god without their Crown, in the end? Surely Red’s soft streak couldn’t have been such a threat to call for so cruel a grip.

Neither of them needed to speak to communicate, words being used for clarification rather than necessity; impressions and raw thoughts were just as easy to trade. Red was cautious now, and Narinder was unsettled by his own thoughts; the two silently agreed to tackle whatever this was later. Even so, Narinder wasn’t comfortable letting it go entirely.

‘I will do no such thing,’ he said aloud to emphasise it. ‘I swear it, Red.’

It hesitated. You should sleep.

Red’s disbelief stung, but Narinder had to admit it was fair. He couldn’t remember the last time ‘fair’ had meant much to him, but it did at the moment, so he had to accept it. ‘Then I shall. Dream well, Red.’

…you too, it said, now the unsettled one between the two. I’ll wake you up in a few hours.

He nodded, and closed his eyes. It took him a few minutes to drift off, still disquieted by his own Crown’s fear and uncomfortable in the unfamiliar clothing; his dreams were restless and vague in answer. He wasn’t sure what the dream was about. Only a sense of frustration haunted it, as if trying to remember something on the tip of his tongue for days and days –

Narinder!

His eyes snapped open, and Red’s shout was the only reason he woke in time to see the Herald pounce on him from the shadows, Pale Dagger about to plunge into his chest.

He hastily caught the blade, hissing as it sliced his palm to the bone, and threw the original plan to the wind. Time to improvise and hope that he could keep everything on course, that was all.

‘Please, do not do this,’ he begged as the Herald pulled back to try another stab, and they fell still. ‘Please, do not send me to him – I will go, I swear it, you will never see me again, just do not kill me. Please.’

‘Then what are you doing here,’ they said, not even bothering with the inflection of a question, but they weren’t killing him. Not yet.

Narinder opened his mouth. Closed it. Looked away. ‘Running, same as anyone else,’ he said. ‘I am a desperate fool; I see now it was no foolishness, but stupidity. I swear to you, I will go. I will harm no one. The Red Crown cannot hurt anyone unless I use it for such a thing, and I swear I will not. It deserves to be used for something other than senseless murder. If you kill me, you will send us both Below – my soul escaped once, and I only managed to steal the Red Crown by a miracle.’ He took a deep breath as they watched him. ‘He will have me again someday, and my punishment will be second only to yours if you should fall, but please. Leave me more than a few months’ freedom. Please.’

‘I don’t believe you,’ they said coldly. ‘The Pale Crown can hear another of its kind, and I’m not sure we could have not heard Red’s shout. We know who you are now, Narinder.’

Red’s fear flared again, and the only reason he didn’t instinctively reach for it was because he was still pinned. Different tack, then.

‘I will not deny it,’ he said, and that at last seemed to take the Herald aback. ‘It is more complicated than you think. I am Narinder. I am not the One Who Waits.’

This time the emotion from Red was surprise, but Narinder couldn’t spare the focus on that, though he gave it the impression of an apology as quickly as he could.

The Herald finally lowered the Pale Dagger, guarded still. In answer, Narinder slowly and obviously laid his paws palm up, on either side of his head. They’d see if he so much as twitched, and the Red Crown was still beside him, not on his head.

Despite all of the reasons it shouldn’t matter, he was grateful the Herald currently straddled his middle and not his hips. Having to lay beneath their weight, vulnerable as they held a weapon over him, was doing something to him that he did not need them to be aware of. Danger remained and had long remained to his taste, over the five decades the two of them fought. The Herald needn’t discover how many times he’d had to take care of their effect on him.

‘Explain,’ they said. ‘And it better be good, or I’m gutting you anyway.’

He nodded. ‘I am Narinder, bearer of the Red Crown,’ he said. ‘Part of me is the One Who Waits, and that part has gone… mad, in a sense. I deny not my actions, but I have not been the dominant part of myself for a long time. God first, person second, the latter crushed down for sake of my godhood. It is only in the last five decades that I have begun to overcome that stranglehold.’

He hadn’t planned any of that, but it sounded good. It sounded true. Uncomfortably so, in fact, and Red was growing more troubled by the second beside him.

‘Now tell me why I should believe any of that,’ the Herald said, but their expression was conflicted, and the Pale Crown’s eye was looking down at its bearer.

‘Are you solely the Herald? The Shepherd?’ Narinder asked. ‘Or at the heart of you, where others do not go, might you still be the Lamb?’

He hadn’t said that word in over a thousand years, and only thought it once. It felt rusty on his tongue. It tasted rusty, too; like old blood. Like snapping bones.

Very slowly, as if in a dream, the Herald nodded. ‘Then where is the One Who Waits?’

‘I know not,’ Narinder said. It was meant to be a lie, but that was when he realised that he felt… smaller than he should. Something wasn’t right.

Narinder, Red said apprehensively.

He tried to pull himself towards himself, in a hard to describe way – as if trying to re-enter a role, perhaps, or settle into a mindset – there was no answer. Something was gone.

‘I know not,’ he said again, stumbling over his own tongue as that feeling intensified. ‘I know not, but – I know not, how can I know not –’

‘Narinder, breathe,’ the Herald interrupted, alarmed. ‘You’re starting to panic – take a breath, alright? Why are you panicking?’

‘I am meant to be lying!’ he burst out before Red’s warning of caution could register.

‘What does that mean,’ the Herald asked, guarded again.

Narinder was too thrown off by the difference, the absence – even Red’s increasingly frantic attempts to stop him weren’t enough to hold the words back. ‘I am meant to be lying,’ he said, faster by the syllable. ‘I am meant to be lying, this is meant to be a plan to trick you, that was the plan, why am I not lying?!’

‘Lying about what?’

‘The One Who Waits!’ he snapped, frustration joining the panic. ‘I am supposed to be bigger, more – but I am not! I am Narinder, but I – I am supposed to be the One Who Waits, and I feel gone – this is supposed to be a lie! Why am I gone?!’

Lamb, please!, Red cried out over the growing chorus of fear in Narinder, and the Herald flinched before scowling in determination. He isn’t listening, please –

‘Alright, godly identity crisis,’ they said. ‘Sorry about this, you’re going to hate it.’

Before Narinder could respond in any meaningful way, the Herald hauled him up in arms far too strong for their diminutive size and hugged him tightly. He was so stunned that he might as well have been made of stone.

‘What are you doing?’ he finally managed to fumble out.

‘Surprising you into calming down,’ they said. They finally got off him, leaving him sitting upright, and Red flew up to sit on his head. The Pale Crown had returned to the Herald’s head in the meantime, and so Red was torn between its sincere fear for Narinder and its kneejerk hatred of the Crown across from it. ‘Let me make sure I’m hearing you right,’ the Herald added, turning his head so they could study his two open eyes. ‘You’re Narinder, the One Who Waits, the god of Death, and my enemy. Or you’re supposed to be. Is that right?’

‘Yes,’‌ he said, trying to stay collected, fighting down the nauseous feeling of absence.

‘Okay. You’re supposed to be trying to lie and get me to let the Cat join us or something like that?’

‘More or less.’

‘I’m really mad it would’ve worked if Red hadn’t shouted your name,’ they huffed, so that soothed some of his pride, even as Red winced. ‘The problem right now is that you’re Narinder, but you’re somehow separated from the One Who Waits?’

‘I suppose,’ he said, fighting the absence down again. ‘I know not why. How can I be apart from myself?’

‘It’s possible,’ the Herald said, rubbing one temple. ‘Okay, well. Sounds like you were accidentally telling the truth a minute ago. And it kind of explains some things.’

Narinder frowned. ‘Meaning?’

‘The One Who Waits that I served once was a complete bastard,’ they said frankly, and Narinder flinched. That was hardly anything that should have stung as badly as it did, but that didn’t lessen the sting in the slightest. ‘Mostly, anyway. But there were times when he wasn’t. Sometimes he was just mostly a bastard, but he actually gave a damn about things, and about me. I don’t know if you’re actually different people, facets of the same person, or whatever else, but I do know that I can’t just let you run off. Especially not if the two of you have separated, because the last thing either of us want is for you to get put back together with him in charge. You, I’m pretty sure I can work with. Him? He needs to go. I don’t care if it’s by killing you both or helping you end up the one in charge, but it looks like the second option might actually be the easier one.’

‘You… actually wish to help me,’ Narinder said in disbelief.

Red caught his attention with a silent mental nudge, and in the same silence pointed out that while the Herald might be right, they were still a threat to his cult. He could accept their assistance, and if everything went wrong, then he’d still know how to take them out from the inside. It was a good point.

‘Not really,’ the Herald was saying. ‘I’m still pissed, especially since you’ve been the one killing my flocks.’

‘Then why do it anyway? I just told you I came to trick you.’

‘Then you had a panic attack when you realised you didn’t actually mean to do that,’ they replied. ‘So yes, I’m going to help you. But you’re going to help me, too.’

‘How so?’ he asked warily.

Their smile was sharp, kin to the way it could be when they’d worn the Red Crown, but somehow glittering. ‘You’re going to overcome the One Who Waits. You’re going to be the one in charge. Then you’re going to sign a treaty with me that means you will never, never, touch any of my followers again. I will shred you apart before I let it happen again. We don’t need to be friends – we don’t even need to get along. You’re going to leave me the fuck alone, and I’ll do the same.’

‘Very well,’ Narinder said, because if things went wrong, it wasn’t like he gave a damn about breaking a promise. He just wasn’t sure what ‘things going wrong’ was meant to look like.

‘Good. Easier than I thought it would be.’ They stood up, dusting off their trousers and making a face at the blood on their short cloak and the blouse beneath. ‘I can tell you’re hiding your third eye, but only a little bit, and that’s because I know to look for it. No one else has figured it out, so how good are you at hiding all of you?’

‘It would be little to no trouble, but it is an illusion,’ he said reluctantly. ‘Should someone touch something that is not there, or something that is, like a hidden tail, the illusion will break for them.’

‘That’s fine, you can still look like a cat. Just choose a different colour, and change your face a bit,’ they said. ‘At least you dress like a normal person now. We’ll need a new name for you, though. Cat won’t work.’

He thought about it. ‘Do any but you know the name Narinder?’ he asked, and they tilted their head. ‘I have not included it in my own cult. My name is my own.’

Their look was inscrutable. ‘No, no one but me – if you haven’t told anyone, then I should be the only person sort-of alive who knows it,’ they confirmed. ‘Can’t blame you for wanting to go by your own actual name if you don’t have to be a god for once. I’d use mine in your position.’

He paused. ‘Do you remember it now?’

The sharp smile from before returned, thinner and sharper. ‘Let’s just say I’m better than you at fixing a dead brain,’ they said, and he scowled. ‘It doesn’t matter. You’re going to call me Shepherd, it’s what most people call me, and if I have to hear Herald regularly I will strangle you. Got a way to hide Red? It’ll be a dead giveaway.’

Narinder made himself put aside the little dig at his ego, closing his eyes and visualising what he would need to look like. Red answered as soon as he knew, turning into its snake form and slithering around his throat before solidifying, anchoring the illusion. Tortoiseshell fur, two green eyes, slightly narrower face.

‘A collar?’ the Shepherd asked when he opened his eyes, looking at his neck. ‘Not what I expected, considering.’

‘It needs to be something that won’t be seen as likely to come off,’ he said stiffly, Red radiating the same offended air.

The Shepherd rolled their eye at him, the Pale Crown squinting down at Red. ‘So what’s your backstory?’

‘I fled the holy city as a deserter.’ He tapped Red. ‘I will claim it is a remnant of my imprisonment, if I must, but I will endeavour to avoid it being mentioned.’

‘Good, keep it simple. At least one person in the flock knows I suspected it was the Cat following us, so I’ll just say I mistook you for him, and that’s why you’re hurt.’

‘My paw will be healed by then, or if not, very soon after.’

‘It shouldn’t be if you’re mortal, so you’ll be wearing a bandage for a few days,’ they pointed out. ‘Now come on, grab your stuff. You’ll stay with me while we start to figure stuff out, we’ll come up with a reason later and I want to keep an eye on you.’

Narinder listened, because he had to, but it was temporary. He would run back and use what he had learned to win, as soon as he understood what was happening. Why he felt smaller; why he felt lost; why he felt relieved.

Narinder, Red whispered as quietly as it could, its distress obvious, so he tried to set the thoughts aside.

Even so, the old bone melody played in the clicking of the Shepherd’s hooves on stone, somehow. It hadn’t been this loud in a very, very long time.

Chapter Text

The flock the Shepherd led him to was smaller than some, newer and without a herder of its own to lead it properly yet; there were only six or so motor carriages here. The motor carriages used by the Shepherd’s cult had changed over the decades, of course. Once they’d been as unwieldy as any drawn carriage, then rickety and fragile as they tried to prioritise speed over all else, as if they could outrun ambushes. The models that the Shepherd’s flocks favoured now were nothing like the carriages in Naraka, those sleek and colourful vehicles of grace, blacksteel and glittering crystal and clean silver. No, these were utilitarian in an ugly way, boxy with thick curves and more metal than anything else. Even the wheels seemed to be solid rubber, and he still wasn’t sure how they managed to keep such beastly machines as quiet as they did, nor how they fuelled them. Spells, perhaps, but those had their own fuel needs. And there was a smaller, slimmer chassis he didn’t recognise attached to the lead carriage, in a rack above the front bumper out of sight of the driver’s bench.

This wasn’t the time for curiosity, so he set it aside. It was so late it was early, so only a few heretics were awake to see the Shepherd return with an unknown cat, blood on their white cloak and the cat hunched up behind them. When the heretics rushed over, alarmed, the Shepherd shook their head and put a finger to their lips.

‘I made a mistake,’ they said, which was a very strange thing to hear a god admit, much less so easily. ‘I thought that we were being trailed by the Cat, somehow, but I was wrong – I should’ve known, it was too messy. Narinder got hurt because of it, but he’s with me, and as far as I can tell he’s safe. Martre, mind getting him a bandage to put on?’

A beetle woman nodded and scuttled off.

‘Were you hurt as well, Shepherd?’ asked a spider, their many eyes glancing between Narinder and the Shepherd with concern.

The Shepherd gave him a flicker of a warning glance, then replied, ‘I’m fine, Shamura. The blood’s all his.’

It was only that glance that kept Narinder from flinching. It wasn’t his sibling, form and gender aside; the wrong colour, the wrong speech patterns, the wrong light in their eyes. The true Shamura would have never bowed their head so eagerly to any god. Still. He hadn’t known that name was still in use.

‘Very well,’ Shamura said, inclining their head. ‘I’ll return to the watch, then. If Narinder needs a place to sleep before he can have his own tent, he may borrow mine for the night.’

‘No, he’s with me,’ the Shepherd said, shaking their head. ‘Like I said, as far as I can tell he’s safe, but I only brought him here because he promised to let me keep an eye on him until he proves he’s here in earnest. You know the cot I have is just habit anyway – I can meditate sitting up as easily as I do laying down.’

‘Very well,’ Shamura said again as Martre returned with the bandage, giving it to the Shepherd. ‘And in the morning?’

‘I’ll handle any questions, he’s still a little off balance,’ the Shepherd replied, touching Shamura’s top right shoulder. ‘Thanks for watching while I was gone, you know someone always manages to need something as soon as I’m away.’

Shamura didn’t laugh, but they did smile, and as they led the others away the Shepherd turned back to Narinder. ‘Alright, this way.’

They chivvied him off to a tent that looked no different from any of the others, as boxy as the carriages. The space within the canvas walls was small enough for one person comfortably and two people extremely comfortable in one another’s space, containing nothing but a cot and a cushion on the floor. Narinder was obviously not comfortable in the Shepherd’s space, but once they pushed him over to the cot and took the cushion off of it so he could sit, there was more room.

‘We’ll talk more in the morning,’ they said, handing him the bandages before setting the cushion on the ground. ‘It’ll be a few days before we get where we’re going, especially since someone was following us and changed our plans. My time is almost up, anyway.’

He frowned, wrapping up his paw quickly. ‘Meaning?’

‘Keep playing nice and you’ll find out. Good night.’ With that they sat on the ground, crossed their legs, and began to float a few inches off the floor. Their eyes were closed. Their wool glowed faintly in the darkness. They seemed to be at perfect peace.

It was frustrating just to look at, so he turned his back to them and curled up, squeezing his eyes shut.

I’m sorry, Red whispered as softly as it could. If I hadn’t…

‘Then we would be in more dire circumstances,’ he whispered back, little more than a breath of air. ‘Fear not, Red. We will be fine. I blame you not.’

You don’t? Maybe you really are separate, it said, and he winced. …Sorry.

‘Fear not,’ he said again, though he could hear how wounded he sounded. He didn’t remember the last time before tonight he’d felt hurt, different words stinging more than they should. It was wrong. All of this was wrong.

There was nothing he could do about it for the moment, however, and he could feel a watchful eye behind him. Whether it was the Shepherd or the Pale Crown meant nothing, so Narinder just forced himself to sleep, falling back into those vague, grasping dreams.

This time he knew what he was missing, however. That was worse.

Travelling with the Shepherd and their flock was infuriatingly pleasant, Narinder found. It was off-putting, how sincere and determined everyone was, how friendly and naïve. None of them so much as questioned his presence after the Shepherd explained it, which at least meant the Shepherd commanded absolute trust. That was more convenient at the moment, but as that ability to command such trust was what had landed Narinder in this situation in the first place, he wasn’t inclined to admire it.

He kept his mouth shut and did what he had to do to blend in; it was no different than his original plan in that sense, at least. Helping where he was asked, playing up his uncertainty so no one expected too much from him. He was vulnerable in a way he didn’t understand yet, however, and Red agreed with his determination to try and stay apart at least emotionally from the others in the flock. Until recently, he wouldn’t have thought it was a concern. He didn’t know what was possible, now – he couldn’t have comprehended separating from himself, either. God he may be, but omnipotent he was not.

The Shepherd was cold, as could be expected. Not so where others could see, of course, but the explanation they’d promised that first night never manifested, and whenever they walked by him, he could hear the old bone melody again. It was only the normal sound of hooves clicking on Silk Cradle stone, of course. His mind just chose to keep time.

If it hadn’t been for Red, he was certain he’d be worse off. He’d never felt dependent on his Crown, and didn’t like feeling so now, but he wasn’t the only one who felt lost at the moment; Red didn’t know what it meant, that the god who bore it was in two, though it assured Narinder it intended to stay in his paws instead of the One Who Waits. The mutual uncertainty of what the hell was going on was at least comforting to commiserate over. Narinder hadn’t had to think of the concept of loneliness in a very long time, but he was glad to be spared its reality.

Two days away from the flock’s still-unexplained destination, Narinder and Red woke to an empty tent. Narinder sat up cautiously, looking around – he hadn’t heard the Shepherd leave. Red uneasily agreed that it hadn’t heard anything either, and so he stood up from the rickety cot and got ready for the day with a troubled mind.

The early risers of the camp were starting to break down the tents and pack them onto the ‘rovers’, as the flock called the carriages. Narinder did his best to look around casually, taking a moment to help one of the flock with a rope that didn’t want to tie, but despite his efforts, the other god was nowhere to be found. The decidedly melancholy air of the camp didn’t miss him, how the flock seemed disappointed in something, and he could only assume it was the Shepherd’s absence. With little choice for someone to give him answers, he braced himself and went to look for Shamura.

He’d been doing his best to avoid them over the past days, because in the dim light of ‘day’ that crept into the caverns, he realised he had been wrong: the colouration was identical, and for all their modern speech patterns, they still spoke in the peculiar formality that had lingered in Silk Cradle over the centuries. They weren’t divine – he would’ve noticed that more or less instantaneously, even though he avoided looking at their soul too closely – but the similarity was beyond uncanny. He was the god of Death, so he had little control over the whims and wonts of how the world chose to remake itself. He knew of other reflections of lives long past that could appear, if only in name and appearance. He’d simply never met one he knew.

Unfortunately, Shamura had been named the flock’s herder the day before, so there really was no other logical person to seek answers from. He found the spider over at the lead rover, which stood at the entrance of the rocky ravine that had served as safe shelter for a night. They had the front-hinge bonnet open and four of their six hands working on something or other. He made no attempt to be quiet, so they straightened up a bit, turning their head to see him. ‘Ah, Narinder,’ they said, nodding to him and stepping away from the rover, shutting the bonnet with a clatter and a clunk before he could see the inside. They dusted their hands off on a thick apron he hadn’t seen before, giving him a smile. ‘Good morning. I expect you have questions?’

‘Yes,’ he said, controlling his need to crane his neck to see what they were unsubtly trying to hide from him. He hadn’t paid any special attention to the rovers so far, but he was curious now. ‘The Shepherd is gone, but no one seems to find this surprising. Merely disappointing.’

‘They went on ahead,’ Shamura said, which was as unsubtle an effort to hide something as standing between him and the bonnet. ‘I’m sorry, Narinder, but they’ve asked me to leave it at that, at least until they can explain things personally.’

‘Did they say why?’ he asked. He knew damn well why they would’ve tried to hide things from him, but he was curious about the answer they’d given Shamura.

The spider sighed, folding their two bottom pairs of arms behind their back, using the top hands to gesture as they spoke. ‘I wish to give you the benefit of the doubt, myself,’ they said. ‘I was one of the faithful of the One Who Waits too, once – I was no mere acolyte either. I was a priest in the Iversham parish.’

Narinder concealed his shock at that, or at least attempted to. Some of it clearly came through, because Shamura gave him a wry look. ‘I know,’ they said. ‘It took some time to prove I was in earnest, when I left the One Who Waits’ faith behind.’

He nodded, but that wasn’t in any way the source of his surprise. He’d not known he’d had a priest named Shamura anywhere in his hierarchy – Iversham was a tiny parish, impoverished and located just outside the long-plundered Midas’ Cave, so it wasn’t unimaginable that it had slipped beneath his notice. Still.

‘The Shepherd still welcomed me, though they were cautious at first,’ Shamura continued. ‘I don’t blame them for it, nor do I blame them for caution with you; all that they’ve said is that you are a deserter, and that can mean but two things. Either you were clergy, or you were a soldier. You carry yourself in a way not suited for the sedentary life of the clergy, so the answer is clear. And that means you must have hurt flocks in the past, in some capacity. So caution is wise.’

‘You said you wish to give me the benefit of the doubt, however,’ he said, frowning. He was uncomfortable with them analysing him in such a way – it was a favourite disarming trick of the god Shamura, once upon a time, and it felt no less unnerving to be on the receiving end now than it did then. The key to it, his sibling had told him once, was to tell the absolute truth, and say plainly what you were seeing; no mind games were necessary this way, because the target would play mind games of paranoia and second guessing all on their own. If this Shamura was doing the same thing, then they were saying bluntly what they knew and what they meant.

‘Think of it as a sense of kinship,’ they said, and Narinder at least managed to conceal this flinch. ‘If what I’ve seen in you is true, there is blood on your paws – but bloodshed is not always from cruelty. The Shepherd is the god of Peace; sometimes things must bleed to keep it. In my interpretation, at least. It’s the variety of interpretation that makes them so welcoming. There is a place for each of us with the One Who Welcomes, if we wish to take it. You came here because you are open to it.’

‘Perhaps I simply ran to the safest place I could think of,’ he said cautiously.

Shamura smiled. ‘We both know how the flocks are hunted,’ they said lightly. ‘It was at your hands once, I think. And it was at my instruction once, as well. This is not safety. But it is better than what we had before. And in reaching for better things, we find peace.’

He nodded because he had to keep up the ploy, but he was disturbed. He could see how mortals might find the message seductive – when one’s life was limited to a handful of hardscrabble decades, he understood why the impossible lure of ‘peace’, of easing hardship, would prove attractive indeed. It was a pretty lie, but an effective one. And he disliked that he understood even that much.

Remember it and use it, Red said softly. You won’t fall for it. I won’t let you.

He returned a sense of gratitude. He was vulnerable at the moment, like it or not; he needed Red more than it needed him now. If he needed to rely on another, at least it would be the partner in his divinity.

‘I can tell when the proselytising isn’t helping,’ Shamura was saying, and he twitched as they patted his shoulder, leaving a touch of some kind of machine dust behind on the shoulder of his shirt. ‘What matters at the moment is that while the Shepherd is being cautious, and I agree with that choice, I would prefer it otherwise. There is a place in my flock for you, whether you accept the One Who Welcomes or not, so long as you wish to travel with us and you’re willing to follow the teachings I would expect anyone else to follow. Ah, one last thing – tomorrow, you must stay inside one of the rovers as we finish our journey. That’s asked of all new converts.’

He didn’t like that at all, but he nodded. ‘Then I will go break down the Shepherd’s tent.’

‘We’ll get you one of your own from our herd’s stitchers,’ Shamura said warmly, patting him again. ‘There’s a handful of outfitters that do that kind of work for our herd; you’ll see soon. That’s true whether you choose to stay with our flock or not. We’ll speak again later, I think.’

It was a clear dismissal, and Narinder listened because he had to, though he disliked it.

I wish we didn’t have to be disguised, Red muttered as he went back to the tent. I could’ve gone and looked at what they were doing. Purple’s not around to snitch on me anymore.

Narinder snorted softly. The words could’ve been melancholy, had the Crowns all liked one another equally – but much like the Bishops who wore them, the Crowns had their own friendships and tensions, once upon a time. Besides, Red resented the Bishops – and their Crowns – as much as Narinder did, for their imprisonment. Those bridges were burned. And the only bridge that could have been built in the time since was with the Pale Crown, and that wasn’t happening. Especially judging by Red’s flare of loathing in answer to the thought.

Narinder didn’t ask why, curious though he was. The thawing between him and Red was still new, but there would be time. They were a god together, after all.

That thought cheered Red up considerably, at least, and so Narinder went to break down the tent.

Sitting in the rover was the worst. For the most part since he’d arrived, he and the others either sat in the driver’s bench or atop the rover’s solid roofs. Narinder had wondered why. Now he understood – the solid wheels made the ride bumpy at all times, but it was much worse when you were forced to sit in the dark next to all of the strapped down supplies.

Red was sympathetic. Mostly. It had to stifle a snicker the third time Narinder nearly had his head smacked against a box, however, so that sympathy obviously had a limit. The rover itself was as quiet as ever, and he still wasn’t sure how, nor how they moved – there was no fuel he could see (or even a place to insert it), and he hadn’t had a chance to peek under any of the bonnets. That was almost as annoying.

It had been a long time since his natural curiosity was this hard to rein in. He didn’t like it. His emotions and thoughts were things that he should be in control of, not them in control of him. Whenever he reflexively tried, he could do it – but the ease that he was used to was entirely gone, and that absence he was trying his damnedest not to pay too much attention to would echo in him, an almost-chasm in the depths of Narinder. One thing was there, and one thing alone:

Quarter. Two eighths. Dotted quarter. One eighth. Four sixteenths. Triplet. Triplet. Whole. Rest.

He avoided it. That didn’t mean it still wasn’t echoing like distant chimes in his soul’s hollow places.

Due to the rover’s quiet, it wasn’t hard to hear (or feel) when the solid wheels moved from stone to a different surface. Packed earth, perhaps; the rover wasn’t airtight, obviously, and with a steadier ride, Narinder dared to stand up. There were small gaps here and there in the walls of the rover, glowing with what seemed like sunlight. When he tried to peer through one, the light was too much and the rover’s gait too unsteady to get more than a glimpse of maybe blue, possibly green. Frustrated with his inability to look outside before the Shepherd would have liked him to do so, he sat down again.

Patience, Red whispered from its place around his throat, anchoring the illusion of the tortoiseshell cat he was hidden behind.

‘As I am not the One Who Waits, I make no promises,’ he said pointedly.

You might want to practise.

‘You are enjoying this entirely too much,’ he huffed. ‘Am I so entertaining to you?’

Red’s voice was wistful, for reasons beyond Narinder. It’s not that. I guess it was a long time ago.

‘What was?’

Never mind, Red said, and he might have responded, but the rover was shuddering to a stop.

Now that Narinder was paying attention, he could hear people outside. Unfamiliar voices, the quiet hum of many more rovers than before; the clamour of living. He had no idea where he was, but there were a lot of people around that hadn’t been around a few minutes ago. He was certain of it.

I don’t like this, Red said uneasily. Were it not necessary to keep his disguise, he had the suspicion that it might choose to be a serpent at the moment, looped around his shoulders. He touched it, the thought of comforting his Crown a little strange, but he could feel how the gesture helped.

There was a knock on the back hatch, and then the voice of one of the caravan’s followers. Martre, he thought, the beetle woman who’d gotten him the bandage a week past. She was leaving the flock for another one soon, he remembered. ‘Close your eyes, it’s bright!’ she called through, and Narinder did so, waiting as the hatch opened. ‘Give yourself a second to adjust, then hop on out,’ she added. After a few seconds, Narinder opened his two lower eyes again. The sun was still bright, but not so much that he couldn’t bear it. When he stepped out and got a look around, however, he fell still.

‘Welcome to the Pastures!’ Martre said, pleased by his reaction, gesturing out over the landscape. They were on a hillock, the metal rover at a rest with the rest of the flock’s caravan. It wasn’t the only flock in the immediate vicinity – not by a longshot. There had to be four or five caravans of rovers parked on the packed dirt atop the hillock. The rover that had contained Narinder was on the outside of Shamura’s caravan, and so he had an unobstructed view.

The Pastures were beautiful, in a sense. Rolling green hills like a valley, surrounded not by mountains but a sea of trees. There was a river threading through those hills, leading to a small lake in the centre with an island near the shore, which was occupied by a colourful dome-capped building that he assumed must be the Shepherd’s temple. The lake was unnaturally round. It wasn’t the only thing unnatural here: if he hadn’t been a god, he might well have not noticed, but the entire place wasn’t real.

Well. It was real, but it hadn’t come to be on its own. This was a constructed land, a plane made with purpose. No wonder the Shepherd had taken a thousand years to emerge; they must have spent the long centuries between their sacrifice and their return working on this. Painstaking care, formed of divinity made manifest – but to do so, the Shepherd would have had one source for that divinity. They must have nearly unmade themself dozens, if not hundreds, of times, pulling divine existence out of themself until there was only the barest scrap of self left that could recover. He understood now why he hadn’t been able to completely stamp out the heresy of the Herald. The Shepherd’s very being had called out for worship, time and again, to heal themself once more – and their domain, Peace, was one that foolish mortals often idolised all on its own. To worship the concept was to worship the god, and vice versa.

The Pastures were almost as real as any natural realm, save for their origin; there was a sun in the sky, baking the hot dirt beneath his paws, and he’d bet anything there was a moon and stars to illuminate the night. A shifting breeze ruffled his fur and the fabric of his shirt. There was nothing a soul could be except impressed in the face of something like this, and he despised it for that. Thankfully, its beauty wasn’t unmarred.

The rolling hills served as home for multiple small settlements, he could see from this vantage point. Nothing built with permanence in mind; each might as well be little more than an outpost, with caravans always coming and going, passing through this land with the same nomad’s air as they did in the Lands of the Old Faith. For all the beauty of the landscape beneath them, however, each settlement was ramshackle and fragile, its grim air at odds with its surroundings. The land itself was at peace. Its people were not.

‘Beautiful, isn’t it?’ Martre said, catching his attention again. ‘Don’t worry, everyone has the same reaction when they come here for the first time.’

‘Where are we?’ he asked, looking over to the trees. ‘We cannot be within the Lands of the Old Faith, still.’

‘It’s hard to explain,’ she admitted. ‘You’d have to talk to one of the disciples or the clergy. You’ll have the time if you stick with us, at least. We’ll be here for the next two weeks for Herder Shamura’s training.’

‘Why would any of you ever leave?’

‘We can’t stay,’ she replied, and he frowned, looking out over the rolling hills once more. ‘Not for long, unless you’ve got one of the Shepherd’s tokens, and those only go to the current disciples on rotation and people who need to stay longer for medical attention, training, or making things. We come back here when we have converts who need to come here, are summoned, or need to stock up on cores.’

He looked back at her, interested now. ‘Cores?’

‘Oh, you know, the rover –’

‘Martre,’ Shamura said, walking over, and Narinder cursed his former sibling in his head. Damn it. He’d been this close to something of interest. ‘Arty and Fetyno need a hand, please? They’re in charge of offloading today, but Arty hurt his wrist this morning.’

‘Of course, Herder,’ Martre said, dipping her head before ambling away.

‘More secrecy courtesy of the Shepherd, I take it,’ Narinder said neutrally, once she was gone.

‘I apologise, Narinder, I really do,’ Shamura said, and looked sincere. ‘The Shepherd was clear that they didn’t want you to know more than necessary until they’ve had time to explain, and I’ve given them my report.’

He stiffened. ‘Report,’ he repeated, hoping for Shamura’s sake that they didn’t mean that how it sounded.

‘On you,’ Shamura said, because of course. ‘Have no fear, Narinder; my decision was made a minute after they asked me to make sure you were in earnest, and that hasn’t changed in the time since. There’s no one in my flock who’s more qualified than‌ I am to know danger when they see it – well. There wasn’t. That will no longer be true, should you wish to stay in our company.’ They touched his shoulder, and he allowed it only because angrily smacking it away wouldn’t help his case. Controlling the impulse was difficult, though.

‘I will consider it,’ he said, and they sighed.

‘I was not spying, Narinder,’ they said. ‘Your privacy is your own. My decision was already made, but I would judge it on your behaviour around the others were it not. I know when someone holds ill intent, and the Shepherd would have never brought you with them if they thought you were a danger to us.’

‘Fine,’ he replied, trying to keep the sharpness from his tone this time, and reminded himself that he was not supposed to be the Shepherd’s equal; just a deserter from his own holy city. ‘You said they want to explain things to me themself? Why?’

‘I don’t know,’ Shamura admitted. ‘Something about you caught their attention. You won’t have to wait long – I’m to bring you with me to the temple tonight.’ They gestured with their middle right hand to the settlement on the shore of the lake, connected by a bridge to the small island where the domed temple sat. ‘For now, though, I’d appreciate if you would help Martre. And please, try to keep your curiosity to yourself. You’ll get answers tonight – and from the Shepherd themself, no less. It’s an honour.’

It was basic courtesy, but that was only true if he was to admit to being a god, so he just nodded and went to do as his former sibling asked.

The settlement around the temple was more permanent than it had appeared at a distance, but it still gave something of a slapdash air – it had been here for a while, certainly, but it didn’t seem like it was meant to have been. The size of it was disturbing to Narinder. There were streets, lined with street lanterns (or at least had lanterns hung on the walls). Squares around which brick buildings hung with fabric flags huddled, people hurrying to-and-fro; there were buildings that seemed devoted to workplaces, including one where he could see more of those blocky tents being made.

This was a town, he thought uneasily as he walked beside Shamura down the main street of packed dirt, towards the busy bridge that led to the temple on the island of the lake. The Shepherd’s cult was large enough to sustain a full town, and the other settlements he’d seen out there may well be near the same size. It had been bad enough when he knew the Shepherd had dozens upon dozens of flocks squirming through his lands like termites eating away at wooden foundations, but the idea that they had towns worth of followers, all beyond his grasp entirely…

Not forever, he told himself. He was here now, and the Shepherd was foolish enough to have known who he was and taken him in anyway. They would briefly learn from their mistake, right before he struck their head from their shoulders and the Pale Crown vanished with them.

Red agreed, a more vicious satisfaction at the latter half than the former.

‘This is Asterales,’ Shamura said as he walked beside them, the two of them utterly unremarkable to their surroundings as they made their way to the temple in the Pastoral twilight. ‘It’s usually less busy, however. I’m not sure why, there’s no holiday coming up.’

‘The Shepherd has holidays?’ Narinder asked, speaking up a bit as a rover full of chattering people lumbered on by, and Shamura gave him an amused look.

‘What god wouldn’t have holy days?’ they asked. ‘They have three:‌ the beginning of spring, the middle of summer, and the end of autumn.’

‘No winter holiday?’

‘No, though you’re not the only one to wonder. They’ve never said; it’s considered one of the Pastoral Mysteries.’

‘The whats?’ Narinder said, bewildered by that. ‘They are right there. Are they so opposed to answering basic questions?’

Shamura gave him a quelling look. ‘I know you are unsure about this faith, but you should be more respectful,’ they said coolly. ‘Particularly as the Shepherd’s making exceptions for you as is.’

He looked away, hating the little squirm of shame in the heart of him. The only thing he should be ashamed of was forgetting the part he was meant to play. ‘Apologies,’ he said, doing his best to not grit his teeth. ‘I mean no offence.’

‘It’s an adjustment, so you’re forgiven,’ Shamura said. ‘The faith of the One Who Waits is one that is hostile to questions, and more hostile still to everything the Shepherd holds dear; it can take time to unlearn that instinct, even when you’ve chosen to flee the faith that instilled it.’ They shook their head, the two of them coming to a stop to wait for a large wagon full of logs to pass by. Like every other vehicle to the Shepherd’s name, Narinder could see no power source propelling it. ‘As for your intended question, the Pastoral Mysteries aren’t unanswered questions so much as they’re questions without answers that are known to us. They are ideas and concepts meant to be meditated on, considered and interpreted for each follower in their own way.’

‘Such as why there is no winter holiday,’ he said sceptically, but at least Shamura didn’t scold him again, or he’d feel like a kitten once more and have to kill them just to be rid of the feeling. Probably.

‘Yes. It’s straightforward on the surface, but with it comes other questions: why the three we have? Why at the intervals they are, instead of the turning of seasons? What associations are present in the other three, and which are missing from winter – or are winter associations simply held in other seasons? The point is the thought process, and in contemplating them, we have to hold still and do so, or do so while attending to tasks that don’t require our attention. It is a peaceful practice. I think it might be one you could grow to like, if you so choose.’

Narinder could think of very little that sounded less peaceful than chasing unanswered questions around his head ad nauseam, but he didn’t say that. ‘Perhaps,’ he said instead. ‘We shall see.’

‘There are daily sermons held by one of the Disciples in-Residence,’ Shamura said, ‘and the Shepherd themself holds one once a week. You can learn more that way. At any rate, that will be a decision you can make tomorrow – we’re almost there.’

It was impossible to miss that, as they’d reached the bridge over to what must be the ‘temple grounds’. The only reason Narinder hesitated to declare them as such was that while the land beneath looked like it had been meant to be beautifully cared for, its aesthetics had bowed to necessity. The holy buildings, sturdy structures with pillars and arches covered in colourful decorative stucco, were incredibly busy for this time in the evening, full almost to bursting. Paths that once would have wound through tall grasses and wildflowers were instead lined with tents and hastily built shacks. Within those temporary structures were the sounds of… suffering.

‘What has happened here?’ he said, looking at Shamura. ‘Is this not supposed to be some sort of – holy land of peace, or some such?’

Shamura looked over in the direction of the tents, and their expression took on a tinge of sorrow. ‘Those are the care tents,’ they said, and Narinder frowned. ‘That’s where those converts and non-believers who’ve undergone excision are receiving treatment, or palliative care if the damage is too far gone. I forgot that the most recent excisions were – yesterday, I believe.’

‘I know not what you mean,’ Narinder said slowly. ‘Undergone excision? Is that some procedure?’

‘How long since you deserted?’ Shamura asked, tilting their head curiously. ‘The excision rituals began some months ago.’

‘Rituals,’ Narinder repeated, a sinking feeling in his stomach. Red was as confused as he was, at the very least.

‘I see; you must have spent many months avoiding contact with others, if you haven’t heard,’ Shamura said sympathetically. ‘Among the One Who Waits’ teachings is that of strength, of claiming the dead in favour of the god they worship. Some months past, the One Who Waits declared that strength is of the utmost importance, and to remain faithful and true, his followers must excise the weaknesses from themselves – hence the rituals.’

The only reason Narinder didn’t come to a stop was because he knew his safety relied on his identity remaining hidden. ‘I take ‘excise’ is a literal term,’ he said as neutrally as he could.

‘Most of the time,’ Shamura agreed. ‘I’ve long been free of his cult, so I don’t know the full criteria, nor have I travelled with any of the excision victims yet. The earliest victims are beginning to join flocks, if they’ve recovered, so perhaps that will change. What I’ve heard is that each parish – or each town if it is a large parish – determines who is most in ‘need’ of the excision, and the chosen follower undergoes excision each week. The ritual removes the follower’s greatest weakness – rather, that which makes them least useful to the One Who Waits.’

This time Narinder couldn’t have helped coming to a stop anymore than he could help the sun rising in the morning. ‘What,’ he said, hoarser than he should be, a deep horror shared with Red and reverberating between the two of them. ‘When? When was this?’

‘Shortly before the Cat was sacrificed by the One Who Waits, I believe,’ Shamura said, their expression concerned as they touched his shoulder. ‘I know this is distressing, but you’re safe, Narinder.’

Narinder had no memory of this, and neither did Red, the two of them hurriedly checking with the other. He would have remembered ordering such a thing – he could see the logic of it, technically, the leaps that it would take for one to arrive at the conclusion that it was a good thing. That didn’t make it correct. How could harming a follower so gravely make them less weak? If some died from this excision, then what use was it? That was one less steady source of faith. The ‘logical’ progression made it no less senseless.

Something so drastic should be in his memory, knowledge of it being carried out should be within him – he’d remained the One Who Waits for some time after he’d ‘killed’ the Cat, before he’d fled with Red to enact the plan of infiltrating the Shepherd’s cult. He knew he’d been in the holy city, acting out his rage, but he recalled nothing of this. It couldn’t be possible. Shouldn’t be possible. But the tents on the temple grounds – the sounds of suffering victims – made clear that ‘couldn’t’s and ‘shouldn’t’s meant nothing.

‘Narinder –’ Shamura said, alarmed and reaching out to stop him as he turned abruptly and headed towards the tents. They were too slow to catch him, only just brushing his shirt sleeve, and had no choice but to hurry after him. He didn’t care; he needed to see for himself. He needed to know what he’d done.

Narinder, Red said, nervous.

‘Not now,’ he murmured so softly that only Red could have possibly heard him.

‘Narinder, you must come with me,’ Shamura said, catching up. ‘The Shepherd can explain more, but it’s important that you come with me.’

He ignored them, weaving through the creatures passing by and aiming himself towards the largest tent, the one with the most nurse and healer types streaming in and out. He walked with purpose, and so no one thought to question his presence. The same wasn’t true of Shamura, and so he was able to slip away from them in the crowd, as the others parted around him like one of their own. He entered the tent, beelining for the centre of activity.

Upon spotting him, a harried-looking brown otter said, ‘Oh, good, a spare paw.’ She gestured him over and so he followed, recognising an opportunity for information when he saw it. She seemed particularly stressed, a pinched look to her eyes; the fur was prematurely going grey around her whiskers. Her blouse and short pants were wrinkled from long wear, her thick tail drooping, but she still had an air of sturdiness. She’d been at this a while, he’d guess. ‘You new, mate?’

‘Yes,’ he said.

‘S’alright, we all are at first,’ she said, reaching for a parcel on the cluttered table stacked with papers and bottles beside her. ‘If you don’t have something to do and you’re not off to escape this madhouse for some sleep, reckon I’d be grateful if you could bring this to the head healer over in Section B – apologies for sending you to the battlefield this fast, but it’s needed quick. Urgent care’s in B.’

‘Where is it?’ he asked, accepting the parcel.

‘When you leave Central – that’s this tent – head to your left. Section B’s the one with the blue pop-ups, you’ll be heading to the one with a red patch on the front. Head healer’s a bit of a young bloke, so fair warning, he’ll be mad as a cut snake if you treat him like it. He’s been at this a while, he’s better than half of us put together.’

‘Understood,’ he said, then slipped out with the rest of the crowd, taking care to avoid any hint of purple, lest Shamura find him too quickly. He’d go to the temple after this delivery; he knew little to nothing of the matters of medicine, and would be worse than useless here.

The sounds of pain were growing as he approached, the dread growing in his stomach to match it, so he hurried on before he could second guess this. He was Narinder; he was supposed to be the One Who Waits; he was above fear. And if he wasn’t above fear, then he could pretend to be so for now. The blue tent the otter had described was easy enough to find, given the bright red panel beside the tent flap, so Narinder ducked inside.

It was worse than he’d thought. Missing limbs, wounds stitched closed and bandaged, unconscious bodies limp in their beds. The otter hadn’t exaggerated when she’d called this a battlefield. It was gruesome, as most battlefield wounds were. He’d seen plenty in his time hunting the flocks he now walked among.

‘I’m looking for the head healer,’ he said to one of the passing workers, a green-coloured bird that might have been a hummingbird.

‘That’s him, over there,’ she said, pointing to the far end of the tent. ‘You have the parcel from Puarjul? About time, we’ve been waiting. Go on.’

He nodded and headed over, weaving between the rushing nurses and healers, ears tilted back just to block out some of the sounds around him. The head healer was bent over some table covered in papers, and Narinder cleared his throat to catch the healer’s attention – only to almost trip over himself as the healer stood.

‘Yes, what is it?’ Kallamar demanded. The right blue, the right face – a squid, though his ears were intact, unlike last Narinder had seen him. A round white charm with a black horizontal line dangled from a piercing in his right ear. He was younger than Narinder had assumed from the otter’s description; his former brother couldn’t be more than a teenager. ‘I don’t have the time for – oh! Good, give that to me, that’s just in time –’

Narinder handed over the parcel on autopilot, mind blank. Shamura was bad enough, but Kallamar? Two of them? Narinder didn’t know what was happening, but he knew he didn’t like it.

‘Thank you, that’ll be all,’ Kallamar said, having no further attention for Narinder, and so Narinder left, doing his best not to be hailed down again. He needed to speak to the Shepherd, immediately, and damn whatever other business they had.

‘Narinder!’ Shamura exclaimed, finally breaking through the crowd as he exited the tent. ‘For Shepherd’s sake, you can’t vanish like that – do you know how angry they’re going to be?!’

Remember your part!, Red said hastily before Narinder could snap, thankfully, and so Narinder only nodded. It was the best he could do under the circumstances.

‘Hold this,’ he heard from behind him, and then Kallamar burst out of the tent, making Narinder jump about two feet in the air. ‘Shamura!‌ You’re back!’

Narinder hastily moved to the side as Shamura darted forward, watching with no little discomfort as his two former siblings grabbed one another in a tight hug. Kallamar had looked young in the tent; in the fading twilight and wrapped tightly in Shamura’s embrace, he was young. A boy still, no longer a hardened healer if only for the moment.

‘What are you doing here?’ Shamura said, all six arms fussing over him.

‘I’m head healer for B,’ Kallamar sniffed in the overdramatic offence that Narinder remembered well. ‘As I told you I would be, sibling. It’s no fault of mine if you underestimated me.’

‘What of Heket? Of Leshy?’

Hell. He’d suspected, from the moment he saw Shamura, but it was another thing to hear it confirmed.

‘Leshy’s more or less recovered, Heket’s been watching him between her training,’ Kallamar said. ‘I can’t stay long – my shift’s over in an hour or two. Where are you?’

‘On Fairlee Hill. I was made herder of the flock.’

Kallamar deflated a bit, even his ears drooping. ‘I suppose you’ll be gone even longer, now,’ he said.

‘Yes. But I’ll be here for the next two weeks,’ Shamura said, squeezing him once. ‘Go to Fairlee Hill, ask for Arty, he’ll show you where my flock is. Bring Heket and Leshy, I’ve missed them.’

‘I will. Where will you be?’

‘With the other Herders for the first evening gathering. Which I will now be late for. I must hurry.’

Narinder winced.

‘I’ll see you then,’ Kallamar said, letting go of them, then hurried back into the tent.

Shamura turned back to Narinder, their eight eyes considerably cooler than they’d been at any point before now. ‘If we hurry, I may be able to salvage my first impression,’ they said, and Narinder winced again.

‘I apologise,’ he said. ‘I meant not to… well. I had to see for myself.’

Shamura sighed. ‘That will be a matter for you and the Shepherd to discuss, though I would ask that you refrain from defying so basic an instruction as ‘stay with me’ again,’ they said. Narinder hated the separation of himself more keenly than ever; for all that he wished to take offence, all he felt was shame. It had been a long time since he’d felt such a thing, or been scolded by Shamura in such a way.

A few centuries after I chose you, I believe, Red murmured as he followed Shamura through the crowds back towards the main path. You were far more stubborn when we began.

‘That, I doubt,’ he murmured back, and it sighed in answer.

The temple, much like the Pastures itself, was a beautiful place marred by utility. Though it was in the same style as the holy buildings outside, the main temple was massive, with colourful stucco murals on the walls and incredibly complex mosaic tiles underfoot. Pillars of granite held up the immense structure, the central ‘body’ of which was open to the air through vast arches; a tiered mezzanine above him led to a beautiful geometric dome, the same one he’d seen from Fairlee Hill. There were two wings to either side of the main body, where the walls were solid, each guarded by massive stone doors. In the back, pouring out into the lake itself, was a pool of clean clear water. In front of it was a pulpit, from where a disciple or the Shepherd could give a sermon. Sheer fabric flags fluttered, strung between pillars, embroidered with words he couldn’t read from this distance. The many, many lanterns that lit the space were round, radiating a warm light ensconced in frosted white glass. Gold accents and pearlescent shimmers gave the whole structure an ethereal air.

The atmosphere was diametrically opposed to the space. It was busy, full of tense followers and clergy, quiet conversations with urgent or grim tones. The beauty of the pool should grant the temple serenity, the gold touches and iridescent sparkles mixed in the stucco should glitter in the light, and neither did so. From the faces of the creatures and the weight in the air, it felt like nothing would ever glitter again. He understood, now that he knew of the excision rituals.

Forty three parishes, Red said from its place around his throat, and Narinder nodded minutely. Twenty two of them are large enough to have multiple towns and villages. If it’s been weekly for the past few months, then even if most stayed with our cult –

‘I am aware,’ he said tightly, barely loud enough to be more than a breath, and Red subsided for now.

As Shamura led him to a small collection of people seemingly waiting for something, a tall fox with dark fur looked over. Narinder instantly disliked him. ‘Herder Shamura, I take it,’ said the fox. ‘I’m Disciple Julmar. You’re late.’

‘That is my fault,’ Narinder said before Shamura could speak, voice calm and looking the fox dead in the eye. ‘The Shepherd tasked them with guiding me here, and we were waylaid for a moment near the care tents – an emergency request for Section B. I apologise for making them late. They were only performing the duty the Shepherd charged them with.’

Disciple Julmar very briefly looked annoyed, but quickly dispelled it. ‘Of course. Take care not to do so again – I didn’t catch your name.’

‘Narinder,’ he said. ‘I will request another guide when I speak to the Shepherd, then.’

Shamura was giving him a speculative look, a calculating light in their eyes. ‘Pass along my greetings,’ they said, smiling before Julmar could look at them. They took a second to adjust his shirt in a friendly way, as if the two of them were more comfortable with each other than they actually were. Kallamar and Shamura had always been the politicians among the Bishops, and Narinder was pretty sure they were doing something similar now. ‘The Shepherd asked that you wait for them over by the western door – you can’t miss it. You may have to wait some time, they can only be in so many places at once.’

Something about that phrasing struck Narinder as off, but he could hardly ask here, so he nodded. ‘I shall. Best of luck, Herder Shamura.’

‘Thank you,’ they said, bobbing their head pleasantly, then joined the other herders.

Narinder took a second to orient himself, then headed to his left. He threaded his way through the various crowds, avoiding any interaction by adopting the air of someone who knew exactly where they were going and where they belonged, then leaned up against the column that stood nearest the stone doors. He did his best to look more like a convert who was waiting for something normal, rather than a tetchy god waiting for his enemy. It was a good thing he’d never carried a pocket watch, or he’d find it difficult not to check it every few seconds.

After a few more minutes, one of the stone doors to his left began to swing open, so at least Shamura wasn’t the only one running late. The door was large enough that it didn’t need to be moved far to allow a creature passage (relative to the door’s own size, at least), and the Shepherd trotted out through the gap, not so much as glancing at him. Narinder had just enough time to huff to himself, thinking that he would be even tetchier if the Shepherd made him wait all night, before the second Shepherd stepped out.

He stared with widening eyes as no less than five Shepherds left the doors, splitting up and heading towards the various groups that were waiting for them. Each was identical, all of them in the same blouse and skirt, the same waistcoat under the same cape, the same Crown atop their head. After another moment of staring after them, he heard a delicate cough from beside him, and he flinched hard enough to stumble as he whipped back around.

A sixth Shepherd was waiting, both they and the Pale Crown looking infuriatingly smug. ‘Cat got your tongue?’ they said innocently, and Narinder only barely kept from scowling at them, Red silently reminding him that he was supposedly an innocent convert.

‘Against my better judgement, I will admit it is an impressive trick,’ he said grudgingly. ‘It is difficult for anyone to be in more than one place.’

They looked thoroughly surprised then pleased, before remembering who the compliment was from. ‘I’m not, actually,’ they said, much to his confusion. ‘Now come on, I’ve got everyone distracted, so let’s go before someone asks why I’m bringing some random non-convert into the rest of the temple.’

He frowned as he followed them, the two slipping through the door and the Lamb pulling it closed behind them. ‘And is there a reason you are bringing me somewhere I would not be allowed to go, were I the cat I appear to be?’ he asked suspiciously.

‘Yep. Follow me,’ they said, gesturing, and he did so with rolled eyes.

Unable to speak without being heard, Red gave him the fuzzy grey vertical sheet sense of unease. He returned a sense of inquiry, and Red replied with a pale, pulsing sweep in a forward curve: something was off about this. They were bringing him somewhere unknown, and no one – not even Shamura, the one person who seemed to be more or less in his corner at the moment – knew where or why.

‘In here,’ the Shepherd said, smiling as they opened a door, and Narinder walked in to see a table and two chairs, standing ominously as the only furniture in a bare room.

‘Very well, then,’ he sighed, Red leaping from his throat to his left hand, and so it was that when he turned and the Shepherd was already springing towards him, they had to stumble to the right with a curse or impale themself on the Red Sword. ‘I see it took little time for you to break your word,’ he said conversationally, settling into a defensive posture and cursing his shirt’s restrictive confines. The door was closed, a pale sheen over it; a ward. One that would only dissipate if the Pale Crown released it or was no longer present to power it.

The Pale Crown was a blade in the Shepherd’s hand. He hesitated to call it a sword, because it was nothing like the straightforward simple blade he remembered. It was a brutal, heavy thing now, though the Lamb wielded it as lightly as ever.

‘Drop Red now, and neither of us gets hurt,’ the Shepherd said coldly, their one eye giving him a hard gaze. ‘Or feel free to try me. We’re in my plane and you’re barely half a god right now.’

‘You are the one who saw fit to trap me in a room and attempt to attack me,’ he said, grip unmoving on Red’s hilt. ‘I may be half a god, yes. But I am yet myself, and I do not obey traitorous creatures who see fit to trap me. Eyes, throat, ears, skull; those are all spoken for. What would you like to lose in their place?’

‘That’s not the point of this,’ they snapped. ‘That’s not what I meant to do.’

‘And how am I to interpret lunging at me, then?’

‘Drop. Red. Now.’

I won’t let him, Red snarled, rumbling in the room as if speaking with its own divinity. Drop the Pale Crown first and we’ll talk.

I would sooner annihilate myself, the Pale Crown growled back. He’d never heard it speak; it might have been a gentle voice, an innocent one, were it not for the abject venom and bile with which it spoke. He supposed it hated Red as much as Red hated it.

You’re free to do so at any time.

‘I’m not interested in bantering,’ the Shepherd said, interrupting the Crowns. ‘Last chance, Narinder. Drop Red and hear me out, or I’m knocking you out now.’

‘A pity,’ he said. ‘You should know better than to leave me breathing.’

He darted forward, Red all but leaping to swing at the Shepherd before he could do it himself. The Shepherd parried the blow easily, but that was the point – they realised that a second too late as he grabbed the front of their robes and slammed them on their back on the table. They snarled up at him in rage, then hissed in pain as Red changed to a dagger and Narinder stabbed the blade through their left palm, sinking it deep into the wood of the table. He snatched up their right wrist and pinned it to the table before the Pale Crown could dart to their offhand. His grip was harsh enough that there was a crunching sound from their wrist, and they hissed in pain again.

‘Cease this,’ he spat. ‘I was here willingly. You have no need –’

A dark shape darted towards him from the other end of the table, striking him in the solar plexus with powerful hind paws, bearing all the weight and force of a cannonball. Narinder staggered back, gasping for air and careening into the wall. Red instantly ripped itself free from the Shepherd’s hand, unspooling through the air in its serpent shape and wrapping over his shoulders defensively as he struggled to breathe.

The Shepherd rolled off the table, landing on one hoof and pivoting to face him before the second one landed, their bleeding left hand spattering blood on the table as they swung their arm out. The Pale Crown leapt from the table, landing on their arm and pivoting with the same sharp precision, claws digging into its Bearer’s skin.

Its shape was some kind of – hare, maybe, some sort of leporid, but one with branching antlers on its brow and something wrong with it. Too lean. Too predatory. The Shepherd and the Pale Crown both glared with one eye each, radiating the same uncanny air of a predator hiding beneath the face of prey. Pale was bearing its teeth, glittering gold incisors in its ink black mouth to match the Shepherd's false eye, its own eye narrowed in loathing. Red reared up from Narinder’s back in answer, hissing in warning.

‘Stop this,’ Narinder wheezed out, finally breathing enough air to speak. ‘You are the one who attempted to attack me first. Do not complain that I will not hear you out and continue to prevent me from doing so.’

‘You’re not going to listen unless you can’t go anywhere,’ they shot back. ‘Now I have no choice but to knock you out and start over.’

Narinder lost his temper.

‘You moron, you have warded the fucking door,’ he snarled, and their eye went wide. ‘Think for one moment, if you yet have the capacity – do you think I can break through that without you noticing? No! Nor have I tried! If you wish to humiliate yourself today and die to half a god in your own plane, so be it, but I will not engage with this stupidity and have you insist it is on my head!’

‘You know how to swear?’ they said blankly, which was such an asinine thing to say that it only infuriated him further.

‘It is a miracle you know how to talk, at this rate!’ he spat, slashing his hand through the air in rage. ‘What is wrong with you? Are you so incapable of critical thought that you could not conceive of a reality where I had no intention to fight you?’

‘What the hell else am I supposed to expect?!’ they demanded, but their left ear was flicking back and forth. The memory was over a thousand years old, in a part of himself that Narinder rarely chose to examine, but he knew they’d done that when they’d died in a particularly ridiculous fashion and they arrived Below to be revived. ‘You’ve only been murdering my followers for decades, after murdering all of them a thousand years ago, and now you’re mutilating your own followers –’

‘I knew not!’

The Shepherd shut their mouth, startled. Pale’s eye twitched between its bearer and Narinder. Well, Red. It never looked at Narinder directly. ‘What does that mean?’ the Shepherd asked, guarded.

‘I thought you plucked out an eyeball to gain your crown, not torn off one of your ears,’ he said acidly, and they scowled. ‘I knew nothing of these excision rituals until Shamura led me past the care tents. I have heard no such rumour, no such plan – I am many things, Shepherd, but I am not stupid, which is a minor miracle, as one of us should not be. These excisions are happening, but I have no memory of them.’

‘It started months ago,’ they said, but they weren’t attacking again, and the Pale Crown’s large ears were swivelling from side to side, uncertain. ‘Before the Cat died.’

‘‌I know not how this is true,’ Narinder said. ‘I know what I was doing then – after allowing you to kill me, I ‘killed’ the Cat for failing to have the heart to fight in my name the way he was tasked with doing, then spent two months acting furious about it. I declared I would look for a champion among the dead as cover for my absence, left Red with a disciple, then stole it back in my own shape before fleeing my holy city. At no point, none, do I recall even thinking of anything close to an ‘excision ritual’.’

They glared even harder than before. ‘Why the fuck should I believe that, Narinder?’

‘Because I am telling the truth!’ Narinder exploded, shadows blossoming up in the room and looming with his rage. ‘Why would I do this? It is senseless – it is worse than senseless, it is stupid! You steal enough of my followers with honeyed lies. Why would I choose to do something that leaves this many to suffer so badly they run into your arms?!’

Narinder pointed at the door. ‘Those are my faithful,’ he said, shaking. ‘They are mine, and for reasons I cannot understand, they are lying on pitiful beds in bedraggled tents, dying a world away from the one to which they belong, because they ran to the only place they could think of to save themselves from me!’

Narinder, Red said before he could continue shouting, uncoiling from around his shoulders enough to rear up between him and the frozen Shepherd. Breathe. Look at me.

‘No, I cannot allow them –’

Narinder, listen to me , Red insisted. Breathe. Calm yourself. The Shepherd has no power to help us, that’s clear now, so breathe. We’ll handle this.

‘What does that mean?’ the Shepherd said warily, but Red ignored them, and so Narinder did, too.

Think, Narinder, Red continued. You know what happened. We both do. Think.

He closed his eyes, doing his best to breathe properly. He hated this. He hated how difficult it was to control his emotions, where once he could have nearly effortlessly held them in check; he hated the fury and the fear, the dread, the pain. He’d clearly taken the weakest parts of himself with him, and what was left…

‘Hell,’ he breathed as he understood.

So you agree?, Red said as he opened his eyes, and he nodded. Then what are we doing about it?

‘I know not yet, but we will figure it out on the way,’ he said, resolute now, and Red bobbed its head. The Shepherd and the Pale Crown were waiting, both looking deeply confused, though both stiffened when Red returned to Narinder’s paw as a sword once more.

‘Open the door,’ he said coldly. ‘Or I will cut you down, however many times it takes.’

‘Not until we talk,’ the Shepherd said, the Pale Crown returning to their still bleeding left hand, that brutal sword once more. ‘And not until you tell me what the fuck you two are talking about.’

‘You have proven you cannot be trusted to speak without hostile intentions,’ he replied. ‘I have quite enough work ahead of me without you continuing to obstruct me. Get out of my way, and I will keep my word.’

‘What word? What's going on?’

‘I have business with the One Who Waits,’ he said, and the Shepherd flinched. ‘If what I suspect is true, then I am not inclined to wait on my paws in a faithless, dishonest god’s realm. You are worse than useless to me, now. You are a problem. Get out of my way, and when I am finished killing him, I will gladly leave you be. I have nothing more to say to you.’

They were so surprised by his words that they almost fumbled the Pale Sword. ‘You what?’

‘I have said my piece. Now unseal the door or pick up your sword.’

‘You’re going to fight him?’

‘I. Have said. My piece. I take it you’re choosing to stand in my way still.’

‘Hold on,’ they said, holding up their hands, then quickly dropping their right hand with a grimace. ‘I’ll let you out in a minute, I swear. I’ll escort you out of the Pastures myself, if you want. But you need to tell me what the hell you’re talking about.’

‘I have been broken in two for longer than I have suspected,’ he said, and they blinked. ‘I know not how long. I know not how I kept such a thing from myself. But I cannot deny reality, and I saw my own faithful dying in your beds, by a command in my voice that I never gave – but the One Who Waits must have. I will kill half of my own being before I consent to losing more of my faithful to a traitorous wretch like you. Now open the door.’

‘Let me help.’

Narinder blinked once. Twice. ‘What did you say?’

‘Let me help,’ the Shepherd repeated, scowling in determination. ‘Well. Choose to help me, instead of running off on your own. I’ve been making plans on how to fight you myself – I’m the god of Peace, though. I’m not War. I’m best at defending my flock, and I haven’t been able to do much more than give people a safe place to escape to. That’s what I was going to talk to you about. I didn’t think you’d be willing to listen – I know what we said in the cave, but I thought that talking you into helping me kill him was going to take time. If you’ve decided to do that on your own, then work with me. Help me.’

‘You are doing nothing to convince me that I should,’ he snapped, paws in fists. ‘You have merely informed me that you are flailing around uselessly after a solution, and intended to keep me here until you convinced me or forced me to help you. I am disinclined to help someone with your intentions.’

The Shepherd winced. ‘I… okay, that’s not completely wrong,’ they said reluctantly.

‘It is not wrong at all,’ he said, unimpressed, and they winced again.

‘No, it’s not.’ They rubbed one temple. ‘You don’t have to like me, though. Or even trust me, not personally. We want the same thing: we want the One Who Waits gone. You’re here, and you’re the one who has Red, and you’re the one who might make getting rid of him possible – but you’re not going to be able to do it by yourself, and honestly, neither am I. We can choose to do something smart here, together, instead of getting nothing done on our own.’

Narinder hesitated. They were making a frustrating amount of sense – but they were still the Shepherd. Stealing his faithful, fighting him at every turn, he couldn’t trust them, shouldn’t trust them –

But he’d seen the bodies on the beds. The bodies tended to by his former brother’s hands, each of those bodies meant to be safely in the Lands of the Old Faith, under his guidance. While he was still currently the god of Death, he was unable to sense the Below, so he was not currently the god of the dead – and he could do nothing to keep the mutilated creatures from suffering his other half, once his victims were released from mortal pains.

‘This has nothing to do with you,’ he said at last. ‘I am agreeing because I refuse to lose more of my people to you. I refuse to allow my faithful to continue to suffer. I will tolerate working with you until the instant I no longer have to, then we will part ways. Am I clear?’

‘That’s the only way I’d have it,’ the Shepherd said with a sigh. ‘And – I’m sorry. About the whole… you know. Trapping you in here, thing.’

‘It is not a decision I suggest you make twice,’ he said coolly. ‘You of all people should know how I would react to being locked away, Shepherd.’

‘Yeah. That’s why I’m apologising instead of leaving it alone,’ they said, rubbing one temple. ‘Here. I’ll, um. I’ll show you out. You can stay with Shamura’s flock for now while we figure out what we’re doing next, I’ll send one of me over soon to talk about it.’

‘I am unsure if I should,’ he said. ‘As Kallamar, Heket, and Leshy will be there, as well.’

‘…ah. You found out about that,’ they said awkwardly.

‘Via seeing Kallamar as head healer in Section B, yes,’ he said, and didn’t know how much more tired the Shepherd could look. ‘I suggest you send one of yourselves sooner rather than later. I have questions, Shepherd, and as we each seem to have something the other needs, you can begin by answering them, if you want anything from me.’

Red returned to the shape of the collar around Narinder’s throat, anchoring the illusion in place once more.

‘On one condition,’ the Shepherd said after a pause, and he raised an eyebrow. ‘Call me the Lamb, please.’

‘I would rather not.’

Narinder hadn’t expected to say that any more than the Shepherd had expected to hear it, going by their little jerk.

‘What? Why?’ they said, and he looked away.

‘I would simply prefer not to do so,’ he said flatly. ‘I have no wish to pretend we are familiar or on good terms. This is an alliance of convenience, no more.’

The Shepherd was grinding their teeth. He could hear it. ‘That’s not the point,’ they said tightly. ‘It’s not about familiarity.’

‘Then what is it about?’

‘I just think you might say ‘Lamb’ a little less like you’re choking on a rock when it leaves your mouth,’ they said. ‘It’ll be more believable if you sound less like you hate me.’

‘Unless there is another name you wish to be known by,’ he said snippily, ‘then no. I will not call you that. Be glad I choose not to call you Herald.’

They scowled. ‘I was about to offer my own name,’ they said, to his surprise, ‘but since you’re being an asshole about it, forget it.’

‘So you do remember,’ he said slowly.

‘So what? It’s none of your business.’

He huffed. ‘It is only that I know it bothered you when you had no memory of it, long ago. That is the only reason I remark on it. Should you wish to keep it to yourself, then it is indeed no business of mine. Shall we go?’

‘Fine. I’ll take you to the door, but that’s as far as I’ll go until I clean myself up,’ they said, waving a hand at the door as they began to walk past him – then nearly jumped out of their wool when he rolled his eyes and touched them with one paw, divine power cleaning the blood away. ‘Oh. Um. Thanks,’ they said uncomfortably. ‘I still shouldn’t go farther than that, or people will ask more questions than they already might. Come on.’

He followed them out of the bare little room into the richly decorated hall. He was tense until he saw the stone doors, Red practically vibrating around his neck. ‘Thank you, Shepherd,’ he said as they pushed the door open, because he was polite.

They sighed once more. ‘Esriaal.’

‘Pardon?’ he said, frowning. It wasn’t a language he recognised, though given the hint of a ‘baa’ on the first A, he suspected it might be whatever sheep language had once existed.

‘My name is Esriaal,’ they said. He could only stare at them in response. ‘It’s really driving me nuts, the way you’re saying Shepherd. And my name’s not a secret, it’s just not usually free to use, so be careful who hears it. They’re going to assume we’re a lot closer than you’re willing to act. But if you won’t call me the Lamb, then Esriaal’s kind of my only option to not feel like you’re insulting me every time you say my name.’

That did sound uncomfortable, he had to admit, little though he wanted to. ‘Very well. Good night, Esriaal.’

His attempt at a hint of a baa performed a miracle; Esriaal smiled, just a bit. ‘We’ll work on your accent. Good night.’

He nodded and slipped out into the main temple, and had the feeling that ‘Esriaal’ was much, much worse than ‘Lamb’.

Chapter Text

He managed to avoid seeing Shamura again that night – and with them, his other former siblings – but he wasn’t so lucky the next morning. Not for lack of trying, admittedly, but he was only given a few seconds to try. He’d woken up early, hoping to slip away and find something to help with so he could claim to be too busy to talk or some such. Unfortunately there was a creature waiting for him, and he froze upon spotting them.

‘Oh. You’re taller’n Shamura said,’ Leshy said, squinting up at him. This was due to the leafworm barely passing Narinder’s knee in height. He couldn’t be older than five or six. There were still eyes in his face, unlike the last time Narinder had seen the adult version of him, though one had a bandage over it, and two of the others were a cloudy yellow instead of the gleaming yellow of the fourth. ‘You’re really tall. Is everybody that tall where you’re from? Do you all bump your heads a lot?’

Narinder had no idea what to do with this, though Leshy didn’t appear to actually need a conversational partner.

‘You probably do,’ he was continuing, frowning in thought, fiddling with a round white pendant with a horizontal bar that he wore over his shirt. ‘Wait, they probably build stuff for tall people there then, right? So maybe you don’t. But then how do short people get places? Do you have short people?’

‘Yes?’ Narinder said uncertainly, and could have done without Red laughing. Just because no one but a god or a Crown could hear it didn’t make it helpful.

‘That makes sense. Though maybe they’re just short next to you? Do any –’

‘Leshy!’ Shamura said, hurrying over, and the leafworm complained loudly as Shamura picked him up with all three left arms and their bottom right. ‘I’m sorry, Narinder,’ they said sheepishly, ignoring the wiggling Leshy trying to free himself from his sibling’s grasp. ‘I’m not sure what’s gotten into him – I was telling my family about the flock in general last night, and when I was describing the new members, he latched onto you. I didn’t think he would sneak away to come bother you.’

‘I said I was gonna say hi,’ Leshy said sullenly. ‘I didn’t even wake him up or anything.’

‘It is alright,’ Narinder said, doing his level best to both figure out what emotion was even happening right now and control it. ‘I was surprised, is all.’

‘Well, it won’t happen twice,’ Shamura said, and gave Leshy a stern look. ‘Will it, Leshy?’

‘It will,’ Leshy replied, unrepentant. ‘I like him. Even though his face is weird.’

Narinder blinked a few times. Shamura looked like they were on the verge of a headache.

‘Leshy, that’s rude. Apologise,’ they said.

‘Why? It’s true!’ Leshy protested, looking precisely as offended as any six year old did when having their ‘correctness’ questioned. ‘His face is weird! It’s all fuzzy –’

‘Leshy, that is fur, you’re used to seeing fur –’

‘Not that way, the sparkling way!’

Shamura paused, and Narinder tilted his head. ‘Sparkling way?’

When Shamura looked at him, their face was so perfectly casual that he instantly distrusted it. ‘Leshy’s got a make-believe game he likes to play,’ they said, waving a hand. ‘You can ignore it.’

‘It’s not make-believe!’ Leshy said, so outraged his leaves were shaking.

‘One minute, Leshy. Narinder, breakfast is going to be over near the new rover – there are four more people joining the flock once we leave in two weeks, and two of them are cooks. Julto and Hetty, you can’t miss them – twin yellow ducks. Don’t worry about which one’s which, they answer to both.’

‘Right,’ he said, disconcerted.

‘Shamura, I’m not playing make-believe!’ Leshy said, wriggling harder.

‘How about you tell me about it while you get ready for the day,’ Shamura said soothingly, and walked off with the little leafworm continuing to loudly complain.

I didn’t think there was a way he could make more trouble than he did when Green first picked him, but I should’ve known, Red said, still laughing a little.

‘If he is,’ Narinder murmured under his breath, and Red’s laughter slowed.

Meaning?

‘I know not, but there was a time he saw far more than one would wish him to,’ Narinder replied. ‘Be cautious. We cannot let the illusion slip.’

Understood, Red said, sober now, and nestled a little tighter around his throat. It didn’t feel like a stranglehold, or even a collar as a restraint, the way it looked; it was more comforting, like a jacket collar turned up against the wind.

Julto and Hetty were extremely upbeat and completely indistinguishable duck sisters, to the point that he saw the same one answer to both names multiple times within the span of minutes during which he waited for his portion. He didn’t need to eat, but it was extremely suspicious if someone didn’t eat for weeks on end and never seemed to suffer consequences, so he’d gotten into the habit. It was usually more of a necessary chore than anything else, though he was pleasantly surprised by the hand pie of some sort. The rover the twins shared with the two new members of the flock had an oven of some kind, though he could see no power source when he casually passed by to get a peek.

The number of things he’d seen with no power source were frankly starting to irk him. Some kind of magic, most likely, but it wasn’t one he could sense. He blamed that on the Shepherd – on Esriaal, he corrected in his head quickly, because having gotten into another fight with them the night before, he would prefer to not provoke them quite so soon. Magic would be difficult to sense in general around them, and in the Pastures in particular; too much of them was quite literally woven into the fabric of existence here, and any time he’d seen them in the presence of a rover caravan, they’d had an unusually outsized sense of divinity. Expansive, but not particularly deep; he’d honestly been assuming it was a projection of power, as if intended to seem stronger than they were. The sense was certainly far deeper here.

There was a cleared throat down by his elbow, and he turned, only to flinch.

Heket was a preteen, perhaps, a stout young toad with four scowling black eyes and an unimpressed look. That part, at least, was familiar. Significantly less familiar was her beginning to move her hands in clear shapes and gestures; stranger still was that he understood it.

«Shamura said I should ask you if you need to go anywhere today,» she signed, looking extremely surly about the idea and not bothering to hide it. «I have training in an hour. Do me a favour and don’t need to go anywhere.»

Some things remained true regardless of how much time passed, it seemed.

‘And where is your training?’ he asked. ‘What do you train for?’

«Why do you care?» she said, squinting at him. «I heard you’re a soldier for the One Who Waits. I bet you’re a spy.»

‘I think it wiser not to trust every rumour you hear,’ he said tactfully.

«So you are a spy. You sound like a spy.»

‘If I was, I would be unable to tell you, would I not?’

That seemed to give Heket some pause. Narinder, she’s maybe twelve, Red said disapprovingly. She’s not your sister. Be nicer.

Narinder refrained from rolling his eyes. Red and Yellow had forever been trying to mediate between him and his sister, if only to spend time together and gossip like old hens. It was Yellow’s betrayal that had cut Red deepest.

This has nothing to do with that. She’s a child.

«Maybe you’re not a spy,» she signed at last. «That would be a stupid thing for a spy to say, I think. And Shamura doesn’t think you’re stupid.»

‘A glowing endorsement, I am sure,’ he said.

«It is,» Heket retorted, making him blink. «Anyway. I’m training to work on the rovers. Can I go now?»

Narinder barely stopped himself from smiling in dawning satisfaction. Some of it broke through, because she was squinting at him.

«Why are you being weird?»

‘I am not,’ he said, shaking his head. ‘That simply reminded me of something, fear not. If you mind not, I would like to see where this training is done.’

«Am I going to get in trouble for this? You look like I’m going to get in trouble for this.»

‘If you do, blame me,’ he said, feeling generous. She was his ticket to bypassing Esriaal’s secrecy around the rovers and other workings, after all.

«I was going to do that anyway, I don’t need your permission,» she huffed. «Fine, but only because Shamura said I had to. Come on.»

See, being nice worked better, Red said innocently as Heket began to trudge away like she was being forced to walk towards the gallows. He couldn’t respond, but he made his displeasure known. If it wasn’t for the fact that he knew no one could hear it, he would be much more annoyed with how comfortable Red was becoming with laughing at him.

Heket led him away from the hillock, in the opposite direction from Asterales. He hadn’t had any reason to pay close attention to this nearby settlement, but as they got closer he realised it wasn’t a settlement at all; this was a workplace. It had the same slapdash air as every other settlement if the Pastures, in his defence, constructed of brick and thin metal sheeting; making do with what they had, he supposed, which didn’t appear to be much.

‘Where are we?’ he asked, and Heket sighed, the put upon lament of pre-teens everywhere.

«This is the Foundry,» she signed, and while he didn’t know why he could understand her (perhaps it was thanks to the cuff on her left wrist with the same round white disc he’d seen elsewhere), it was at least particularly useful as the sound increased greatly. Soon he had to flatten his ears, just to protect his hearing. «You get used to it,» she said, then thought about it. «Or go deaf. Then you get used to being deaf.»

Despite himself, he chuckled. Heket scowled up at him, so he held up his paws. Satisfied he knew to avoid her wrath, she continued to lead him along.

This place was as unnatural to the Pastures as all of the other places he’d seen so far save the holy buildings, the assembly hall full of clanging metal and rolling heat. Narinder had never minded the heat, so it was bearable, and made more so by his modern clothing, to his surprise. Something to be said for the thinner, fitted fabric, he supposed. He could see the heat was much less tolerable for the various burly creatures around. They were assembling the heavy rovers, one at a time; though the metal looked brutish and utilitarian, it was clearly made with care. Heket didn’t linger here, marching straight through as Narinder tailed her out of the hall into the sunny Pastoral day once more. She beelined towards a collection of smaller, less rowdy huts.

«I don’t want to work on assembly,» she signed to him, a little more willing to talk now that it was about something she cared about. «It’s boring. When Shamura brought me here, the Shepherd said I could help in the core beds. People got mad about it. I punched them.»

Narinder had never known his sister as a child – she’d been an adult when the Yellow Crown chose her, like almost all other gods – but he had a feeling she’d been more or less identical then to the child walking in front of him now. ‘I see. Did that make them less angry?’

«No, but it made me feel better,» Heket said. «You sound like Shamura. Stop that.»

‘Do you not like your sibling?’

He blinked at the furious glare Heket gave him then. «I love my sibling,» she signed with sharp motions. «I don’t need you trying to act like them, or anyone. I’m not a kid.»

Narinder held up his paws again. ‘I have spent little time with creatures your age,’ he said. ‘I know not how else to speak to you.’

«Figure it out before I punch you,» she warned. «Just because Leshy and Shamura like you doesn’t mean I’m going to.»

The more things change, Red sighed, but at least it sounded as exasperated as he felt this time.

‘Then you dislike me,’ he said calmly. ‘I care little, as do you, so feel not as if you are obligated. I know not how long I will remain with this flock, regardless. Are you going to show me where you are training, or not?’

«Fine,» she said, surly again, and stomped off towards the collection of squat huts. All of them encircled a central space, the gaps between huts blocked by walls, but as they got closer, Narinder realised the air was starting to glow. More importantly, the sense of divinity that made up the entirety of the Pastures was… intensifying.

I don’t like this, Red said, and when Narinder passed along the thought that it hadn’t liked just about anything so far, it replied, Let me know when you find something to like, then.

Fair enough. He followed Heket to a thin metal gate with a wire mesh over it. At the gate sat another follower in a chair – and not an intact follower, at that. She was a red panda, and her left leg was missing. She didn’t seem to be in pain, and the crutch leaning up on the wall beside her at least implied she was able to get around independently.

‘Whoa, hey,’ she said with alarm as Heket headed for the gate. ‘Who’s he?’

«Some friend of Shamura’s,» Heket signed with annoyance. «They have me on babysitting duty, since they said the Shepherd asked them to keep an eye on him.»

‘Well. I guess if a Herder says it’s okay for him to follow you around, it’ll be okay for him to go in,’ the red panda said, but didn’t sound sure.

‘I will touch nothing,’ he offered.

‘Yeah, I wouldn’t advise that anyway, but alright,’ said the red panda. Ominous.

«Thanks, Tymer. Come on, Narinder, if I get to be early then I want to get started,»‌ Heket signed imperiously, and after Tymer unlocked the gate, Heket sailed through. Narinder followed her, and got enough steps into the core beds enclosure that the gate had time to close behind him before he froze.

The ‘beds’ in core beds didn’t mean literal ones, he realised with faint nausea. They were flower beds. Beautiful glassy flowers blossomed up between the stone borders around the dirt, each weighted heavy with some round – fruit, maybe, that glowed from within like an orange-gold ember. Each and every one of those plants was grown from concentrated divinity.

‘Pretty, en’t they?’ asked one of the workers, a blue toad walking by with a small basket full of the ‘fruits’. They didn’t look anything like fruit, admittedly; they seemed as if they were red hot glowing metal cylinders, short and squat with sharp angled facets, but radiated no heat. What they did radiate was divinity, much like the Pastures itself. Like Esriaal. ‘Core blooms are a gift from the Shepherd, so they’re just as pretty as everything else. Are ye here to start work on the beds?’

‘No, I am only visiting,’ he said, concealing his growing discomfort. He had to be misunderstanding, that was all. There was no way Esriaal was so foolish as to…

They’re not, Red said. It’s intense, but too intense to be made of their actual divinity without damaging them – we’d know if that was happening, they’re not hurt like that. I think they’re putting way too much power into a blessing, but it’s not them.

Red sounded confident, so Narinder cautiously let himself relax. Lending one’s divine favour was one thing, and made a great deal of sense – it explained both the expanded sense of divinity around the caravans, and how things could be so cleanly powered. Divine favour was all but an infinitely renewable resource over time, so long as one had a sufficient number of fervent faithful, which Esriaal very much did. The idea that they were using their own existence to fuel such things was madness. He supposed it had only occurred to him thanks to the Pastures themselves. He’d have to ask Esriaal about this; it had already been on his list of questions, but it had shot to the top of the priority list.

‘Alright – just make sure not to touch any of the plants, and especially not the cores,’ she warned. ‘It requires special blessings to be able to handle – they’re too sacred for mortal hands to withstand.’

‘Of course,’ he said, holding up his paws. Heket had already gone off, so he asked, ‘Is there anywhere I may sit and observe? I am curious.’

‘If ye were let in, it should be fine,’ she said, smiling at him. ‘Here, lovie, ye go sit over there – if someone asks for help and it doesn’t require touching the flowers, though, feel free to pitch in. We all earn our keep. Oh! Ye don’t have a token?’

‘I am a new convert,’ he said, tilting his head. ‘Only here temporarily with my flock.’

‘Ahhh, I see,’ she said. ‘Well, then ye be extra careful. Pastures are too holy to be withstood for very long, ye see, without help. Especially around here. Ye can still stay – if any give ye trouble, tell them Merno said ye could be here – but just for today, unless ye get a token. Too dangerous otherwise.’

‘Thank you,’ he said politely, and went to sit where she’d pointed out. It was a bench beside a worktable, on the edge of a storage and packaging room that was busy as a beehive. He did his best to look as un-intimidating as possible; the more average he seemed, the more likely he was to be asked to help – and the more likely he was to learn more about the cores. He wasn’t sure how well he actually pulled it off, but he still only had to sit for around ten minutes before someone saw a spare pair of paws not currently at work, and he was hauled off to help move supplies. A few rovers had just arrived, unloading crates and canvas sacks into the already cluttered storage room off to the right side.

He might have found it extremely dull if the work partner – a pink dove named Fimerty – hadn’t been the type to gossip about everything and anything under the sun without much prodding. That very much included the core beds themselves, to his satisfaction, and he was willing to put up with her annoying voice for learning things he knew Esriaal was trying to keep from him.

She wasn’t one of the gardeners, just a labourer, so her information was admittedly limited, but the concept was straightforward. Esriaal had engineered some sort of flower that grew the cores, concentrated blessings in various physical forms – these were cores meant for active work, such as the rovers. There were two other kinds, though she glossed over them before he could ask for elaboration. Once harvested, they were tooled with various runes to specialise them for their purpose, then stored until needed. The core beds had been expanded over the last ten years or so, apparently, but more so now than ever.

It took Narinder far, far too long to realise what was going on. In his defence, his curiosity was currently in charge, so as long as he was still learning things Esriaal emphatically didn’t want him to, he was content to continue helping with whichever task at hand. That was why he didn’t notice the weight of the things he was being asked to move slowly increasing. He was a god, and one well used to wielding weapons and physical activity, so it wasn’t as if things like this were a strain.

Narinder, Red said at the same time he realised what was going on, and when he glanced over to his right he saw half of the core beds’ staff gathered around the door and watching avidly – as well as an intensely amused looking Esriaal, leaning on the wall. Hell. It took all of his self control not to flatten his ears in embarrassment.

‘Ye’re stronger than ye look,’ Merno said, as the jig was clearly up. ‘How’d ye get like that and still be such a skinny thing? Ye en’t look like you could fill the shadow of a clothesline.’

He gave her an offended look. ‘Excuse me?’

‘I mean nothing by it, don’t get yer tail in a twist,’ she said, holding up her hands. ‘Just curious.’

Esriaal continued to be amused over against the wall. So was Pale, judging by the shape of the round eye. Now he had to come up with some kind of excuse –

Then it hit him, and it took all that same self-control from before to not smile in satisfaction.

‘I apologise,’ he said regretfully, shaking his head. ‘I cannot speak of certain matters – I have been asked not to by the Shepherd, as of yet. Perhaps they would be willing to explain what they deem fit, I know not. ‘

Esriaal very briefly looked alarmed as the staff’s attention shifted from Narinder to them, though they quickly hid it. The Pale Crown spoke, and now that it wasn’t a purely hostile tone, its voice was oddly – resonant. Familiar. He couldn’t say why.

The Shepherd wants it known that they are displeased with this decision, it called over in an attempt at a diplomatic tone.

Narinder wants it known that they could’ve stopped this at any time and it’s their problem now, Red called back, mood souring at even hearing the other Crown.

Narinder left it alone for now, returning to finishing the work as quickly as he could without making his strangeness any more apparent than it already was. Once that was finished, he slipped away before he could be asked to do more, waiting unobtrusively by the door for Esriaal to come over. It took some time, as Esriaal had to smooth over the question of Narinder’s strength – a vague answer that no one seemed satisfied with, but it wasn’t Narinder’s problem – and then discuss some points of business with a few of the supervising creatures. Once that was finished, they headed back towards the door, gesturing for him to follow them with a falsely warm smile.

‘I see you didn’t learn from yesterday,’ they said in an undertone as they led him out from the buildings, though he nodded in farewell to Heket as they passed. Mostly out of politeness, considering how she squinted at him with suspicion, but still. ‘Shamura mentioned you ran off, despite them asking you not to.’

Narinder grit his teeth. ‘I apologise not.’

‘You made them late for the herder meeting.’

‘And I made it clear that was my fault. It is no fault of mine if your puffed up disciple took offence at my former sibling daring to be late for following your instructions, despite another accepting responsibility.’

Esriaal gave him a sharp look mid-step. ‘Puffed up?’

‘That disciple – Julmar or some such,’ he said.

‘Is there a reason you sound like you want to boil him alive? There’s no way you talked to him for more than a minute.’

‘There is not a reason, no. Other than instinct.’

‘Is this because he’s a canine?’

‘Is this how you intend to spend your time?’ Narinder said testily, only clinging to the appearance of neutrality due to Red’s (frustratingly amused) reminders. ‘I would think you have more important tasks than needling me.’

‘Then don’t run off when you’re asked not to. Or go places I obviously don’t want you to, yet.’

‘I care nothing for your opinion on the latter,’ he said, controlling himself. ‘As for the former, I decided to see what had happened to those meant to be under my care with my own eyes, not have it described to me by a hostile god who would no doubt speak with bias. Feel free to lock me in a room again and attempt to extract an apology, if you so wish. It will get you nowhere except pinned to a wall by Red’s blade through your throat.’

The self-control hadn’t worked out well.

‘You really didn’t know, huh,’ they said after a long moment. They had led him away from the Foundry, but not in any direction in particular – simply out among the grasses of the Pastures’ rolling fields.

‘As I have said.’

‘How was I supposed to know before last night?’

‘You were not. You were, however, aware that I chose to continue travelling in your company willingly, playing the part you asked me to, whether or not it was done precisely as you wish. My hostility was controlled until you showed that yours was not. And you are the one who wishes for me to stay and assist you.’

Esriaal sighed. ‘I did say sorry.’

‘I have no reason to believe you meant it. Nor do I have need of it. Are we finished with this line of discussion? We have other business to attend to, before your faithful grow suspicious of why you are spending so much time with an unknown.’

‘That’s part of what we’ll be talking about, actually, so you can calm down,’ they said, and Narinder thought he should receive a standing ovation and eternal accolades for not snapping at them over it. ‘I don’t like you any more than you like me, so let’s keep this civil.’

‘This is as much as you can hope for. Ask not for the moon; I have no intention of plucking it from the sky for you.’

They sighed yet again. ‘Okay, I’ll let it go, because we have a lot more to deal with than us being petty,’ they said, coming to a stop on one of the various smaller knolls. It was equidistant from any of the nearest settlements or building clusters, and would be impossible to approach without either god or their watchful Crowns seeing. Esriaal then flopped down onto the grass without a care.

‘And will no one miss your absence?’ he said, refusing to sit yet.

‘No, actually,’ they said. ‘The most of me I can manage to be at any given time is seven, at most for two weeks. There’s usually five here, and one or two out with the caravans. As far as anyone knows, the sixth and seventh are currently out.’

‘And are they all separate?’ Narinder asked. ‘As I am?’

‘Nope. I’m all me, always. I just need to go home so the rest of me know what I’m all doing.’

‘I suppose this explains how you evaded me so well. And why your soul never entered my hands.’

‘No idea, it’s not like I’m the one in charge of Death,’ they said with a shrug. ‘And that’s as much as you get to know about how I work. Just in case we don’t actually figure out how to kill him, I don’t need the One Who Waits to know more than that.’

Narinder had been about to protest, but that was a good point. ‘Fine,’ he said, and sat down in the grass as well. Esriaal’s eyes closed, both real and false, though Pale’s remained open and alert. ‘Well? Do you have any wish as to where we should start?’

‘In a minute,’ they said, and he frowned. ‘You’d be surprised how hard it is to have any time to be quiet, even when you have seven of you running around. If you let me have this, I promise to be less of an asshole.’

‘You are asking me to let you take a nap?’ he said incredulously.

‘I wasn’t, but if you’re going to be like that about it, maybe I will,’ they said, then sighed. ‘If I could. I can’t sleep.’

‘…cannot as in literal, or as in duty?’ he said, frowning.

‘Literal. Long story.’ They shook their head. ‘So shut up for a couple minutes. Lay down too, if you want. When was the last time you got to just lay down in sunlight?’

‘I have never had the wish to,’ he replied snippily, but it was a lie. It was an egregious one. There had been a time, over a thousand years ago, where he wished to greatly. It was only now occurring to him that he’d never actually done it in the time since.

‘Fine. I don’t care, as long as you leave me alone for a minute.’

He huffed in annoyance, but didn’t say anything. Keeping several feet between himself and Esriaal, he reclined anyway, suspecting they’d take far, far longer than a minute, if only to spite him. He ignored that Pale was watching him closely, as if to make sure he didn’t suddenly attempt to attack Esriaal, as they had attacked him.

Red gave Pale a glare before leaving its collar shape in favour of its snake shape, coiling on Narinder’s chest and impressing on him that it would keep watch for the same thing. Esriaal had twice already nearly killed Narinder and nearly trapped him, respectively; it wouldn’t happen a third time, Red promised.

Narinder returned a sense of gratitude, though it was a touch unnecessary. It wasn’t as if he was the one who was demanding a nap break.

It was nice, though. He’d never admit it, but he did regret putting this off, now. The illusion was dismissed for now, given Red was on his chest, so it was his own black fur the sun was settled on. It didn’t much matter whether it was the sun that shone on the Lands of the Old Faith or the false sun that shone here; it was only the divinity threaded through that even made the two different lights distinguishable. It was exactly as bright, exactly as hot, and his fur absorbed it until he was so warm he felt molten. At least, if that could be said to be a pleasant sensation.

Red was sharing in that sensation – unsurprising, given the black colour of its body and its preference for a serpent shape – but he couldn’t afford to let Esriaal think he was enjoying anything about this place or any moment he was apart from himself, and so he opened his eyes.

The sun was at a different angle than he remembered, to his hidden dismay, and when he glanced over Esriaal was sitting up. They seemed to have been doing so for at least a little while, just looking out over the land they’d made.

‘You don’t snore,’ they said, and Narinder considered whether it was a better or worse fate to simply die now and return to the One Who Waits that way. ‘Jerk.’

‘What?’ he said blankly, sitting up. It had been late morning when he had laid down; it must be mid-afternoon, now. Great. Wonderful. He was never going to hear the end of this. He dusted the grass off of the pale material of his shirt, clearing up a few grass stains with a touch of divine power; he felt the fabric of the Pastures itself twitch a little in response, but it didn’t respond beyond that.

‘You don’t snore, and you’re a jerk for it,’ Esriaal replied. ‘I can’t make fun of you for it. I can make fun of you for falling asleep, sure, but I sort of fell asleep, too. As close as I get, anyway.’

‘I had no way of knowing that,’ Narinder pointed out.

‘Red would tell you.’

I was dreaming, too, Red said, taking Narinder off guard.

Esriaal groaned. ‘Pale, you said it was awake.’

I thought it was! Its eye was open, Pale protested.

Red sounded entirely too smug when it replied, That was on purpose. Not our fault you were slacking on the job.

The Pale Crown glowered at Red, much to its satisfaction. Narinder rolled his eyes, but as he disliked Esriaal as much as Red disliked Pale, it wasn’t as if he could complain.

Disguised once more, Narinder followed Esriaal back towards Asterales. He’d assumed they’d taken him out into the meadow to discuss things privately, but that seemed to have been purely about getting to be left alone for a while. Narinder was torn as to what that meant; either Esriaal was stupid enough to have assumed he’d want to be their company for something like that (which was objectively not true), or he’d been a convenient excuse that they’d put up with. The latter was preferable and far more likely, but he still disliked being a positive for them in any capacity he could avoid.

It felt uncomfortable to simply walk beside them through Asterales when Esriaal was (understandably) the centre of attention as soon as they passed by. No one tried to flag them down, but it felt too conspicuous to just walk silently.

‘Shamura said it was unusually busy in Asterales, last night,’ he said, Esriaal’s right ear flicking towards him to indicate they were listening. ‘I do not believe that was due to the care tents, however. And it seems to have continued into today.’

As the traffic was quite heavy, both of the foot and vehicle variety, he felt that made his point sufficiently. The creatures they passed seemed a touch more upbeat, rushing between homes and workplaces on errands and the like, but Narinder suspected that was due to Esriaal’s visible presence rather than any lightening of the mood.

Esriaal sighed. ‘It’s not,’ they said, only just loud enough for him to hear, and though their face remained exactly the same as before, their voice was significantly wearier. ‘Trust me, it’s not usually like this. It never was before, anyway. Most things have changed in the last decade.’

Narinder frowned. ‘I know not the significance of that,’ he said, trying to remain mindful that quiet or not, he still might be heard. He had to disguise how familiar he would be with any of this. That said, he couldn’t think of anything of note ten years ago.

‘Not everything is about the One Who Waits,’ they replied, and Narinder bit back his annoyance. ‘Things were getting a little easier for a while – I assume that was on purpose for the Cat, since he seemed to be softening up by the end. I don’t feel bad for him, but at least he apparently had some conscience.’

‘I know nothing of that, either,’ he said, since he wasn’t supposed to.

They shrugged. ‘That’s the rumour we heard. Would’ve believed it, actually, until last week. That’s when things made more sense. But anyway. No, it wasn’t something the One Who Waits or his cult did. I just started getting followers in places that weren’t the Lands of the Old Faith.’

He gave them a startled look. ‘What?’

‘You have them too, those pilgrims all come from somewhere,’ they pointed out, only not rolling their eyes because they had to keep up appearances (or so he assumed.) ‘And things aren’t going well on the other side of the sea, anymore than they’re going well here. In a different way, though. They don’t have a unifying cult or even a kingdom or something. Just a lot of really small warring power struggles. Then the famine started, and all that fighting got worse. They know they can’t stay in the Pastures – no one can for long, not without a token – but we’ve needed to start having more permanent things set up for people to pass through, and the Pastures itself can’t provide any materials.’

‘Because you made it,’ he said in an undertone, and they nodded. ‘Structural integrity.’

‘Exactly,’ Esriaal said, giving him a sidelong look. ‘I guess I shouldn’t be surprised you know how it all works.’

‘In theory. It is nothing I have had to do, nor have I seen put into practice,’ he said. ‘It would be impressive, were it not yours, and therefore more inconvenient than could ever be admirable.’

‘I’ll ignore everything after ‘impressive’,’ Esriaal said. ‘Hold on, I need to talk to these disciples – don’t say anything, and play along. It’ll make both our lives easier.’

The two of them were approaching the beginning of the temple grounds, and there were indeed a handful of higher ranking clergy waiting. Narinder recognised two of them already: one was the otter woman from the day before, Puarjul or something like that. The other was Julmar, and he looked precisely as pleased to see Narinder as Narinder was to see him.

‘Hello,’ Esriaal chirped as they reached the group, voice much brighter, mostly curious. ‘Is something up? Our meeting’s this evening.’

‘Yes, there is,’ said one of the disciples that Narinder didn’t recognise, an elderly tortoise. ‘News out of Caynero. Should we wait for another instance, Shepherd? This may be sensitive information.’ She glanced at Narinder.

‘Well, I was going to have to talk about this tonight, anyway,’ they said bracingly, and Narinder kept his face neutral as most of the group frowned. ‘I’ll handle this meeting, the rest of mes aren’t free right now. I just need – twenty minutes, maybe? I should get Narinder up to speed on some things first, then we’ll meet you over in the Lycaeum. Marigold should be free.’

‘You both will meet us?’ Puarjul said, glancing at Narinder curiously. In her defence, she’d seen him yesterday and he’d claimed to be a new convert before she sent him on an errand.

‘I’ll explain it then,’ Esriaal said, smiling but firm. ‘I wouldn’t put this off if it wasn’t important, and I wouldn’t bring him along if I didn’t trust him. I promise I’ll make it as quick as possible.’

Well, they were a gifted liar at times, he could tell. ‘If I didn’t trust him’, indeed.

‘Alright,’ said another unknown, a young and pale-furred marten. ‘We’ll see you there.’

Four of them headed off, but Julmar remained. ‘Shepherd,’ he said respectfully. Sycophantically, to be more accurate. ‘You know I won’t ever question your commands. But I’m imperfect, and I have doubts from time to time. Is this truly the right thing to do? This is extremely important, and I worry for Caynero should this news fall in hands that don’t understand its true significance, as you’ve entrusted it to us.’

Ugh. One of these types, Narinder thought, and Red shared the sentiment. The precise kind of disciple the One Who Waits had pretended to leave Red with. Useful, but distasteful.

‘I understand,’ Esriaal said sympathetically, reaching up and patting Julmar’s shoulder. He was a fox, but that didn’t stop his tail from starting to wag like a dog’s. ‘I promise, this is okay. It’s important. I’ll meet you and the others in Marigold.’

‘Very well, Shepherd,’ he said, inclining his head, and then walked off. Narinder was of the impression that he’d kept his face more neutral, but when Esriaal looked at him, the eyebrow over their false eye rose.

‘You’re not a good judge of character, huh,’ they said in an undertone, and he only didn’t respond because he could see Julmar’s ear tilted back towards them.

‘We shall see. I believe you told your disciples we would hurry?’ he said, and they nodded with a small sigh. 

Narinder followed them as they trotted off towards the temple, passing by the care tents. He thought he saw another Shepherd somewhere in the hustle and bustle around the tents, but he pretended he hadn’t for the sake of his sanity. Instead of leading him up the steps to the colourful temple’s central hall, Esriaal headed to their left just before the steps began. They led him down a small path made of gravel to the front of the temple’s west wing, where the decorative arches moulded into the wall were little more than empty alcoves filled with flower beds (normal ones, this time.) They strode underneath one of the arches, and when Narinder did the same, he blinked a few times at the sensation of an illusion brushing over him. The alcove was no longer home to a flower bed, and was now deeper than it looked before; there was a small table with three chairs, and he realised the outside world was muffled. A privacy ward.

He glanced up, and saw a small ritual circle carved into the top of the arch. It made him uneasy all over again; this was… odd. He’d never gotten the impression that Esriaal was a particularly technical god. A powerful one, clearly, else they couldn’t hold their own against Death himself, but in all his time fighting them, it had always seemed to be a brute force power, not a finely tuned one.

Now, however… everything, from the cores to the tokens, the ritual circle above him and the very Pastures below his paws, didn’t connect with what he’d thought he knew. Just how much had been happening that slipped beneath his notice?

‘Didn’t want to have to do this fast, but if it’s what I think it is coming out of Caynero, then I’ve got bigger immediate problems than wanting to get our story airtight right out of the gate,’ Esriaal said as they sat down, and the brightness was gone from their voice. It was now a much harder pragmatism, a resolute weariness, and it fit them as poorly as the settlements and atmosphere fit the Pastures. They were Peace, and in some things, gods could rule the inverse of their domains; when Shamura had been War, however, they’d never controlled Peace (though they’d admittedly never tried.) He doubted the Bishop of War would have done any better at finding peace than the god of Peace was at making war.

‘A land across the sea, I take it,’ he said neutrally. He didn’t take a seat himself.

‘Yeah,’ they agreed. ‘You – well, maybe the One Who Waits – really need to learn to pay attention to your faith more. There’s a pretty big sect of your faith over there. It’s new to Caynero itself, in the last couple decades, but so far they haven’t needed any instruction from you to make hell for me.’

Narinder disliked that news. Not at having more followers, that was all well and good – but he was certain he’d never heard of Caynero. He frankly hadn’t considered where the pilgrims had been coming from at all. He hoped he could pin all of the failings he was seeing firmly on his other half’s shoulders, whether or not he was at blame, if only to not have to own the incompetence he’d apparently been wrapped in. Between this and the discrepancies he was finding in the Pastures…

‘To explain things insultingly fast, remember how you mentioned structural integrity?’ Esriaal said, putting their chin in their hand as they looked to their right. They weren’t avoiding his gaze, just thinking. ‘You had the right of it – the Pastures can’t regenerate or heal in the same way a natural plane can. It’s my job to keep it in good condition. It’s not any real effort – I spent two centuries setting up a depository system that lets me have some divine material constantly being supplied and let the Pastures itself handle its own needs, and it’s not much compared to my followers’ devotion, so it’s basically negligible.’

‘That is a great deal of foresight,’ he said with as little positive intonation as possible. Just because it was true didn’t mean he wanted them to take it as a compliment, all things considered.

‘I had help,’ they said, but didn’t elaborate, despite Narinder instantly focussing on it. How could they have gotten help? Who would have helped them?

They were continuing before he could demand an answer, much to his frustration. ‘That system’s just for maintenance, though,’ they explained with a hand wave at the surroundings, indicating the Pastures as a whole. ‘If you go cutting down a tree, it will be real wood, but it subtracts from the whole if it leaves the Pastures or it’s destroyed, and it’s lesser for having been cut down in the first place. It’s not worth it. So we need to get materials from somewhere. Caynero is where we get stone and metal. It’s a little bit like Silk Cradle, but they tunnel on purpose and build in the mountains, not in the cave systems. There’s not a lot of other places we can get those materials – definitely not in the Lands of the Old Faith, not if we want to avoid tipping off the One Who Waits and the Cat.’

After a second, they winced. ‘Well. I don’t have to worry about the last one anymore, I guess. Getting used to this is going to take a while.’

He shrugged, not interested in commenting on it, since that would put off the explanations he was looking for.

‘Anyway, um. It’s tricky bringing them in,’ they said after they realised he wasn’t going to say anything. ‘No idea what you learned about the cores before I can explain anything about them, but that’s your fault, so you’ll have to deal with it. Cores only have a working range of the rovers themselves and maybe a few metres out, depending on how used to working with them someone is. We can’t exactly mass transport materials in the first place because of that, let alone subtly. We’ve been having trouble from the heretics – well, your cultists – so it’s been harder lately, and I’m betting the bad news is that. So that’s the situation with Caynero. You’ll hear more.’

‘You sound more like a monarch than a god.’

‘Not forever. When I’ve taken out the One Who Waits, trust me, I’m going right back to what I do best. Just because killing him’s the reason I did all this doesn’t mean I don’t have plans for what comes after. Some of us are willing to stick to them, even.’

‘Esriaal,’ he said warningly, and they flinched before recovering.

‘Right, I forgot that’s what I told you to call me,’ they said before he could ask. ‘I’ll put up with Shepherd in front of the disciples, this is going to be a hard sell as it is without implying you’re more important than them somehow. You only get to know more because you have to know, not because I want you to.’

‘I would be far more uncomfortable were it the way it might sound without context,’ Narinder said.

‘Good. Nice to know we actually agree on something for once,’ they said, then sighed. ‘But we’re going to have to at least make it look like we agree in general, and that one’s going to come down to both of us remembering we’ve got a common goal, rather than trying to literally get along. And you’re going to be kind of visible, at least while you’re in the Pastures.’

‘Meaning?’

‘You’re not going to be able to help me with anything if you aren’t important enough for people to think it’s reasonable for you to associate with me. So we’ve got two options, one of which is easier in the short term and the other easier in the long term.’

Narinder suspected he was going to dislike both of them, but he disliked almost everything about everything right now. Except the nap in the sunlight. That had been pleasant. ‘Alright. Let me hear them,’ he said, finally taking a seat.

‘Easiest in the short term is to set up the idea that you’re a higher rank deserter than most people suspect,’ they said, turning to face him. ‘A disciple of the One Who Waits or something like that. It’ll piss some people off, and a lot of people won’t trust you, which is fair since you’ll be lying more than the other option. But it’ll make sense why we’re working together, since you’d be the best informant I've gotten so far.’

‘And the other?’

They rubbed their temple under their left horn. ‘Tell the ‘truth’ and reveal that you’re the Cat.’

He stared at them. After a few seconds he said, ‘That is, without the tiniest scrap of a doubt, the stupidest thing I have ever heard.’

‘Yeah, I figured you’d say that,’ they said, rubbing their temple again.

‘You do not have a single follower who would not immediately vilify me – and correctly so – for slaughtering dozens if not hundreds of their fellow followers. There will be many whose flocks I have personally attacked, particularly as my plan to trick you involved allowing heretics to escape – it was meant to imply I was losing heart, but also ensured that there are survivors to pass that on.’

They squeezed their eyes shut, setting one hand on the table as if to balance themself. Their hand was in a fist so tight that even the dark grey skin over their knuckles was nearly white. ‘I suggest you not tell me any more about that plan, because that was one of the things I was hoping was genuine, rather than you actually liking killing kids and sick people, and it’s hard to not strangle you as it is and be done with it. It’s not in your best interest to let me know how much you like hurting people who just wanted to not suffer.’

Narinder intended to say something, if only to end this part of the discussion, but he hesitated. It wasn’t just him; Red around his throat had the same uncertain pause, for all that it hadn’t been speaking. He remembered Red’s subtle (no, hidden) relief that they were able to start sparing some people. His own distaste for it from the start and his own relief at pulling back. Never much relief, but he’d never enjoyed the acts for their own sake. And as the seconds crept by, he grew less and less sure that ‘never much’ was true, or if it was something he was trying to convince himself of. The part of him that would have cemented that thought into place was no longer present, and in its place was almost nothing.

Quarter. Two eighths. Dotted quarter. One eighth. Four sixteenths. Triplet. Triplet. Whole. Rest.

Esriaal frowned and looked up at him. ‘Narinder?’

He was the one to look away this time. ‘Very well,’ he said stiffly. ‘You are correct. I will no longer mention it.’

For all that they’d said they needed to hurry, Esriaal was quiet for an abnormally long moment. Narinder didn’t know their expression; he wasn’t looking. Neither was Red.

‘Oh,’ they said at last. ‘Um. You said last night that you thought the two of you have been split for longer than you thought. How far back do you think…?’

‘I know not,’ he said. ‘Possibly when I ran. At the earliest, when I became the Cat. And I do not believe it was instantaneous.’

You did kind of change around then, Red said. Not completely, but…

‘This is a topic for another time,’ he said. ‘You were saying?’

‘One last thing, and we’ll come back to this,’ Esriaal said, and he sighed. ‘It matters, Narinder.’

‘Then what is it? We are running out of time.’

‘Did you enjoy it? Hunting my flocks?’

‘Hunting? In some ways,’ he said, forcing himself to be brutally honest. If it wasn’t honesty, then it was at least brutal, and that was the best he could do. ‘At first. Killing? No. It was a necessity, not a goal in and of itself.’

‘Okay. Not great, but better than I hoped for,’ Esriaal said, and didn’t look quite so cold this time. ‘Then we can still work together. We’d have to, anyway. But this way it won’t be like pulling teeth. Anyway, those are your choices. A new lie altogether, and we’ll have to work to keep that up, or go back to lying about being the Cat.’

‘Is there a reason you even considered the second one?’

‘A couple of reasons. It would be basically a disaster up front,’ they admitted bluntly. ‘But when the dust settles, even if people never forgive you and most never trust you, there’s still the fact that everyone ‘knows’ you were tortured to death four months ago, and it was because you couldn’t make yourself hurt us anymore. There’s a couple different rumours on the motivations, but everyone knows that you were accused of sympathising, so that’s a decent base to fall back on.

‘It means that not only did you manage to survive the One Who Waits’ wrath and escape, you’ve got Red. So you stole the symbol of his divinity out from under his nose, robbing him of his greatest weapon, and instead of just running as far as you could go, you ran to us. To me, specifically, who you’ve been fighting for decades. I’m not saying people will believe it at first or even ever, not fully, but the actions speak for themselves, particularly if I’m vouching for you.

‘And you didn’t just run. You’re choosing to help us. Talk it up as a personal kind of penance, not to me but in general, and you’ll get some sympathy just from people who believe in second chances. Then lastly, it means you’re not ‘lying’. It’ll do a lot more damage to give you any authority at all if you’re accidentally revealed later on. I think it’s better to get it out of the way.’

Much to Narinder’s annoyance, all of those were actually really good points. And it wasn’t as if momentary discomfort was unendurable. He was, or at least had once been, the One Who Waits. He had undergone far worse for far less than he stood to gain.

‘You understand you will also be damaging your own image, given you have hidden my identity,’ he said, but it wasn’t a no.

‘I was ‘testing’ you,’ they replied with a shrug. ‘And this is my plane. I am their god. I can win them back, if I have to, and if I can’t, then it’s no longer my problem.’

He sighed. ‘Then I advise revealing it to your disciples first, instead of simply having me walk around without warning,’ he said. ‘This is stupid enough without being reckless.’

‘Considering this is the choice we’re making, ‘reckless’ is already a feature,’ Esriaal said, but they looked relieved. ‘I don’t like lying more than I have to,’ they said at his raised eyebrow. ‘I’m not great at it, and it’s usually easier to just let some true things be more obvious than others. So, are you ready? This is going to go really badly at first, just so you know. At least one of them will probably try to attack you, and you’re not allowed to kill them.’

Narinder rolled his eyes. ‘I will play nice. My goals are better served by mercy. I make no promises as to injuries sustained in defending myself.’

‘I’ll have to yell at you about them, but yeah, that’s kind of fair,’ they said, making a face. ‘No one knows you’re more than a Crown bearer at the moment, but you killed me about as often as I killed you. Anyone who attacks you should know better.’

‘Ah, some sense remains in your head.’

They scowled at him. ‘Don’t make me regret it,’ they warned. ‘If you’re not careful, I don’t mind kicking your ass in front of them and making you apologise at knifepoint.’

‘Fine,’ he said with annoyance, mostly because for the first time in days he was reminded that Esriaal with a weapon in their hand had, historically speaking, been a very different kind of problem indeed.

Red gave him an exasperated nudge in his mind, but it was hardly voluntary, and he had self-control, so it wouldn’t be a problem. If only because he would die by his own blade before giving them the satisfaction of knowing they’d ever had even a scrap of power over any part of him, even an involuntary urge.

‘Good. Now come on, we’re going to be late if we don’t get moving,’ they said, and so he followed them out of the hidden alcove, bracing himself for what was likely to be an incredibly unpleasant experience.

As it turned out, the Lycaeum had once been a true enough name – not quite a library but similar, presumably where scribes and scriveners had been intended to do their work. It was taller than any other building save the domed temple itself, a spire of geometric stucco patterns and small balconied windows, flower motifs climbing the walls like ivy. He only recognised a few of them, but he could admit they were skilfully wrought.

Here, as everywhere else, the beautiful structure had been turned from its intended purpose – but far less than some of the other places he’d seen. It was here that much of the tooling of the cores and other such items was performed, judging by the equipment and the creatures currently hard at work. Production was in full swing in the spacious collection of shelves and tables that took up the ground floor, orange glows joined by motes of blue and white. Narinder and Esriaal climbed the spiralling staircase that ran alongside the wall, but the only thing that kept Narinder from craning his neck to see what details he could was a sense of dignity.

Esriaal still sighed when they caught a glimpse of his face. ‘I’ll tell you about how it works at some point,’ they said with the resigned voice of someone knowing ‘some point’ had better be sooner rather than later.

‘Very well,’ he said, and made himself focus as the two left the ground floor, passing two more levels before stepping out into the hall of the third floor. It was round and much quieter than the floors below – almost entirely empty, in fact, save one door across the hall from the stairs. It was plain and slightly ajar, letting out a warm light. Understandably, that was the door Esriaal headed straight towards.

‘Sorry about that,’ they said breezily to the disciples inside, ushering Narinder through the door before closing it. They tapped a circle carved into the side of the door, and Narinder felt another privacy ward take hold. ‘Probably a good thing this meeting’s early, we’re going to have to cover a lot.’

The room was largely done up in bright, cheerful oranges and pinks (likely the reason for the name ‘Marigold’, Narinder assumed.) Far too bright for his tastes, but then, it was better than the grim look of Asterales and the care tents. There was a central table, but it was low to the ground with cushioned seats all around it. The five disciples from before were waiting around the table, though the elderly tortoise was sitting on a chair with more support, and all of them looked stressed in one way or another. That stress wasn’t abated when they spotted Narinder.

‘We might want to get to Caynero first, mate,’ Puarjul said to Esriaal, which was surprisingly laid back for someone speaking to her god. ‘Reckon you said you trust the bloke, and he helped me yesterday, so he’s a good sort. Got Kallamar the niphredil salve in time to save that tot – would’ve been another ten minutes before I could get over there. Helped heaps, just with that.’

‘Oh, huh,’ Esriaal said, giving Narinder a curious look. Narinder was just nodding to Puarjul in acknowledgement. ‘Well, that’s good. We’ll get to him in a bit, but for now, he’s here because I want him to be. What’s going on?’

‘Bad news out of Caynero,’ said the elderly tortoise, her eyes bright and quick despite her advanced age. ‘Tynojul’s dead.’

Esriaal flinched, then took a seat on the nearest cushion. They weren’t faking the distress on their face, Narinder could tell as he took a seat himself, two cushions away from theirs, as unobtrusive as possible. His back was to the door, which he didn’t like, but it was better to have the exit in easy reach.

‘Dead?’ Esriaal said, voice quiet and a little hoarse. ‘How? He couldn’t get to one of the safe houses?’

‘Someone outed him,’ Julmar said, and looked furious about it. ‘He didn’t have the time to run. They haven’t heard of the excision over there yet, so he was just executed, but I give it another few months.’

‘Hell,’ they said, grey face now washed out. ‘He deserved better.’

‘Not to mention what it lost us,’ said the marten. ‘I’m sorry to say it, Shepherd – you know I liked him. I’ll have him added to the Litany. But we don’t really have the time to focus on… well.’

‘I know,’ Esriaal said, gathering themself. ‘Alright, thank you, Habre. I’d appreciate if you put him in the Litany as soon as possible, he did a lot for us.’ They rubbed one temple. ‘He’s going to be really hard to replace. He’s the only foreman we had, we’re not going to be able to smuggle anywhere near as much metal from anywhere else.’

‘We might be able to sway one of his fellow foremen – they’re all close, and if he was willing to listen to us, somebody else might,’ the last disciple said, a large, blue-green newt with a twang in his voice. ‘I’ll get on that, but it’s still gonna be real tight for the next couple months.’

‘Months?’ Julmar repeated, looking outraged. ‘We can’t afford months!’

‘We’re gonna have to figure out how,’ said the newt, unruffled. ‘Slow rover production.’

‘But the prostheses –’

‘Might have to be put on hold,’ Esriaal said, holding up their hand, and Julmar instantly went silent, tail drooping. ‘People know we can only give them what we have, and it’s a promise we’ll keep, but it might take more time. It gives us time to build up a supply of cores for them, anyway, so we can work with it. I promised the excised a way to replace what was lost, if they want it, and I haven’t broken any promise before. I won’t break this one, now. It sounds like Caynero’s getting too dangerous for any caravan to travel through if we can help it, so other than conversion caravans…’

Narinder watched quietly, studying the meeting. He was no longer intending to run and make use of the knowledge he’d gained to kill Esriaal off, but that made it no less worth knowing. It was quite a breadth of things Esriaal and their disciples were trying to manage, and doing so with relative competency – but Narinder could tell that this was a collection of people doing their best, not anyone with real experience. Esriaal was the closest, but they were paying too much attention to details, too caught up in minutiae; it was obvious that they were accustomed to (and likely best at) leadership when it came to a cult. Maybe even a large cult. But this was no longer a mere cult, from what they’d said about Caynero, their followers elsewhere in the world. This was a religion, and moreover, an organisation at war on multiple fronts. From his own cult, of course – he’d not known he had followers overseas, or hadn’t thought the implications through, or they’d be opposed by another full religion by now – but the lands across the sea were volatile, and Esriaal was trying to take that on, too.

Ambitious, but foolish. As the One Who Waits, Narinder may have been willing to tackle something of this scale, when he’d been in command and at the height of his power. Esriaal’s religion was spreading too quickly for them to fully manage – he’d predicted as much decades ago – and it was spreading in places that they had no hope of managing directly. It was no surprise that volatile lands may long for peace; it was quite another for Peace to try and make itself at home in a place that was hostile to its very essence. Judging by the sheer variety of things the group was glossing over, let alone discussing, he suspected these – Esriaal and five disciples – were the only ones with their hands on the reins.

It was only his business insomuch as it complicated his own efforts to take down the One Who Waits and reclaim his cult, of course. And even if he’d wished to help in any significant capacity, the story Esriaal was planning would limit him. The Cat was no statesman, after all, no leader of anything but violent soldiers: no advice would be welcome or acceptable from his mouth.

Perhaps it would still be wiser for him to take Red and handle this himself. Red echoed the thought, but with more reluctance than he would have expected.

‘Well, reckon that’s all we’re going to hammer out tonight,’ Puarjul said at last, every single person here looking more exhausted than before. ‘Last bit of business, then – you said you were going to give us the drum on Narinder, yeah?’

He watched Esriaal’s left ear twitch, just a little.

You forgot we’re here, didn’t you, Red said helpfully.

Please save your amusement for after we extricate ourselves from this disaster, Pale replied, and despite how Esriaal didn’t need to sleep, their Crown certainly managed to convey the exhaustion it shared with its bearer.

‘Right, sorry about that,’ Esriaal said, smiling apologetically. ‘It’s – complicated, though. After all of this, it might be better to tackle it tomorrow?’

The tortoise – Bretre, he’d heard her called – gave Esriaal a concerned look. ‘You know we trust you, Shepherd,’ she said. ‘With our lives and our safety. But I’ve been hearing whispers, and he’s only been here one day. People are going to start asking us questions, and we need something to tell them.’

‘Particularly as the going theory is that he’s not just a deserter, he was a soldier,’ Julmar said, his eyes cold as he looked at Narinder. Narinder looked him right back in the eye, unmoving in either posture or expression. ‘People are getting scared, my Shepherd.’

Esriaal winced. ‘That’s fair,’ they said reluctantly. ‘I’m just… not sure how to start this explanation. It all kind of happened fast.’

‘What did?’ Puarjul said, looking between Esriaal and Narinder. She clearly hadn’t heard the soldier rumours yet, because her expression was much, much less friendly than it had been at the start.

Esriaal scrubbed at their face. ‘Well. I met him when I caught wind of someone tailing Shamura’s caravan,’ they said, and the disciples stiffened. ‘I was worried it was the Cat, but it seemed too messy even though it was clearly a soldier, so I went after him one night. I stabbed him a little, we talked, and we agreed that we could help each other. He needed to get away from the One Who Waits, and he had information, as well as something valuable to the One Who Waits. I agreed to let him come with us, the way he’d been hoping, in return for his help against the One Who Waits.’

Three of the disciples began to relax. Two hadn’t: Puarjul and Julmar. Puarjul was the one nearest to him, only one cushion between her and himself. While Julmar seemed the more dangerous of the two, Narinder knew damn well not to assume until he knew whether either would attack or not. And her face was clear that she was hearing what Esriaal was dancing around.

‘Shepherd,’ Julmar said, shaking a little. The other three disciples were tensing up again, realising something was wrong. ‘Please, for the love of everything Pastoral, tell me you’re not saying what I think you’re saying. Please.’

Esriaal held up their hands. ‘Julmar. Take a breath and listen to me.’

‘You brought him here?!’ Julmar said, getting to his feet, horror and rage raising his hackles. ‘Him?! You know what he’s done –’

Narinder stood, and the room flinched. ‘Breathe,’ he said flatly. ‘Will you or will you not hear your god out?’

No one else got a chance to say anything, because that was when Puarjul’s fist swung out and punched him in the jaw.

Red leapt from his throat to his left hand, disguise vanishing and making the other disciples shriek in fear. Red was sensible, not even needing Narinder’s warning to remain non-lethal before it took the shape of a sturdy rod the length of his arm. No blade, no edge, the best he could do under the circumstances, and he knocked aside Puarjul’s next punch with his offhand, pushing her away from him with as little force as could still be effective. He couldn’t hurt her or he would just play into what was expected of him, but he somehow doubted she had any such compulsions against harming him.

She was speedy, however, and while she would’ve hardly been an issue if he was trying to kill her, it was a little trickier like this. Not to mention how the modern shirt he wore restricted his movements, but he could work with the hampering sleeves in close quarters, at least. ‘You need not do this,’ he said calmly as he ducked under another swing and twisted around her as she tried to grab him. ‘I have not attacked you –’

Behind, three-quarters, Red said, and Narinder immediately darted forward and to his right – which was the reason Julmar’s sword didn’t sever his spine.

‘Very well,’ he said, whirling and dancing back a few steps as Puarjul darted after him. ‘Two of you? Manageable.’

‘Narinder, don’t you dare –’ Esriaal started furiously, only to shut up when he dodged a swing of Julmar’s sword to give them a disgusted, offended look.

‘I will not kill them,’ he snapped, not even looking as he redirected Julmar’s stab to the open air and swayed out of the fox’s way. ‘I said I would not. Do make an attempt to believe me for more than five minutes at a time if you hope to convince your followers to do the same.’

‘Never,’ Julmar snarled, and he’d been hampered by Puarjul’s presence; the otter had dropped back (presumably in favour of the one with a deadly weapon), and so Julmar had more room. It was clear he was used to more open spaces, however, and Narinder knew better how to compact himself and his movements in confined places. He was almost glad for the shirt at the moment. ‘I don’t know what you’ve done to the Shepherd, how you’ve convinced them –’

‘They would have told you, had you or Puarjul given them the time to do so,’ Narinder pointed out sensibly, parrying a swing with Red and sweeping his arm out in the opposite direction, striking Julmar’s side and sending him staggering with a swear. ‘And I do not believe speeches given mid-fight have much persuasion power.’

‘Julmar, Narinder, stand down,’ Esriaal snarled. Julmar didn’t look like he planned on following his Shepherd’s command, and it wasn’t as if Narinder was beholden to Esriaal, certainly not at the moment.

‘Not until he’s dead for good,’ Julmar said, and managed to score a decent hit by kicking a cushion into Narinders way and making him stumble. His sword pierced Narinder’s side at what might have been a dangerous angle if he had more skill. Narinder hissed in pain – god or not, a wound was a wound – and grit his teeth.

‘I was attempting to be gentle,’ he told Julmar as the fox lunged at him again, missing by a hair’s breadth. He was going to enjoy this. ‘If you choose otherwise, then so be it.’

‘Narinder, no –!’

Narinder ignored Esriaal’s shout, darting towards the unbalanced Julmar at full speed. Three hits: one to the solar plexus, knocking the wind out of him. One to the right knee, his dominant side, sending him toppling to the side. One to his elbow, precisely placed to jar Julmar’s arm and drop the sword.

By the time Julmar hit the floor, his sword was in Narinder’s paw, and a few seconds later the fox was on his back with the point of his own blade at his throat.

The room was silent. Narinder lifted one eyebrow down at Julmar.

‘And would you look at that,’ he said dryly. ‘You yet live. Congratulations; you have survived a fight with the Cat. I imagine it may have lost its shine, as I had no intention of fighting any of you, let alone killing you. But if your pride hinges on attacking potential allies in a fight you need every hand, paw, fin, and claw to win, then by all means. Indulge your pride again.’

And with that, he dropped the sword onto Julmar’s chest, stepping away.

‘I am the Cat,’ he told the room bluntly, Red returning to its rightful place atop his head. He ignored the pain of the wound at his side, as well as the blood soaking into his shirt.  ‘More importantly, I am Narinder. I am the chosen bearer of the Red Crown, damn what the One Who Waits thinks. And we have a common goal.’

‘What the hell do you think we share with you?’ Puarjul demanded, looking like she was of half a mind to take another swing.

He smiled thinly. ‘You want the One Who Waits gone. As do I.’

‘You worked for him,’ Julmar spat, voice wheezing as he pushed himself up.

‘I was trapped with him,’ Narinder corrected coldly. ‘Do not think I know not what I have done. I am well aware of it, the sins that stain me, and that it was by my paws that many innocents were laid to waste.’

‘Do you hear him?’ Julmar demanded from Esriaal, the other disciples. ‘He doesn’t even feel remorse!’

‘I said no such thing,’ Narinder snapped, rage flaring up briefly before he strangled it back into a more reasonable frustration. ‘You have no right to the question of what haunts me or drives me. I am here because I chose to be. I bear what was once his Crown. I was trapped with him for the vast majority of my existence, crushed down by him until I barely had a name of my own, and I care nothing for the opinion of a creature incapable of comprehending nuance. I am here to kill the One Who Waits, and you can either waste the opportunity I offer, or you can bother to listen to your fucking god.’

Narinder looked up at Esriaal, who flinched, their expression some mix of furtive and furious. ‘Be angry with me if you wish,’ he warned, ‘but I did as you asked. I have killed no one, and I did not attack unless attacked in turn. Is that not enough for you tonight?’

‘For the first time in your existence, I’m not angry at you,’ they snapped, which undercut their words for the second it took to look from him to Julmar. ‘Julmar, I told you to stand down, didn’t I?’

‘Shepherd –’

‘Didn’t I.’

Julmar jerked, then his ears drooped, tail tucked tight to his body. ‘I’m sorry, my Shepherd,’ he said, and at least sounded properly ashamed. ‘You did, and I didn’t obey. I have failed you.’

I hate grovelling, Red muttered atop Narinder’s head.

‘I trust you won’t do so again,’ Esriaal said, gaze hard, then looked at Narinder again. ‘You were defending yourself, and that’s the only reason I didn’t step in and take you down myself,’ they said flatly. ‘Raise the Red Crown against any of my followers again, and I’ll send you to the One Who Waits myself.’

At the same time, Pale was speaking. Play along, Red Crown. We shall handle Julmar at a later time. Your bearer’s pride can afford a hit or two.

‘Very well,’ Narinder said evenly, though he dearly would have liked to give both Esriaal and their damn Crown a piece of his mind. ‘I will defend myself without it next time. Forgive the Crown for choosing to defend a kinder master than the one before.’

And you better hope I stick to that, Red added as Julmar began to protest again. This is my bearer. I’m not letting an idiot run him through with a sword just because of who he was before now.

Pale’s eye narrowed. I see little difference, save the shape, it said. His other half may be more beastly on the outside, but I do not doubt your bearer is no different within.

The only reason I’m not taking you out for that comment is because I hate the One Who Waits more, Red snarled back as Esriaal hushed Julmar and turned to the room as a whole. Say what you want about the One Who Waits, but you’ll keep your mouth shut about Narinder.

Narinder couldn’t have said what he’d feel at that kind of declaration, if asked beforehand, but he didn’t mind taking comfort in it now. He didn’t need any protection from Pale, but he wouldn’t say no to the solidarity from Red.

‘This isn’t any easier for me than it is for any of you,’ Esriaal was saying, ignoring the Crowns’ conversation. ‘He’s been killing my flocks for the last few decades, and giving me a headache every time he managed to kill me. Much as I hate to say it, though, I know damn well how dangerous it is to say ‘no’ to the One Who Waits. And pissed off or not, I can see reality when it’s in front of me. He was tortured near to death, and still chose to risk revealing himself to steal the Red Crown and come find me, knowing that if he was caught by the One Who Waits’ soldiers or didn’t manage to make me listen, he’d be dead for real. And however badly the One Who Waits wants to tear me apart, he can’t get at my soul. That’s not true of Narinder.’

‘And what if this was all an elaborate lie?’ Julmar asked, throwing Narinder a loathing glare. ‘What if this is all a set up?’

‘It’s not,’ Esriaal said flatly. ‘I have my ways of knowing. He’s here sincerely. Julmar, I know you’re angry. You have good reason for being angry. But I am your god, and you’ve trusted me since you were small. Don’t let your anger at him get between you and your faith. This is a temporary state of affairs, until the One Who Waits is gone.’

‘And what happens then? He’s just forgiven?’

‘No,’ Narinder said before Esriaal could, just as flat. ‘I am not so naive as you, to think that even a possibility. I have gotten the promise I wished for. One chance to run.’

‘So you get to escape,’ Julmar said with frustration.

‘Until and unless they find me again,’ Narinder said, looking Julmar in the eye. ‘I will be hunted for the rest of my existence, one way or another. I will live as long as I can, and damn your opinion of it, but my choice is death by Peace or eternal agony by Death. I have made mine. Rest easy knowing no fate is kind to me.’

He looked at Esriaal then. They were watching him with a complex expression. He’d think sorrow hid among those complexities if he didn’t know reality. If he was the Cat? Perhaps. But he wasn’t, not truly, and there would be no grace for him.

I won’t let it happen, Red murmured, knowing full well Esriaal and Pale could hear it. None of it. We are Narinder, the Red Crown, god of Death. And if they betray the real deal we’ve made, then they’re going to learn exactly why the Bishops were so afraid that they resorted to chains.

‘I am of no further use in this meeting,’ he said to Esriaal, whose expression was even more complicated. Pale was watching Red, the round eye perfectly neutral. ‘My presence will not allow you to comfort your faithful. I will disguise myself once more. I doubt I will be welcome among the flock with which I have been travelling once my identity is known, nor any flock, but that is a problem for tomorrow.’

‘I’ll come find you tomorrow. Don’t leave the flock this time. We’ll decide how to reveal you then.’

He nodded, as close to inclining his head as he was willing to do. Just because he had to pretend to be lesser in nature didn’t mean he had to be so in action. Red returned to his throat in a fluid black motion, the illusion returning to life, and he left the room with its bright oranges and pinks, the colours loud but the space silent.

Chapter Text

It felt strange to leave the Lycaeum and find that it was only late afternoon, not full dark. No one had given Narinder a second glance as he walked down the long spiral stairs, thankfully, and while he wanted to snoop around in the Lycaeum’s busy workspace, he knew that would be unwise at the moment. Instead he walked out under the stucco arches into the warm Pastoral sunlight, the blue sky above unmarred by the melodrama beneath its expanse. The path was no less busy than an hour or two past, and he flicked his ears down as he made his way through the foot traffic, avoiding the care tents. He didn’t want to hear it again, and he was willing to be a coward for a moment.

You know that you told the truth, right? , Red asked as he crossed the bridge in Asterales.

‘Which part?’ Narinder murmured, the sound entirely lost amidst the clamour of the street, but given Red was around his throat, it wouldn’t be hard to hear.

When you said you’re the chosen Bearer, Red clarified, and Narinder frowned a tiny bit, doing his best to do so down at the packed earth instead of a random passerby. I’ve chosen you. Not the One Who Waits. Not the god we were before. I’ve chosen Narinder. The Cat, in a way.

‘I do not understand the significance.’

Red didn’t have a chance to answer, as Narinder’s right ear swivelled back at a call of his name. It was accented, very audible even through all the hubbub. When he turned, he saw it was Puarjul, jogging to catch up, threading the busy street with the fluidity of old practice.

‘Can I help you?’ he said politely as she approached, then stiffened as she grabbed his arm, not slowing down from her jog.

‘Come on, mate, with me,’ she said, making him stumble before he managed to catch his balance again. She had a long stride for someone shorter than him, and it took a moment to match it. At least people didn’t seem inclined to stay in her way.

‘Is there a reason for this?’ he asked, sidestepping an owlet and a bat playing in the street who kicked their little ball a bit too far and were now chasing it down.

She gave him an unimpressed look. ‘No, not a single one,’ she said dryly, not even bothering to check the traffic of the next side road they passed. He had the sense that if one of the rovers or wagons struck her, it wasn’t the vehicle that would suffer from the collision. ‘I just wanted to go on a spring stroll. You’re the perfect company for it, mate – reckon your glare will wither all the flowers out of the way.’

He snorted, then blinked in surprise at that.

‘You’re with Shamura’s flock, yeah?’ she continued, and he nodded. ‘Alright, good, reckon they’ll be at the afternoon sermon at the mo’ and we need to talk.’

‘You wish to?’ he said, giving her a side eye. ‘A few minutes past, you… didn’t appear to be of the same opinion.’

She just gave him another look, and he sighed but nodded. He was growing displeased with how often he was following any given person around at the moment, he huffed internally as she led the way out of Asterales. When they finished climbing Fairlee Hill, Shamura’s caravan was indeed more or less empty, of both followers and the spider themself.

‘Alright, which one’s yours,’ she said, gesturing at the tents.

‘That one, for the moment,’ he said, gesturing at the tent that had been Esriaal’s. ‘Assuming the decision is made that I continue to accompany this flock, I will get a new one, though that is not yet decided.’

‘Reckon that’s going to depend on how the next few minutes go,’ she said as she walked towards his tent, and he squinted down at her.

‘I was not aware you were the final decision on such things,’ he said, lifting the tent flap for her out of polite instinct, then ducked in after her.

She didn’t say anything, but did roll her eyes as she fished a pendant out from under her sensible shirt. It sat beside the same token he’d seen others wearing, but there was a second one, glowing a faint blue. She tapped it against the tent flap, and he tensed up as a gentle pale shimmer poured down over the entrance. A ward – privacy, judging by the symbols he was barely able to glimpse before she put the pendant back down her shirt.

‘I would advise you do nothing rash,’ he said coolly, Red shifting around his throat as it readied itself. ‘I would hope you would not choose to isolate us for a second attack, as that would be unwise, and you have not struck me as a fool.’

‘That depends, mate,’ she said, setting one hand on her hip, though she did eye Red’s collar form a bit uneasily. ‘I needed to talk to you away from the Shepherd and the rest of the disciples. It’s in your best interest to sound repentant in front of them. I don’t need Julmar making a nuisance of himself during this, either – right dill at the best of times. Too obsessed with trying to cosy up to the Shepherd to think with his northern head instead of the southern one.’

Red snickered, as she couldn’t hear it, but Narinder was much warier. ‘You are particularly casual about your god. And disdainful of your fellow disciples.’

‘Most of them? No, of course not. Becoming a disciple’s never easy – the Shepherd’s trust is hard to win. Julmar? I’ve never thought he was a smart choice, but the Shepherd needed a fighter, and he’s good enough at that. I’ve made my peace with it. Doesn’t mean I like it.’

‘I am surprised that you speak so candidly,’ he said cautiously. He wasn’t willing to let down his guard entirely, but he suspected that ‘disliking Julmar’ was going to become something of a litmus test for his opinion of others. ‘The others seemed more… respectful.’

‘I’m the Head Disciple, mate,’ she said, and he blinked. ‘I’ve been the Shepherd’s right paw for just about three decades now. They nicked me out of a destroyed flock in the first few years, when I was still a pup, and took me in themself. M’not the only one they’ve done that with, but those were the early days – too many followers for something like that now.’

He’d winced at ‘destroyed flock’. ‘I am now less surprised that you speak so candidly of them, and moreso that you speak so candidly with me.’

She shrugged. ‘Still making up my mind, mate, but the Shepherd did have a point about you coming to them. That was either a blockheaded thingo to do or a brave one, but you did it one way or the other. There’s more they’re not saying, but that’s not my bizzo. You, though?’ She crossed her arms and squinted at him. ‘There’s more you’re not saying, and that is my bizzo. How much did you mean what you told us?’

Narinder hesitated, thinking fast; he knew the hesitation itself was going to be a mistake, potentially a bad one, but he was too thrown off by her demeanour. He didn’t know how to boil down everything and package it into a way that didn’t ruin everything or tell her more than she could safely know.

‘Don’t bother trying to come up with a lie or persuade me,’ she said as he continued to be silent, railing at himself internally for his wordlessness. ‘Just tell me the truth and I’ll believe it.’

That brought him up short. ‘You will assume I am speaking truly?’ he asked. ‘Were I in your place, I would not do the same.’

‘Then it’s a good thing that I’m the one here and you’re not, isn’t it?’ she replied, both eyebrows up. ‘You don’t do everything you have without having a brain in your head. Think of it this way: I’m your fastest ticket to making sure whatever plan you and the Shepherd cook up will go smoothly among the followers.’

‘Will the Shepherd’s word not be enough?’

‘In this? No,’ she said bluntly. ‘Not because we think they’ll lie, mate – but we know things are bodged up right now, and the Shepherd will do whatever they need to if it gets us out of this blue. That’s admirable. But we know that makes for questionable bedfellows sometimes.’

He considered her closely. ‘I take it you are not quite so compromising.’

She wobbled her hand. ‘I do what I need, same as anyone else. Pragmatism is what you need to get by in this world – and this is pragmatism. Most will trust the Shepherd alone. Those who still doubt might be persuaded if they know I’m not just supporting them, I’m trusting you.’

‘Is that not a risk for your own reputation?’

‘We’ll see,’ she replied, then gave him a hard look, so stern that it almost affected him. ‘Tell me the truth. The whole truth, no matter how bad. I might try to kill you, depending, but I won’t tell anyone else.’

Narinder hesitated again.

Narinder, don’t, Red warned. Stick to the script. We have a story, it’s believable, and it’s more than enough to fool her.

Red was right. He knew Red was right.

But he was going to be the Cat one way or the other, she was being sincere, and Narinder was tired. He was already in pieces. The only one this truly damaged would be himself, potentially; she disapproved of Julmar, so Narinder doubted she’d act against him openly until she knew the Shepherd wouldn’t see it as a betrayal.

Red was reluctant, but it obeyed when he dispelled the illusion, returning to his head. Then he opened his third eye, and Puarjul froze.

‘I am not the One Who Waits,’ he said quietly.

‘You look a hell of a lot like him, mate,’ she said, tensed up as if about to spring at the tent flap and run.

‘That is because I was him,’ he said. ‘It is… complicated. To make it as simple as I can, we have split in two. I know not why. What I do know is that however it happened, he is going mad. I am many things, but the excisions –’

Narinder cut himself off, the care tents vivid in his mind’s eye. ‘He somehow ordered those, but it is not in my memory,’ he said, Puarjul still watching him closely, but she was marginally less tense. ‘He likely knew we were separate before I did, and he has been using it. I know not what his purpose is, but I know that the course he is charting is not one I would choose in my right mind, and it is one intolerable to me. The only reason I am here instead of hunting him alone is because Esriaal has made the point that we will both fail if we do this apart – but if we ally now, for as long as it takes to kill him, then we may succeed. I will reclaim my cult, and repair it. And I will leave Esriaal to their own devices.’

Puarjul nodded, regarding him with a look that just might be compassion. ‘So when this is done, you leave us alone? No more hunts, no more excisions, none of it?’

‘None of it,’ he confirmed, and Red returned to his throat, the disguise following. ‘I know not what course I shall chart then, but it will not be this one, and I see no reason to interfere with this cult – if I wish to reclaim my followers, it must be by offering something that Esriaal cannot give, not by destroying the competition.’

‘Alright,’ Puarjul said, relaxing fully. ‘I believe you. I do reckon it’s a bit unbelievable for anyone else, mate, so it’s for the best that you and the Shepherd not tell anyone else, but if you keep your word, I’ll keep mine. When you’re revealed, I’ll back up the Shepherd.’

‘Very well,’ he said, inclining his head. ‘I am unsure why you wish to, but I will not turn it away.’

‘Kallamar,’ she said frankly. ‘Reckon it’s hard to see your face from the outside, but you looked sick when you and Shamura went by after. This isn’t something you wanted. If you are – well, were – the One Who Waits, then I don’t think you could feign that. Bastard’s never had a heart, and if he did, I reckon it’s left him. Everyone starts somewhere. If I can vouch for other deserters, I can vouch for you.’

‘Very well,’ he said again. ‘I will make sure you know what is happening when the time comes.’

‘Good, you do that. Get some rest, mate – oh, right, meant to say thanks,’ she said.

‘…what for?’ he asked warily.

‘Giving Julmar what for. Like I said, the Shepherd made a mistake with that one, in my opinion,’ she said, shaking her head. ‘They wanted a fighter for a disciple who could help with defence training and the like, but Julmar’s only worried about impressing them. S’good to see the little shit knocked down a peg or two.’

‘Are they so desperate for such a thing that they will settle for him?’ he said.

‘Not anymore, they’re not,’ Puarjul said pointedly. ‘He’ll be in this for job security soon enough, I reckon.’

‘I have no intention of becoming a disciple,’ he huffed indignantly.

‘You’d make an awful one,’ she agreed, which somehow also offended him. ‘But you might have a bit of seniority on the brat. Just a hunch, mind.’

He snorted again before he could stop himself, and she grinned in answer.

‘Alright, reckon I ought to get back,’ she said, taking out the little blue pendant and tapping it against the ward, vanishing it. It felt like Esriaal’s power, but much more finely tuned than even the ward over the alcove in the temple wall. It would need to be, in order to be so small. While he doubted he would find much trouble in crafting such a small thing if given time to design it, he wanted to know what sort of creature Esriaal had found who was so talented as to work so cleanly with such an old style of magic.

‘Thank you,’ he made himself say, and she blinked. ‘For choosing to listen, even if it is against your own instincts,’ he elaborated as she stared at him. ‘Even I can conceive of why one may react as you did earlier, as did Julmar. So thank you for choosing to be level-headed.’

‘…yeah, reckon I can see the separation,’ she said, recovering. ‘You’re welcome. Don’t make me regret it.’

‘That is the intention,’ he said, inclining his head, and watched as she walked out, leaving him alone in the empty tent.

That went better than expected, Red admitted with a sigh, nestling closer. Since I didn’t expect it at all.

‘Nor did I,’ he said, then shook himself. ‘But I believe her to be sincere. And she was correct, that a second voice will do much to calm the fallout to come. I am not so great a fool as to believe her without reservation, but I think we can trust that she will do as she says she will.’

Well, if everything goes wrong, it’s not like we have to worry about not killing her, Red said reluctantly. I don’t want to, though.

Narinder could tell it wasn’t simply a liking of Puarjul that was behind Red’s words. His Crown was letting him in more than ever, and though he felt it tense when he saw the real underlying thought, he touched it with comforting fingers.

‘Death is not synonymous with killing,’ he said quietly. ‘There is no harm in not relishing unnecessary death.’

Long ago, that had been a much more common thought to him, but now it carried an uncomfortable edge that he couldn’t quite articulate. Neither could Red. A tinge of something that was distant kin to guilt, perhaps. It was wavering on the edge of the hollow inside of him, and he didn’t want to look at it too closely.

Let’s just… find something to do, Red said, and Narinder agreed with relief, perfectly content to leave it unexamined for now.

‘This,’ Narinder said sceptically, squinting at Esriaal through the light from the narrow window that sliced the room in two. ‘This is the best idea you could come up with.’

Esriaal scowled at him, crossing their arms. They sat atop a desk in a study on the top floor of the Lycaeum, and the theme of the room was ‘beauty marred by utility’, just like everywhere else. Well, perhaps not beauty, which implied elegance in Narinder’s opinion. This would be a very homey room indeed, however, with rich brown wood for the desk and bookshelves and the narrow window letting in the ever-sunny days. It was stripped of that homey quality and compacted into a clutter that was nigh on claustrophobic, filled with papers and boxes, charts and books stacked high. Esriaal looked unbothered by that, at least. The only thing they were bothered by was him.

‘It went alright the last time you called one of my ideas stupid,’ they said, sulking. ‘Jumping into the deep end didn’t completely tank everything.’

‘I fought two of your disciples, one of whom has looked as if he is contemplating murder each time he’s seen me over the last three days,’ Narinder replied, eyebrows raised. His third eye was closed beneath his disguise, as ever, but he really shouldn’t have opened it for Puarjul; now he had to get used to hiding it again.

‘Julmar’s in charge of defence combat, and you’re kind of exactly what he’s been defending against for years,’ they pointed out.

‘That sounds like an issue that is within his power to solve, not mine.’

‘He tried. By trying to kill you.’

‘Which would rather ruin all of the plans you are attempting to make,’ Narinder said through clenched teeth. ‘I would appreciate you putting in a tenth of the effort to remain civil that I am making. Feel free to begin at any point in the near future.’

‘We’re immortal, that’s relative,’ they said, waving a hand.

Shepherd, Pale said, and sounded a little reproving. This is temporary. You need not control it forever, just in the moment.

‘At the very least when speaking to my face,’ Narinder said when they huffed.

‘I have to pretend to be civil everywhere else, you could give me this at least,’ they said.

Narinder held onto his temper, but it was only by a whisker. ‘Fine. If you wish to be less gracious and more immature than I, by all means,’ he said evenly. ‘You only embarrass yourself. My anger is temporary; your actions will be remembered.’

‘I don’t really care, as long as you keep to our deal, but fine,’ Esriaal relented. He knew what their problem was, in the end, but they were the one who’d asked him to stay and work with them. They could attempt to hate him less, if only when speaking to him directly.

Red silently shared his disgruntlement, along with a frustrated thought he hadn’t expected; it was disappointed. The Esriaal who’d worn it long ago had been much more reasonable. It was a shame that even if the Shepherd lived, the Lamb –

Narinder flinched, and Red hastily cut off the thought. In its wake was the old echo, a song composed of staccato ivory notes that he tried not to hear and couldn’t unknow, echoing off a soul’s half-demolished walls.

Quarter. Two eighths. Dotted quarter. One eighth. Four sixteenths. Triplet. Triplet. Whole. Rest.

‘Narinder?’

He started, blinking a bit. Esriaal was sitting forward, and at least they bothered to look sincerely worried. Not much, but still.

‘It is nothing,’ he said. ‘Nothing of importance to you, at any rate. Leave it be.’

Esriaal hesitated. ‘You looked…’

‘I care not. And neither do you,’ he said sharply. ‘Do not feign concern for me, no matter what you think you have seen. Unless you are of the opinion that I am dying, I advise you not strain what empathy remains to you that can find compassion for one you hate. Am I clear?’

They looked away, but that seemed to be more about controlling their anger. ‘Fine,’ they bit out. ‘Sorry for trying to do what you asked and treat you like a person when you look like someone just told you a loved one died. Not like you’ve ever cared enough about anyone to grieve for them, though.’

‘No, I have not,’ he said crisply, the words bouncing off the walls of the same hollow place within him where the old bone melody always played. ‘Grief is unnatural to the god of Death. Death does not grieve. Are you finished? I wish to get back to this stupid plan of yours, so I may convince you to give it a second thought and find almost any other solution. Announcing my identity at a sermon is foolish at best, and dangerous at worst.’

‘If you touch a single one of –’

‘Oh, for – Esriaal, I am not going to murder anyone,’ he snapped. ‘You are the one who asked me to remain, and I agreed because it was easier, not because it is impossible for me to succeed on my own. I may be half a god, but so is he, and I am the one with Red on my brow. You are convenient, nothing more, and you are rapidly losing that convenience.’

They bared their teeth at him, unnaturally sharp in a sheep’s mouth, same as they always had when divine anger edged towards the eldritch. ‘I can make myself inconvenient really fast,’ they snapped. ‘Don’t test me.’

‘What is wrong with you?!’ he burst out, standing up. ‘Are you so blinded by your bitterness that you will sabotage yourself and your faith in favour of spiting me?’

Narinder, calm down, Red said, though he could feel its own mounting anger as it spilled forward to float in front of him as a serpent, looking him in the eyes. Just because they changed for the worse doesn’t mean we have to entertain it.

Esriaal flinched.

They’re trying to pick a fight, Red continued. They can piss off. They’re necessary for now, even if they’re not reliable, and we can’t do anything if they decide they want to be a lesser creature than the one who wore me before. They’re not worth this. Just calm down, and let’s get through this.

‘Excuse me,’ Esriaal said, and they were shaking faintly when Narinder looked past Red. They weren’t just pissed off, he saw. They were hurt.

No. You’re not excused, Red said, then returned to Narinder’s throat. This had been intentional on its part, he could sense; not just about calming Narinder down, but getting in a hit of its own. From the looks of it, Red knew how to make it painful. Good. Esriaal deserved no better, at the moment.

He sat down, though they didn’t move from their seat on the desk; their real eye was closed, the false one still looking out over the room, and he suspected they were having a silent conversation with Pale. Red doubted that would do anything, Narinder knew, but he was fine with waiting this out. He’d had the satisfaction of seeing that the past hurt Esriaal just as much in the moment as it hurt him, and so long as they were wounding one another, he was willing to endure. Until his other half was dead, at least.

Esriaal opened their remaining eye, then looked away from him. It took a moment for them to speak. He waited.

‘Pale’s right,’ they said at last, and it sounded like it was hard to say – but there was at least some proper shame in their voice. ‘I’m better than this. I’m stressed, but that’s no excuse. You’re keeping to the deal, and I’m not. So I’m sorry.’

Narinder nodded when they glanced back. He wasn’t accepting it, but he could acknowledge it and move on. From their expression, Esriaal at least knew when to take what they could get; judging from the state of things in the Pastures, that was a lesson they were learning more by the day.

‘When I said the announcement would be dangerous, I did not mean for your followers,’ he said evenly. ‘I can defend myself, certainly. But a mob is different, particularly as none of them are required to keep to the same non-lethal commitment. As much as I know you would enjoy seeing me trampled, I believe we can both agree that sending me to the One Who Waits will not end well for your plans or mine.’

‘Yeah,’ they said tiredly, and scrubbed at their face with one hand. ‘I’m not sure what else to do. Even if we only tell a few people, word’s going to get out fast, and then people are going to wonder why I didn’t tell everyone all at once.’

Narinder squinted at them. ‘Have you been resting?’

They blinked, sitting up a bit. ‘What?’

‘Have you been resting?’ he repeated with as much patience as he could bring himself to spend on this. ‘Even gods must do so, from time to time.’

They snorted for some reason. ‘Trust me, I get enough sleep,’ they said, but sighed. ‘But jokes aside, ‘rest’ isn’t really something that works for me. I told you that I can’t sleep.’

‘I do not mean sleep,’ he said, though he had in fact forgotten that they’d said that. ‘You have seven copies of yourself handling things. Can you not spare one for a moment where you do not work? It is affecting you and your ability to think.’

‘Not really, no,’ they said. ‘Meditating a few days ago and meditating at night when one of me is out with a caravan is as good as it gets. I have too much to do. When things quiet down, I’d like to use fewer mes, but it’s necessary right now.’

‘Do you not always have seven of yourself in use?’

Esriaal hesitated, clearly weighing something. ‘Here, let’s figure out what we’re doing about announcing you first,’ they said at last. ‘Then I’ll think about showing you something no one else knows, once you’re out as the Cat. Think of it as incentive to keep playing nice even when I’m being an ass.’

Shepherd, Pale said, sounding alarmed. I do not think that wise.

Esriaal shrugged. ‘Way I figure, if he gets absorbed into the One Who Waits instead of killing him, then we’re already fucked and it won’t matter if the One Who Waits knows. That’s for later.’

‘Fine,’ Narinder said, intrigued enough to set aside what was left of his current temper and think about this. ‘I cannot see any world in which an in-person announcement is a functioning plan. Not where I am in person, at any rate.’

‘What does that mean?’ Esriaal said, raising their eyebrows.

‘I should leave the Pastures before word starts to spread,’ he replied. ‘With Shamura’s flock, specifically. I know not whether we should inform Shamura of my identity as the Cat first, but it would be better to have something of a record to fall back on, would it not? If it were revealed that I had been quietly living among them without doing harm, it would lend a bit more credence to the idea that I am not hostile.’

‘That might get the attention of the One Who Waits,’ they said, but it was reluctant. ‘Which would make the flock a target.’

‘I need not be out of my disguise. Only Shamura would know my identity, should you choose,’ he replied. ‘Then the flock would be no more a target with me present than with Shamura present – I am a nondescript deserter, but they were a priest. What is it?’

Esriaal had jerked, eyes going wide. ‘They told you that?’ they said in disbelief. ‘Normally they just pretend they were clergy. I don’t think they’ve ever told anyone they were a priest, other than me. I think people have suspected, but they left the cult of the One Who Waits decades ago.’

They said it pretty frankly, Red said, uneasy. We thought that was common knowledge.

‘I suppose it is good the topic has not come up in conversation with anyone else,’ Narinder agreed. ‘I know not why, Esriaal, only that they told me as much.’

‘Well. I guess that means they trust you,’ Esriaal said, though they looked a bit disbelieving. ‘I knew they liked you, judging by their report, but that’s different from trust.’

He sighed, closing his eyes. ‘I have not attempted to check,’ he admitted, ‘but I suspect they and my other former siblings are not merely reflections forward, as happens sometimes. I know not how, but there is a chance it is their souls born anew outright. And there was a time long ago when Shamura and I were close.’

Esriaal was silent, listening. Red was apprehensive around his throat, but it didn’t try and protest, so Narinder continued, ‘It was Shamura who encouraged me to seek out new knowledge, if only to give me something to do. Being the One Who Waits did not make waiting enjoyable.’

‘You didn’t like being Death?’

‘That is not it,’ he said, Red more apprehensive still. Uncomfortable. And for some reason, faintly guilty. ‘I am the god of Death. I was chosen by the Crown of Death to be so, and I have always taken pride in that. There are demands that come with each domain, however, and not all of them are easy to meet. That makes godhood no less worthy.’ He shook his head and opened his eyes. ‘At any rate, Shamura was once the sibling who loved me best. If they are remade in this way, perhaps something of their nature yet lingers, and we were kin in something more profound than blood. If they no longer carry the weight of millennia, and I am split in two with the same weight mostly shed, then it is not surprising they may favour me.’

Esriaal nodded, and there was a faint wistfulness on their face.

‘You have your memories once more, yes?’ he asked in as non-demanding a tone as could be managed. This may be his former enemy, and certainly no friend of his, but curiosity didn’t care about sense.

‘Yeah,’ they admitted. ‘Long story, but I had the time to fix things. I’d make another joke about me being better than you at it, but considering how long it took me to repair the damage, I don’t actually think that’s fair.’ They rubbed one arm. ‘You talking about Shamura just reminded me of someone, that’s all.’

Narinder waited, controlling his impatience as they continued to be silent. They would either speak or they wouldn’t, and it was no business of his, he scolded himself.

After a second, they gave him a flicker of a glance, one that he would have missed if he’d happened to blink, and after a second he realised that they might not be the one who should say something, at the moment.

‘I suppose we all have someone who loves us best,’ he said quietly, barely loud enough to disturb the hush. Perhaps a sibling of their own, he thought as he studied them.

They huffed out a weak little laugh. ‘Yeah,’ they said, no louder than him. ‘I had a… teacher, I guess you could say. There’s not a good translation. Not one I can think of, anyway.’

Narinder bit back his instinctive need to demand why a translation was necessary – he had thought a few days past that the way they spoke had implied a language of their own, but now he barely doused the blaze of his need to know what that meant. They were continuing to talk, anyway.

‘He kind of took me under his wing when I was just getting started,’ they said slowly. They were picking their way around something they didn’t want to say, and Narinder only controlled his curiosity with the knowledge that Esriaal would have every right to accuse him of hypocrisy. ‘His name was Harut. He was… kind of the only one who believed in me when I needed him. I would have been his instruido – um. I guess you could kind of say protégé, just… more specific. An instruido is the protégé of an instruestro. Except that’s not quite right either. A child? An heir?’ They scrubbed their hand over their face. ‘It’s, um. Been a long time. Just because I remember all of it doesn’t mean I can explain it right.’

‘And what does an instruestro do?’ he asked, careful to try and mimic the rolled R in the back of his throat. It was a bit too close to a purred R for his own comfort, but Esriaal was too busy tensing up to mistake the sound for an actual purr.

‘It’s complicated,’ they said, in the clearest shutdown of a conversation he’d heard in a long time. ‘Anyway. It reminded me of Harut. It’s probably better to tell Shamura about you, at the very least.’

Narinder wanted to know more, but he could tell that Esriaal would cut it off no matter what – and there wasn’t much point to it, he reminded himself. This was temporary, and his curiosity could go to hell. He had no need to be this interested in the history of the other half of this temporary alliance. If he told himself that often enough, he might even come to believe it.

Esriaal turned to look out of the cramped little window at the sunlight. ‘I know Shamura’s flock is still rotating, figuring out who’s coming and going. They volunteered to be a conversion caravan – basically, they go out and collect people who want to convert, since there’s no way into the Pastures unless you’re me or have access to a core,’ they added when they looked back and saw his interested look.

Narinder hated that, since it meant he’d be watching himself lose followers – but given what he’d seen in the care tents, it was impossible to pretend it wasn’t fair for followers to try and escape.

‘So they’re going to have a few more people, since there need to be more skills on hand than just proselytising,’ Esriaal was continuing. ‘Kallamar’s going to be pissed about it, probably, but I’m planning on sending him with Shamura, and Heket’s been training on core maintenance basically since Shamura brought her here as a kid. I won’t send her alone, she’s still an apprentice, but she needs hands on experience anyway, and she’ll probably like getting away from the Foundry. I’ll talk to Shamura, and probably Puarjul – I’ll try to set it up so as many people in the flock when we leave are ones who aren’t hostile to deserters.’

‘We?’ he repeated, taken off guard.

‘I’m sending one of me with you?’ they said, looking at him like they thought he was intentionally misunderstanding. ‘We need one of me there for when you’re revealed, so I can keep people calm – and since you and Shamura will be there, you’re going to need a helping hand if you’re attacked. You can’t use Red without revealing yourself, and mid-battle with the One Who Waits’ soldiers probably isn’t great, so you’ll be using a normal weapon.’

‘I do not need Red to fight,’ he replied coolly, and they huffed. He was glad to see that the odd quiet mood of a moment past couldn’t survive the two of them and their actual natures.

‘I’m not trying to wound your ego, calm down,’ they said. ‘It’s practicality. I’ll let the disciples know what the plan is, too. Julmar’s going to pitch a fit, but he’s just protective of the cult. I know Puarjul thinks he’s too young, but he’s settling in.’

That reminded Narinder. ‘Ah, before you talk to Puarjul,’ he said, and Esriaal frowned. ‘She and I spoke already on some topics. So she is aware of the situation.’

‘I assumed, since we had a whole dramatic meeting about it –’ Esriaal started, rolling their one eye, but it immediately snapped back to Narinder as they got it. ‘Wait, you told her?!’

‘You will note that she has neither attacked me over it nor told the cult,’ he said dryly, but he was pleased with how alarmed Esriaal looked. ‘She asked to know the truth, and heard me out. I know not how much she believes it, but she was willing to trust it. I merely thought you should know before you speak to her.’

‘Hell. At least you picked the one person it’s smart enough to be stupid with,’ Esriaal said, rubbing one temple. ‘I did think she ran off fast after the meeting. Puarjul’s a good one – if she heard you out and she hasn’t come to me about it yet, then she knows what she’s doing. Some kind of back up, I take it? Vouching for you? She’s done it before.’

‘Yes. I thought it wiser to tell her the truth fully,’ he agreed. ‘If nothing else, as the Head Disciple, she seems the most influential of the handful of disciples I’ve seen.’

‘You’re not wrong. I have more disciples than the five here, but they’re out and about – Bretre’s the only one here permanently, and that’s because she’s not able to keep travelling,’ they said. ‘She has a special token for that. Everyone else rotates out.’

‘Will I get to hear about these tokens? The cores? I know not why those would be dangerous to one without a token, or why one is required to have a token to stay here.’ To say nothing of the inscribed token Puarjul had carried, or the ritual circles he’d seen carved into the arch and the door (including the door behind him.)

Esriaal rubbed the back of their head. ‘Can I promise to get to all of it later?’ they asked, with an expression that said how little they expected him to agree. ‘We have a lot to do, and that’s going to be a long conversation.’

‘Later, then,’ he said, inclining his head, purely to see their relief – and the ensuing annoyance at said relief. ‘Likely once we have left, in fact – you have already said that you have little time for such things here.’

‘Yeah. Um. Thanks for that,’ they said, looking eager to get away from this topic. ‘Alright, well. We still need to figure out what you’re doing in the caravan.’

‘Fighting, presumably. Most are assuming I was once a soldier regardless,’ he pointed out when they frowned. ‘If they need defence, I will provide it.’

‘Even against your own soldiers?’ they said sceptically.

He looked away. ‘I do not believe they are mine any longer.'

‘…What does that mean?’ Esriaal asked, suspicious and bewildered both.

‘If they are committed to the One Who Waits and willing to carry out or support the excisions – if they are harming their fellow followers for the crime of life’s imperfections – then they are no follower of mine,’ he replied. ‘Life answers to Death, in the end; all of it, weak or otherwise. I can prize strength as a virtue without condemning imperfection as a sin, Esriaal. My cult is far more complicated than you have bothered to consider it.’

‘I’m not so sure about that,’ they said, and when he looked back to snap at them, they looked too thoughtful for it to be intended as an insult. ‘The One Who Waits has been pretty straightforward, actually. Strong is strong, weak is weak, dead is dead, and everything belongs to him.’

‘As I said, you have not bothered to consider it,’ he said, because intended as an insult or not, it was still insulting.

‘The cult of the One Who Waits is straightforward,’ they said, raising both eyebrows, one eye dark and piercing, one gold and immutable. ‘I think the cult of Narinder, of Death, might be a little different. Once you can get around to making it. Sounds like you haven’t really had the chance.’

For some reason, Red once again radiated a faint guilt from around Narinder’s throat. It gave an impression of Some other time when he shot it a concerned thought.

‘Perhaps not,’ he said, getting up. ‘If this is settled, then, I shall leave you to your work and return to Fairlee Hill. Now that I am permitted to be within ten feet of a core, the caravan has been more willing to allow me to help when it comes to packing or preparing rovers, so there is work with which to keep myself busy.’

‘I’ll let you know when more things have been set up,’ they said, standing up too. ‘We should let everything settle, let you prove you’re not here to hurt anyone. Then once word is out, we can start to figure out where we go next.’

‘And until then?’

Their mouth quirked. ‘I heard once that life answers to Death in the end,’ they said, eyebrow lifted over their false eye. ‘Death might have to wait around, I don’t know. But I don’t remember hearing anything about life having to wait around to die. Focus on living, and we’ll see where we end up.’

‘Very well,’ he said, and left the room to make his way out of the Lycaeum. Both he and Red pretended there weren’t a pair of eyes on the both of them, one to a face, considering the two closely.

From the sounds of it, Julmar was indeed pissed off, but no one other than him raised a fuss about Narinder leaving the Pastures for now – Bretre, Habre, and Theanno were downright relieved, in fact. Narinder knew this because Puarjul told him, during her daily visit. He knew she was busy, and he had no idea why she would want to spend her breaks bothering him, but she continued to do so. Supervising him, maybe. He wouldn’t blame her, admittedly, but he was still suspicious.

At any rate, he saw her significantly more often than he saw Esriaal over the next week and a half, while Shamura finished their training. Puarjul wasn’t accompanying the caravan, of course, though she took care to introduce Narinder to the core members who’d be going along; convert caravans were serious duties, evidently, charged with bringing converts from dangerous or hard to escape areas to the Pastures, and over the last few months, charged with bringing excision victims to safety. It was unusual that a new Herder would be in charge of one, but he was unsurprised his former sibling would do so. If nothing else, they’d been a follower for a long time.

Narinder was coming to know Shamura now, and while he still hadn’t dared to confirm that it was his actual sibling’s soul, it was becoming hard to convince himself otherwise. The same was true of the other three, in some ways. Leshy was still far too small to actually resemble the Leshy Narinder had known once in anything other than appearance, but the mischief he got into by nature did little to dispel the idea.

Heket was as abrasive as the goddess had been, and seemed to dislike him instinctively – or so he thought. Then Red pointed out that she spent around half of her downtime staying within line of sight of him, ignoring him utterly as she worked on something or other, but moving to whichever area he did. Before he and the Heket he’d known had grown to hate each other, early on in their divinity while other gods still walked the landscape, the two of them had once had a similar habit.

Those two were too young to have developed enough to say one way or the other. That wasn’t true of Shamura, and that wasn’t true of Kallamar.

Much like the Kallamar of long ago, this Kallamar managed to be both one of the most gregarious individuals in existence and one of the most anxious. He had a good handle on it when working as a head healer, but given how he needed to retreat from everyone for a while after his shift, face grey and hands shaking, it wasn’t without cost. Once that was finished, however, he returned to his usual social self. He knew everyone by name, even those who had only just joined the flock, and though he was hard of hearing, he still seemed to pick up on every bit of gossip under the crafted sun in the sky. He dressed far more neatly than anyone around him, his appearance as important to this teenaged instance of Kallamar as it had been to the divine instance before him. A vain creature, though he seemed to have more fun with it than his predecessor had in millennia.

Puarjul seemed fond of Kallamar, checking in on him as well. Though Narinder made him nervous, he was apparently willing to brave the nerves in order to gossip with Puarjul when she was there to see Narinder. The squid and the otter chattered like two old hens more than anything else. Narinder only listened with half an ear because Red wanted to hear and would have been annoyed if he walked off the way he wanted to.

Kallamar was overdramatic, far too nosy, getting into everyone’s business. He always had an excuse to get out of this or that. He always knew his exits. He would have been identical in personality to the Kallamar of before, but he still had his youth and idealism, even as a healer for the excised. Narinder’s brother had been cynical and pleased to play puppet master with his cult, his followers little more than dolls in his elaborate, long running operas spanning centuries. If this was indeed Kallamar’s soul washed clean of what came before, then at least he wasn’t weighed down in the same way.

It was disturbing, to put it mildly. Kallamar with a heart, Shamura knowing peace, Heket without her venom, Leshy’s troublemaking innocent instead of malicious – Narinder wasn’t sure he could have conceptualised such things, even when each of them was crowned. He might have been convinced these weren’t actually similar to his former siblings at all, or at least convinced himself, but not one of them was unmarked. Leshy had always been partially blind, and one eye had been injured in an accident the year prior. Heket could speak, but some condition she was born with made it painful. Kallamar had been hard of hearing since an illness when he was younger. The only one who seemed immune was Shamura – until he heard about their migraines. Once a year or so, they were struck with the debilitating headaches, bedridden for days, delirious mumbling in nonsense words under their breath when they were conscious and tremors when they weren’t.

Narinder didn’t want to interact with any of them, really. None of them gave a damn about that, and it wasn’t as if he could actually avoid them. Kallamar would seek out Puarjul, and even though he was nervous, always said hello and goodbye to Narinder when coming and going to his shifts. Heket stayed in Narinder’s vicinity, following him with an expression that dared anyone to comment on it and ignoring him at all costs. Leshy was attached, though he continued to insist Narinder’s face was ‘fuzzy’ somehow, and beelined towards him as soon as he was aware Narinder was around.

Esriaal hadn’t told Shamura who he was yet. He knew his sibling, however, and whether it was the same soul or not meant nothing – they were similar enough to the Shamura from before that he trusted he could judge their behaviour even when they were trying to conceal it, and they knew something was up. He wasn’t sure they knew who he was precisely, but they were wary, even as they made pains to speak to him each day for a time.

It was finally time to depart, thankfully. The Pastures felt claustrophobic to Narinder; it might have been otherwise, with another atmosphere, but the grim mood was one that was quickly growing intolerable. He was more and more aware of the divine nature of the plane, as well, uneasy as it wore against his senses, asserting itself more and more. He suspected that was why no one could stay for long.

Leshy, Kallamar, and Heket had returned their tokens (the pendant, the earring, and the bracelet respectively), and they were starting to get uncomfortable too. Kallamar in particular was eager to leave. He’d been made head healer for Section B, but going directly to gather excision victims and ensure they survived was just as important, and apparently he’d mostly sought the position to spite the other current head healer. It was a motivation that would have fit right in with the Kallamar a thousand years dead. As Shamura’s caravan was bound for Anchordeep, as well, he had extra incentive.

At the present moment, Narinder was helping Tymer finish packing up the rover she was going to share with Heket, Julto, and Hetty. She had a left leg this time, but her movements were stiff, as if she was still getting used to it. He wondered if she had one of the prostheses he’d heard the disciples mention, but managed to keep a handle on his curiosity for once. He was getting better at managing the emotions he once would have been able to quash effortlessly.

‘Hey, there you are,’ he heard Esriaal say behind him. His ear flicked around towards them, as he was a bit busy moving a large case that he had to pretend was heavy into the storage part of the rover. ‘Got a minute?’

‘Of course, Shepherd,’ he said, turning back and hopping out of the rover onto the hot packed dirt, reminding himself that he was supposed to sound respectful, not just non-hostile. ‘What do you need?’

‘I need to talk to Shamura about your duties,’ they said. Ah. ‘They’re waiting up ahead at the departure point, we’ll hopefully make it fast.’

‘And if it is not?’

‘No idea, we’ll cross that bridge when we come to it,’ they said bracingly. ‘Come on.’

He followed them away from the caravan, down the dirt road a short ways. The road appeared to continue into the trees, but a subtle gold shimmer made it clear to Narinder that it was not always trees the road led to. Shamura was standing there, waiting amidst the slightly waving grass; Leshy was with them, small enough despite his age to rest on their left hip, supported by their three left arms.

‘Hey, Shamura,’ Esriaal said warmly as they approached. ‘Mind if we talk to you alone for a second? Someone back at the caravan can watch Leshy for a moment.’

‘There’s no need,’ Shamura said pleasantly, and Narinder tensed; that was the voice of a spider who just watched prey fly into their web. ‘He already knows. Good morning, Cat.’

‘What,’ Narinder and Esriaal said in blank unison.

‘Your face is fuzzy,’ Leshy said with great authority, looking extremely pleased with himself. ‘It’s not that fuzzy, though, even though you’ve got two faces on.’

‘Leshy can see magic,’ Shamura said, still in that pleasant tone. ‘Always has, since I‌ found him. I knew you were a soldier before that morning, Narinder. Between that, Leshy’s insistence that your face is false, and your Narakan mode of speech? I’m certain.’

‘You don’t sound mad,’ Esriaal said cautiously.

‘On the contrary. I’m infuriated,’ Shamura said, just as pleasant as before, and Esriaal winced. ‘It’s one thing to welcome a deserter, even a high ranking one. It’s quite another to welcome the Cat. To say nothing of how you intended to send him with the caravan where my family will be, and chose to leave telling me the truth until it’s almost too late to say no. I worship you, Shepherd. I trust you. And that’s why I’m giving you a chance to explain yourself. Otherwise my family and I will be leaving today, and you can find another Herder.’

‘Shamura,’ Narinder said before Esriaal could speak. ‘Allow me to explain. Fully.’

Red, stop him, Pale said, easily communicating Esriaal’s alarm (and its own.) Does he intend to tell the whole world? We have made plans, damn you both –

Narinder ignored it, waiting for Shamura’s response, because he knew Shamura still. Shamura was watching him with all eight eyes narrowed, but ultimately nodded.

‘I am the Cat, yes,’ he said. ‘I only pretend to be otherwise so as to not cause panic, not as an attempt to deceive. I am here for a reason.’

‘The second voice Kallamar keeps hearing, I assume,’ Shamura said, and he could feel Red’s flinch.

Fuck, can he still hear Crowns?, Red said.

I do not know, Pale replied, but the Shepherd is starting to suspect their disabilities are not what they seem.

‘Starting’ to suspect?!

‘Yes,’ Narinder said, forcing himself to ignore the Crowns. ‘I have stolen the Red Crown from the One Who Waits. And I will not deny that I have been the Cat. But you knew that before Leshy told you, of course.’

‘I did, yes,’ Shamura said, though they looked wary now.

‘You knew from the night the Shepherd returned with me. I am willing to bet the Crown that it was under a minute, in fact. And you likely knew my motives and my purpose before I did.’

‘Narinder, what the hell are you talking about?’ Esriaal said, staring at him openly.

‘I am saying precisely what I mean,’ he said, not looking away from Shamura. ‘Leshy sees magic. Kallamar can hear the Crowns. I know not how Heket’s wound has manifested as a boon beside the disability, but I suspect I know Shamura’s. Or am I incorrect, sibling?’

Shamura smiled, slow and satisfied, the way their former self always had when Narinder solved some riddle or puzzle they’d laid before him.

‘Please don’t tell me I’m hearing this,’ Esriaal said, exhaustion like thick dust in their voice.

‘Don’t worry, Shepherd. I’m not that Shamura,’ they said, looking away from Narinder to look at their god with a soothing expression that was unfamiliar to Narinder; it certainly would have looked foreign on his former sibling’s face. ‘I can assure you of that. My migraines aren’t merely painful, however. Dreams of what came before, fragmented and hazy, but they are no memories of mine. They’re only the memories of a dead spider, and are often unpleasant to see. Other times, they are dreams of what’s yet to pass, though those are even less reliable. But I know those who were once my siblings, and are now again. And of the memories of my fallen brother, they’re either fond or excruciating. I knew who he was when you said his name. What I don’t know is how or why he’s here, but the One Who Waits isn’t. I can tell the difference.’

‘What’s the point of keeping this secret at this point?!’ Esriaal said, throwing their hands in the air in frustration. ‘Does everyone know?!’

‘Only my siblings and I, though I haven’t given them all the context – though I don’t have all of it, either. From what I do know, I’m hopeful I see no more of War’s memories on the subject.’

‘Shamura keeps saying they’ll tell me when I’m older, as long as I don’t tell anyone now,’ Leshy said, disgruntled. ‘But they said he was our brother, the way Heket and Kally are, even though we come from different places.’

‘Then what was all this about?’ Esriaal said, putting their hands on their hips and scowling. ‘I know you’re not the same Shamura, don’t worry about that –’

A subtle tension left Shamura at the words.

‘– but you just scared the hell out of me,’ Esriaal continued, and Shamura blinked. ‘I don’t care who you were before, you’re someone new now, and you’re part of my flock. If you already knew all of this, why did you threaten to leave?’

‘Because I would have,’ Shamura said, though they looked deeply unhappy at the thought. ‘I won’t, but I needed to know how far you’d be willing to take a lie that could have hurt my family if the lie was true. I still don’t know now. I will not leave, Shepherd, but I would lie if I said my faith isn’t shaken. I’m not War, and I’ve never been, but that made Peace no easier to find, let alone accept. I have. But now…’

Esriaal sighed. ‘If it helps any, I didn’t mean to leave it this late,’ they said, scrubbing at their face. ‘I don’t really have an excuse, but with three of me about to be out of the Pastures, I had to set up as much as I could so that things can still go smoothly. Turns out I was skipping one that really needed to be done a lot earlier. I promise it wasn’t to try and trick you or slide it past you. And I’m sorry.’

‘I imagine you can guess how little the Shepherd and I like each other, or wish for this to be the state of affairs,’ Narinder said, Shamura looking at him now. ‘I can say that I have seen how ragged they have been running themself, to a degree I disapprove of –’

‘I didn’t ask your opinion,’ Esriaal snapped, but they didn’t even seem aware they’d do it before they had.

‘– but as my opinion is less than welcome,’ he continued, making Red snort from its place around his neck, ‘that means little. What is true is that they intended to tell you from the moment we made the plan. If they neglected to do so, it was not out of malice or contempt. Merely incompetency.’

‘Narinder,’ Esriaal said, and their voice was edging on true anger, so he held up a hand.

‘They did not intend to deceive you,’ he said, still looking Shamura in the eye. ‘It has been a long time since I deserved to be your god, if my suspicions about what has happened to me are correct. But if any goodwill remains in you for the faith you once had, I will ask that it be used to trust I would not defend them in any sense were it not honest.’

Shamura nodded at last. ‘That makes more sense for the Shepherd,’ they admitted.

‘So does this mean he’s really our brother?’ Leshy burst out, having clearly been holding the question in.

‘It’s complicated,’ Shamura said, but it was at the same time as Narinder’s ‘I am your brother, yes.’

Narinder?, Red said, startled, but this one wasn’t some kneejerk response from Narinder, some instinctive declaration; he wanted to do this, and so he would. If his siblings were remade, and he was the half of himself that was capable of caring about others, then he might as well do so here.

Leshy began wriggling to get free of Shamura’s hold, who set him down with a bemused expression. Esriaal looked absolutely flabbergasted.

‘You two can talk about the boring stuff,’ Leshy said with an imperious air, and Narinder jolted as the little leafworm grabbed his right paw with both hands, long leafy tail wiggling excitedly. ‘I’m gonna go tell Heket and Kally we’ve got another one.’

Narinder was unprepared for this, so off balance that he actually let Leshy pull him along.

You two have this covered, Red called back towards Esriaal and Pale, barely containing its laughter. Have fun making up for forgetting to tell the Bishop of Knowledge an important piece of information!

The sooner we are rid of you, the better, Pale shot back furiously, but Esriaal really didn’t have any other option than to smooth this over. Narinder continued to let Leshy tug on his paw, listening to his youngest brother begin to chatter about what sounded like everything under the sun.

Chapter Text

Narinder had been all over the Lands of the Old Faith in the last decades, hunting flocks down, but he’d never really been in any of those lands. That required looking at the landscape as anything but a chessboard, a strategy map, a hunting grounds. The land itself hadn’t existed for a long time in his eyes. Only the concept of it.

He had missed Anchordeep. It took him aback to realise it, but it was impossible to deny. It didn’t feel like ‘home’, per se, but rather a home he was familiar with, had once been welcome in. The water-like air was vibrant, the coral and seaweed bursts of colour where sunlight didn’t reach the ocean floor; Anchordeep had been an anomaly long before Kallamar had claimed it for his own. It was a beautiful place, so even if he hadn’t been a squid, Narinder suspected Kallamar would have claimed it regardless. He was glad to see the land was recovering in some ways from the plunder that now decorated his own holy city’s streets.

The new Kallamar was from Anchordeep, naturally. None of Narinder’s renewed siblings were blood related, but then, they’d never been quite related anyway. Not in a traditional sense. Shamura had begun to seek the other three out, as soon as they realised it was possible that the siblings from War’s memories might have been born anew, as Shamura had been. They hadn’t expected Kallamar to be so young when they found him – no older than Leshy was now – but he’d been left behind in a village fleeing a plague. More than left behind; left to die. He was no longer sick by the time Shamura found him and took him with them, but he wouldn’t have survived much longer, abandoned as he was in a harsh world, weakened by illness.

He still seemed plenty happy to be here now, regardless. Leshy hadn’t been to Anchordeep yet, and neither had Heket; the caravan hadn’t yet reached any place where it would need to pick up converts, so the three children were free to be children, at least in the moment. Kallamar was all of sixteen, after all. He deserved to be young, sometimes.

It was… pleasant, Narinder was cautiously coming to accept. To have these four alive, made new, even if he couldn’t be. To travel in this caravan, with these people. It had only been a few days, but those who followed the Shepherd were the hardy sort by nature, coming together quickly. Not perfectly, there being the usual sorts of interpersonal conflicts and such of any group, but the reliance on one another was built into the teachings, and so it was woven into the fabric of the group’s dynamics.

Back in the Lycaeum, Esriaal had told him to focus on living. For the first time, Narinder had to acknowledge the uncomfortable truth that he’d never actually done so; he’d gone from chains back to a god with a cult, and it wasn’t as if such an identity left a god with much personal time. Esriaal’s current predicament was proof of that, though they had the luxury of being in seven places at a time. He suspected that this – travelling with the caravans, working side by side with their followers – was the closest to ‘rest’ they ever got.

There would be no real rest tonight, however. A week had passed since they’d crossed from the Pastures to a remote Anchordeep crevasse, a point that Esriaal had called a liminality. Narinder was familiar with the concept – there were places in the Lands of the Old Faith that were closer to the Below than elsewhere, little more than a half step of reality away. Some places were simply kin to Death, that was all. It made sense that as another plane, there would be places where the Pastures did the same, though he was still considering whether it was peace alone that created a strong resonance, or if there were other factors.

Focus, murmured Red, so softly that there was no chance Pale or Esriaal would hear it over the quiet murmurs of the gathered caravan. Most of the rest of the caravan; Heket and Leshy were currently under the watchful eye of two bats who’d joined the caravan, Manon and Feja, so the older members could discuss the retrieval that would take place in the morning.

Narinder sighed internally. In his opinion, neither Esriaal nor Pale would notice his lack of attention, as the other god had taken pains to not cross his path as subtly as they could. He knew his Crown was right, though, and so turned his wandering attention to the group. All of them, including himself, were huddled together around the only kind of magical ‘fire’ that could burn in the air-like water. Anchordeep nights were as black as Anchordeep days were colourful, and so such fires could only be used briefly, lest they catch attention. It was a shame, considering the warmth. Narinder never had liked the cold.

‘So we’ll be reaching the agreed upon point near the marine quarter of Fairswells Island mid-morning tomorrow,’ Esriaal was saying, face calm and serene in the wavering light. They needed to be calm and serene; this was the first time several of the followers would be helping on a conversion caravan, as well as Shamura’s first retrieval. Considering the fate that awaited a flock caught by Narinder’s cultists, the new hands were nervous. ‘There should be three converts, but if one’s missing, we’ll double-check why. If they’re held up, we wait for an hour; if they’re in trouble, two or three of us go into Fairswells and see what we can do. Kallamar, you’ll be on standby – none of them should have undergone excision, and the weekly ritual’s still a few days out, but you never know.’

Kallamar nodded, and it was the healer that was doing so, not the teenaged boy.

‘I can’t be the one to go in, obviously,’ Esriaal said, a flicker of frustration crossing their face. ‘I’ll draw too much attention, and it’s better that I’m here should the caravan need protection. We’ll all be on alert, though. Herder Shamura?’

Shamura nodded. They’d claimed not to be War; there was no divinity to them, no history that should have fully accounted for the calculated expression on their face, even as a priest. Narinder wasn’t inclined to assume how much had or hadn’t lingered, however. If any of his former siblings were to have something of their former selves within them, it would be the Bishop of Knowledge.

‘I’m not familiar with this area yet,’ they said, but looked at one of the new hands. ‘Fegreno, you’re from around here, I believe?’

The sandpiper nodded, wings shifting nervously. ‘I’m from Casket, specifically,’ he said. ‘I spent my summers in Fairswells, though. I know it pretty well.’

‘Good. You’ll accompany me. On the off chance we need to send someone in, I’d rather send two, so I’d like to have one fighter and one support with me. Tymer, would you say you’re accustomed to the leg?’

Tymer nodded. ‘Enough to walk and run, but I’m not going to be much of a fighter again anytime soon,’ she said, and sounded bitter about it. Narinder hoped she’d lost it in any way but the excision, but the likelihood was slim.

‘That’s alright, you’ll be support,’ Shamura said. Tymer nodded again, her jaw tight – only for Esriaal to touch her arm.

‘It’s temporary,’ they said, studying her with their remaining eye. ‘And you know what you’re doing. Just because you’re providing back up now doesn’t mean you’ll do it forever.’

Tymer seemed comforted by that, at the very least.

‘As for the fighter,’ Shamura was saying, having been answering a question from Hetty, ‘we have the great luck to have two of you, in addition to the Shepherd. Hana, I’m going to ask you to go with Tymer this time. Narinder, remain here.’

He inclined his head, though it was only Red’s mutual disgruntlement with having to follow an order that allowed him to do so. Hana, a terrier woman, did the same (albeit much more eagerly.) The disgruntlement was entirely on principle; given Shamura knew who he was, he was certain that they were as reluctant as he was to send him waltzing into a town ruled by the One Who Waits, at least this early.

Knowing his role now, he largely left listening to Red, instead turning his attention to what he knew of the area – not personally, but as one half of the One Who Waits. Fairswells Isle was in the coastal Anchordeep parish of Rotwood, right before the saltmarsh began, which was where Fegreno was apparently from. The marsh had long ago earned the name Casket, and for good reason. It was one of the regions closest to the Below, in the way that counted. More liminal than most, and while it was rare for something to die inside Casket’s borders, the bodies of the dead had a curious habit of washing up on its shores and floating in its waterways.

Fairswells Isle itself was a relatively minor town compared to the holy city, but though it was near to the north border of Rotwood, it was the parish seat. That would make it a fairly bustling place, and he didn’t like the odds of retrieving anyone should someone be held up in the town itself. He wouldn’t voice that thought, admittedly – he had little doubt Esriaal would hear it as a recommendation to abandon anyone unable to make it to safety – but hopefully they were more pragmatic than their teachings implied. There was no sense in sacrificing a flock for a new convert.

Time, Red murmured, so Narinder was able to smoothly return his attention to the conversation as it concluded.

‘Try to rest as soundly as you can,’ Shamura said bracingly, but they were smiling at the followers, and not in an ‘enter my parlour’ way. ‘This can be nervewracking your first few times, I know. But it’s important, and it’s rewarding. Take pride in your roles.’

The followers nodded, then the meeting dispersed. Narinder returned to his own tent, as the fire was extinguished, picking his way through the dark of the night before ducking into the tent. The water-like air had always felt odd on his fur, but more so now that he wore shirts and pants; it was a relief to change into a much looser shirt, for certain. He heard a rustle at the tent flap as he was folding his clothes, and turned to look at the sound’s source.

Oh. It’s you, Red said sourly, glaring down.

Pale looked utterly unimpressed, once more in that strange hare-like antlered shape, prey’s frame and predator’s stance, its round eye narrowed up at where Red was nestled around Narinder’s throat. I thank you for such a warm welcome. I can only be glad that none but Crowns may hear you; for one so decrepit as yourself, I would think you know better.

It was more than Narinder had heard Pale speak in one go so far, he thought, and he frowned faintly. Now that he thought about it, this was not how he’d expect Esriaal’s Crown to sound.

It’s not only Crowns who can hear us, if you recall, Red shot back. So by all means, feel free to talk about anything that crosses your mind. At least if I’m decrepit, I’m not stupid.

‘Hold,’ Narinder murmured before Pale could snap at Red in answer. ‘It would not be here on a social call. You two speak, softly.’

Narinder returned to folding his clothes, cleaning them with a touch of divine power, as well as changing the colour of the shirt. Much easier than actually carrying around a number of changes of clothes, though his skill was limited to simple colour shifts. He wished he’d brought a jacket, some days.

Pale sighed, and when it spoke again, he was unsurprised by its purpose. The Shepherd has sent me to discuss the area with you. They are hoping to maintain a slightly more distant image than what would come from nightly visits to your tent.

Narinder rolled his eyes at that, and Red helpfully said what he couldn’t at the moment. Stick two vaguely attractive people in proximity, imply some kind of tension of any kind, and people are going to assume things anyway, it said.

They are well aware. They are not attempting to mitigate it, only lessen it. Regardless, short of circumstances like these, I will not darken your doorstep – I am here because my bearer has need of it, not any personal wish.

Then get to the point, Red said, only for Narinder to hum warningly. Unless Red wanted to be as bad as Esriaal, then it would need to be gracious. This was temporary. There would be a day soon where it never had to interact with Pale again, any more than Narinder would need to interact with Esriaal. The two of them being separate from the One Who Waits didn’t excuse them from the need for patience. Easy for you to say, Red muttered so quietly even Narinder wasn’t sure he’d heard it.

Given your control over the Lands of the Old Faith, the Shepherd expects that you must know more about this area than any other. I disagree, given you were neglectful enough to not notice the excision rituals, but I will do as they ask.

Narinder shot it a sharp look, barely biting back an instinctive hiss. Red did that for him, the sound almost audible to mortal ears with its vehemence. You’ll hold your tongue if you know what’s good for you. We didn’t know, and we don’t know how, but it wasn’t neglect. Do you want to know anything or not? Because we can keep our mouths shut.

On the contrary, Pale replied, and there was a petty satisfaction in its voice. This is not a request for information. This is a reminder that we may have made a deal with you, but you must prove that you are in earnest. You are the one who made all of this necessary. Now you will prove your willingness to correct it. Or do you hesitate to betray the cult whose actions you insist you abhor?

‘Is there a reason you are engaging in the same behaviour as Esriaal did when we discussed this plan?’ Narinder murmured before Red could explode. ‘As I recall, you were the one urging self-control.’

You have no right to question me or my words, Pale said, and Narinder blinked; he hadn’t thought it could sound more loathing than when it spoke to Red, but there was a uniquely bitter venom in its voice as it addressed him directly. It hadn’t addressed him before at all, now that he thought about it. Now. Share what you know. I remind you: this is not a request.

Narinder nodded tightly, Red radiating a barely quelled fury; it was practically vibrating around his throat. So much for the assumption that either half of the partnership that made up the God of Peace would choose to be reasonable.

The only chance either Narinder or Red had at any satisfaction was to do precisely what was required of them and no more, and respond in no way that could give Pale so much as a mote of dust of justification. Red answered Pale’s questions in a flat, neutral monotone, elaborating when required, keeping it concise. Narinder had been in charge of the hunts, and had grown used to receiving reports and the like – war required such things, and he didn’t need to be War to utilise its arts, if perhaps for the first time since the purge of the other Crowned Gods. Red spoke in the same way as the reports he’d received, intentionally modelling its tone on it. The tone was admittedly more efficient, but Narinder noticed its effect at the same time as Red did: Pale was getting increasingly uncomfortable.

Will there be anything else?, Red asked when Pale seemed to have run out of questions. Narinder was in his bed, eyes closed; he would drift off to sleep soon enough, but he could wait.

No. There will not, Pale said. Discomfort, frustration, bitterness. Congratulations. I knew not the two of you could be more intolerable than usual. The soulless act is somehow more insufferable; I am sincerely impressed.

What the hell do you want from us?!, Red burst out, its temper snapping after what had been at least an hour of patiently ignoring Pale’s needling. We’re trying, for fuck’s sake, which is more than you can say!

Unlike you, I have more freedom in how I interact with my bearer, Pale said coldly. I am allowed my own opinions and doubts, my own actions and considerations. We are not so closely chained as you are. I would pity you more for the identity of your captor if I knew you cannot see the prison you are in; enjoy strangulation. It is all you can look forward to with the bearer you cannot escape.

It then left Narinder’s tent, leaving Red and Narinder silent in its wake. Red was shaking around his throat again, vibrating in barely contained rage. Narinder was just shaking.

You aren’t a prison, Red said when it realised just how blank Narinder currently was. The words were forceful. Sincere. Guilty. Pale just crossed a line, and I’m willing to take a lot out of its mouth, but this is too far. You aren’t a prison. I am choosing you now, and I chose you at the beginning. The only reason I’m not demanding we end this whole thing right here and now and leave tonight is because I happen to respect the bond between Crown and bearer, and I don’t make decisions for you.

‘I cannot claim to have always done the same,’ Narinder said, a sick feeling starting to swim in him. ‘You know that. You know things are different now, even from a few months past. You are my Crown, Red. I can hear you.’

It hesitated. There’s no way to say this nicely, it said at last.

‘I want no niceties.’

Maybe I want to give them anyway. You’re my bearer, Narinder. Things are different now, Red insisted, but took a second to speak again. I’ve already said I hated the One Who Waits where you can hear it.

‘I cannot blame you. It is an opinion we more or less share.’

Mine’s a lot older, Red said tiredly. About two thousand years older. But it wasn’t fully hatred until a thousand years ago.

Narinder swallowed. ‘The sacrifice,’ he said, as close as he could get to acknowledging it aloud. Ivory notes in a bone melody chimed in his soul, but Red was already speaking, so he pretended its words drowned out the elegy.

You changed. I’m betting you guessed that, it said. You were my bearer from then until the last few decades, when you started to change again. Or split up. I don’t know yet. I didn’t know to look for anything like that. This you? I’m choosing you. You’re not the same person as the Narinder at the start, obviously. But you’ve got your heart back. Do you remember when I picked you?

‘It may have been long ago, but I remember it still,’ Narinder said, and this at least gave him a small smile. It had been a sunny day. He’d only been in his first century or so – an adult, but still incredibly young for an infernal cat. A cousin race to black cats, the difference subtle, each as common as the other, then. It had been a long time since he’d noted the difference, himself.

The Red Crown’s choice was why a scythe had always been part of his iconography; it was the tool that had been in his hands when he found the Red Crown beneath a tree he had intended to rest beneath from the hottest part of the day. Some Crowns had chosen their bearers in dramatic or profound ways. Narinder had become Death in a humble field of sorghum and wild rye, a common cat with a simple life, sitting beneath a beech tree.

That’s the Narinder I picked then, Red agreed, a feeling of affection calming some of its lingering rage from Pale’s words. No one can be the same, particularly millennia later. You stayed closer than most for a long time. It began to slip away eventually, but that was normal. People change. But not like you did after – well. The sacrifice. You know.

‘I do,’ he said quietly, though he wasn’t sure he did, anymore. He knew that at the very least, he didn’t want to remember; he was not so cowardly as to try to forget his own actions, but it sounded nice sometimes.

I hated you, then, it admitted, and Narinder swallowed. But I couldn’t unchoose you – the other option was oblivion. So I‌ chose you, and continued to choose you, but it was because there wasn’t another choice.

‘I cannot blame you.’

No. But you’re in two pieces now, and I don’t know what happens from here. If killing him is better than trying to put you back together again, or if it’s worse.

‘It no longer matters,’ Narinder murmured, and touched Red where it was wrapped around his throat. The two of them paused at a rustling sound outside, but it didn’t repeat itself. For the best; if Pale was returning, it would find the welcome far more hostile this time. ‘I have already made up my mind, and I would rather be half a person for the rest of existence than risk becoming what I became all over again,’ he continued when he was sure they were alone. ‘For my sake, for the sake of those who worship us, and for your sake, too. I told you, we are a god together. So long as you are still willing to rest on the head of a creature forever incomplete, then this is what we shall do. You are not going back to him. And neither am I.’

This is what I mean, Red said. You’ve got your heart back. So I’m choosing you. I’ve known what it’s like to be chained to a god, imprisoned with no way out – but I’m out, and so are you. I’m choosing you to be my bearer, Narinder. And if Pale so much as suggests that you’re a prison again, then Esriaal better hope they can figure out how to be a god when the Crown of Peace is in pieces.

He touched his Crown again, collar though it had to pretend to be. ‘I will survive such an insult, but the sentiment is appreciated,’ he said lightly. ‘We have sworn not to bother them when this is finished, however. If Pale or Esriaal care nothing for their own word, that is a failing on their heads. We will do this, Red. I promise.’

We will, Red said, determined down to the essence of its existence. Get some rest, Narinder. If Esriaal’s said anything worth listening to, it’s that life doesn’t have to wait around to die. Just because Death is at the end doesn’t mean we have to hold still anymore. So we’ll start tomorrow, and to hell with the both of them.

Narinder fell asleep with a smile, natural on his mouth for the first time in a long time.

‘Narinder, don’t you dare,’ Esriaal snarled at him, divine anger sparking from their wool, one eye burning with rage and one glowing molten gold. ‘This isn’t a fucking request, you will stay here or – or –’

Narinder bowed to them mockingly, a sword sheathed on his right hip, Red clasping a cloak around his throat in the reds and blacks of the One Who Waits’ clergy.

‘Fear not, Shepherd,’ he said in a tone just as mocking as his bow. ‘I am certain that by the time I return, you will have come up with a threat to make me quake with terror.’

Esriaal leapt forward, trying to grab him. Narinder had already danced backwards and darted out of the tent, dodging around a startled Hetty and past the rovers, straight into the kelp forest, vanishing from sight as shouts went up behind him.

We maybe could have handled that better, Red commented as he shot through the tall stalks, fleet as if he flew through the airy water instead of running. He might have to pretend not to be a god around the others, but he still had more strength and endurance than any of the mortals would have, and he wasn’t even winded yet.

‘That is a problem for later,’ he replied, ears on a swivel for pursuers. ‘Time is at a premium. Is the new illusion ready?’

Already in place, Red replied. You look like a dog now. Sorry.

‘You did that on purpose.’

If you’re going to do something insane, I get to have my fun.

‘Fair enough,’ Narinder acknowledged, and kept running. He had perhaps a few hours at most before it was too late, and if Esriaal hadn’t wanted him to perform the role he’d been assigned, then they should have fought harder to have him hidden as a cook or something. They’d agreed to a fighter; a fighter he would be.

Had circumstances remained the same as they were when the sun rose, none of this would be happening. Things were straightforward then, the plan unchanged from the night before. Shamura, Fegreno, Hana, and Tymer were going to go to the meeting place, bring the converts back, and then the caravan would leave. Fegreno would come back ahead of the others to let Kallamar know whether healing or something was still necessary; if not, the caravan would break down the last tent, so that they’d be ready to leave as soon as Shamura returned with the others and the new converts. If there was trouble, the caravan would go on high alert until Shamura and Esriaal agreed they could wait no longer, and then they’d move on.

Things were straightforward for most , at any rate. When he went looking for Heket, who seemed to have skipped breakfast according to Shamura, it was to find her elbow deep in one of the rover’s innards, Tymer sitting beside her. Tymer was the one accompanying Heket for rover maintenance, and the two were talking quietly; there were two empty bowls next to Tymer, so Narinder suspected Heket had in fact gotten breakfast. He fully intended to leave them alone, but Heket spotted him first.

«Great, it’s you,» she signed with a huff. «What, does Shamura have you on babysitting duty too?‌ I know what I’m doing. You can go away and find something to do somewhere else.»

He held up his paws. ‘They only wished for me to ensure you ate before they left,’ he said as neutrally as he could, tail’s annoyed twitches only barely hidden. He thought it was remarkable that even as a twelve year old Heket still managed to irritate him. She knew he’d once been her brother, thanks to Shamura, but had no reason to assume there would be animosity. Some things were just inherent, he supposed.

Heket gestured at the two bowls. «Tymer brought me something to eat,» she signed after. According to Shamura, that was the sideways sort of ‘gift’ she’d gotten: Leshy could see magic, Kallamar could hear things no one else could (such as the Crowns, meaning Pale and Red had been holding their figurative tongues whenever he was in potential earshot), and Heket needed to make no effort whatsoever to be understood by whoever she was speaking to. Shamura hadn’t tested it, but they were pretty sure Heket could have clearly spoken in words with nothing but facial expressions if she wished. In the same way, she could make herself unintelligible to people she didn’t want to be understood by.

‘That is all I needed to know,’ Narinder said, and turned to go.

‘One second, Narinder,’ Tymer said, and he looked back. ‘Heket, do me a favour and don’t blow anything up?’

«I’ve never blown anything up!» Heket signed, outraged. Tymer gave her a look. «I’ve never done it by accident,» she corrected sullenly, which was abruptly a whole lot of questions Narinder had to swallow back. «I wouldn’t do it anyway.»

‘Good. Narinder, can you come with me for a second?’ Tymer asked, and Narinder shrugged but nodded. He was curious, and only grew more so when she led him around the rovers, specifically avoiding catching attention. Red kept its eye out (subtly), and confirmed at Narinder’s thought that no one had seen the two of them.

‘Can I help you?’ he asked sotto voce when she came to a stop, the two of them safely out of sight.

‘Maybe, maybe not,’ Tymer said, and looked tired as she nudged a pebble with her left foot. ‘So I’m pretty sure you know about the leg situation?’

‘I know you have a prosthesis, though I have not seen it,’ he agreed.

‘I still need to get used to it before I’m any actual use, but I need help with that,’ she said, and he tilted his head. ‘Hana’s being a prick about it and insisting she’s not going to spar or anything until the Shepherd or Herder Shamura tells her it’s okay. And both of them keep telling me that I still need to wait to be more healed – going as ‘backup’ is the closest they’ve let me get to doing anything.’

Narinder could see where she was going with this. ‘And Kallamar’s opinion?’ he asked, and she blinked. ‘He is the healer among them, is he not? Is there a reason you did not list his opinion?’

She made a face. ‘He’s more open to letting me do it, he said the leg is healed, but he’s not going to do anything Herder Shamura or the Shepherd tell him not to.’

‘I see. And you wish to ask me to help you despite their wishes.’

Tymer gave him a pointed look. ‘Listen, only half of the caravan is willing to buy that you’re actually converted,’ she said bluntly, and he blinked. ‘We travel with non-believers sometimes, that’s normal, but you don’t act like those either. And you’ve got a holy city accent so bad that I kind of doubt you’ve ever left Naraka, sometimes.’

We need to work on your acting, Red said, disgruntled. Everyone’s figuring it out already.

He sent it a quelling thought, and nodded cautiously. Despite Red’s insistence that he was a terrible actor, Narinder liked to think of himself as a decent liar, and this was more in that wheelhouse. ‘It is complicated,’ he said. ‘What I can say without angering the Shepherd is that I am a deserter, and an… informant of sorts.’ He touched Red around his throat. ‘I do not wear a collar for fashion.’

‘I’ve heard of something like that,’ Tymer said, which almost made him look taken aback. ‘Just kind of whispers, so I’m not sure. Something about red collars.’

‘Something like that,’ he agreed, though he and Red were trading alarmed impressions. Neither of them remembered anything about red collars; just how much had the One Who Waits been able to do without Narinder’s knowing? ‘Again, I can say little, but what I can assure you of is that I am here in good faith, convert or not.’

‘I know that,’ Tymer said, waving a hand. ‘Trust me, I know what spies look like. I didn’t lose this leg tripping over a rock.’

‘So it was not excision?’ he asked, then winced. ‘I apologise. You need not answer.’

‘If it had been, I wouldn’t,’ she said, but shook her head. ‘No, this happened because I caught a spy and they got me good before I managed to kill them. Poison. They barely got the leg off before I was a goner.’

‘I suppose you made sure it was not a price you paid alone, then,’ he said, and she gave him a curious look. ‘I could offer sympathy for the lost leg, and it is there,’ he said with a shrug. ‘You do not strike me as someone who finds comfort in that, however. What good is sympathy? It is gone, and it is done. But you killed the one who dealt the injury, and you have a tool with which to make up the price you paid.’

‘You know, I think it would piss off the Shepherd to hear you say that,’ she said.

‘I believe you have come to suspect that is less of a deterrent for me than most.’

‘Yeah, a bit. Thanks, though. It’s nice to not have to reassure someone I’m fine like they’re the one who got hurt,’ she said, then shook her head. ‘But just because I’m fine doesn’t mean I’m back to how I used to be, and I’m not really interested in just sitting around forever. You can fight, and I already know how Hana moves. Sparring with her won’t help me much. But you could.’

Narinder hummed, pretending to consider it, as if his decision hadn’t been made from the instant it was clear Esriaal would be annoyed. ‘Yes, I can do this for you,’ he said, and she lit up. ‘We will discuss it when you return; there are considerations we must keep in mind. I am willing to do this, but only if you are willing to acknowledge the limitations you have. I do not mind annoying the Shepherd – but if you are harmed, that will be a different story.’

‘Fair enough. Thanks for hearing me out,’ she said, and he jolted as she companionably thumped his shoulder. ‘No idea what your deal is, but I figure it can’t be too bad. And not all of us found Peace without blood on our hands, anyway.’

‘May I ask if you were…?’

‘A soldier for the One Who Waits? No,’ she said. ‘I was training for it, though, from when I was small. I wised up before then and got out.’

‘A wise decision indeed, considering,’ he said, something twisting in his chest – something similar to what had twisted when he heard Shamura had been a priest, when he’d seen his faithful dying in the care tents in Asterales.

‘Yeah. I had misgivings for a while, but I’m fine with it now,’ Tymer said. ‘I’ll take peace over cruelty any day. Anyway, they’re going to head out soon, but we’ll talk later.’

‘Of course,’ he said, inclining his head in acknowledgement, and she thumped his shoulder again before leaving, a subtle tension having left her frame.

Do you think…?, Red asked.

‘Perhaps,’ he said softly. ‘Let us focus on repairing what has been broken, first.’ There was hardly anything he could offer to tempt his departed faithful back into the fold. Not yet. And it was probably best not to let Esriaal think that he was scheming to steal back all of his worshippers.

Maybe not all of them, Red muttered, though it let the subject go.

Shamura and the others left, and Narinder settled in to wait. Esriaal was keeping their distance this morning less subtly than usual, for some reason – he wasn’t complaining, but even though they’d kept him at arm’s length so far, they’d made a point to say hello each morning. He didn’t know if this was simply busy work or something, but if they saw no reason to bother him, he’d hardly seek them out.

It wasn’t supposed to take very long – the meeting spot was a twenty minute walk away – so when the group hadn’t returned within the hour, it was safe to assume one of the converts hadn’t made it on time. Bit of a shame, but not really Narinder’s business, technically speaking. With luck, there wasn’t trouble, only a late arrival.

A second hour crawled past, however, and that was not a good sign. The caravan was on high alert, as Esriaal had promised; only the medical tent hadn’t been broken down, and even then the most important supplies had been packed away already. If anyone needed anything less than life-saving medical treatment, it would need to be on the go. Lingering could well draw a hunting squad to the caravan, and while Narinder knew he and Esriaal could handle that, it didn’t mean there would be no casualties.

‘Narinder?’ he heard below him. He was sitting atop a rover, loose in the way that would allow him to launch himself off and roll to meet any attackers if needed. He looked down to see Esriaal, and lifted an eyebrow. ‘Mind getting down here? I have to crane my neck enough when you’re on the ground.’

He slipped down off the rover, landing in a fluid crouch before standing. At least he was getting better at moving around in the trousers and tighter sleeves, he supposed. ‘What is it?’ he asked as politely as he could bring himself to be. If they had stopped avoiding him, then it was important.

‘We might have to do something stupid,’ they said. His eyebrows rose again. ‘There’s something wrong – obviously – but while it’s bad enough that something might have happened, there’s a bigger problem.’

‘Meaning?’

‘Tymer,’ they said, and he blinked. ‘She’s too important – she understands how the rovers are powered, and she has one of the first prostheses. I knew I should’ve objected, but it’s Shamura’s first run, and they don’t need me to undermine their authority while they’re still establishing it. They’d agreed that they wouldn’t send Tymer on her own, but I didn’t want her to go at all. She knows too much for them to not try to get it out of her, and she’s not ready to fight.’

‘And by what measure are you making that decision?’ he said, and Esriaal frowned. ‘She is a fighter, is she not?’

‘She’s only had the prosthesis for a week before we left the Pastures?’ they said, confused. ‘She’s still getting used to it.’

‘And how has she been doing so?’

‘By wearing it? Narinder, I don’t know what your problem is, but she shouldn’t have gone,’ Esriaal said. ‘I don’t know what happened, but if something went wrong, I’m not sure how much of a help she would be at the moment. That’s not her fault, she still has a way to go, but it’s just true.’

‘I am not so certain,’ he replied, and they scowled at him.

‘How about you leave caring for my flock to me,’ they said sharply. ‘Just because you don’t care if someone’s injured doesn’t mean I don’t.’

He glared at them in return. ‘That is not what I mean, but by all means, continue to infantilise your own followers,’ he said, and Esriaal’s scowl darkened. ‘You are stressed, but I care not. You may keep that anger to yourself, if you are willing to learn the knack of doing so.’

‘I’m not infanti– she needs time to heal, you jackass,’ they snarled, at least trying to keep their voice down. ‘She’s not some kind of pawn to throw at a problem.’

‘I did not say that, either,’ he said coldly. ‘I believe you intended to speak to me about some plan of action? If you can bring yourself to return to the actual problem at hand.’

Esriaal closed both their true and false eyes, taking a deep breath to control their temper. Pale felt free to glare malevolently at Narinder in Esriaal’s place, but Narinder had no patience for its opinion or animosity.

‘Like I said,’ they continued when they were calmer, ‘we can’t afford to lose Tymer or her prosthesis – if they find a way to damage or disable them, it could put a lot of people in the future at risk. Which means I’m going to head over to the meeting point to see what happened, and hopefully things are fine. If things aren’t and she’s missing, I’m going to go looking for her.’

‘You,’ he repeated sceptically.

‘Who else?’

‘Quite possibly anyone else,’ he said, gesturing to them as a whole. ‘Do you think the Shepherd to be the least provocative among all of us? If it is simple scouting work, send another, and when they return make a plan.’

‘And if they get hurt too?’

‘At that point we have a much larger problem, and we will have to solve it then,’ he replied, unimpressed. ‘Choose not to be a fool. Send someone else.’

‘I don’t know why I bothered to try to talk to you,’ they said venomously. ‘I should have known you wouldn’t care. Have you ever been willing to put your own fur on the line for someone else?’

Narinder started to hiss at them – what the hell else did they think ‘travelling with his enemy for the sake of his faithful’ counted as? – but there was an alarmed shout on the other side of the caravan. Both of them were moving before the shout could even finish, darting around the rover in unison and across the clearing made by the circle of rovers.

‘What happened?!’ Esriaal said, aghast and skidding to a stop in horror. Shamura and a seahorse Narinder didn’t recognise were supporting a badly wounded Fegreno, who seemed barely conscious.

‘One of the converts was a plant,’ Shamura said. They were wounded too, their two lower right arms cradled up against their middle, but the strength of the anger on their face would be overruling any pain. ‘Allenno here didn’t know, or so xe claims, and for now I’m willing to accept xyr word for it, given how sincerely the other convert was attempting to kill xem.’

‘I promised to stay under Herder Shamura’s watch until they’re satisfied I’m not a danger,’ Allenno said, xyr face exhausted. ‘But… Gregreon wasn’t… he was the one who converted me. How could he have done this? And Mernoan –’

‘Shh,’ Esriaal said, hurrying over and picking up Fegreno without pause, not caring about the blood seeping into their white cloak and blouse. ‘It’ll be okay, you lived. You’re okay. Come on, let’s get you and Fegreno looked at – Kallamar, with me –’

Kallamar had already been at the medical tent as soon as he saw there were injuries, Allenno trailing Esriaal as they carried Fegreno into the tent. Shamura wasn’t following just yet, looking at Narinder, and he stepped over to them.

‘The others are dead, I take it,’ he said neutrally, a small pang in his chest that he hid. He supposed he wouldn’t be helping Tymer after all.

‘Hana is,’ Shamura said, taking him aback. ‘The plant was followed by soldiers, more than we could have defended against even if we hadn’t had Fegreno and the other two converts with us. Hana was killed quickly – she rushed in, the brave idiot. I will leave that out of my report.’

‘And Tymer?’ he said, eyebrows up.

‘She killed three of them, but spoke to them before they could pursue Fegreno and I with Allenno. She appears to have been deceiving the Shepherd.’

‘She is a traitor?’ he said blankly, but Shamura hastily shook their head. That shifted their arms, and they chittered in pain.

‘No, and I won’t have her remembered as such,’ they said, collecting themself. ‘She appears to have been a hunting squad captain, judging by what she told the other soldiers. The opposite of a traitor, frankly. She sold herself out to convince them she was the greater prize. From experience, she is correct – the higher the rank of the deserter, the greater the prize for their recapture. I suppose I have no need to tell you that, however.’

‘No, you do not,’ he said quietly. That was unfortunately not an action he could claim to have forgotten or had no hand in; bounties were powerful tools, and there was a bonus for those who captured a deserter alive. ‘So she was taken?’

‘Yes, as well as the other convert,’ Shamura said, and their face was genuinely sorrowful. ‘I believe she was the child of the convert who betrayed us – they were both coyotes, so they weren’t likely to be natives. She couldn’t have been older than Heket. From the sounds of it, they’ve decided she’ll be the next ‘volunteer’ for excision, for her father’s failure. And Tymer will be sacrificed this evening – they’ll want to send her soul along as swiftly as possible. Narinder?’

Narinder’s teeth were clenched, as were his fists. It was slight, but he knew he was shaking.

Narinder, Red cautioned from around his throat. We can’t just walk in there, you know that.

‘No, we cannot,’ he muttered, which seemed to confuse Shamura, but he felt Red twitch around his throat as it understood. ‘Herder Shamura, you are injured. As the remaining fighter with the caravan, I will discuss what to do next with the Shepherd, and we will bring whatever we think is best to you as Herder.’

They squinted at him. Then he twitched in surprise as they said, in a very rusty and but perfectly respectable Old Speech, ‘You will do no such thing, will you?’

He suspected he knew why their mumbles in their migraine fugues sounded like ‘nonsense’.

‘If at all possible,’ he said in kind. ‘The conversation we were having just prior to your arrival was along the lines of what to do next, regardless.’

Shamura nodded. Glanced at the tent. ‘I worship them, and sincerely,’ they said. ‘I would not be here, even if it was not the only safe haven for a deserter, if I did not. I am not the Shamura who came before, and I carry neither their sins nor their prejudices. But the Shepherd is as imperfect as any Crowned God. And I fear that in this, they may make a mistake. Please do not make a mistake as well. Do not be rash.’

Narinder touched their uninjured right arm. ‘I will discuss this with them,’ he said firmly. ‘Go and allow Kallamar to tend to your arms. If I get my way but do not return in a reasonable timespan, leave. I will catch up.’

Shamura nodded again and headed into the tent with weary resignation. Narinder went to the rover where his own items were currently stashed, gathering what he would need, waiting for the right moment. When he was ready, he went back to the tent. It hadn’t been broken down yet, but the supplies had been moved. As he’d hoped, the only one inside was Esriaal.

‘Shamura said you wanted to talk,’ they said, a grief in their voice that they weren’t bothering to hide, even though their expression was hard. They then saw what he was holding and stiffened. ‘Narinder, that better not be what I think it is.’

‘Reality cares little for what you wish things to be,’ he said, already swiftly buckling the sword around his waist, pulling on the cloak and rolling up his shirt's long sleeves. That felt better, at least, and it wasn't as if the long-faded scars were visible.

‘You can’t be serious,’ they said in disbelief. ‘You were just talking about how I can’t go because I’ll be recognised –’

‘I will not be.’

‘That doesn’t matter if you’re caught!’

‘And do you intend to leave them there?’ he said, and they flinched. ‘You, who accuse me of never risking my own fur, would abandon them?’

‘How dare you,’ they said, anger beginning to flicker in golden sparks through their wool. ‘How fucking dare you – I never said that! You’re the one who wanted to talk about a plan!’

‘And so we are,’ he agreed. ‘Red, if you would.’

Esriaal flinched as Red briefly unwound from its place around his throat, then returned; the cloak was no longer plain, but in the reds and blacks of a clerical uniform. A high ranking, travelling priest, to be specific.

‘You can’t be serious,’ they repeated, far weaker.

‘I care no more for your opinions on my actions than reality cares for your wishes,’ he replied. ‘If we are agreed, then?’

‘Like hell we are!’ Esriaal snapped. ‘This is stupid!’

‘You were the one who said we may need to do something stupid,’ he replied. ‘If you are quite finished, o Shepherd, I am to understand that I am on a time limit. I will take my leave.’

Their body was glowing with their rage, short cape and long skirt floating from the force of their magic, sparks and static arcing from their wool. Even their false eye looked molten. He’d never seen them so angry. To his frustration, for the first time in weeks, he felt his dick twitch. It went no farther, admittedly, but he didn’t look forward to this sight appearing in his dreams.

‘Narinder, don’t you dare,’ Esriaal snarled, poised forward like they would leap. ‘This isn’t a fucking request, you will stay here or – or –’

Narinder bowed to them with all the sarcasm the world could contain, the derision making clear that he was bowing his head at their expense, not to them. ‘Fear not, Shepherd,’ he mocked. ‘I am certain that by the time I return, you will have come up with a threat to make me quake with terror.’

He was already dancing out of reach by the time they leapt at him, whirling gracefully on his paw and darting through the tent flap before they could grab hold of his disguised cloak, running faster than any except Esriaal might have been able to keep up with – and they wouldn’t leave the caravan, he was certain of it.

Now he just needed to not prove them right – not only for the sakes of Tymer and the soon-to-be excised child, but for his pride. Esriaal would simply have to live with knowing that Narinder would no more willingly relinquish to their control than he would the One Who Waits.

Red said nothing more, but there was a thought beginning to percolate there. Narinder left it alone, focussing on the run. His Crown would tell him its thoughts when it wished to, and no sooner.

Chapter Text

The marine quarter of Fairswells Isle was relatively small compared to the main body of the town on the island itself, the transition between the two being the paved stone roads diving into the depths of Anchordeep. It was a well-off enough town, being a parish seat: old brick buildings crowded together on the hill with narrow cobblestone streets winding up the steep slope of the small island. The buildings under the watery air were more colourful than the plain buildings that were purely above the shoreline, resulting in a gradient from plain brick to bright painted walls as the roads plunged into the sea.

In much the same way as the Pastures’ atmosphere had been mismatched to the landscape, however, Fairswells’ atmosphere was far gloomier than the colourful Anchordeep water and coral should have ever lended to a space. That persisted between the marine quarter and the first dry quarter, but at least the plain brick above water felt more appropriate to the morose air lingering in the town.

The street wasn’t particularly busy, with few pedestrians already hurrying along on their errands, but the various creatures who called Anchordeep’s shores home were now trying to scramble out of Narinder’s way as soon as they saw him. It wasn’t only the intimidating canine face he now wore, he could tell. It was the black and red colours of his cloak that now inspired alarm, and from the instant reaction, this was a town that had been ruled by fear for many weeks, perhaps months. He could see it in the exhausted faces. He could taste it among the salt and brine of the coastal breeze.

He took the fury that filled him and channelled it into the part he was to play, the role of a zealot with neither qualms nor mercy for those out of line. It was easy to be angry, certainly, and it was difficult to control in a way it had never been when he was whole, but he refused to give in. His imprisonment a millennia past had taught him the value of directed anger instead of mindless rage. He would make of that lesson an armour strong enough to fool even the most devoted of disciples. He was the only one who could.

He knew how parish seats worked, obviously, and so he strode up the steep incline to the centre of the town. The motorised carriages of Naraka were too delicate to handle anything but the main roads in the lands around the holy city – that was the only reason the rovers of the Shepherd’s flocks were able to travel with little interference on the backroads as they did – so the streets here only had foot traffic and the occasional wagon. When he reached the centre of town, the temple was a more humble structure than most he’d seen elsewhere, standing at the head of the town square. Word travelled quickly, and the head priest was already hurrying down the stairs. The eel was barely managing to hide his nerves as he met Narinder at the foot of the steps.

‘Your Grace,’ the head priest said, bowing his head. ‘We didn’t know to expect you, forgive us –’

‘That was the point,’ he said sharply, and the eel winced. ‘The One Who Waits has commanded those he trusts highest to walk the land and examine his holdings, to ensure his will is conducted as his faithful have sworn to wield. To warn you ahead of time would render my duty pointless.’

‘Of course, your Grace,’ the eel said feebly. ‘May I ask your name?’

‘I am Arryn, Cleric Errant,’ Narinder replied. ‘Your Grace will suffice.’

‘As you wish. I am Head Priest Makitre,’ he said. ‘How may I assist you in your duties? We are all the servants of the One Who Waits, Chainbreaker and the Inevitable, and if you are here to exercise his will, so too are we your servants.’

I really hate grovelling, Red said tiredly.

‘Good, you yet know how respect works,’ Narinder answered. ‘There have been temples with less wisdom than yours. I will have you show me through each part of the temple, to ensure it is kept to our master’s standards –’

You managed to say that with a straight face, good job.

‘– and then I will inspect it alone, to ensure with my own eyes that all is as it should be. What is the next planned service? Excision is yet days away.’

‘We’ll be performing an extra ritual, your Grace,’ Makitre said eagerly. ‘A volunteer – she is quite young, but she wishes to devote herself to her god, and we will not deny her. That will be in the morning. Tonight, we’re performing a special sacrifice as well – a foolish deserter has seen fit to give her life for the Herald. She has forgotten that all enter the just and immutable grasp of our master, and we know he will be greatly pleased with the offering.’

‘A mere deserter?’ Narinder said with disdain. ‘Out here? A pittance. Better than nothing, I suppose.’

‘I apologise with all my heart, your Grace,’ Makitre said, bowing. ‘I did not explain the situation as clearly as I should. She is no mere deserter – I am certain that one so worldly as you must have heard of Captain Feyen?’

Narinder stiffened in surprise. He did in fact know that name.

That must have been – eight years back, Red thought aloud, disturbed. Narinder was fairly disturbed himself. Captain Feyen had been one of the highest ranking traitors to have deserted; she and one of her subordinates had famously led their squad not to the flock they were hunting, but a monster’s den. She then abandoned them. The subordinate hadn’t been so lucky as to escape – left to die, it had been found alive in time for its superiors to… question. It refused to betray her until the bitter end, and even then the only answer it gave was one that implied the fate of her squad had been intentional. It had declared that this would not be the last blood drawn by Feyen’s hands, then died silently.

Narinder had never known her personally, whether as the One Who Waits or the Cat, and couldn’t recall anything about her being a red panda – but then, he couldn’t recall anything but the story and the name. ‘No mere deserter’, indeed.

‘Exactly,’ Makitre said, excited once more. ‘She is in the cells, as is tomorrow’s volunteer.‌ You will see her with your own eyes.’

‘Very well,’ Narinder replied, and gestured at the temple. ‘I will attend both ceremonies before I leave for my next assignment, to be certain they are performed with as much accuracy as enthusiasm.’

‘Of course, your Grace. This way – with your permission, we shall begin with the central hall.’

As Narinder had suspected, a temple this humble had the most basic of the standard layouts. A central hall for worship, a sanctum for the higher clergy to worship, living quarters and the other basics to match the needs of the clergy. It was all straightforward, as well as the cells in the catacombs beneath. It was there that he saw Tymer. Feyen, he supposed.

She had sustained fewer injuries than he would have expected, though she’d received the bare minimum of care in the meantime (presumably to keep her alive until the sacrifice.) She wasn’t alone in her cell; despite the other empty cells, there was a child with her. A coyote pup, eyes big in her wan face, shaking as she spotted Narinder and the others. Feyen’s expression was much less timid.

‘I see we get to be a sideshow on top of everything else,’ she said, her scowl murderous as she looked at Narinder. ‘What, the Bastard Who Waits couldn’t wait a little longer? Decided to send someone to do the job first?’

‘You will show respect or we will make it hurt more than it already will,’ Makitre hissed at her furiously. ‘Apologies, your Grace, I will have her gagged –’

Narinder held up his paw, and Makitre fell silent. He didn’t speak, himself; he couldn’t give away who he was, and he suspected Feyen would recognise his voice instantly. He gestured deeper into the catacombs instead, giving Makitre an unimpressed look, as if he felt his time was being wasted.

‘When the Shepherd gets their hands on you, you’re going to see what Peace does to those that break it,’ Feyen called after them as Makitre hastened to lead Narinder away, her voice furious still. Narinder ignored it, but there was a part of him that wanted to cut Makitre down now instead of waiting, set Feyen free now, get out of here now – but he held onto his patience. He may no longer be the One Who Waits, but that didn’t mean he intended to be lesser than his other half.

‘May I ask for your impressions?’ Makitre asked hopefully, having led Narinder to the temple doors.

‘It is satisfactory on the surface,’ Narinder said, and the eel briefly looked like he might cry from relief before hastily banishing it. ‘I will now inspect it on my own.’

‘Of course, your Grace,’ Makitre said, bowing. ‘Will an hour suffice? I will gladly have a luncheon prepared for when you’re finished, if you would like. Captain Feyen was to be prepared soon, but we will of course wait until you are finished. No need to trouble yourself with such unpleasant business.’

‘I decide what I am troubled with,’ he said, making Makitre wince. ‘However, as I am satisfied with my first impression, I will both forgive the impertinence and allow you to make preparations once I am finished. A luncheon will be acceptable.’

‘Wonderful,’ Makitre said, bowing again. ‘Have you any needs whatsoever, don’t hesitate to ask them of myself or any of the other clergy.’

Narinder acknowledged it with a sharp nod, then entered the temple again.

He had to make it believable, so he spent as much time as could be afforded on the ‘inspections’, but it was with relief that he was able to descend into the catacombs, palming the ring of keys foolishly left out.

‘You’re back,’ Feyen scoffed as he approached, but she was unmistakably moving the coyote pup behind her. ‘Take one step into this cell and you’ll bleed out in it.’

‘I would prefer you not do that,’ he said, and Feyen flinched. ‘It will make an already difficult escape much more so.’

‘Narinder?!’ she whispered, rushing forward. ‘What in the – how are you –’ She cut herself off, glare icy as she stepped back. ‘You’re lying.’

‘I am not,’ he said patiently, beginning to test keys. ‘The Shepherd has temporarily granted me the ability to disguise myself, but it cannot last forever. And I would hardly choose to spar against you with a face you know not.’

‘Holy shit,’ Feyen breathed. ‘You really…’

‘The Shepherd would not leave you behind,’ he said, because it was true. He had no idea what Esriaal’s plan would’ve been, of course, but he knew they’d intended to come up with one. He’d simply had a better one much faster. ‘Not a child, nor you. And I would not do it, either.’ He found the right key and unlocked the door at last.

‘Thanks,’ she said as she took the pup’s hand and led her out. ‘I – hell. I don’t know how I’ll make this up to you.’

‘Presume not to think I will hold the debt against you,’ he replied. ‘We are comrades, once and again.’

She winced. ‘So you know…’

‘Yes. I hope to hear the tale from your side, one day,’ he said tactfully. ‘I trust that the one I know is incomplete. I have seen you do what is right; I trust you to continue to do so. I know not who in the caravan will know when we arrive, however, nor if they know your true name. We will handle it then.’

‘It’s not my true name. My name is Tymer,’ she said. ‘I stopped being Feyen a long time ago.’

‘Then you are Tymer,’ he said, and she relaxed. ‘Here –’

He took off the cloak, slipping it out from under Red; once no longer worn, the cloak looked plain again. The clothes beneath were his own, but as no one had seen him yet, it hopefully wouldn't matter. ‘I am no healer and cannot tend your wounds, so it is best to hide it,’ he said, handing Tymer the cloak. ‘This, as well.’

She stared at him as he unbuckled the sword, giving both belt and sword to her. ‘I can’t fight.’

‘Tell that to the three soldiers felled by your hand,’ he replied flatly. ‘I need no blade to fight, fear not. If anything, between the two of us, I am the one who will need to remember my own skill. Yours remains. Take the sword, and we will find you a suitable one once we are safe.’

‘Are you sure you were a soldier?’ she said faintly, buckling the belt around her waist and drawing the sword to test it. As he’d suspected, her movements were well-practised. She was favouring her left leg, understandably so, but that simply meant Narinder would cover that side. ‘You’re too nice.’

‘I suspect it would surprise you not, how great a change may be wrought when one grows a heart once more,’ he murmured. ‘Or at least allows it to beat once more.’

‘Yeah,’ she said, and sheathed the sword again. ‘How are you fighting?’

‘There was a time when I was better with curses than I was with weapons. We are hardly going up against the most elite of the One Who Waits’ soldiers, I am certain I can handle it,’ he said. ‘I would not have given you the blade were I not to believe you were the better wielder between the two of us, at least for the moment.’

‘We’re going to need to work on your holy city accent, it’s a dead giveaway,’ she said, shaking her head, but thumped his shoulder. ‘Lead the way, and I’ll follow.’

He nodded, reflecting that it would be impressive indeed if he managed to shake the same pattern of speech he’d had for millennia, and with Mernoan holding Tymer’s left hand and tucked beneath the cloak, he led them deeper into the catacombs. It was a quiet, tense walk, but there was no sound of pursuit, and when they reached the door to the outside of the temple, Narinder listened closely. ‘This will lead out into the cemetery. Mernoan, do you know this town well?’

She shook her head. ‘We moved here from Anura,’ she whispered. ‘Just two months ago.’

‘That is alright,’ he said, mostly because he hadn’t had much faith in a child’s directions regardless. ‘The cemetery is always on the western side of the temple, as the door is always oriented south. As I recall, the marine quarter is also to the south, so we will need to sneak around to avoid the main road. Should anything happen, I expect you to hide until Tymer and I have handled the situation. Am I understood?’

Mernoan nodded, still timid but trusting as Tymer patted her head. Narinder was grateful to have Tymer here and well enough to wield a weapon, but as he pushed the door open into the mid-day light, he could admit that it would have been good to have more back up. It wasn’t as if Esriaal could have come with him – it had already been a reckless plan as it was, and any plan that had both of them entering a town with a temple would have been far more reckless, by an order of magnitude. It felt strange to imagine fighting with them instead of against them, but they inarguably had more experience in fighting his soldiers than he did.

Then we’d have to deal with Pale, Red said, but it was mainly on principle. It wanted nothing to with the other Crown, but it could recognise necessity.

Narinder led Tymer and Mernoan through the cemetery, ears on a swivel once more. He could hear that stupid head priest – oh, right.

‘One moment,’ he murmured to the other two, and touched Red, as if activating some charm; Red obligingly changed the disguise to that of a slender mouse, taking care to disguise his clothes to match the more androgynous figure, and to briefly touch on the tortoiseshell cat face Tymer would know. ‘That is the last one I can use, and it will only work on me,’ he said apologetically. ‘It should give them some pause, should anyone find us suspicious. It will be easier once we exit the marine quarter. Now try to walk as if we are simply headed home – not too fast, but we are not sneaking through the streets, either. Follow.’

It was almost completely successful. They made it through the town, attracting only the slightest of attention for Tymer’s cloak, but it was a grey day above water, so it was excusable. They were near the end of the marine quarter, almost out, and Narinder began to let himself hope – only to hear a shout behind them.

‘Very well, then,’ he sighed. ‘Mernoan, do you remember where they met you last time?’

‘Yes?’

‘Go halfway there, then hide. We will come for you. Now run.’

Thank all that was good in the world, the pup didn’t hesitate; she just took off like a shot, headed for the kelp forest beyond.

Narinder whirled on his paw, Tymer slower thanks to her leg but not by much. Seven soldiers, he counted quickly, all racing to catch up. No others in sight; this was manageable.

‘When they get near, I will cover your left,’ he said, stepping around to Tymer’s left side as he spoke. ‘Until then, brace yourself, and strike first. That is the newer armour – go through the sides if you can.’

‘Understood,’ she answered, drawing the sword.

As she did, Narinder pulled back in his memory; he’d had no use for curses for decades, and for two millennia before that, but some things remained true to a body. He slashed his right hand through the air, as if carving a line in the stone road. The stone split with a earthshaking CRACK, and from the chasm that his curse ripped into the ground, blacksteel spears emerged with lethal points and deadlier speed. Most of the soldiers managed to dodge with shrieks of surprise, only cut by the passing blades, but the soldier in front hadn’t been nearly so lucky. When the spears dropped back down into the earth and the chasm slammed closed, that first soldier was all but split in two.

‘What the fuck, Narinder,’ she said, stunned beside him.

‘I did say there was a time I was better with curses,’ he replied, focussing on the fireballs he was intent on conjuring, but he was pleased by her shock.

You might want to pull it back a little, Red said, but it wasn’t without amusement.

Narinder intentionally summoned one less fireball than he’d planned, just to hear his Crown laugh.

Short of levelling the entire street, Narinder couldn’t wipe out the remaining six (and had not planned to, thank you very much), but he was able to take out another two. As the other four were almost in range of Tymer’s sword, he refocussed. Crowd control; keep Tymer from being mobbed, and she would handle the rest.

She did, and admirably so. She was smart enough to not try moving more than she had to, left leg still weaker than the right, but she killed three of them. Narinder only killed the one that tried to dart in from the left, seeming to be under the impression that he wouldn’t attempt to cast a curse from such close quarters. Fireballs were nasty up close.

Even as the last one staggered back from Tymer’s final blow, Narinder couldn’t help but feel a small pang of grief. He didn’t know how many of his soldiers were true believers, and which ones lived under the stifling fear that lay upon Fairswells Isle. He had little doubt that same fear hung over the other parishes.

He didn’t have time for more than that pang, however, already turning and dashing into the thick greenery, pacing himself for Tymer’s injuries and left leg.

Both of them listened as hard as they could while they ran. While Narinder had no doubt more soldiers would follow much sooner rather than later, there were no more pursuants for the moment.

The two continued on until the halfway point, coming to a quick rest. Narinder admittedly had to pretend to be more out of breath than he actually was, but casting that many curses in a row when he was out of practice had actually wearied him some.

He cleared his throat. ‘Mernoan?’ he called, as softly as could still be expected to be heard. There was no answer, but after a few seconds, there was a faint shift in the stalks.

‘It’s safe?’ the pup asked when she’d crept into sight. She was limping, however, and there was a scrape on her face. She must have tripped at one point.

‘For the moment, but we cannot linger,’ Narinder agreed, making a quick decision. It would be admittedly a bit undignified, but Tymer was the only one here at the moment, and it wasn’t as if anyone would believe her. ‘You need not fear slowing us down,’ he added when she looked down at her leg. ‘I will carry you.’

‘Okay,’ she whispered, and though it did indeed feel undignified, she was soon clinging to Narinder’s back. ‘Um. Did… did my dad…?’

Narinder winced.

‘I’m sorry, Mernoan,’ Tymer said, and he felt Mernoan hide her face in the back of his neck. ‘What matters right now is that you’re safe with us, and we’ll catch up to the others. The Shepherd will want to talk to you.’

‘Am I in trouble?’

‘No,’ Narinder said firmly. ‘I assure you, of the three of us, you will not be the one to suffer the Shepherd’s ire.’

Tymer gave him an uncertain look. ‘Didn’t… didn’t they send you? With the disguising charm?’

‘Of course,’ he lied easily, and Tymer relaxed. ‘I may have chosen to act before they felt it was prudent, is all.’

‘Better you than me,’ Tymer said, shaking her head. ‘We can talk more later. I’m pretty sure I’m going to be in more trouble than you, actually.’

‘If that is to be true, they will go through me first regardless,’ Narinder said as the two of them began to walk, and she gave him a startled look. ‘But they will not. I know them well.’

‘How long have you been an informant?’ she asked, and he shook his head.

‘I can say precious little else. I am correct however, and will continue to be so. Trust me, if you can.’

‘Before this morning? Absolutely not,’ she said, which was fair. ‘After this? I’d be an idiot if I didn’t.’

‘Thank you,’ he said, and meant it. ‘Come, this way.’

Tymer nodded, Mernoan clung, and Narinder braced himself for what was to come.

Red remembered the way better than Narinder, and so they were able to bypass where Shamura had intended to meet the converts. He doubted the scene had been cleaned up, and Mernoan didn’t need that to haunt her alongside all the other spectres likely to haunt her already. As the two approached where the caravan had been, he could tell it was empty now.

Tymer gave him an uncertain look.

‘Fear not,’ he said. ‘Tracking a flock is difficult, but not impossible, and we need not be that subtle – if anything, unsubtlety will signal that we are not a hunting squad. They will be hoping for us to catch up. They may have left us some kind –’

The two stepped out of the kelp forest, and he froze. There was exactly one person left in the clearing.

Esriaal got to their hooves, having been sitting perfectly still, floating slightly as they meditated, waiting. When they saw Tymer, their relief was palpable, but when they looked at Narinder, their face was so perfectly neutral that it was more ominous than an apocalyptic glare could have ever been.

‘The charm worked, as you can see,’ he said before they could say anything. ‘There is no reason to think anyone realised I was not who I said I was until the last moment.’

‘The last moment being when you ended up covered in blood,’ they returned, and Narinder glanced down; he hadn’t even noticed. Red ‘ended’ the illusion, at least, returning Narinder to the tortoiseshell cat appearance that was his face for now, but the blood remained.

‘Were any of it mine, I would have noticed long before now.’

‘I wasn’t worried about that,’ they said, which could sound like a vote of confidence. Narinder knew it wasn’t, and so he grit his teeth against the flare of anger. ‘You’re okay, Tymer? And you’re okay too – Mernoan, right?’

The pup nodded, and let go of Narinder extremely reluctantly, immediately latching onto Tymer’s offered hand.

‘I’m not going to be great if I don’t sit down and patch myself up some, but I’m holding up,’‌ Tymer said. ‘You want your cloak back, Narinder? You look worse than I do at the moment.’

‘Very well,’ he agreed (she wasn’t wrong) and accepted it. The fabric was darker, so the blood stains were more subtle.

Esriaal started to say something, but then registered the sword at Tymer’s waist. ‘Wait, did you have to fight, too?’ they asked, alarmed.

‘Narinder covered for my left,’ she said, and Esriaal glanced at him, neutrality broken by a flicker of uncertainty.

‘I would not leave a fighter without a weapon of her own,’ he replied. ‘I can hold my own, as can she.’

They nodded tightly. ‘Okay. I’m glad you’re more or less okay,’ they said, and at least they seemed to have an infinite well of goodwill and kindness for their followers, as their smile at Mernoan and Tymer was sincere.

Tymer was looking between Narinder and Esriaal, however. Then she settled on Narinder. ‘This was all you, wasn’t it?’ she asked, as clear as she was willing to be with a child nearby. The actual meaning was clear, both to Narinder and Esriaal, given Esriaal’s flinch.

‘Not for lack of trying,’ he said, not particularly caring if there was a child nearby; it was not anything the girl shouldn’t hear, in the end. She needed the same confirmation Tymer did, in a different way. ‘Fear not. I spoke truly in the catacombs. They would not leave you behind, any more than I would. It was never a question of intention. Simply of timing.’

‘That one I can believe,’ Tymer said with a sigh, eyes closed, but she was relaxing again. He couldn’t blame her. If she thought he assisted her escape against her Shepherd’s wishes, her faith would be permanently damaged. It would be a lie if he allowed it to stand, however, and so he wouldn’t.

Judging by the brief look of shock they had on their face, it wasn’t what Esriaal had expected him to say. He didn’t care. Esriaal was free to act however they wished; he could do nothing about that. He needed no permission nor cooperation from them to do as he pleased, however, and if they wanted to be lesser than a creature with half a soul, then that was no business of his.

‘In which way should we go next? If it is to be a long walk, Mernoan should not do so with her twisted ankle,’ he asked them, and they jumped a bit.

‘No, that won’t be necessary, I have something that will take us there directly,’ Esriaal said, left ear twitching. ‘Here, one second –’

The glow they withdrew from under their cloak was one of the blue cores, heavy with its air of divinity; a more powerful one than most, he could see. They set it down on the ground, and Narinder watched a golden light billow out from the core and weave itself into a tall arch, wispy iridescent swirls filling the space with an opaque mist. A portal, and not an easy one; even pentacle portals of the kind he’d always preferred required more of a catalyst.

Narinder had to bite back his instinctive need to demand a closer look, ruthlessly shoving aside his curiosity. They still hadn’t explained the cores, the magic used, how they’d come by the knowledge or who their mysterious ‘help’ had been – they hadn’t explained anything. They likely wouldn’t, if they could manage it.

‘This is going to lead into the medical tent, Kallamar and Shamura will be waiting now that the signal’s gone off,’ Esriaal told them, and Tymer nodded, taking Mernoan’s hand. ‘Do me a favour? Tell Shamura that Narinder and I’ll be along in a minute.’

Tymer had taken a step towards the arch, but now fell still. ‘Shepherd, don’t,’ she said, and Esriaal blinked. ‘He saved our lives. He did something good. Don’t punish him for it.’

‘I know,’ they said, recovering. ‘I need to talk to him, that’s all.’

Tymer nodded with relief, though she didn’t seem to notice Esriaal’s choice not to address the actual problem she’d been worried about. ‘I’ll tell Shamura, then,’ she said, and led the limping Mernoan through the golden arch.

The light vanished a few seconds after Tymer was out of sight, and Esriaal bent to pick up the core. Narinder didn’t say anything, waiting, but he knew well who he’d been to Esriaal for decades now. He knew how angry they’d been when he left. If there was to be a second fight today, so be it.

From the expression on their face when they looked at him, Narinder suspected Tymer had been right to worry.

‘How dare you,’ they said, shaking with their anger, both eyes all but burning, Pale’s along with them.

‘How dare I what, Esriaal?’ Narinder said coldly, Red leaving his throat to rest on his head again, allowing him to wear his own face. ‘How dare I help? How dare I keep them alive? They were about to prepare her for a sacrifice. They were to have an additional excision ritual tomorrow for Mernoan. So by all means, Esriaal. Tell me how I should have left a child and one of your own followers to die at the hands of mine.’

‘That isn’t – for fuck’s sake, what is wrong with you?!’ they burst out. ‘Who the fuck are you?’

Narinder twitched. ‘Excuse me?’

‘Who the fuck are you?’ they repeated, hands in fists. ‘Because you’re sure as hell not the Cat, and you’re not Narinder, and you’re not the One Who Waits, so who the fuck are you?!’

‘I know not what you are asking,’ he said through gritted teeth. ‘And I care not, either. If you wish to throw a petulant tantrum, feel free to do so, but I will have no part in it.’

‘That! That right there!’ they spat, gesturing at him. ‘What the fuck happened? What the hell do you think gives you the right to – to –’

‘To what, Esriaal?’ he snarled back, instantly failing to not take part in this. ‘The right to what? I am no follower of yours, no subordinate, for all that you wish to make me one – I know not what right you speak of, but it is mine, whatever it is. You do not dictate my rights any more than you dictate anything else of mine. I bow my head to no one, and you least of all.’

Esriaal covered their face, an enraged scream drowned in their palms. ‘You don’t get to do this!’ they said, fury only muffled, not doused. ‘You don’t get to do this to me, you bastard, you don’t get to act like this, you don’t get to be like this! You don’t have the fucking right!’

‘You will not tell me what right you are trying to deny me!’ he shouted at them. ‘If this is about what I just did, then you can go to hell, Esriaal – I care not how angry you are, this is nonsense!’

‘I’m not angry!’

‘Then what?!’

‘I’m terrified!’ they shouted, and he froze. ‘Do you have any idea what you just did? How much you just risked? You could have ruined everything, just because you couldn’t wait to talk to me for thirty fucking seconds, and then you were gone, and what was I supposed to do?!’

‘What do you mean?’ he said, wary now.

‘I was terrified, you bastard,’ they said, face full of loathing – or something like it. ‘You were gone, if you die this is all over for everyone, and you still ran off!’

Ah. He should have known, he thought, bitterness withering the fleeting idea that this might have been personal. At least it had been so brief that he hadn’t had time to decide whether he even wanted to hope for it or not.

‘And what were our other options?’ he asked. ‘What else would have worked?’

‘Nothing, probably, but if you’d stayed and talked to me about it, then at least I wouldn’t have had to sit here not knowing what the fuck you were doing!’ they raged at him.

‘And what should I care for your fear, Esriaal?’ he hissed at them, wishing he could still fight them, hurt them, make them hurt, this hurt – ‘What thought should I give to your feelings? Save both of us the lie and do not pretend for an instant you would give mine a thought in turn – you are barely managing to concern yourself with my base wellbeing!’

He spread his arms, the bloody clothes and cloak on full display. ‘‘I wasn’t worried about that’, was it?’ he said, and they flinched. ‘I am standing here covered in the blood of my soldiers, for sake of your faithful, and you cannot bring yourself to fear any of this to be mine! You accuse me of being incapable of risking myself, as if I stand not before the creature who most wants me dead, as if I travel not through lands where I will be unmade should my other half have me once more!’

‘That’s – that’s not the same,’ they tried to shoot back, but it was feeble.

‘As what? As what I did today?’ he replied venomously. ‘Are they truly different things? Or is one useful to you and the other inconvenient?’

They looked away from him. Of course.

‘I know not what more you want from me, Esriaal,’ he said, continuing to look at them even if they were too much of a coward to look at him in turn. ‘I know not how much more you think I have to give when I am already in pieces. And I know not why you believe yourself deserving of any consideration when you cannot force yourself even to feign the same.’

‘I…’ they started. They didn’t finish. There was nothing to say, really.

‘This conversation is finished,’ he said flatly. ‘Rest easy, Esriaal – I will not vanish before my other half lays dead. Do not force yourself to care for the weapon you hope to wield to do the deed. Now let us return to the caravan. I have loved ones waiting for me.’

That was a cheap shot, and he knew it, but he felt he had earned one. He thought that, at least, but then they hid their face in their hands. A cheap shot, but one that had pierced as deeply as he intended; he regretted it as he watched them shake. The Pale Crown was glaring at him, but he didn’t care about it or its opinions. It didn’t care about him any more than its bearer did.

‘Fine,’ Esriaal said at last, and he winced. He hadn’t realised just how dead a living voice could sound. It was as hollow and cold as an old grave dug up and left behind. ‘Let’s go.’

‘I am sorry.’

Their head snapped up, eyes wide. Narinder stood his ground.

‘I am sorry,’ he said again when they remained wordless. They somehow looked worse, so he tried to specify. ‘That was cruel to say. So I am sorry.’

‘Why are you like this?’ they whispered. ‘Why couldn’t you have stayed a monster?’

Narinder didn’t know what to say to that, so it was a good thing Esriaal was continuing.

‘Why couldn’t you have stayed the same?’ they said, so plaintive it hurt. ‘Why do you get to be a person again? I want to hate you. I deserve to hate you, after everything you’ve done, and you can’t even give me that. You get to have everything, every time, and I’m always left with nothing.’

‘I‌ do not understand,’ he said, unsure.

‘You get everything,’ they said, gesturing to the world as a whole. ‘I gave you everything I had and I got nothing for it – less than nothing. I had to listen as you killed the followers I gave you after I was gone. That was the only thing I could give them while they were screaming for me to save them. Someone to hear them. You got to be free, you got to do whatever you like – you got Red, you got the world, and I got screams.

‘Now you get to be free again. You get your family. You get to be a person again, and I don’t even get to hate you anymore.’

They laughed, hollow and mirthless, their true eye closed now, gold eye lifeless. ‘You get everything, and I’m always the one paying for it. I always have nothing to show for it, so I don’t have anything to give you, either. You might be in pieces, but I’m always nothing in the end. Besides, you might be just a weapon to me, but I was just a key to you. Fair’s fair.’

Narinder closed his eyes. He couldn’t look at the world right now. He had to look at a hollow place, where only one thing echoed. ‘Left humerus.’

‘…what?’

‘Left humerus,’ he repeated, and touched his own left arm with fingers that only weren’t shaking because that was more than he had in him at the moment. Then he touched his right forearm. ‘Right radius first, then the ulna.’

He leaned his weight on his left leg. ‘Left tibia, left fibula.’ He shifted his weight to his right, swaying to music only he could hear, and touched his thigh. ‘Right femur, in four places.’

He moved his hand to his throat. ‘Six of your vertebrae, each new break travelling from your spine up your neck. Then your body hits the ground. Then there is silence.’

He forced himself to open his eyes to see Esriaal watching him, their remaining eye so wide the iris looked small in the white sclera.

‘Then the song begins again. And again. And it has not stopped since,’ he said, the hollow space ringing louder than ever, even as the clearing stood silent. ‘You said once that I have never grieved for anyone. I told you grief is unnatural to the god of Death. That Death does not grieve. And perhaps I did not. If it was true before, it stopped being so the instant you died and the chains fell away.’

Esriaal didn’t move, barely breathing. ‘You… you grieved for me?’ they said, fragile as cracked glass plummeting towards a stone floor. ‘You missed me?’

‘I did not merely ‘miss’ you,’ he said, forcing himself not to look away from their eye. ‘Do not insult yourself and call it something so small as ‘miss’, so weak as ‘grieve’. I know not what you want from me, Esriaal. I am in literal pieces now, but I was in pieces long before; if you were left with nothing, then I was left broken. Something was torn out of me at that moment and followed you. I know not what it was, but I know you were not ‘just a key’. A key would not break me. I would not break for something so paltry as ‘nothing’.’

‘Torn?’ they repeated.

‘As I said. There is a place within me where something once was, and now there is nothing but a melody forever dying and never dead.’

The Pale Crown left Esriaal’s head, turning to that antlered hare shape in their arms in a move long practised. Narinder wondered for a moment how long Pale had held that shape, and how many times Esriaal had held it the way they did now, both halves of divinity trying to comfort the whole from the inside out.

‘Then why did you do it?’ they asked. ‘Why did you kill them all?’

He swallowed. ‘I have no answer for you. It made sense then, but looking back, I cannot tell you why. Simple pragmatism, most likely. But I know not for certain.’

They nodded at last. ‘That doesn’t make it better, but at least there’s a probable reason now,’ they said, then took a deep breath. ‘You should go back to the caravan, they’ll be worried and we’ve been shouting like idiots, it’s a miracle no one’s showed up yet.’

‘And you?’ he said, frowning.

‘I’ll be there, I promise,’ they said, setting down the core again. ‘It’s faster this way.’

He nodded, not liking this at all but knowing he didn’t have much choice, and headed towards the arch that wove itself into existence.

‘Before you go,’ they said, and he paused. ‘I…’

He tilted his head, waiting as they struggled.

‘I missed you, too,’ they finally said, and he twitched in surprise. ‘I have a lot of reasons I hate you. Missing you no matter how much I tried not to is near the top of the list. So. If it helps any. I missed you too.’

He hesitated. ‘It does, yes,’ he said, and Esriaal smiled. It was extremely tentative, almost non-existant, but it was in fact there. ‘I will see you soon.’

‘See you soon,’ they echoed. Narinder walked through the arch to emerge in the medical tent, his nearly-panicking family waiting for him, both his dearest follower and greatest enemy in his wake.

Esriaal did in fact catch up only a few minutes later, emerging from a different tent, and neither he nor they knew quite what to do now. The rest of the caravan was too elated at Tymer’s return and Mernoan’s rescue to really notice; Tymer was equally focussed on not putting up with her ‘due scolding’ from Shamura, once Narinder had nodded to let her know all was well.

Red was unusually quiet through it all, but Narinder knew well the feeling of his Crown deep in contemplation. If Narinder didn’t have to play the part of equally relieved and gracious rescuer (or assistant in rescue, in Tymer’s case), he might have been the same. He didn’t have the luxury, and so he focussed on what he had to do in the moment.

He accepted both Shamura’s scolding and their six-armed hug, Heket’s punch to his shoulder and unsubtly ignoring him for the rest of the day, Kallamar fretting over him despite his minor injuries, Leshy all but attached to his leg. He accepted the thanks and kindnesses from the others in the caravan, effort though it was at the moment, unable to be so warm but not expected to be.

He wasn’t accustomed to such things, or even the idea of it – it felt entirely over the top, frankly. He’d done something both important and difficult, certainly, but what else could he have done? When asked to explain why he’d run out the way he did, he explained it away as being impatient to put into motion the plan he and the Shepherd had decided on. They may have shouted it, but they had admitted that there hadn’t been any other real option, so it was the plan they would’ve had to agree to, anyway.

The scolding he got for that from various members of the caravan was light-hearted and friendly, and so he did his best to receive it as such. It was all entirely too much. Even as the Cat, when leading squads who followed him as an extension of their god and paid him that due respect, he’d famously disapproved of adulation or grovelling. Part of it was maintaining an image, but in retrospect, he could see that it was discomfort too. Congratulations and celebrations and honours attempted only to earn favour or some such; insincere. That wasn’t true here, but he wasn’t sure he liked it much better.

He was finally granted reprieve by Kallamar of all people, who loudly insisted that Narinder, Tymer, and Mernoan be given space to rest for the night, since they’d have to set off in the morning. He retreated to his tent with relief, concealing it as much as possible. Not for the first time, Narinder and Red commiserated that he had to stay disguised even in sleep, and so Red needed to stay securely around his neck.

He laid in bed, listening to the others slowly get quieter, unable to fall asleep. His mind refused to fall still, chasing itself in circles for all that his body begged to rest, and he was about to give it up in favour of joining the night watch when he heard a rustle at the tent flap. Narinder sighed internally, assuming it was going to be Pale delivering a message of some kind, and turned his head – only to pause. 

‘Leshy?’ he asked in confusion as the short form of his brother crept past the tent flap. Narinder sat up in bed as Leshy closed the flap behind him. ‘What are you doing? You ought to be in bed.’

Leshy didn't say anything, shuffling a little bit. ‘Shamura’s hurt right now, and I don't wanna wake them up,’ he said in a tiny voice, rubbing one arm, leafy tail drooping on the ground. ‘Can I stay with you? Just for tonight?’

Narinder hesitated, not quite sure what to do with the question; he'd never had to comfort the Leshy of before in the same way, his brother having been an adult when he was chosen. 

It wasn't the first child he'd had to comfort in his life, however. He hadn't thought of Aym and Baal in a long time – the two had requested to be freed from their service when they found their mother, and with so many other attendants, Narinder had granted the request. The two had lived out their lives and passed away a few centuries after, passing through his skeletal hands into the Beyond and whichever afterlife awaited them.

In Leshy’s shuffling stance, however, Narinder could see a pair of kittens who'd done the same, once. They'd slept in the crook of his arm for years, until the two of them felt they were too old for such a thing. For a not insignificant span of time after, however, one or both of them would ask again, seeking comfort from the only caretaker they had. Even in his imprisonment, Narinder had found tenderness to give; those two had been the only ones to know there was any tenderness in him at all for a very long time.

If he could do it for the two kittens damned beside him while he stood in chains, then he had no excuse to not try when he was free of chains and it was his own brother standing before him.

Narinder, Red said, but didn't follow the word with anything. It didn't need to; Narinder could feel the sympathy Red was giving. It missed Aym and Baal in its own way. It could see why the memory was returning now.

‘Come here,’ Narinder said softly, patting the bed. Leshy immediately hurried over, clambering up onto the cot beside him. Leshy was around the same size as Aym and Baal had been at his age, and though Narinder was no longer a towering god who could cradle the little boy in one arm, he could still tuck Leshy close, who curled up with his leafy tail into a ball against Narinder's chest. ‘Better?’

‘A little,’ Leshy said, muffled. 

‘Why are you awake? Did you have a nightmare?’ Narinder asked. It was muscle memory more than intentional choice that had him petting the back of Leshy’s head, but he could smell the faint scent of camellias; Leshy had always bloomed when he was relaxed. It had once been something akin to Narinder's own purring. He couldn't quite remember the last time he'd purred, come to think of it. Not since Aym and Baal. Leshy was blooming, however, so Narinder knew the pets were working.

‘Can't sleep,’ Leshy said, burrowing a little closer.

‘Why is that?’

‘Too scared.’

Narinder frowned. ‘Scared of what, little brother?’

‘You went away,’ Leshy replied, and Narinder winced. ‘Shamura got hurt, and you went away. Kally said everything was going to be okay, but he didn't believe it. Heket was really mad. And the Shepherd stayed behind when we left. They didn't think you were coming back either, I think. Everyone was busy, and I was scared. I'm scared now too. What if it happens again?’

Narinder considered the question. ‘I know not,’ he admitted after a moment. ‘The future is unknown to all but those who live within it. I do know that you are safe here, and no one will allow that to change, no matter what happens.’

‘But bad things happen all the time,’ Leshy said, curled up small. ‘What happens when too many bad things happen at the same time? What happens if I'm alone again?’

‘You will not be alone,’ Narinder promised. From what little he understood of the circumstances Shamura found Leshy in, he was both grateful to know the disaster that befell Leshy's village had nothing to do with his cult, and that Leshy had been too small to remember almost any of it. Clearly, however, he did remember that he'd been by himself at the end.

‘You said that you don't know the future though,’ Leshy insisted.

‘And I do not. What I know is the present, and the people who dwell within it. I know our family, I know this caravan, I know the Shepherd, and I know myself. You will not be alone again,’ Narinder said firmly. ‘We will not allow it. I will not allow it. Am I not your brother?’

‘Yeah,’ Leshy agreed cautiously. 

‘Is Kallamar your brother? Heket your sister? Shamura your sibling?’

‘Yeah?’

‘Then trust we will keep you safe,’ Narinder said, curling up around the little leafworm, tucking his own tail around Leshy's back. He began to purr – intentionally, struggling to remember how for a moment, but it had always comforted Aym and Baal when they were little. The scent of camellias grew stronger, Leshy beginning to relax against him. ‘You are our little brother, Leshy.  We cannot keep bad things from happening in the world – but we can keep you as safe from them as we can, and all will be well.’

‘Okay,’ Leshy whispered. ‘You promise?’

‘I promise,’ Narinder said solemnly, and meant it. This was Leshy, but he was a new one, young and small and afraid – and maybe if Narinder did things right, fixed everything, Leshy would get to grow into the mischievous chaotic creature he'd once known, without the heavy weight of aeons turning his mischief into malice. Maybe Leshy could be happy, instead of afraid. Maybe Narinder could make sure something good came from his own paws, instead of dealing the least harm he could.

It felt like he'd been mitigating damage forever instead of changing anything, Narinder thought tiredly as Leshy fell asleep against him. The one time he'd thought he'd found a way to change something – for himself, for the mortals under his care – he’d been damned for it. Collared and chained in the Below, his rage only tempered because there were two little ones who needed him more than he needed to go mad. For the few seconds he'd gotten to breathe in millennia, to finally hope something new and good could come at the hand of Death instead of miserable inevitability, he'd paid in the blood of everyone he'd ever cared about and would ever care about again, eventually cracking his very soul into two pieces.

The thoughts felt stupid to contemplate, Narinder told himself, but he didn't believe it. Melodramatic, overblown, making excuses – trying to soften the blow to his own ego, he tried to remind himself sternly. He didn't get to escape what he'd done by pretending he was secretly a better person than the one who'd dealt all the damage he was always trying to manage. He knew who he was. He did.

None of it stuck, however. None of it had been sticking for weeks, building up in his head, wonderings and memories and lack of memories, new lenses to view the world through collecting dust and scattered over the floor of his mind.

‘Who the fuck are you?’ Esriaal had demanded that afternoon, hands in fists, looking at him with rage and pain, bitterness and loathing. It was a question he'd known the answer to then – he was Narinder, bearer of the Red Crown, the god of Death and formerly the One Who Waits. He was himself, and he wasn't giving that up.

But what wasn't he giving up? Who was he now, untethered from himself and his histories, unable to trust his recent memories and finding only pain and shame in what he could remember?

‘I'm always nothing in the end,’ Esriaal had also said, their own emptiness ringing in their words. A familiar rhythm. Always the same rhythm. It came from them, lived in him, and echoed between the two of them, in the abyss carved into the world by fate’s heavy hand.

Leshy stirred against his chest, and Narinder began to purr again, hoping to soothe him to sleep. It worked for a moment, but then Leshy began to shift again, growing restless in his dreams. Even petting his head didn't seem to be helping. 

All of a sudden, Narinder heard a note. Soft and raspy, a use untouched for thousands of years; it was his own voice, a quiet hum, musical in tone. 

Quarter. Two eighths. Dotted quarter. One eighth. Four sixteenths. Triplet. Triplet. Whole. Rest.

He'd never actually put the bone melody to sound before. It had echoed in him for so long, the notes familiar in a way he hated, avoided, wanted nothing to do with – but here it was, rusty but there, hummed quietly in the darkness. Leshy fell still shortly after, nestling closer and sinking deeper into sleep as Narinder hummed and purred at the same time.

There was a quiet sound outside, little more than a shuffle of fabric against the ground, and Narinder's ear swiveled towards it. He could hardly turn over or investigate at the moment, but his wasn't the only curiosity piqued; with a traded thought and a promise to return, Red misted away from his throat, floating to the ground and changing to a serpent once more. Narinder felt as if a sheet had been lifted off of his face. He hadn't realised how oppressive the illusion had become.

Red slithered away, slipping under the edge of the tent and around to the back, Narinder following it with his thoughts, which was why he felt Red’s flare of surprise. 

Esriaal? What are you doing?

There was a hushed bleat of surprise, as well as the sound of someone hastily standing up. ‘Nothing,’ they whispered back, ‘sorry, I need to go check in on Fegreno –’

How long have you been here?, Red asked suspiciously. 

‘– so I'll see you tomorrow, sleep well,’ Esriaal continued to stammer, followed by the muffled clicking of hooves hurrying away.

Red was bewildered as it returned, slipping around his throat and anchoring the illusion back in place. At his silent question, Narinder still humming to the sleeping Leshy, Red showed Narinder what it had seen: Esriaal sitting against one of the tent poles, head tilted back and eyes closed, Pale atop their head with its eye closed as well. It had been far too quiet to hear until they'd shifted, and Esriaal had stopped as soon as Red spoke, but Red had spotted their fingers tapping on their thigh. It had been in time to Narinder's humming.

Esriaal must have been eavesdropping, Narinder supposed, which didn't so much bother him as confuse him. Had they seen Leshy enter the tent? He would have heard them if they had also come over; the camp was quiet.

Maybe, Red said, voice a whisper. But maybe they didn't come over when Leshy did. If they came over earlier, when everyone was still awake, we might have missed it.

That had been hours ago, however. Surely they hadn't been sitting there the whole time. 

Red had a thought, though it quickly hid the thought away. Narinder hesitated, unsure if he should push, but decided to do so anyway. 

‘What is it?’ he asked, so quietly it was barely a breath. 

Red sighed. I don't think this is the first time they've done this, it admitted, and Narinder blinked into the darkness. I've heard little noises sometimes, like something’s moving, but this is the first time you noticed it too. They looked like they'd gotten comfortable and had been sitting that way for a while. I can't say for sure – it's just a feeling – but I think they've done it more than once.

‘Sit on the ground behind my tent all night?’ Narinder whispered back dubiously. ‘Why would they do such a thing?’

I don't know. If it happened yesterday, I would've said it was to make sure we didn't do anything suspicious, but now…

He knew what Red meant. Esriaal had admitted they missed him, after all (even if doing so was something they despised him for.) The fragile, wide-eyed moment after he'd told them of the bone melody, however, was what stuck out in his mind now. How vulnerable they'd sounded at the idea that he hadn't simply cast aside their memory like they were used up and worthless; how badly it seemed to destabilise them, hearing that they'd mattered enough to break him long before he was literally broken.

He knew why they hated him. He knew why they'd thought he wouldn't grieve them – hell, he'd told them he didn't grieve anyone. Nothing he'd ever done, as either the One Who Waits or the Cat, had given them any room to doubt that conclusion. He just wished…

He didn't know anymore. He didn't know almost anything, anymore. All he knew as he finally began to drift off was that he was here. He had his little brother in his arms, he was resting in a camp full of people who trusted him, and Esriaal was nearby, possibly as lost as he was. He took a strange comfort in that, and at the moment, he had to take what he could get.

Chapter Text

It was another two days of travel before Narinder was able to speak with Esriaal for more than a few brief minutes. He wasn’t sure whether they were avoiding him on purpose or not, but given the caravan had to make good time to make sure they were well out of the way of Fairswells Isle, no one was all that inclined to dilly dally in the mornings. They couldn’t use the main roads for obvious reasons, so they were usually picking their way across the back ‘roads’ that barely existed, and as they were travelling from morning’s first light until it was too dark to continue, Narinder couldn’t pin Esriaal’s silence on avoidance alone.

On the third day after Fairswells, Narinder was on hind watch, sitting on the last rover alone. As always, the main group was gathered atop the rovers in the middle of the caravan, but both the first rover and the last were usually solo for those on watch, to ensure focus. Usually.

His first hint that he wasn’t alone was the light thump of someone leaping onto the roof. There were very few people in the caravan who’d risk that kind of jump when the vehicles were in motion, even at the relatively sedate pace, so he felt safe in his assumption when he said, ‘Good afternoon, Shepherd.’

‘Hey,’ Esriaal said, sounding a little off. ‘Mind making room?’

He frowned, looking up to see them waiting beside him on his right, an unreadable look on their face. Pale was neither atop their head, nor anywhere in sight. He did as they asked, shifting over to his left, and they sat down beside him, hooves dangling over the edge of the rover. They then chose not to say anything, simply watching the landscape go by, and after a minute, Narinder decided to stop waiting and just do his job as watch.

The two of them sat in silence for a while, and it had almost reached something approximating companionable before Esriaal finally took a deep breath.

‘I’m sorry.’

Narinder waited for a beat, but that seemed to be the extent of it. He glanced at them, Red politely keeping its eye on the road from its place around his throat, and blinked. Esriaal was hunched in on themself, rubbing one arm, watching the ground roll by beneath them.

‘For?’ he prompted. There were a lot of things they could be apologising for, in his opinion, but he wanted to know which one he was meant to contemplate forgiving them for.

‘Everything,’ they replied. They were more deflated than he’d seen them in a very, very long time; even the false eye he could see seemed duller than usual. He tried not to think of the specifics of the last time they had seemed small and lost to him in this way. It was long ago, and didn’t need to be dwelt on. ‘Mostly for when you came back with Tymer, but… there’s kind of a lot. And I don’t really think I can expect any apologies from you until I’ve said mine.’

Ah. He should have known this was for a purpose, angling for his apologies in turn. It seemed the argument had little effect on them overall, he thought tiredly.

‘I… I think I said that wrong,’ they offered timidly when he didn’t say anything. ‘Timid’ wasn’t really anything he’d thought they could be, anymore. ‘It’s just…’

‘I believe I know what you meant,’ he said tactfully, but didn’t elaborate.

Esriaal shook their head. ‘No, it’s – hell.’ They rubbed their face with one hand, then set it down on the rover roof, only a few inches from his paw. Narinder wanted to pull his paw away, but felt it would be too obvious, and he could give them a little benefit of the doubt. Enough to not recoil from them, at least. ‘I definitely said that wrong. I don’t really know how to talk to you. I mean, I obviously want an apology, for a lot of things, but that’s not why I’m apologising right now. It’s not about getting the apology. It’s about making sure there’s ever a point to you considering it.’

Narinder wasn’t entirely sure he knew the point they were trying to make, but he could recognise the effort, at least. It wasn’t as if he’d really gone out of his way to figure out how to apologise, either. The idea of it made shame and dread squirm in his gut, the concept of trying to tackle everything he’d done instantly overwhelming to imagine. That softened him a bit, if only out of sympathy for the raw effort it would take.

‘Then I will hear you out,’ he said quietly, and they nodded. As he could only see the left half of their face, he couldn’t make out any clear expressions, but they seemed relieved.

‘I, um. I kind of lied to you, when we were arguing,’ they said awkwardly, and he tensed as his stomach sank. ‘At the beginning, I mean. I was pissed off, and I was scared, and I told you it was because you could have ruined everything. And that wasn’t really why.’

They struggled for a few moments more, but Narinder was too wary to really try to help them. ‘I guess I hadn’t thought through what it would be like if you were gone,’ they ultimately said. ‘I knew it was a possibility. You might call it quits and try to go it on your own, or something would happen to you and you’d just end up back with the One Who Waits. But I didn’t think it would actually happen, and I was scared out of my mind that it was happening anyway and there was nothing I could do about it – you’re the one who came here willingly. Then you were gone.’

‘I came to you with the intent of fooling you into letting me in,’ he reminded them quietly, something strange happening in his chest.

‘I know. But I’m not sure it’s what you actually meant to do.’

‘Attempt not to absolve me of what I have done, nor what I have intended. It is a lie that will harm you far more than I.’

They closed their eyes, the gold of their false eye shut away. ‘That’s not what I’m trying to do, Narinder.’

‘Then how am I meant to take it?’

‘I asked who you were, when we were arguing, because I know who the Cat is,’ they said, and he blinked. ‘I know the Cat, and I know the One Who Waits, but I don’t know you. You don’t even really know you, right now. And all I’m doing is what I thought you were doing to me, back when I was still the Lamb.’

Narinder twitched despite himself, trying to ignore the start of familiar notes just at the name. Esriaal thankfully didn’t notice.

‘After everything happened in the beginning, I thought that I hadn’t meant anything,’ they said, not looking at him, studying their grey hands as they twisted the dark red fabric of their dress. ‘I thought everything I’d done was just… wasted. Everyone I’d ever known, the cult I built, the people I knew and loved – it had all been useful, right until it wasn’t. Then you got rid of it. Got rid of me. I don’t really know how I came back. I know the sacrifice was supposed to…’

Unmake them. Obliterate them. Only the annihilation of his most devoted follower could have the raw power to finally snap his siblings’ chains on him. That was why they’d died the way they had, bone by broken bone; symbolism. One limb to a Bishop. Their spine and final death for him.

‘I just know I did come back,’ they continued. ‘I came back, and I watched you shred everything apart. It was gone. All of it was gone.’ They took a deep breath. ‘You even burned my wool shearings.’

‘I what?’ he said, turning to look at them in shock.

‘I thought you might not remember,’ they replied. ‘I don’t think you even really noticed. There was a locked cupboard in my tent. I’d sealed it with Red’s power. I always kept the past few shearings, because… it’s a really long explanation, but wool meant a lot to sheep, and what we made with it. I couldn’t make anything – another really long explanation – so I just kept them. I’d given all of my other things away before the sacrifice, but I’d hoped… I’d hoped the seal would tell you it was important. And you burned it with everything else.’

He knew there was a great deal they weren’t saying at the moment for expediency’s sake, but there was no doubt a lot of pain in the telling as well. This wasn’t a matter of sentimentality, though that would have been quite bad enough on its own; this wasn’t a matter of hurt feelings. This had been a violation. And the only memory he could think of that might relate to it was a vague recollection of a command to dispose of their physical influences.

Narinder, Red said, worried for him. Esriaal started to look up, but Narinder quickly turned his head away. He didn’t want to see them, and he didn’t want them to see just how nauseous he felt. The last time he’d felt this sick was walking in and seeing his followers laid out on beds, excised for reasons he didn’t understand, some dying, all of them forever maimed. Yet more destruction at his own paws, and he didn’t even have the basic decency to remember doing it.

‘I see,’ he said evenly, proud that he succeeded at that. ‘Your hatred is even more reasonable, in hindsight. I will offer an apology if you wish for it, but I have little faith it will mean much, if I am hearing you clearly.’

They sighed. ‘That’s not why I’m telling you about this. Getting you to apologise isn’t the point,’ they reminded him. ‘I’m trying to make sure you get where everything is coming from, and why I don’t think hating you really is reasonable. Not anymore.’

‘I would argue otherwise. I do have ears, Esriaal. I can hear this is not a light betrayal.’

‘No, it’s not. But I don’t think it was yours.’

He frowned, even though he still couldn’t look at them. ‘What do you mean?’

‘When you told me that you grieved for me, you said you were broken,’ they said, voice wobbling just a little on the word ‘grieved’. ‘That something was torn out of you, and that you were in pieces before you were literal pieces.’

Narinder could see where they were taking this, and shook his head. ‘It is a description, Esriaal, nothing more. It was not literal.’

‘I don’t think that’s true,’ they said, and when he risked a glance, they were scowling at him. It wasn’t angry; he just didn’t know what it was.

‘You may find that idea comforting, but it is a lie,’ he replied flatly.

‘You don’t know that for sure –’

‘If I were in literal pieces then, Esriaal, I assure you, things would not have happened as they have,’ he hissed at them, turning back to glare at them. ‘Were this half of me separate, then I would have never done what I have – you cannot simply deny history in favour of an easier present.’

Esriaal? Narinder?

‘You said it back when we were talking to the disciples,’ they snapped back. ‘You told them you were trapped with him, controlled by him until you didn’t have a name –’

‘You know that was but a story we agreed to –’

‘– and when I found you, you said that he had been the dominant part for a long time, that you’d been god first and person second –’

‘– I was still lying to you at that point, damned Shepherd, and you know this –’

‘– you weren’t!’ they snarled. Neither of them were shouting – the angrier they both got, the quieter and more forceful the words became, as if sound was too weak to express the fury. ‘You weren’t, Narinder, I’m sure you weren’t!’

‘You cannot know that!’

‘If he’s willing to excise his followers, why the hell do you think he wouldn’t excise himself?!’

Narinder froze.

‘It wouldn’t even be the first time!’ Esriaal raged, still in that quiet hush, hands in fists. ‘You aren’t the first thing he cut out of himself, and I know that for a fucking fact!’

‘How can you possibly –?!’

Narinder, Esriaal, listen!, Red cut through hastily, genuine alarm in its voice, and both of them almost snapped at it, only to shut up when they understood.

In the distance there was the sound of engines, and not the soft hum of the rovers. Though quiet, he knew well how loud these engines could grow – and they were getting closer.

‘What the hell is that?’ Esriaal asked him, looking at him with wide eyes, and he realised they likely hadn’t heard the engines from Naraka before.

Our motor carriages aren’t sturdy enough to be out here, Red replied, echoing his thoughts, and Esriaal flinched in answer. Maybe on the main roads, I know we were working on something like that for the soldiers, but there’s no way it’s gotten far enough along to handle backroads like this –

Esriaal cursed, startling Narinder. ‘Caynero,’ they said, looking at him. ‘We’ve been working on the cyclers – long story, I’ll tell you later, we don’t have the time,’ they said, sounding a bit exasperated as they cut off his coming question. ‘It’s also where we’ve been developing the engines for the rovers, but if Tynojul was killed – they might have been able to get information out of him, and if the heretics got word back here –’

‘I knew not I had any followers in Caynero,’ he said, but he already knew what they would say next.

‘Pretty sure the One Who Waits kept that from you, too,’ they answered as he’d expected, huffing in disgust. ‘Hell. I need to get back to the Pastures, I need to tell the rest of me what’s happening, the other caravans are going to be in danger too.’

‘You cannot mean to try to use a portal right now,’ he said, staring at them.

They shook their head, hesitated for a second, then said, ‘Do you trust me?’

‘That depends entirely on why you are asking,’ he said suspiciously.

‘Because we might be able to do something stupid, but I’m not going to be able to explain just yet, and it might mean everything goes to hell first,’ they said, studying his face, the engines slowly growing louder. ‘If we pull this off, I promise I’ll explain everything. But I need you to trust me, and I need you to have some faith in me.’

He tensed. ‘You cannot mean as in worship,’ he said in disbelief.

‘No, I’m not that stupid, but it’s going to have to be a little bit similar,’ they said, and glanced back down the road behind them. ‘I promise I’ll explain, and I know I haven’t given you basically any reason to trust me whatsoever, but it’s either try something stupid or risk whoever this is catching up to the caravan, and even if we make it out, it probably won’t be with everyone.’

‘Esriaal,’ he said, but stopped. He could see whatever they were planning was probably their best shot, but he was a god. He’d never bowed his head to another god, and he was certain he couldn’t start now, not even temporarily.

‘Don’t believe in me as the Shepherd,’ they insisted. ‘I just need you to believe in me as Esriaal.’ A deep breath. ‘And if you can’t do that, believe in me as the Lamb. We worked together before, right?’

He nodded wordlessly.

‘I mattered then? You trusted me then?’

He nodded again. How could he have done anything else, whether or not he’d been in chains? He’d granted them use of his Crown. He’d entrusted his future, his liberty, to their capable hands. He’d guided them and protected them, but they needed to act in his name once Above, and they’d proven time and again that they were the best hands for the job.

They’d been the Lamb. If a god could believe in anything, Narinder had believed in the Lamb.

‘Then let me try to fix this,’ they said, determined. ‘We can do this. We can. If you’re willing to meet me halfway even though I’ve been an asshole, I’ll meet you halfway even though you’ve been a complete dick at times –’

Narinder snorted, against all odds. Esriaal grinned at him, and for the first time he could see they meant it.

‘– and we’ll start to make the One Who Waits regret thinking he was better off without a heart,’ they finished. ‘Will you believe in me? Just for a while?’

Quarter. Two eighths. Dotted quarter. One eighth. Four sixteenths. Triplet. Triplet. Whole. Rest.

‘Yes,’ he said, because in this grin, even with only one eye and a divine nature of their own, he could see how the Lamb could have been Esriaal, and become Esriaal again. He could pretend for a little while. ‘What are you planning?’

They dug around in their pocket, then hesitated for a second before grabbing his paw and putting something in it. When he looked down it was one of the blue cores, and they breathed a sigh of relief as he lifted it to look it over.

‘They disappear if someone who doesn’t believe in me touches them,’ they said at his curious look. ‘I only have one of those with me right now, and I can’t come back without it, so that's the first possibly stupid idea taken care of. I’m going to go back to the Pastures, make sure I know what the hell is going on so I can start fixing it there, but I promise I’ll be back. While I’m gone, I need you to do something else stupid, and not die doing it.’

‘Which is?’

‘I need you to be the Cat,’ they said, and he flinched. ‘You’re going to need Red to fight, and you can't hide at the same time. You’re also going to need the caravan to listen to you, and with Tymer being the only other person here who can fight right now, you need to make sure she doesn’t kill you on sight. Tell Shamura – they’re in the lead caravan – to pick up the pace. The closer we get to a liminality, the easier the crossing will be, but it’s going to be rough – we aren’t close enough to cross to the Pastures, so I’m not sure where they’ll end up, but it’ll be better than here. If you can get all of that done while I’m gone, and whoever is following us doesn’t catch up before I do, then you and I will take care of whoever it is, and the caravan will make the crossing without us. You’re with me, we’ll be able to get back to the Pastures afterwards. Got all that?’

Narinder bristled at the command, tried to quell that, and then blinked as Esriaal rephrased, ‘Is that all okay?’

Well. He’d give them points for genuinely trying; when Esriaal made up their mind, they clearly committed.

‘Yes,’ he said with a nod, standing up. When he offered them a hand, they let him pull them to their hooves. ‘How will you get to the Pastures? And where is Pale?’

‘Not with me,’ they said, taking him off guard. ‘Not the real one, anyway, it’s usually a placeholder unless it’s actually here. Another me needed it, but this takes precedence. I’ll have it when I come back. See you in a few minutes.’

Then Narinder flinched as Esriaal simply dissolved. One moment they were flesh and bone, solid and real – then the next they were little more than mist, wisping away into the thin air. It was the same way their body had always vanished, he realised faintly, but he’d thought that had been Pale’s doing. If Pale wasn’t here, then what the hell was going on?

Come on, we have to move, Red urged, and he swallowed, nodding. Then he turned to the front of the rover, for a second trying to figure out how to look like a normal person as he rushed to the head of the line – then realised that wouldn’t matter in a few minutes.

He darted forward, leaping in one fluid movement from the top of the rover onto the next as if both were holding still, and he heard the driver of the caravan below him curse in surprise. He had no time for that, already continuing on to the next rovers, where those riding on the roofs were currently clustered.

‘Narinder?’ Tymer called as he approached, bewildered.

‘Hind guard,’ he commanded, and she was already leaping to her paws and nodding before he raced past her, reaching for the sword she hadn’t returned (and he hadn’t asked for.) Two more leaps and he was atop the lead rover, at which point he swung down to land on the steps up to the driver’s bench. All four of his siblings were there, Leshy and Kallamar looking terrified, Heket hiding how scared she was, and Shamura the kind of preternaturally calm that meant they were on the verge of panic.

‘What’s going on?’ they asked him, voice just as calm.

‘We are being followed by engines,’ he said. ‘There should not be any engines outside of Naraka capable of handling anything but the main roads, and the Shepherd suspects that there may have been a leak of some kind to the One Who Waits, but that is a concern for when we make it out of this. You are to speed up as much as you can, to get as close to a liminality as possible, and then make the crossing.’

Shamura paled. ‘We’re too far – even if we get closer, the people on the roofs –’

‘I will handle that,’ he interrupted. ‘There will also be some panic momentarily, but I will handle that as best as I am able, as well. With luck, I will be able to rely on my actions of a few days prior to convince everyone I am in earnest, but either way, you will all emerge safely from this. I swear it.’

The divine words were unsubtle, and he didn’t care. He’d used such a thing before as a ‘vessel’, so it wouldn’t expose him. It certainly looked like it comforted Shamura, at any rate.

‘Speed up, hold things steady, and trust in your god to defend you,’ he said. ‘The Shepherd will return, and they will keep you safe.’

He started to pull away, but Leshy grabbed him with panicked hands. ‘Don’t go away again,’ he said, clinging. ‘You’re gonna get hurt, don’t go away –’

Narinder did for Leshy what he’d wished he could have done for Aym and Baal, when the two were growing up; he hugged the little boy tightly with one arm, kissing the top of his leafy head.

‘I am your brother, and I will return,’ he said, and Heket snatched up Leshy when Narinder let go.

She glared at him, and even with her hands occupied, her meaning was as clear as any signed words. «If you don’t come back I’m going to find your corpse and hit you.»

‘If I do so, I will deserve it,’ he said, and heard a little croaking laugh as he swung himself back up onto the roof. The engines were now loud enough to be heard by everyone, meaning they were all huddled together – everyone except Tymer, who stood with her sword in hand. It wasn’t between the others and the far road; it was between the others and Narinder.

‘You better not be who I think you are,’ she said coldly, grip unwavering.

Red unspooled from around Narinder’s throat, returning to his head where it belonged, and there was more than one shriek of fear.

‘Did I not come for you?’ he asked before she could take more than a step. ‘Did I not fight beside you against those who I once would have commanded? And have I not travelled with you and done no harm?’

‘You’re the Cat,’ she said, gritting her teeth.

‘No. I am Narinder. I am no more the Cat than you are who you once were,’ he replied, and she held still. ‘I stole the Crown of the One Who Waits and ran to the Shepherd, knowing full well that they would kill me themself if I could not convince them of my sincerity – and they have allowed me to travel with you. I assure you, however dead you want the One Who Waits, you cannot match my hatred of my former master.’

‘But you…’

‘I cannot atone for my many sins if you strike me down and return me to the god who wants to obliterate me,’ he told her, searching her face, hoping against hope she listened. ‘We are being followed, likely by his soldiers. The Shepherd has gone to inform the others, and will return in a few minutes. Then both they and I will defend this caravan. Despise me if you wish, Tymer – I blame you not. But hold onto your hatred until we are safe.’

Tymer nodded tightly. ‘We’re talking later,’ she warned him.

‘I will be fortunate if you make no attempt to murder me, but I cannot blame you for that.’

‘Sparring isn’t attempting to murder,’ she said, and he blinked. ‘I haven’t forgotten. I’ll just be trying to break your bones.’

‘Fair enough,’ he said, then felt a warmth grow in his pocket. He took out the blue core, watching with interest as the runes began to glow and interact; now that he had a chance to look at them more closely, they were very old rune forms, indeed. It was the Old Speech, but it was a cuneiform he hadn’t seen since the early centuries of his godhood, with characters meaning a myriad of things: directives and forms and what looked like lucidity, characters for awakening and slumbering that he could only assume was used for power management. It was elegant, however – perhaps a bit overwrought, spending a touch too much power on flourishes, but an intricate magic structure that he couldn’t help but admire. Esriaal had better be willing to show him who was helping them.

A moment later, there was a swirl of magic beside him, and he looked down as Esriaal misted back into existence, dressed in a sturdier dress than the one from before, alongside a shorter cape. Pale was atop their head. When they finished, the core went dark, and they looked as solid as they had before.

‘Later,’ they said when he opened his mouth, and he huffed. ‘Since you’re not dead, I take it you managed to convince everyone you’re not about to murder them?’

‘He’s on thin ice,’ Tymer said, but when he looked at her, she didn’t seem hostile. Just unhappy. ‘Shepherd, where did you go? How did you get here?’

‘It’s a complicated spell I can’t use very often, but this is an emergency,’ they said, and though she seemed to believe it, Narinder was almost certain they were lying. ‘As for Narinder, he’s got a long way to go, but we’re not going to get anywhere if we turn down help from the best person to take down the One Who Waits, and I trust that he’s sincere. You work with cores, Tymer, you know he wouldn’t be able to touch it if he was against us and wasn’t willing to believe in me a little.’

She tilted her head in acknowledgement. ‘So what next?’ she said, gesturing behind her. The engines were so loud that either they were incredibly inefficient (possible) or about to reach them (probable.)

‘You let us take care of it,’ Esriaal said. ‘I’m a god, and he’s a Crownbearer who’s managed to kill me a bunch of times. If I could actually die permanently, we’d be in a lot of trouble, so I think he and I can take them. You good to hold down the fort? You’ll be making a crossing as soon as you’re close enough to do it, and you need to be ready for whatever’s on the other side.’

Tymer flinched. ‘Shepherd, there’s not enough room in the rovers or time to get inside.’

‘Let me handle that,’ Narinder said, startling Esriaal in addition to everyone else. ‘It is likely to look uncomfortable, but it will hold you in place until you are out of my reach of power, which should be at the conclusion of the crossing.’

Tymer nodded cautiously. ‘What is it?’

‘I will bind you to the roof. You cannot fall off if you are attached,’ he pointed out, and she nodded again, warier this time. ‘One moment, then. Shepherd, be ready, we will have to hold off the pursuers. I shall meet you on the last rover.’

‘Got it,’ they said, then took a nimble leap, continuing past Tymer. When Narinder landed on the rover with the rest of the caravan, he understood why the followers nearest to him leaned away. The fear still stung.

‘This will vanish upon your arrival, I swear it,’ he said softly as Esriaal continued on without him, then held out his left hand. ‘Red, if you would.’

Red leapt from his head to his hand, shifting into a crooked dagger as it did. Narinder moved without hesitation, the first divine power he’d properly used since the separation welling up within him. It felt different. Not alive, but more active than he’d ever felt before, as if it was more eager to answer.

‘Bind,’ he commanded, and slashed open his right palm. The blood splashed down onto the metal of the rover and raced over it. He expected an ichor-black colour, but the red was bright and practically iridescent, and instead of forming into metal-like binds, the shape it took was more organic. Not vines, but veins: the red wound around the limbs of the followers, not as restraints but as support. It even pulled Tymer down patiently instead of simply yanking her down to the surface. There was still fear, but Tymer, at the very least, was watching him with wide eyes. She would know the magic and the power of the One Who Waits very well, and this wasn’t it.

There had to be a day of firsts eventually, Narinder supposed. ‘Stay safe. The Shepherd and I will follow when we have dealt with this,’ he told the followers, and once he had a handful of weak assents in return, he darted past them, graceful leaps from rover to rover as the vehicles began to speed up, following Shamura’s lead. Esriaal was waiting for him on the last rover, and atop their head, Pale was watching him. It wasn’t hateful, however. Neutral, but that was an improvement.

Esriaal held out their hand, and he passed the core back to them. They accepted it, stuffing it away into a hidden pocket.

‘When this is over, I will have many questions,’ Narinder said, wishing he'd thought to look more closely at the core while he had it.

‘Then I’ll set aside one of me and a whole day to cover it, you’ll have earned it,’ they sighed. ‘Alright, if they’re not in sight yet then their engines suck. Any ideas on how to stop them from just racing past us?’

‘Yes, actually,’ he said with a nod. ‘It will be messy, however. And very flammable.’

‘I’m fine with both of those, chances are they deserve it,’ Esriaal said, then turned to the back of the rover. ‘In case this goes as wrong as possible, though, I did mean it when I said I missed you.’

‘I did not doubt you,’ he said quietly, joining them. ‘If I am returned to him, then I will do my best to do what damage I can before the end, if not win outright. If I fail, know I tried.’

‘A few days ago, I’m not sure I would’ve believed it. But I believe you now.’

‘Then we are better off than before. Shall we?’

In unison the two of them leapt off the rover, hitting the ground rolling. Narinder built the curse in his head as he dropped, and when he was upright, he was already swinging his left arm in a wide horizontal arc. A dozen metres away, ichor splashed into existence, a wide strip of acrid, oily black drenching the road.

Pale was no longer atop Esriaal’s head, and as they straightened up, they hefted a hammer onto their shoulder larger than they were. Narinder eyed the Pale Hammer with some disbelief as Red leapt to his hand, becoming a large but significantly more reasonably sized Red Scythe. It had been a long time since it had taken that form.

‘What?’ they asked when they looked at him.

‘Is there a reason you have not wielded that before? It is not one I’m familiar with,’ he said.

Esriaal grinned at him. A pearlescent shimmer was over their true eye, an ominous gleam to their false one; their teeth were sharp in their mouth, and the barest flicker of golden static was beginning to dance over their wool. ‘Of course not. This is what I use when I’m going to enjoy myself.’

Narinder despised his body in that moment, as he felt a stirring at his groin. Damn them, and damn himself, he thought with exasperation as he turned his attention down the road. He had thought (perhaps naively) that the danger they posed would only affect him when directed at him; that did not appear to be the case.

Red sent him an equally exasperated impression, though it had the audacity to be amused.

‘I see you took little enjoyment in our fights, then,’ he said.

‘You could say that,’ they answered, and he looked at them askance. He didn’t have any time to inquire past that, because the pursuers finally appeared, engines roaring louder than anything ever should. 

The vehicles were bizarre, he saw instantly: three wheeled, two in the back, and oddly spindly with its sleek but exposed chassis. There were seven of them, each with a single rider, so a typical solo hunting squad’s count. The machines almost resembled that strange chassis he’d seen on the first journey with the caravan, though that hadn’t seemed to have three wheels.

Esriaal cursed beside him, however. ‘Yeah, they definitely found out about the cyclers,’ they said with disgust.

The hunting squad clearly hadn’t anticipated two lone individuals waiting for them, and that seemed to distract them from the obvious pool of ichor coating the rough road. The two in the lead hit the ichor at full speed, spinning out with the screeching sounds of metal, and the three immediately behind them were unable to stop in time before colliding. The sparks of the clashing metal struck the ichor, and a second after that the roar of engines was engulfed by the roar of ignition as the ichor burst into raging flames, burning a deep red.

‘Never seen ichor do that,’ Esriaal remarked with interest as the last two cyclers screeched to a halt and one of the first riders began to scream in pain. ‘Why didn’t you ever use curses against me?’

Narinder didn’t answer, because unlike Esriaal, he was less interested in talking through the entire battle. Not unless he was trading taunts with an enemy to enrage them into doing something stupid, which had always worked fairly well on Esriaal, come to think of it. The first of the riders was staggering to their feet, and Narinder pounced forward, swinging up. The octopus barely had time to shout in surprise before the point of the Red Scythe pierced her belly, and Narinder followed the swing through, carving through her abdomen and snapping through the ribs as he went. When he ripped the scythe free of her body, she was already slumping to the ground. Then he saw something red glitter at her throat.

It was a collar, he realised, mind flashing back to what Tymer had said. A red flare of light burst to life – and then he stepped back in surprise as her body abruptly vanished, as if it had never been there at all.

He hissed in pain a second later as he felt a blade connect with his right shoulder, and it was only a quick twist that saved his arm from having a chunk of muscle taken out of it by a murderous shark’s sword, growling at Narinder in fury. A second later, that shark was quite abruptly dealt with as the Pale Hammer slammed into him, sending him flying.

‘Are you even paying attention?’ Esriaal demanded, glaring at him, but whipped around as they saw the flare of red light. They flinched as the dead shark vanished, as the octopus had. ‘What the fuck?’

Narinder hastily turned around as he heard a splash. He slammed the haft of the Red Scythe into the crab who had just strode through burning ichor like it was nothing, the flames searing the shell plates that protected his arms and his head. ‘You may choose to pay attention yourself,’ he snapped, spinning the scythe around to take a swipe at the crab, who danced back with a loud snarl.

‘Yeah, I deserved that,’ they sighed, and Narinder almost snorted before focussing.

There were only four soldiers left, so one must have died from the crash, he thought to himself. He would have thought his appearance would give them some pause, but if they were shocked to see the Cat wearing the Red Crown despite his supposed death months past, he could find no sign of it. There was the crab he'd pushed away, but there were also two seagulls and a marlin, and all of them were wearing the same red collars as the shark and the octopus. 

‘Very well,’ he muttered, preparing the chain chasm curse he'd used a few days before – then yelped as Esriaal leapt past him, only barely cancelling the curse in time before they would have been caught in the crossfire. They missed the crab they'd been aiming for, instead slamming the Pale Hammer into the ground, which at least sent all four soldiers staggering back with shouts of surprise. Narinder huffed under his breath before instead aiming a line of fireballs at one of the seagulls. If Esriaal was going to insist on being in the middle of it all, he'd have to adjust around them.

Sound happier about it, Red said, sounding like it was barely holding on to laughter. 

‘Go to hell,’ he muttered at it, the seagull screeching in pain as four fireballs struck her square in the chest, toppling back into the burning ichor.

He was about to cast another curse when Esriaal got in the way again, and he almost shouted at them in frustration when they swung, missing their strike once more. As the Pale Hammer smashed into the ground, however, Narinder realised they weren't ‘missing’ at all – they were staggering the soldiers on purpose. As he aimed another barrage of fireballs, they sidestepped to give him a clearer shot, taking the opportunity to bash the second seagull into range.

Well, he wouldn't complain about Esriaal being helpful. They could have made some sign that it was intentional in the first place though, he grumbled uncharitably in his head, and sent the second seagull flying after the first, screeching the same way.

The crab was darting back and forth, lunging wildly, unpredictably. Unfortunately for him, however, Esriaal was still faster even with a giant hammer, and there was a loud crack as they slammed it into his chest, the plates snapping under the force. As he staggered back under the blow, the marlin ducked around him and past Esriaal before whirling on her heel, sword swinging down towards their neck.

Narinder swung his paw out as if throwing a disc, the curse cast almost instinctively; while the chain he conjured wasn’t black the way he expected, instead that iridescent red from before, the spearpoint at the tip was the same, and it pierced her throat as intended. He yanked back on the chain, pulling her away from Esriaal – only to curse and stumble back as the red collar he had missed by a hair’s breadth flared to life, vanishing the dead marlin instantly.

The crab vanished a few seconds later with the same red light. When Narinder turned to look, one of the seagulls was already gone, and the second one's body followed as he watched, red collar glowing through the dying ichor flames.

‘They're dead, right?’ Esriaal asked, looking at him as Pale returned to their head. 

‘I believe so,’ he said slowly. ‘Though…’

They're dead, but not permanently, Red said, articulating his thoughts for him. The way their bodies vanished is the same way I vanished Narinder's body after he died.

‘And the way you did mine?’

Yes. It's why you had to be remade that first time, since we didn't have access to your original body until I was on your head.

Narinder did his best not to listen to the brief exchange, because even now, the memories made the bone melody louder in his head. Now that there were true notes to its name, he knew the melody was going to haunt him even more. 

‘At any rate, we can do nothing about it now,’ he said, studying the cyclers. ‘They have been dealt with. And we have access to the machines they were using to chase us, at least.’

That made Esriaal perk up. ‘That's true,’ they chirped, and once Narinder vanished the remaining ichor with a wave of his paw, they picked their way across to the two undamaged cyclers. ‘Yeah, this is all wrong,’ they said, frowning, reaching out to touch it – then snatched their hand back, baa-ing in pain as the machine collapsed into black sludge. ‘What the hell?!’

‘Are you hurt?’ Narinder demanded, hurrying over and grabbing their right hand to look at it. Their palm was already bubbling up, badly burned, and they hissed in pain as he gently moved their fingers. There was a familiar sense to the burn, somehow – a magical trace that he recognised. 

‘It wasn't even hot,’ they complained, scowling at their hand.

‘It was cursed,’ he said, and they blinked. ‘It would have harmed anyone disloyal to the One Who Waits. It will not heal, either – or it would not, for anyone else.’

‘Because I'm a god?’

‘Because I am here,’ he said, settling his paw over theirs, then concentrated. The curse in the wound resisted him at first, but with a careful coaxing of his own divine power, it recognised him as its master. It dissipated once it had, and when he let go of their hand, it was healed.

They took it back, looking it over, then nodded to him. ‘Thanks. I'll add ‘heretic curses’ to my list of worries,’ they sighed. ‘It didn't hurt you, though? 

‘He and I are yet two halves of the same soul. Though I suspect the differences will soon be too great for me to easily convince his magic that I am as much its master as he, I believe it will still be within my power for some time,’ he said, then stepped around the sludge to reach the other cycler, touching it cautiously. It didn't burn his hand, however, and after a second of confusion from its inner workings, he felt the enchantments recognise him and all but begin to purr, utterly docile.

‘It is as if they are alive, somehow,’ he thought aloud. ‘But they are only metal and magic.’

Death magic, even, Red said, just as uncertain. It shouldn't react like this, even to us. What has he been doing without us?  

‘I know not, but we will find out,’ Narinder replied, then touched the machine again, concentrating. The divine power he'd used before – the oddly organic sense he'd felt as he bound the followers to the top of the rover – was what welled up inside of him. Though it took a moment to convince the enchantments to accept the change, it was soon attuned to him personally, rather than the slightly different sense of the One Who Waits. ‘There, it should be safe to touch, so long as the person is not hostile to me,’ he said, turning to look at Esriaal. They were looking away from him, left ear flicking back and forth. ‘What is it?’

‘Huh – oh, nothing, sorry, got caught up in my thoughts,’ they said hurriedly, and Narinder's eyebrows rose. ‘We should get back to the others – is that thing in driving condition?’

‘Even if it is, I am reluctant to create such a racket,’ he said, eyebrows higher. ‘What is wrong?’

‘Nothing’s wrong, I’m just trying to organise my thoughts,’ they insisted. ‘We should get moving. If you’re not willing to drive that, then you’re going to have to walk with it until we can get to where the others crossed.’

Narinder decided to pick and choose his battles and only nodded. ‘Then let us go,’ he said. ‘Red, if you would?’

Red left his head, returning to the snug fit of the collar that anchored his disguise.

‘Alright, follow me,’ Esriaal said, and Narinder hummed in agreement, beginning to push the cycler forward.

Finding the crossing point wasn’t terribly difficult. It was little more than a fifteen minute walk along the winding backroad, bracketed on both sides by a coral forest. It was a beautiful place, which was good, because Narinder needed something to focus on during the walk other than the awkward silence that quickly took over the space between himself and Esriaal. Between the silence and the conversation before they’d heard the engines, Narinder had a lot he wanted to not focus on at the moment.

It was impossible to miss the crossing point, at least to two gods: the residue of divine energy was heavy in the watery air. Narinder imagined the raw power necessary to force a crossing must be immense, at least this far from a liminality. Judging by the lingering magic, he was correct.

Esriaal was slowing to a stop, however, an uneasy expression on their face. ‘Something’s not right,’ they said, breaking the silence as they looked over at him.

‘Meaning?’

The magical signature is incorrect, Pale thought aloud. It is not our own, not fully.

‘That’s… probably not good,’ Esriaal said, and Pale leapt smoothly down into its antlered hare shape. ‘Right?’

Correct, Pale said, nodding. It must have gone awry from interference.

Interference, Red repeated. Narinder could almost hear its scowl from around his throat. You mean us.

Yes. Calm yourself, Pale replied, rolling its round eye. Though it was clumsy, I blame not the effort; neither I nor the Shepherd are accustomed to adjusting any of our magic or miracles to accommodate an unfamiliar divinity. You have not used any such active power around us before now. I was beginning to wonder if it was even an ability that remained to you and your bearer.

‘Red,’ Narinder warned before Red could snap at the other Crown, biting back his own flash of frustration.

After a second, Pale cleared its throat (likely due to Esriaal glaring daggers at it, left ear twitching.) I meant only that I knew not if it was an ability that remained, as your bearer is currently split in two, it said, not looking at Narinder or Red directly. That was not intended as a comment on your… legitimacy, I suppose, as a god. Regardless, even if we were accustomed to any divine interference, the inscriptions on the rover engines utilised by the cores are not, and cannot be adjusted without the correct tools. The interference may well have influenced the outcome of the crossing.

‘So they might not have crossed into a safe liminality,’ Esriaal said, growing horror in their face. ‘Or are they stuck? Or –’

‘Breathe, Esriaal,’ Narinder cut through before they could start to work themself up. He was thinking fast. ‘How far is your nearest liminality?’

Esriaal looked around, collecting themself. ‘Days away, maybe a week,’ they said. ‘Maybe more? There aren’t many, yet. They’ll grow in number over time, apparently, but the Pastures have only been accessible for fifty years or so. The rovers should only be able to travel between different liminalities that are closely connected, or to and from the Pastures. Moving things that big and with that many people…’

‘The magic would need all the help it could get, I imagine,’ he agreed, and they nodded. ‘I will add it to the lengthy list of things to ask you about in the future. They can travel between liminalities themselves, you said? Not merely the Pastures?’

‘Yeah.’

Then there’s your problem, Red said, and Esriaal frowned. If our magic was interfering, liminalities between the Below and the Lands of the Old Faith are more common and much older. They probably got routed to one of those.

Esriaal flinched, horrified all over again. ‘Did we just fucking send them right to your followers?!’ they demanded.

‘Unlikely,’ Narinder said placatingly, resting the cycler against his side so he could hold up his paws. ‘Though I can make no promises, considering everything the One Who Waits has kept from me, I have found little use for liminalities in general in many millennia. I have had no need to travel as the One Who Waits, and as the Cat, I knew not that you utilised them at all. We would be in far more dire straits if I had.’

The strongest liminality nearby would be Casket, Red added. It’s two or three days away by rover, I think. I’ll bet strength is more important than distance, because there’s probably a few much smaller ones between here and there, but Casket is old.

‘I know,’ Esriaal said, and Narinder blinked. ‘Um. Long story. Anyway, do you think they’re safe?’

‘Casket has long been devoted to the One Who Waits,’ Narinder admitted. ‘I know not. But it is an expansive place, and easy to lose oneself in – and therefore easy to lose pursuers. It is some distance from here, however, and if it is to a liminality attuned to the Below, not the Pastures, I do not believe any portal or gate you open will lead to it. Can you do as you did before? Return to the Pastures and then to the caravan? I could travel to Casket on my own in your wake.’

‘No, because the anchor core is here with us,’ they said, making a face. ‘I always pick it up when we’re on the move, then set it up in my tent when we rest, or leave it with a Herder. And I don’t like the idea of leaving you on your own – Shamura and the others would kill me.’

‘Leshy would indeed be extremely upset if you returned without me,’ Narinder said, shaking his head. ‘Then what do you suggest? Travelling there on foot?’

‘We might have to,’ they said, rubbing one temple.

Shepherd, Pale said, and they looked down at it curiously. We have a cycler.

They made a face. ‘Right. Travelling while walking that is going to be a pain.’

That is not what I mean. Little as I like it, I believe the time has come to be honest, Pale said, and Narinder frowned as Esriaal flinched. The anchor core is here with us, so we could travel back and retrieve what we need.

‘Do we really have the time for something like that? That could take hours or even days,’ they said uncomfortably. ‘And we don’t have any shelter or anything, and with the heretics already having been on our trail –’

Shepherd, Pale said disapprovingly, and Esriaal bit their lip. Our options are few, but though this may be the least comfortable one, and require some… improvisation, it is the safest.

Esriaal ultimately nodded, though they looked deeply unhappy. They turned to Narinder, though they didn’t look him in the face. ‘Well. I’m probably going to get yelled at about this by five different people, but Pale wouldn’t want to do this if it wasn’t important,’ they said, rubbing one arm. ‘But it’s going to take a little while to gather everything, and calm down the people who I need to not throw a fit. It might take a few hours. Do you think you can find a safe place to set up for the night? We’re going to need the time, but I really don’t like just leaving you here after… you know.’

‘I believe I will be able to find us a place to hide for the evening. So long as I get a thorough explanation upon your return, as I know not what you are planning.’

‘Yeah, you’ll have earned it,’ they said, echoing themself from twenty minutes past. ‘Alright, here.’

Narinder caught the anchor core they tossed him, and Pale returned to its Crown shape atop their head. ‘Then we will await your return,’ Narinder said, stowing the core in his pocket. ‘Best of luck on pacifying whoever it is who shall be angry with you for whatever you are about to do.’

‘Thanks, I’m going to need it,’ they said ruefully. Then they misted out of sight, leaving Narinder and Red alone, the cycler still leaning against him, the air-like water silent save for the currents through the coral branches. He watched the spot where they’d been for a long minute, contemplative; Red was just as quiet around his throat, lost in its own thoughts. Neither spoke, even when Narinder began to walk again, guiding the cycler forward. Until they knew more, neither had anything to say, so they’d have to be patient.

When Esriaal returned, the light was waning, swiftly slipping towards the black night. It had been more than a few hours; the fight against the hunting squad had been in the late morning, and it was now almost evening. Narinder was bored out of his skull, just about, resting with his eyes closed against the back wall of the shallow cave he’d managed to spot after an hour or two of walking. It was nestled behind a thicket of razor coral, and though he’d nicked himself a few times getting through with the cycler, he was confident that it was defensible.

He’d set the anchor core down on the ground as a small source of light, and when the blue glow brightened considerably, he opened his eyes to squint as Esriaal returned to existence. They were dressed differently from before, this time in trousers and a buttoned shirt under their capelet. He’d cleaned the worst of the battle from himself with magic, the cut on his shoulder now sealed over, but he couldn’t blame them for having wanted a clean change of clothes. One of these days he’d have to look into getting more clothing – magically cleaning this set and changing the colours was useful, but not satisfying. He missed the looseness of his robes. 

‘Sorry about that,’ they said as they shook themself, and sounded like they meant it as their remaining eye found him. ‘Let’s just say that, um. Some of the disciples weren’t happy with me.’

‘About?’

‘Basically everything that’s happened today,’ they said. ‘And Pale’s plan, that too. They’re worried about you knowing how cores work more specifically, but if the One Who Waits got hold of the cycler plans, then it’s possible he’s gotten some information about the cores. And I promised to explain, anyway. So.’

He squinted at them. ‘By disciples, you mean Julmar,’ he said on a hunch, and they winced. ‘What of the others?’

‘Puarjul’s not happy, but not because you’ll understand more about the cores,’ they said. ‘Theanno and Bretre are more cautious, and Habre just about had a panic attack at the idea, but he does that about a lot of things.’

Their voice was at least more affectionate on the other four names, though Narinder had no explanation as to his satisfaction with it. ‘Why is Puarjul unhappy?’

‘Because she’s worried about a lot of things right now, and she’s not happy that her pet project is in this much danger,’ Esriaal replied, and sat down across from him. ‘You,’ they said at his curious look. ‘I think telling her who you actually are was the smartest thing you could have done when she asked. Risky, but smart. She thinks you’re our best shot at getting out of all of this, so she’s willing to back you up. I wish she didn’t disapprove of Julmar so much, but… anyway, it’s a whole bunch of politics you won’t care about. Point is, she’s worried, but she’s fine with this.’

It was only because he wanted to know more about their new harebrained scheme that Narinder bit back his objection. It was his decision what he did or didn’t care about, thank you, and even if he didn’t care about the politics, the knowledge was useful. ‘Very well. So what is the plan that you and Pale were discussing?’

Pale itself hopped down from their head, landing on the floor in its hare shape as Esriaal dug something out of their pocket. That is a question best handled by me, rather than the Shepherd, it said while Esriaal set down a dim orange core, and he frowned. They have a great deal of natural talent, but they are a young god yet, and have not the technical skill that they will someday acquire. The plan is to explain the cores to you, discuss how we may adjust one or produce one of your own, and use it to improvise a system akin to one of the rovers in order to power the cycler we have recovered.

Narinder did his best to hide how he perked up at that, interest instantly focussed on Pale. Judging by Red’s (reluctant) snort inside of his head, he failed entirely. Then he frowned again, some of Pale’s words clicking together.

‘One moment,’ he said, and Pale tilted its head curiously at an unnatural angle. ‘They are a young god?’

Pale nodded. It is a complicated story long in the telling, one that neither of us yet owe you nor have the time to explain at length, it said, its words tense. Suffice it to say that while it is their eye that has given me form, I did not come into existence at the moment it was pulled out.

‘...then you are the help they have mentioned before?’ he asked slowly. ‘How old are you? From whence did you come?’

That is another story not yet earned nor owed, it said, the hare’s ears tight to its head. I am old enough to have skill with which to help them, and as of this moment, to help you. My goodwill is thin, Crownbearer. I suggest you squander not the meagre regard I am choosing to bestow.

Red hissed at it in annoyance, still wound around his throat, but subsided when Narinder touched it. It left his throat to coil itself in his lap, glaring at Pale as it did so. ‘I thank you for reminding me of the reality of this situation,’ he told Pale, tone a touch icy. ‘Let us not waste time on niceties, if you are so opposed to civility; I will refrain from such personal questions, but you need have only asked. Your hostility may be merited, but I have as little patience for it as you have for my curiosity. To the point, then?’

‘Pale, please,’ Esriaal interrupted when their Crown opened its mouth. ‘We talked about this. I know,’ they added when it narrowed its eye up at them. ‘Trust me, I know. But there’s no point to any of this if we don’t try to do it right, and I’m tired. I think we’re all tired. Can we just try to all get along for tonight?’

Easier said than done, Pale muttered, but then nodded, looking at Narinder again. Yes, to the point. To begin, tell me what you have already surmised about the cores.

He looked over at the now dormant anchor core, its blue glow dim beside the new core Esriaal had brought. ‘Frustratingly little. They are concentrated blessings made physical, somehow grown from the flowers in the core beds. Esriaal has mentioned they vanish should they be touched by anyone without faith, though clearly they will accept the willingness to work with one another in lieu of true faith. They are inscribed with ritual circles and diagrams that utilise runes – unusual ones. Cuneiform Old Speech characters. I have had no chance to examine one closely for more than a moment, but they are reactive, and some activate wilfully, while others are activated when placed into things such as the rover engines. The tokens that keep those safe in the Pastures are cores, as well, though those bestow a passive effect. The colour of the core appears to detail which nature it has between wilful activation, pre-designated activation, or passivity. Other than that, I know nothing of their true mechanics or construction.’

…you have ascertained more than most do without explanation, Pale said, sounding as though it grudgingly approved. You are almost entirely correct, though there is a fundamental incorrect assumption.

‘Which is?’

They are not concentrated blessings. They are solidified divinity.

Narinder slowly turned to look at Pale, then Esriaal. Pale was waiting, expressionless, but Esriaal was fiddling with the hem of their cloak, not meeting his eyes.

‘With all due respect to what is an impressive technical achievement,’ Narinder said calmly, ‘what the fuck is wrong with you?’

Esriaal winced. ‘I told you he’d be mad,’ they muttered to Pale.

That is because I have not yet described the process by which you do so, Pale replied. Its eye hadn’t looked away from him. If you were able to convince me it was a viable plan, then it will convince him. Eventually.

‘I doubt that highly,’ he said, crossing his arms. ‘Do you have any idea how ludicrous an idea that is? It was already nearly unbelievable that you pulled yourself apart to create the Pastures. Impressive, but unbelievable. No sane god would do such a thing as to use their own essence as – as fuel, to be used up like oil in a lamp!’

‘It’s not like that,’ Esriaal said defensively. ‘There’s a reason they vanish – they come right back to me. They’re never fully used up, they’re recycled. And as long as my followers believe in me and offer devotion, then it replenishes over time, you know that. I’m not just burning myself up, alright? I’m careful to only take what I’m given.’ They rubbed the back of their head. ‘Most of the time. Sometimes I use more, and then I just use less for the next while.’

‘Devotion is not divinity!’

To you, Pale said, glaring at him. The Shepherd is… unique in how they function. They must be. One does not return from utter annihilation unchanged, and their existence is complicated by other factors, as well. They are my Bearer; I assure you, were this harming them in a way that cannot be fully mitigated, I would not allow it. I can only assume you are aware of the transference paradox?

Narinder frowned. ‘Yes, of course.’

Prove it, then. Tell me what it is.

He scowled. ‘I need prove nothing.’

Tell me anyway, Crownbearer.

Narinder grit his teeth, but answered. ‘A basic law of magic. That which is stolen is reduced by half. That which is purchased is equivalent. That which is given freely is…’

He trailed off as he understood, and Pale nodded. That which is given freely is increased by half, it said. The Shepherd gives of themself not to earn devotion, but to ensure the safety of their flock. It is a gift, therefore, they are not made lesser by the loss. Were it transactional instead, that would be untrue, but it is not. So long as the cores are not fully spent before they return – and they are not, they always dissipate at half capacity rather than full depletion – then it is nearly a net zero loss. They argued for this logic when I first taught them the concept, and as it has held steady since their first follower’s devotion, it is more than suitable for their purposes.

It took him a moment, but reluctant though he was, he had to admit the truth.‘That would work, yes,’ he conceded, unhappy though it was. ‘It would work well, in fact. I will keep my reservations on the idea to myself until I see its foolishness rear its head, then.’

‘Thanks,’ Esriaal huffed, but when he looked at them again, they looked sincerely relieved.

If you are finished objecting, that is what the cores truly are, Pale said impatiently. Given your stance on it, you are unlikely to willingly learn to make your own.

‘I said nothing of the sort,’ Narinder said indignantly before he could think better of it.

‘You were just yelling at me about this, weren’t you?’ Esriaal said with disbelief, and his ears ticked back. ‘You don’t even have any followers right now, it would hurt you.’

‘Forget it, then,’ he said testily. ‘You said earlier that we may be able to adjust one of your cores, so let us focus on this.’

Hold on, Red piped up. That won’t work.

‘Why?’ Esriaal asked, tilting their head.

It’s not like these cyclers are normal machines, it pointed out. The other one wouldn’t have burned you if it was. And they've got some strange enchantments on them. We were able to make this one friendly to us, but it’s probably not going to play nice with your divinity trying to push it around. We don’t even know what fuels it yet. We have combustion engines in Naraka, and from the sound that’s what this is, but I don’t know how it could have come so far without a lot more diesel than it can carry.

‘It could’ve been transported most of the way,’ Esriaal said. ‘We’re still testing cyclers ourselves, so they’re only attached to a few scout caravans, we wouldn’t use one out on its own.’

Strange enchantments, Pale echoed, now looking at the cycler with interest. How so?

Narinder sighed.  ‘Enchantments that would likely interfere too greatly with Esriaal’s cores. As that is true, and I cannot produce a core myself – even if you were willing to teach me, we hardly have the time to grow a flower – then this may well have been a waste of time, I am afraid.’

If we had any followers we could try anyway, Red said unhappily, but without devotion to concentrate, we'd just damage ourselves.  

Neither Esriaal nor Pale spoke for a long minute, trading glances. Esriaal looked increasingly pleading; Pale looked more and more frustrated by the minute.

No, Shepherd, Pale said when they opened their mouth. It cannot work in reverse. False faith will do more harm than good. Do not attempt this foolishness.  

‘Why not? It worked for him,’ they argued. Narinder and Red shared an impression of apprehension, but both chose to hold their tongues for now. 

That is because there is still a positive association for him, Pale replied pointedly. There is still some lingering regard. You do not share the same, try though you might to pretend otherwise. You resent him still. Whatever attempt at faith you make will be undercut by that resentment, and you know that will always linger in one way or another.

Esriaal scowled down at their Crown, but their left ear was flicking back and forth. Ah.

Narinder supposed it had been too optimistic to think Esriaal would have had so swift a change of heart, hiding his disappointment behind a mask of calm curiosity. He couldn't call it anything else but disappointment.

Red sent him its silent thoughts: it didn't think it was so simple as Pale was making it sound, but it agreed that Narinder had been too hopeful (though that wasn't without sympathy.) Narinder had missed Esriaal keenly – mourned them enough to be left hollow and broken – but for all their claims of missing him, he should have kept a level head instead of allowing any optimism to creep in.

Do not sabotage your own efforts and the task ahead because you wish to ignore yourself, Pale finished. The Bearer of the Red Crown may have conveniently shed much of his loathsome nature for the moment, but what is a simple exercise of false penance for his many sins is not –

Narinder had no chance to stop it, Red’s flare of anger breaking through its calm facade so abruptly that he had no time to react. It lunged forward with a hiss and bared fangs, striking Pale head on and sending it stumbling with a startled cry. It hadn't been prepared for the attack at all, flailing as it landed hard.

‘Red, stop!’ Narinder shouted as he dove towards them, but the two Crowns’ thrashing meant his paw closed around empty air.

Esriaal was trying to grab the two Crowns as well, getting in Narinder's way and knocking him aside. ‘Red, don't – wait, please wait –’

Neither Crown listened, Pale having gotten its paws beneath it and fighting back. It clawed at Red with its hind paws, bit into the black flesh with its pointed golden teeth, tried to gouge it open with its antlers. Ichor was splashing on the ground but Red was unstymied, tearing into Pale with its fangs and wrapping itself around the hare’s body, constricting it and stifling its movement. Esriaal was stumbling, and when Narinder spared them a glance, he flinched; they were bleeding. As Red tore into Pale’s cheek, Narinder saw a similar wound rip into Esriaal’s cheek in turn. That shouldn't happen – couldn't happen. He wasn't sustaining any of Red’s injuries, so why –?

Now wasn’t the moment, and with Esriaal out of the way, Narinder was finally able to grab Red and Pale. He ignored how Pale’s wild movements gouged into his arms, too focussed on prying his Crown off of it. The instant there was just enough leverage to rip Pale free he did so, holding the two Crowns apart. Esriaal leapt for Pale and he let go of it before they could pull his arm off, and immediately wrapped his arms around Red, who was still struggling to get back to the fight.

‘Red, stop,’ he panted, clutching the writhing serpent close. ‘What are you doing?!’

I'm done with this, Red spat, murderous still. I'm done with letting that piece of trash keep doing this, I'm going to tear it apart – let go of me, right now –

‘You are injuring Esriaal, too!’

Good!, it snapped at him, red eye burning with its scowl. To hell with them both! We should've left ages ago –

Then good riddance, Pale replied, breathing raggedly, huddled in Esriaal's bleeding arms. Go on, run back to his other half – I hope he twists you to pieces, and then to less than nothing! You deserve no better, neither of you!

‘Pale, please,’ Esriaal said, voice cracked from what sounded like choked back sobs and wracking pain. Narinder had killed them many times, and he'd never seen them suffer the way they were now. ‘Please stop this.’

You know what they did! They cannot change, will not change – they are liars and monsters, and I will not be fooled again by pretty words or false gestures –

We're liars?!, Red shouted back. We're monsters? At least we're trying! And you'd rather kill everyone than do the right thing – some Crown of Life you would have been!

That was enough to make Pale rip free from Esriaal’s arms, launching itself across the small cave’s stone floor with an eldritch snarl as it glowed with pearlescent fury. Narinder turned hastily, shielding Red with his own body, and braced himself to endure the strike about to slam into his spine –

But Esriaal was faster. His eyes flew open as a weight flung itself over his back before the hit could land, followed by an impact hard enough to make him stumble even with the shield. There was a crack of bone, Esriaal gasping in pain as Pale screeched in unison, and Narinder barely caught himself on the cave wall as Esriaal's weight crumpled away from him.

When he turned, Esriaal was on their knees, one hand clutching their ribs as the other held them upright. In front of them was Pale, crouched in the way all injured animals did when backed into a corner. 

‘You have to stop,’ Esriaal wheezed, pained. ‘I know, Pale, I swear I know, but they don't.’

Lie not to either of us, Shepherd, he was the one who did it!

‘No, he wasn't!’ Esriaal insisted. ‘He couldn't have been!’

You cannot know that –

‘If the One Who Waits was willing to excise you, then why wouldn't he excise the part of him you belong to?!’

And with that, the cave fell silent.

Chapter Text

Quarter. Two eighths. Dotted quarter. One eighth. Four sixteenths. Triplet. Triplet. Whole. Rest.

‘What,’ Narinder finally whispered, the old bone melody echoing in a ghostly chorus through all of his hollow places. It felt like it should be echoing out in the world too, but it was silent where anyone else could hear it. It was just him.

You are wrong, Pale said shakily, its body huddled against the uneven stone ground. You are wrong, Shepherd. He has been the Cat for decades. There would have been signs. 

‘Not if the One Who Waits was being more careful this time,’ Esriaal said, stubborn, then winced as they sat back, hand on their ribs. They were still bleeding. They all were, Esriaal and Pale from their identical wounds, Red from the gouges in its body, Narinder from the gouges in his arms. ‘You heard Narinder, he said it himself. When I died, he felt something get ripped out of him, and he's been hearing the song ever since in the place you were supposed to be!’

Excision causes physical injury! 

‘Not when it's successful!’

‘Stop.’

Narinder's voice rang out, bouncing off the cave walls, and both Esriaal and Pale froze. Red was trying to hold still in his arms. It was trembling anyway.

Narinder looked first from Pale, who was looking at Red with bilious loathing, then to Esriaal. Esriaal looked down at the ground, ears drooping, hunched up. Hunted.

‘You have been lying,’ Narinder said coldly, and Esriaal twitched. ‘You have been keeping secrets from me that are mine by rights. Cease this overdramatic display and explain to me what is happening, or I walk.’

‘What?!’ Esriaal said, head snapping up. ‘You can't!’

‘I can and I will, if what I suspect you are saying is true.’

Red knows what happened, too, Pale spat.

‘I have already guessed as much,’ he said, and Red began to tremble even harder. ‘How Red and I handle that is our business, not yours. Explain yourselves, now, or I leave you to your fate. I will go collect my family, and we will run as far as we can go. There are lands across the sea, as you have told me. Those lands will be safer – and more honest – no matter the danger there. Now speak.’

Esriaal took a breath. ‘I will,’ they said, ignoring Pale’s frustrated chitter. ‘I promise I will. But I need to be patched up first, and I can't do that here.’

‘And what trust should I place in you?’ he demanded. ‘You have known much that I have not, and seen fit to say nothing of it. How long have you been content to leave me in the dark and wield me for your own purposes?’

‘It’s not about that, Narinder,’ they pleaded, eyes big, one dark and plaintive, the other gold and lifeless. ‘This isn't – this isn't like normal injuries, alright? This is bad. If it was just normal injuries then I'd patch them up here, but this is going to have consequences – I don't know if it affected the other mes, but if it did, this is bad. ’

‘A convenient reason,’ he returned, strangling the kneejerk concern. Esriaal had been playing a long game, and he might have blindly believed their words if it hadn't been for this. He was furious with himself. He'd known better.

‘It's not convenient, Narinder, it's true,’ they said, growing frustrated. ‘I can't die normally, but I haven't been injured this way before, and if it's affecting all of mes then I can't heal naturally. I have to fix it. Please.’

He hated them. He wasn't sure he'd ever hated anyone the way he hated them in that moment. It was a loathing that dug its hooks into the meat of his incomplete soul, jerking him this way and that between hope and despair, and even now – even now –

‘Fine,’ he said tonelessly, because if he let a scrap of emotion through then he was never getting it back. ‘Go. I care not if you return or if you leave entirely. Do as you like.’

‘Narinder…’

‘Go.’

They nodded, then dissolved into mist. Pale did the same, though it still threw Red one last furious look. Then Narinder and Red were alone.

Once sure of it, Narinder kicked the two cores across the cave, wanting them as far away as possible. He then returned to the place he'd been sitting before Esriaal showed up.

I'm sorry, Red whispered as he did, then hissed in pain as it shifted and its wounds were moved. I shouldn’t have…

‘Hush,’ he said shortly, but his fingers were gentle as he began to look over his Crown’s battered body. He had no real skill with healing, but it was his Crown, and with careful concentration he began to seal up the worst of it. He could deal with his arms in a moment. At least the divine power’s eagerness helpful.

He felt Red cautiously probe his mind, and he allowed it, letting Red look its fill.

Why aren't you angrier?, it asked after a minute, uncoiling at his direction so he could find more of the wounds. At me, I mean.

‘Because I know not what to be angry about, yet,’ he said. ‘There was too much said, much of it implication at best, and I am reserving my energy for true fury once I understand. Besides, you are my Crown. Even when we leave, you are still my constant companion; I can hold my temper until we have a moment to ourselves, once I have received explanations.’

When we leave?, Red repeated.

‘Yes. I know not what we shall do in the long term, but I am finished. I have had enough of this back and forth – not six weeks have passed since we found the Shepherd, and we have done nothing of note, nothing to fix what my actions have broken,’ he said bitterly. ‘We have travelled with the Shepherd and done their bidding long enough. This has been a waste.’

Red was quiet, Narinder continuing to clumsily heal it, the magic’s touch unnervingly responsive. When he'd done as much as he could, Red curled up, coils piled in his lap. 

‘There. Tolerable, at least?’

Yeah.

‘Good,’ he said, and started to do his best to seal up his scratched up forearms. It was less successful than Red’s – it felt almost as if it had opened up the old scars under his fur – but he could at least stop the bleeding. ‘Now tell me what you know.’

Red nodded tiredly. I don't know everything, those two were talking about a lot that I don't know anything about. What I do know is what Pale is. I’d say it would be the best one to explain this, but it hates you, and it'll say this in the way that's going to hurt most and do the most damage it can. I can't make this better, and I can't make it painless, but at least you'll know I'm not trying to hurt you.

Narinder began to stroke its head with a fingertip, finished with his arms for now. ‘Red. Stop procrastinating and tell me.’

It took a deep breath, even though Crowns had no need for air. When Esriaal said that your soul is where Pale belonged, it's not metaphorical, it said. It was meant to be your Crown, someday.

‘But you are my Crown. You chose me,’ he said. Then doubt flickered through him. ‘Did… did you not?’

Red nodded vehemently. I chose you, I promise, it said. But it was more complicated than that, too. I didn't know you'd already been chosen until you'd accepted, and… I knew you weren't going to be my Bearer forever.

‘So I was but a stopgap.’

No , it said, shaking its head now. You weren't just – just a stopgap, Narinder. I didn't settle for you. There was a person someday fated to be my Bearer, but I couldn't just wait. Death needed a god, and my Bearer didn't exist yet. Wouldn't exist for a very long time, and I didn't even know who they'd be. I didn't pick someone random, or someone who was ‘good enough’. I looked until I found the best person to be my Bearer.

‘But?’

It struggled for words for a minute, guilt on its face. But I didn't know Life chose you first.

‘Life,’ he repeated. Red nodded. ‘I was uncrowned when you found me.’

The Crown of Life couldn't be crafted fully formed. It had to grow its power. It chose you for the same reasons I did, I think. I always did find that ironic.

‘How could I not know this?’

You would have learned soon after its choice, had things gone according to its plan, but it chose you in the morning, when the dawn rose. I chose you at midday the same day, and you accepted, and by the time I was on your head it was too late. So the Crown of Life and I made a deal. It would stay hidden while I was on your head, just until my Bearer arrived, and then I'd get out of its way so you could have the Crown you deserved. We didn't think it would take so long. We didn't know what was going to happen.

‘Then where did it go when the time came?’

I don't know, Red admitted. It sounded haunted by that answer. It all happened so fast and I didn't have any way to stop the sacrifice – Esriaal wasn’t afraid, and I can’t act without my Bearer’s willingness. When it was over, Esriaal was dead and the Crown of Life was gone. You were almost a different person afterwards, and I could barely recognise you. It wasn't until we felt Pale come into existence that it occurred to me that it might have survived, but I don't know how. I could feel how much it hated me, though. And I hated it, too.

‘Why?’ Narinder asked softly. Red didn't say anything, not for a long moment.

Because it wasn't Ivory anymore, it said at last. It wasn't the Crown I knew before. It wasn't Ivory, and I'd known Ivory for almost my whole existence, and now it was gone, replaced by Pale, and Pale hates me. I hated it for what it wasn't, at first. It gave me good reasons all on its own soon enough.

It took a shaky breath, and he could feel how it pushed aside one of the most complicated knots of emotion he'd ever seen, refocussing. I would have told you, if I'd ever realised what was happening to you. What had probably been happening to you for a long time. When I thought Ivory was gone, there was no point. Then it was back, and there was still no point. And there hasn't been a good time since we ran.  

‘And because you were afraid.’

Red winced. Yes. And because I was afraid.

Narinder began to pet the smooth black material of Red’s serpent shape, closing his eyes, trying to think. Trying to comprehend. 

‘Is that why it always felt… suffocating?’ he asked at last, afraid of the answer. His damning curiosity forced him to ask anyway, because he was a fool and would never escape that fact. ‘As I was meant to be Life, not Death?’

Partly, it answered.  But it was mostly that you were carrying two Crowns. A Crown can’t sit on two heads, but one soul can support two for a long time. Yours could, anyway. But part of you was always fighting against the kind of Death I was supposed to be, Crown of Life or not.

‘So it will be like that forever,’ he said, telling himself he wasn't exhausted by that thought. By everything. 

Not anymore, Red replied. Narinder frowned down at it, and Red looked up at him. I was trying to be the Death I was meant to be for Esriaal, it said. I… I never really let you be the Death you could be. But that can be different now. We can be different. And I want to be.  

Narinder closed his eyes. ‘I know you had a fated bearer,’ he said. ‘That means nothing now, because that is broken. But promise me that I was not…’

Convenient. Temporary. The next best thing Red could get until it could get someone better. The last two were true, no matter how kindly Red tried to say it, but the first one was the one that he couldn't stand.

I meant it when I said I didn't settle for you, it said, and nuzzled his paw with its snout. I was fated to sit on Esriaal's head someday. That's where I was meant to belong, and yes, Esriaal was the ‘right’ place for me to be. But until they came along, the choice was mine. When I got to choose – when it was my choice, not fate’s – I chose you. I'm choosing you again. And this time, we can be the kind of god you're capable of, not the god I'm supposed to be.  

Had anyone else been present, Narinder would have simply nodded and murmured an answer. It was just Red and Narinder, however, and so he curled up around it, hiding his face in his arms, the fur of his barely-sealed forearms and the cotton of his rolled up sleeves both left stained by salt.

A blue glow caught the corner of his eye, and by the time Esriaal was solidifying again, he was sitting up normally, petting Red still and watching the opposite wall. 

‘So you did return,’ he said without looking at Esriaal. 

‘I promised I would,’ they said, voice small as they picked up the cores and walked over. They didn't comment on why both cores had been on the other side of the cave. ‘Don't worry, Pale isn't with me right now. It’s needed elsewhere, and even if it wasn’t, it wouldn’t be here. Considering what we have to talk about…’

‘Red has told me all it could. Ivory, was it?’

‘...yeah,’ Esriaal said faintly. ‘It was… yeah. Pale said that was what its name would've been, once. It doesn't like talking about – you know.’

‘I know not. Red said only that when it was able to get its thoughts in order after the sacrifice, you were dead and Ivory was gone. As for everything else you alluded to, neither of us…’ He’d turned his head to look at them, and his voice fell silent.

‘What is it?’ Esriaal asked nervously. They were still injured, though they’d cleaned themself up and were already almost healed; he couldn’t see if there were other injuries, because Esriaal was cloaked. He’d only seen them in modern clothing, so far: though they always had a capelet or some such, they’d worn blouses and skirts, dresses, trousers and vests. Even when they’d first come to him in Naraka, their robes had been more modern than anything he remembered them in before.

No longer. This time, Esriaal wore a full cloak. He knew it well. Long and red cotton, a white stripe above the zigzag hem, an ancient-style bell at their throat. The fabric was faded, however, as if it was as old as his memories of it; it had been patched so skilfully that he would have been unable to tell, if it hadn’t been for the very slightly raised line of stitches where tears had once been.

If you’re trying to throw us off by looking like the Lamb, Red said in Narinder’s place, his voice still silent, but Esriaal shook their head hastily.

‘No, I don’t have a choice in looking like this, right now,’ they said awkwardly. ‘It’s part of what I’m going to explain, I promise. Especially since, um. I can’t go back to the Pastures until we’re with the caravan again.’

Narinder frowned, finding his voice again to ask, ‘Why not? You have vanished easily enough so far.’

Esriaal took a deep breath. ‘That’s because I haven’t been here,’ they said, and sat down. Beneath the cloak they wore only an old waist sash, fastened by a large brass ring tarnished from age, but the long tails of the sash were enough to preserve their modesty (and their wool did the rest.) ‘I’ve never been here. This is the first time I’ve left the Pastures since I made them.’

Narinder held up his paw when they opened their mouth to continue. They closed it, waiting as Narinder thought quickly, putting pieces together, a slowly growing unease beginning to swirl in his stomach.

‘What are you?’ he asked at last. ‘Who are you?’

‘I’m Esriaal,’ they said quietly. ‘I’m the Lamb. I promise.’

‘Then who have I been travelling with?’

‘Me. But it wasn’t this me,’ they admitted. ‘They’re all me, but they’re not all of me. I – I don’t really know how to start explaining this. I never planned to tell anyone. I…’

Narinder didn’t say anything, waiting. He could see how they were hoping he would prompt them, but he didn’t feel inclined to help them out at the moment. They could figure out how to explain themself.

‘We call them figments,’ they said at last. ‘Pale and I, I mean. Every me you’ve met so far has been one of my figments – they’re kind of like… dreams, maybe. Projections. They have to be, because I’m asleep.’

‘Asleep,’ he repeated, and they nodded.

‘When I came back, I wasn’t alive,’ they explained. ‘I don’t know what I was. Pale doesn’t know either, or I’d tell you. I was there, though, and after I came back and saw what you were doing, I couldn’t take it. I had to do something. I couldn’t do anything like I was, I needed a way to exist physically – so I went and found my body. You’d left it behind. And when I got there, I found Pale.

‘I couldn’t make my body live again, and Pale couldn’t do it either, not really – it was too injured. It was dying. But my existence got there in time, and so we managed to figure out a way to kind of… anchor each other, by anchoring me in me. I had to figure out how to make my body work manually, healing it and healing my brain, so we had something to be connected to. It took a long time. A century, just about. When we were done, I was too tired to move myself, but when I fell asleep, I woke up next to my body. Pale has theories why, but I don’t really understand them. All I know is I was able to move around like I was alive, touch things like I was alive. I was a dream, but I guess I’m really good at dreaming. 

‘I picked my own body up, and started walking. Once I was out of the Below – I don’t know how I did that either – I was in a place that wasn’t finished yet. It needed to be made, so there was a space for it, but nothing to fill it.

‘I knew if I was going to fight you, I needed to be a god, and Pale and I needed time to grow together, as close to how it grew with you. If I was going to be a god, I needed something to offer people to believe in, something you couldn’t give them, and the only thing I’d ever really made that meant anything was the cult I built for you. I made a home, and that’s why people followed me in the first place, so I had to do it again. So I made the Pastures.

‘Pale helped me, and held us together. By the time that was done, my godform had started to manifest, so it was time to make Pale exist physically. It would have taken part of your body to do it – bone, I think – though it wouldn’t have hurt you permanently. That wasn’t true for me, so I took out my eye. Pale used it to make itself physical, and then we put my godform and my body somewhere safe.

‘You know basically what happened from then on. I figured out how to make more figments, but I’ve never gotten past seven. When I vanish, or when you killed me when we were fighting, it just ends that dream. That figment comes home and returns all of its memories to me, including all of my other figments. So it’s always me, it’s just… delayed.’

‘That is why your figments cannot rest, then,’ he said, and Esriaal nodded. ‘They are already dreams, so they cannot sleep.’

‘Yeah. They can meditate to pass the time, but that’s just killing time.’

‘What happens now that you are awake? Or am I misunderstanding what you are saying?’

‘I’m partially awake,’ they said, then made a face. ‘This is hard for me to explain. This is, um. This is my body. The body that died, I mean. This was asleep until Pale and Red fought. Pale had mentioned once that if it was in a form that could be injured and got injured, it might pass on the wounds to my body too, but thankfully it wasn’t like that for every figment. They all felt it – I recalled all of them so all of me is caught up on what happened – but only the one that was with the real Pale was the one who showed the injuries. The injuries woke me up. But my godform is still sleeping, and so it’s the part of me that’s anchoring the figments right now. It’s me and I can still feel it – it’s just being in more than one place at once, and I’m used to that – but now I’m awake again. I’m still figuring out what’s happened. That’s what Pale’s up to right now, with one of my figments, because I think I’m alive again? My body feels alive, but…’

They finally shrugged helplessly. ‘I wish I could explain this better,’ they said, rubbing their arm under their cloak. ‘I’ve learned a lot of things, but the technical stuff? That’s all Pale. All I know is I’m here and I’m awake, and I decided that I was the one who should explain things to you. It was the only thing that felt fair, doing this face to face without the delay between a figment and me.’

Narinder nodded slowly, thoughts whirling, trying to boil everything down so he knew what to take away from this. It briefly occurred to him that this meant Esriaal had been able to hold their own against half a god as nothing more than a dream of themself, but he quickly put that out of his mind, before his fixation on danger and strength decided to make itself known.

‘Let me check if I have understood you correctly,’ he said, and they nodded with a wary light in their one eye. ‘After you came back into existence by a method unknown, your soul sought out your corpse, and when you found it in the Below you also discovered the Crown that would become Pale. You and Pale healed your body, which was left catatonic in the aftermath, at which point your mind projected a dream into the world that was indistinguishable from a living body. You and Pale then constructed the Pastures, and have since used those projections – your figments – as proxies in the world. Now, you are somehow both alive and awake again while your godform yet slumbers.’

They nodded, relief making their shoulders slump. ‘See, this is why I need Pale,’ they said ruefully. ‘It would’ve told you this a lot faster and a lot clearer, but…’

‘It hates me,’ he finished, and Esriaal nodded.

‘You, um. You said Red told you what happened?’

As much as I could, Red said, coiling closer to Narinder, who began to stroke it again. But I don’t know everything. I know what Pale was, and where it came from. But I never knew what happened to it. I thought it was gone.

Esriaal nodded. ‘Well. Pale and I are kind of still arguing about it, judging by the conversation it’s having with the figment taking care of my godform right now, but I think I know what happened. I don’t know all the reasons why, since the One Who Waits is the only one who’d know that, but I think he realised Pale was there when I died and Red had to go back to him. Maybe he decided Death was more powerful? I don’t know. But for whatever reason he picked Red over Pale, so he tore Pale out, throwing it away and leaving it behind in the Below.’

Narinder closed his eyes. The hollow place in him felt like it was the only thing there before he fought it back. No wonder Pale hated him. ‘I had carried them both. I know not why I thought I had to choose.’

‘You didn’t choose,’ Esriaal said. ‘The One Who Waits did.’

Narinder grit his teeth. ‘Esriaal, I know it is more comforting for you to think I was separate, but I was not. It was me.’

‘Maybe it was up until then, but it wasn’t like it would have been a clean excision,’ they replied. ‘I think that by taking Pale out, you stopped being one person. Pale doesn’t agree, but the way it keeps talking about it, it was one part of you acting on the other part of you, and to do that, you had to split at least a little bit. A crack in who you were. I don’t know how long you’ve been properly separated, or how long it took, or why you can’t remember everything. I don’t know a lot of things. But we both know you’re not him now, and we both know he was hiding things from you – things you wouldn’t want to do or support, and might have been able to stop yourself from doing if you could have. Getting rid of Pale let him be in charge. Getting rid of you would finish that. Now no one’s in his way except me.’

‘As far as he knows,’ Narinder said quietly. ‘But excision causes injury, does it not?’

‘You’re out, aren’t you? It’s not like we’d be able to check him for an injury, and you’re the part that was removed,’ they pointed out. ‘And the excisions started before the Cat was ‘killed’. So he might have been testing it, to make sure he could do it. Besides, injuries only happen when the excision fails.’

‘I have to admit that I know not what excision truly entails,’ he said, uncomfortable with the confession. ‘I have had many questions, and every time one comes up, so do others, and it feels as if I never have the answers.’

‘That’s partly my fault. I’ve been avoiding you.’

‘I have noticed, yes.’

‘Yeah. I wasn’t subtle,’ they said ruefully, but shook their head. ‘Excision is this whole ritual where everyone in the town is forced to gather. The victim is led into the centre of a ritual circle. I haven’t seen one through my figments yet, so I don’t know the exact details, and Pale hasn’t had a chance to look at it, but at the height of the ritual, the victim’s ‘weakness’ is taken out. Most excisions fail, and take parts of the body that represent a weakness in their spirit. Some die immediately. Some die slowly. Some we manage to rescue, and then some of them die in the Pastures instead. The ones who live heal, whether they get to the Pastures or not, but you don’t go through something like that and stay completely intact in your head.’

‘And the successful rituals?’

‘The excisions that succeed don’t cause any physical damage. Those people are taken away and never seen again. We don’t know what happens to them.’

‘So if I was successfully excised from the One Who Waits, there would be no physical tell,’ Narinder said. Esriaal nodded, and he sighed. ‘Little as I like to contemplate this…’

It does make the most sense, Red agreed quietly. I don’t remember this, but I wasn’t going to stay with the One Who Waits, no matter what happened – so if I was with this part of you, then however he was hiding things from you must have worked on me, too.

‘That would make sense,’ Esriaal said. ‘It’s not the same, but Pale only knows what’s going on with whichever figment it’s currently accompanying. I’m the one who knows what’s going on, because they’re all me.’

‘Did you not say there is a delay, of sorts?’

‘There was when I was asleep,’ they said, nodding. ‘Now, it’s just… all there. A figment’s only going to know what was happening before I make it, but I always know. I don’t know why. Pale said that it’s just the way I would have always worked, whether it was Pale on my head or Red, and I would’ve used it in different ways.’

‘Then what are your figments doing at the moment?’ he asked, curiosity kindling.

‘There’s currently five of me in use, I’m reserving two so that I can put more focus into being here,’ they said promptly. ‘I’ll probably keep the numbers down for the next while, until I’m used to being awake again. Two of me are in the Pastures – one’s calming down the disciples, and the other one’s taking care of my godform until Pale’s convinced everything is okay. One is in Caynero, travelling towards Belemen. It’s a neighbouring land, it’s more politically stable than Caynero,’ they added at his tilted head. ‘And two of me are out with caravans – one in Anura, one in Silk Cradle. At least I can still keep an eye on things like this, since I can’t get back to the Pastures right now.’

‘Why?’

‘I’m not a dream,’ they said. ‘I wasn’t even sure if I’d be able to come back here or if I’d have to send a figment whether I like it or not, but between the anchor core and you being here, I managed it.’

Narinder nodded. ‘I know not what I have to do with it, but it worked, so I shall not complain.’

‘Yeah. That was good,’ they said. They didn’t follow it up with anything, and neither did Narinder, because neither of them seemed to know what to do now. Narinder didn’t, at any rate. He’d learned far more than he’d bargained for over the course of the day, and though he’d wanted answers, he did find himself wishing he could have received them in a more comfortable manner.

We still need to get back to the caravan in Casket, Red finally ventured, and Esriaal jerked.

‘Oh! Right! I – yeah, you’re right, okay, we should figure that out,’ they said, left ear flicking hard. ‘Well, um. I kind of have a theory, and I know what Pale said earlier, before you two fought, but…’

Narinder frowned. ‘I cannot recall,’ he said. ‘It was a touch lost after everything.’

They nodded. Took a deep breath. ‘Pale was kind of projecting,’ they said. ‘It said I still resented you and all that, and I’m not saying I’m suddenly okay with everything or think you’re perfectly innocent, but Pale’s also not really willing to look at things the way I am. If one of my cores won’t work, but you can’t make a core without hurting yourself if you don’t have devotion, then there’s a pretty obvious solution.’ They gestured to themself when they saw he wasn’t getting it. ‘If I believe in you, then you should have enough faith to pull it off without too much damage.’

Narinder stared at them. So did Red. Esriaal just took it, though they looked less and less certain as the seconds passed.

‘You cannot be serious,’ Narinder said weakly. ‘I am not – you are a god, Esriaal. Gods should bow their heads to no one, and I am the last god I think you could make yourself do such a thing for.’

‘You believe in me,’ they said, and he twitched. ‘Not as the Shepherd, or even as the bearer of the Pale Crown. You believe in me because I was the Lamb. It’s part of why I could get here. It’s not like you worship me, but you believe in me a lot more than you might think you do. It’s like – a little sun. I could see where to go, even better than just the anchor core.’

‘You have no reason to have the same faith in me,’ he said, choosing not to examine the thought, letting it slip aside, because if he didn’t then it would derail everything he needed to handle in the moment. ‘Particularly after a thousand years of focussing on revenge, let alone for a god you watched betray you in real time.’

Esriaal smiled faintly. ‘I wouldn’t be believing in you as the One Who Waits. Not the one in Naraka right now, or the one I served a thousand years ago.’

‘I understand not what you mean by such a thing.’

‘You were a bastard most of the time, back then,’ they said. He winced. ‘Just kind of in a general sense. I usually chalked it up to being imprisoned, no one would’ve been at their best. But you were always kind to me, anyway, and sometimes I got to see something more than the One Who Waits. If I didn’t, I wouldn’t have followed you the way I did. If you were the god everyone said you were, I wouldn’t have followed you, either. Sometimes, though, I got to see Narinder. That was the person who was my god.’

‘Your god who betrayed you,’ he said, looking away. ‘I heard you two days past, and I heard you this morning. You cannot reverse course so quickly, if ever.’

‘I don’t have to,’ they said. ‘I’m picking a new course. I watched the One Who Waits betray me, yes. But I watched him betray you, too. You wouldn’t have done this, would you?’

‘No,’ he said instantly, the answer so certain that he almost didn’t realise he would say it before he did. ‘Never. I am many things, and not nearly so innocent as you seem to wish to believe, but what is happening now… no. No.’

‘Then the creature who was my god is still here. He doesn’t need to be my god for me to know that the things I saw in him are still worth having in the world. I don’t care whether my Crown likes it, or what gods are supposed to do, or whether he thinks I should. I’m going to believe in him anyway, and he’s just going to have to put up with it.’

As they spoke, words as certain and binding as any divine promise, Narinder felt it. Saw it, his third eye opening whether he meant for it to or not. In a prismatic dimension to their being, a facet of reality only visible to gods, Esriaal was burning. A miniature sun, all its light shining on him and him alone; faith both different from how they’d once believed in him and still its kin. It was warm in his chest, and he didn’t know what to say, wordless in the invisible luminescence that was Esriaal’s belief.

‘It worked?’ they asked, and he nodded feebly. ‘Good, I would’ve hated it if I’d said all that stuff and then somehow failed anyway,’ they said lightly, and Narinder snorted without meaning to. ‘Okay. I’m betting a god’s belief is probably a bit stronger than some random person, just judging from how yours feels, so I think we’ll be able to make a core pretty easily. It won’t be the same as mine, but that’s going to work better if it’s supposed to power that ugly cycler.’

Narinder huffed, weirdly defensive as they gestured at the machine still leaning against the cave wall. ‘I recall not where I had the chance to choose its design.’

‘Depending on how this works, we’re going to use that cycler to see how we can change our cyclers, so maybe you’ll be able to make it less ugly,’ they said, clearly stifling laughter. ‘Alright, so when I make them, I’m making them out of the Pastures, which is basically my divinity but a little separated. So I’m making it out of myself. I’m not sure how you’d do the same thing, or what kind of physical thing you could use to concentrate the devotion, but it needs to be physical.’

Blood, Red said before Narinder could (not that he’d thought of that yet.) Narinder works best with bodies and physical things, anyway. Even when it comes to souls, the way we interact is as if it’s physical fabric. That might change over time, now that we’re separate, but blood is our best bet.

‘I guess that is physical, but unless you’re planning on bleeding into the engine, it’s not going to work as a fuel source,’ Esriaal sighed.

Narinder and Red shared a glance.

‘...you’re kidding, right?’ they asked, incredulous.

‘It is a combustion engine, Esriaal,’ he pointed out, standing up and stretching (he’d been sitting for some time, after all.) ‘Even if we used a solid core like yours, there is nowhere for us to place it. I still expect to be shown how your cores are tooled, of course, but for now, I may be able to convince the enchantments to accept blood. With luck it will not need much, if the blood is mine and you are offsetting the devotion spent. If we have even further fortune, I may be able to cajole the enchantments into quieting the engine.’

‘If you say so,’ Esriaal said dubiously, eyeing the machine. Then they yawned, wide enough to crack their jaw, and looked so surprised when it ended that Narinder had to bite back a chuckle.

‘This is your body, is it not?’ he asked, and they nodded. ‘If you are no figment, then your body will likely return to having some needs, as mine does. Sleep is one of them.’

‘But we need to go.’

‘I would need time to see if I can work with these enchantments regardless,’ Narinder said, then lifted an eyebrow. ‘We will not be able to see our way in the darkness without an obvious light, so we would need to wait until morning. Leave your anchor core out so I may see, and rest. I will do the same when I am finished – we are safe for now. Then we shall leave tomorrow, and see how far we may get.’

Esriaal looked uncertain. ‘What if I don’t wake up again?’ they asked when he gave them a look. ‘If I fall asleep and can’t wake up, then you’re on your own with the part of me that can actually get hurt. Maybe I…’

‘That is a risk we shall have to take,’ Narinder said firmly. ‘You believe in me, yes?’

‘Yeah,’ they agreed, looking up at him with a complicated gaze. He could see it for himself, but he wasn’t the one who needed to hear the answer.

‘Then rest. I will keep watch, and now that I have been given a direction in which to work, I shall take it from here.’

Esriaal sighed, but then hummed in agreement, and Narinder walked over to the cycler as they curled up on the ground, bundled up in their cloak. He spent a moment examining the cycler, trying to decide where to begin, then glanced back at Esriaal; they were already asleep, breathing deeply, their face more at peace than he’d seen the God of Peace so far, even when they were in meditation. Their faith continued to burn, not dimmed at all by their rest.

We aren’t leaving, huh, Red whispered, coiled around his shoulders.

‘No,’ he murmured back. ‘We are not.’

He then made himself focus on the cycler, rather than the tight feeling in his chest.

‘Oh. You work fast, huh?’

Esriaal’s voice was groggy, pushing themself up to sit as Narinder looked over his shoulder at them.

‘Not as quickly as I would like, but I believe I have been successful,’ he said back, standing up and dusting himself off. Dawn had only just broken, the first gleams of the colourful Anchordeep day beginning to creep into the cave. He took a few steps backwards, squinting over the cycler. He’d spent the entire night carefully pulling apart the enchantments to examine them before putting them back together, studying the construction closely.

It was still oddly responsive, particularly as he used his divine power for minor tasks, but considering just how much magic the machine was constructed from, he was less surprised. Magic dictated almost everything about it, right down to the shape of the raw materials – rather than manufacturing and tooling parts, the different components were bound into their forms by preconstructed enchantments, inscribed in complicated runes (the script significantly more modern than the cuneiform characters Pale had been utilising.) That would be how the other one had melted at the slightest touch from Esriaal; there was a trigger mechanism built into every single constructive enchantment, which would both dissolve even the raw material into black sludge and lash out with a corrupting, necrotic curse. There were dozens of other enchantments related to functionality, though to his amusement, the combustion engine itself still relied on liquid fuel – the same diesel sourced from the depths of Silk Cradle that powered the motorised carriages in Naraka.

The entirety of the cycler was an exercise in clever inefficiency. The solutions to create it were impressive in their novelty, but excessive in its initial energy use, relying on technical enchantments over the sturdiness of manufactured parts. He could see how the machines were so vulnerable to the ichor flames of the day before. The script was more modern, but that wasn’t necessarily the best choice for something so meticulously constructed. Streamlining was all well and good, except when it cut corners.

He hadn’t needed any tools to work with it, given its nature, and once he’d finished coaxing the combustion engine into shifting its form and function, he may or may not have taken the time to adjust the aesthetics of the machine. No longer spindly, but still sleek, with thinner plates than before that now shielded more of the machinery from the elements. There were still three wheels, but he was already considering how to reduce that bulk to two, as he'd seen in the one cycler chassis he'd spotted before. He was no mechanic, admittedly, but should his family and the rest of the caravan be safe, he knew others who might be able to help him with that.

‘It’s prettier,’ Esriaal said as they picked their way over, and the end of Narinder’s tail hooked before he could stop it. ‘Will it work?’

‘I have been unable to test it, as you were yet sleeping, but I believe so,’ he said. ‘It should be safe to touch – you are not hostile to me, and given your belief, I see no reason it should harm you.’

Cautiously, Esriaal brushed their fingertips over the black metal, and when nothing happened, they laid their palm on it. ‘Weird,’ they muttered, pulling their hand away. ‘It's warm. And it feels…’

‘Much of it is shaped and held together by magic,’ he said. ‘I would admire it more if it wasn’t such an excessive waste of power; this is the result of prioritising time over all else, by someone with the power to ignore its inefficiencies.’

‘Like an ancient god with a cult that's been here for a thousand years,’ they said, poking it again.

‘Yes.’

‘Well, I guess there's not really any way to know if it worked without trying it out,’ they said, looking up at him again and tilting their head. ‘What happens if it doesn't work?’

‘Then I try other solutions until it does,’ he replied with a shrug. ‘My capacity for patience is often in question these days, but so long as I am doing something, then I assure you, I am more stubborn than time could possibly be.’

‘That I can believe,’ they sighed, as if they themself weren't a horrendously stubborn creature. Narinder did his best to make that thought as pointed as possible before remembering that he didn't have to, then cautiously acknowledged (in the safety of his head, of course) that the thought was a touch fond. Not more than that. But a touch.

‘Shall we?’ he said, getting to the cave entrance, and Esriaal nodded, heading out. Narinder took a second to clean himself up with some divine power, changing the colour of his clothing and rolling up his sleeves once more. It was less restrictive, now that the shirt only covered half of his arm, and his arms were more or less healed.

He walked the cycler out of the cave, carefully threading his way through the thicker of razor coral back to the road, but paused when he emerged. Esriaal was standing there, eyes closed, face lifted towards the growing light high above Anchordeep’s peculiar airy water. Their cloak shifted in the calm currents, a picture of serenity.

‘Is all well?’ he asked, uncertain.

‘Yeah,’ they said, not opening their eyes. ‘I'm just enjoying it.’

‘And by ‘it’ you mean…?’

‘Being outside,’ they said, opening their eyes and looking at him, both the living and the metal eyes crinkling up a bit as they smiled. ‘I've been outside before, but it's also always been the memory of it. I haven't been able to feel it as it's happening. Now I can, and it's nice. That’s all.’

‘I see,’ he said quietly, lifting his head up to look at the sky through the water. It was pretty, in the way all delicate things could be: the fragility of a temporary moment, the dawn’s light beginning to grow stronger, shading that distant sky a rosy pink. He didn't remember the last time he'd just… paid attention to a sunrise. ‘It is nice,’ he said after a moment.

‘I can be starry-eyed later,’ they said, shaking their head at themself when he returned his gaze to the earth. ‘We should go. How far did you say Casket was, Red?’

Two or three days by rover, it replied. But those have to be a lot slower and more cautious than we do, particularly if this works. Assuming Narinder doesn't accidentally drive us off of a cliff or something, since he's never driven before.  

Narinder huffed. ‘I have no intention of speeding along as if it were a race, Red. You are the one eager to go so quickly.’

‘If this works and the cycler would let me, I can drive for now,’ Esriaal offered. ‘I've used ours before.’

‘I do not believe it will,’ he said. ‘Besides, it is lacking many of the mechanical functions I believe yours relies on. Much of it is manipulated by magic rather than a physical mechanism, with the fuel serving as both a literal fuel to provide energy to the enchantment without using the rider as a fuel source, as well as a symbolic fuel – combustion as a concept feels as though it would be more powerful than a steady power source, and therefore the association enhances its actual power.’

‘Sometimes it's really obvious Pale was supposed to be your Crown,’ they sighed, taking him off guard. ‘Okay, well. It has three wheels, so at least I don't have to worry about us tipping over. Let's try it.’

He nodded. Getting onto the cycler felt clumsy, thoroughly unfamiliar from anything he’d ridden before, and he felt a touch ridiculous once he was astride it. Esriaal at least seemed comfortable enough hopping onto it behind him, though Narinder forced himself to ignore the realisation that it meant they were pressed up against his back. They couldn't look over his shoulder, obviously, so they had to lean over to watch what he was doing. He held out his left hand, Red obligingly taking the shape of a knife, and Narinder cut his right palm with a bit of a grimace. As the blood welled up and Red wound itself around his neck in its collar shape, he set his right hand atop the cap for the fuel reservoir, palm down. 

It took very little blood to wake up the cycler’s enchantments – had it been mortal blood it would have likely needed much, much more, but the magic that the cycler was made from eagerly answered to its master’s divinity. It was only a moment or two before Narinder could pull away his hand, shaking it out before cleaning it up. Though his palm had been stained until he did so, the cycler itself was not, and the roaring engine it had boasted before was now a far quieter rumble, purring in satisfaction now that it was fueled with something inherently closer to its own magic.

‘Well, it definitely works,’ Esriaal said, sounding strange. He didn't have a chance to ask, because they were putting their arms around his waist and he needed to focus on ignoring that. ‘Heket's going to have a field day with this when she gets her hands on it, huh?’

‘It will not be the same as the rovers, but while I would not have expected her to take such an interest in a craft so inorganic, I have little doubt she will insist on examining it anyway,’ he said. The enchantments for the functioning of the cycler were simplistic, thankfully: one for propelling it, another for control of speed and direction, and a third for brakes. He cautiously activated the first, then hastily activated the second as the cycler jolted forward with an uncontrolled burst of speed. Once he had it in hand, however, he was able to guide it forward at a sedate pace, beginning to travel down the back road and away from the cave. 

‘You drive like an old man,’ Esriaal remarked after a few minutes.

‘Excuse me?’ he huffed, ears twitching with annoyance.

‘You drive like an old man. You're going slower than a rover.’

‘I have not used this before, thank you,’ he said pointedly, guiding the cycler around a pit in the road. ‘It is called caution, Esriaal, and you could stand to learn it.’

‘Caution?’ they repeated in disbelief. ‘Caution? Who ran off into Fairswells before telling me what he was going to do, huh? I'm still mad about that, by the way, you could have taken thirty seconds to actually explain yourself.’

‘You had hardly invited any consideration of your feelings in the moments prior,’ he said indignantly. ‘Do you truly wish to rekindle that argument so swiftly?’

‘I'm just saying, you could stand to drive a little faster.’

‘And I will do so when I am more comfortable with it,’ he said, holding onto his patience. ‘You can of course choose to make the journey on hoof, if you are so inclined.’

‘I might as well, at this pace,’ they retorted.

‘Esriaal. Cease.’

They have a point, Red chimed in from around his throat. 

‘Red, do not encourage them and do not engage with this,’ he said sharply. ‘I am not interested in spending this entire journey listening to two people criticise my nascent driving skills. You could at least have the common courtesy to think it at me instead of voicing it.’

Narinder twitched as he felt Esriaal snort, hiding their face in the back of his shirt to try and muffle it. That snort turned to muffled giggles as Red replied, You could have the common courtesy to drive faster than we could jog, then.

He could see how Red was once meant to be Esriaal's Crown, he thought, disgruntled as he concentrated on ignoring the two hecklers who were wrapped around his neck and his waist, respectively.

Anchordeep flowed by as the day passed, Narinder more and more comfortable with the cycler with each passing league; he avoided the main roads, of course, but though the back roads were much rougher, he was able to navigate them much more quickly. Very few people ever used the back roads, in fact, especially in Anchordeep’s depths. Unlike Darkwood or Anura, whose towns and villages were more scattered, Anchordeep's were much more concentrated around the central roads and trade routes or huddled on the western coast of the Lands of the Old Faith. It meant the drive was quiet, and as he was soon travelling at a perfectly respectable speed, neither Esriaal nor Red had anything to continue griping about.

It wasn’t an awkward silence, however, just a peaceful one. Esriaal's head was set between his shoulder blades as they watched the landscape go by, the curve of their short blunt horn pressed against his spine. Red was keeping watch so he could focus on driving. Narinder was privately grateful for the simplicity of the controls. Having spotted what driving a rover would entail – knobs and dials, metres for speed and gears to change – he knew he would have been hard pressed to not make a fool of himself. 

They only had to stop twice to ‘refuel’, taking the opportunity to stretch as Narinder cut his palm and let the cycler drink its fill. He could feel how much the effort would drain him (and not in the sense of how much blood he gave), had he been without Esriaal's belief to bolster it.

He kept finding himself examining that sense of belief as he drove, Esriaal resting against him quietly, their faith in him a gentle but unignorable light. It wasn’t devotion the way he knew it, nor did he expect it to be. He didn’t expect to find it where he did, either – that sense of light and warmth was shining in the hollow part of his soul. He couldn’t stop himself from prodding it with his mind, turning the sensation over and over, trying to make sense of it: how it worked, why it worked, was beyond him. It was here anyway. It glittered in time to the bone melody that would never stop ringing,

In the far reaches of his mind, the places where Red was polite enough not to tread, Narinder had to admit a distasteful truth: now that he knew what their belief felt like, he would go to great lengths to keep it. He’d missed them. He’d grieved so hard that it broke him, or if Esriaal was correct, so hard that it left him and the Crown once meant for him vulnerable to being torn asunder. The hollow place within him may be where Pale once was, but it was Esriaal’s loss that rang through it. He could never again be their god, and until now he hadn’t even truly conceptualised any way forward but this: a temporary alliance, then parting and never again crossing paths. Two gods of their own separate existences, tolerating the other and no more.

Now, the light of their belief had illuminated something hiding within the empty places. Cautious and fragile, so much so that he didn’t want to look at it too closely lest it pop like a bubble, was a tiny hope. Maybe something could be salvaged here. Maybe it need not be a temporary alliance. He wasn’t sure if it could truly strengthen to anything so sturdy as a friendship, but maybe it could be an alliance that stood for longer than the current crisis.

Whether he might want a friendship was irrelevant. He knew better than to reach for the moon. Esriaal may have been able to fool themself for the moment into separating him from the actions of his other half, to proclaim him some sort of innocent, but it had been his hands nevertheless. It was always his hands, always breaking everything he touched, mitigating damage he couldn’t prevent, trying to be the lesser of two evils. He supposed he was succeeding at that, now; the One Who Waits was comfortably the more evil of his two halves. The condemnation of one half didn’t grant the other half absolution, however.

Narinder could content himself with alliance. Esriaal had been reliable once, and they’d relied on him – mitigation it may have been, but it was still his hands that had remade them each time, setting them back on their hooves, speaking to them for the brief time he could steal from them. Once his other half was dealt with, however it was he achieved that, then maybe…

He set the thought aside, forcing himself to leave it in the wake of the cycler as he raced on. Hopes had destroyed everything before. No need to favour the unlikely over the practical.

They passed a few people over the course of the day – the first people he’d seen on the back roads whatsoever, so his memory of the roads was clearly less discreet than the rovers managed. Some had wagons, some were simply travelling. Without exception, for the brief handful of seconds between spotting him and when Narinder drove past them, he saw the same trio of expressions: confusion, realisation, and open fear. He didn’t know if they recognised the cycler for what it was or were simply wise enough to look at the black machine and recognise that it must belong to the cult that ruled over them all, but the fear was unchanging. It had haunted Fairswells, and even apart from the main roads and populated areas, it haunted here.

In late afternoon, he was approaching the coast, and could no longer completely avoid the main roads. In the Shallows, the region lining Anchordeep, towns were built along the branching, tangled main roads. Some were built on the slopes of sandy or rocky beaches, levees calming the waters for their marine quarters; some were constructed vertically along the cliffs, occupying both the grottos below and the towering stone above; some were built on stilts and partly submerged, the salt and bracken swamps and marshes giving shelter. Though swamps were usually in the far south and cliffs were in the far north, the long central stretch of the Shallows was dotted between marshes and beaches, until one reached the edge of Casket.

The great saltmarsh divided the north of Anchordeep’s coasts from the central Shallows, marking the end of the Rotwood parish, and as he emerged from the watery air onto dry land, Narinder did his best to get as close to Casket as possible before he’d have to accept the inevitable. There was only one main road into Casket itself, though the roads past that point threaded unpredictably through the marsh, with some of the roads being bridges for almost the entire length. And, unfortunately, that chokepoint was Filiakvo, the last town of any size until the depths of Casket were reached.

‘Do you have a hood?’ he asked Esriaal aloud, who jolted.

‘What?’ they asked, groggy, and he realised they’d fallen asleep against him. ‘Oh, um. No. How much farther? Last I knew we were still underwater.’

They sounded embarrassed, and Narinder bit back the kneejerk need to mock them. Tease them. One of the two. ‘We must enter the main road in order to pass through Filiakvo,’ he said. ‘You do not appear to have the same ability to disguise yourself that I have, or have not had need to develop such a technique.’

‘Even if I had, Pale’s not here to help, and I’m not a figment. I can change things like the clothing appearance and that kind of thing, since those mes are dreams, but not this me.’

They stick out – even if it wasn’t for the bright red cloak, they’ve got the wool, Red said. We might need to just try to go as fast as we can without catching too much attention and race through the town.

‘We are unlikely to be subtle, given the cycler,’ Narinder pointed out, keeping an eye on the intersection he could see in the distance, where this back road joined the main road. He could see the wagons and foot traffic that were still more or less standard outside of Naraka; not a single motorised carriage, let alone as curious a machine as the one beneath him. Not at this distance, at the very least.

‘Then what’s the point of trying to hide me?’ Esriaal asked. ‘Everyone’s going to be paying attention to us, anyway.’

‘Yes, but we could have perhaps passed for cultists of the One Who Waits,’ he said.

Black cats are more common than sheep, Red said. The possibly-dead soldiers from yesterday probably haven’t been able to get word this far north that a black cat fought them, and no one saw your face in Fairswells. I could disguise Esriaal.

Narinder nodded. ‘I will do my best to not be stopped, but that is the safest decision,’ he agreed. ‘Go ahead.’

That faint oppressive feeling from the illusion vanished as Red unwound from his throat; he felt it change its shape again, fastening itself as a ring through a piercing in Esriaal’s ear. He hadn’t realised theirs were pierced in the first place.

There. You look like a cat now, Red told Esriaal. I made the cloak black and red, it’s the best I can do – it’s fighting me.

‘Yeah, magic acts weird around me sometimes, it made hiding my body a pain,’ they said ruefully. ‘Thanks, Red. Is it supposed to itch? It itches over my face.’

‘It is temporary,’ Narinder said, rolling his eyes. ‘Now hush, both of you. I must focus.’

‘If he drives like an old man, think that at him for me, would you?’ Esriaal muttered to Red. Narinder huffed in annoyance, resolving to ignore both of them as best he could.

When he turned onto the main road, it was immediately clear just how much he stuck out – that fear from before was magnified tenfold, the creatures around them wide-eyed and scrambling to get out of the way of what would look like a machine belonging to the One Who Waits. He spotted a motorised wagon carrying bricks, but as he carefully made his way towards the town itself (and the heavier foot traffic), that was the only one.

It still wasn’t comforting to see – clearly some significant progress had been made in strengthening the engines of Naraka, if one was so far north and occupied with something so mundane as moving bricks. At least the fear inspired by the sight of the One Who Waits’ apparent faithful on a cycler was useful for ensuring no one got in his way.

His luck didn’t hold out.

At the entrance into the town, he could see a cluster of black and red gathering; he couldn’t hear them over the engine and the general clamour of the crowds and traffic, but he could tell they were tense. Several pointed in his direction, and others were shouting at the crowd, who were hastily scattering out of the way. He wasn’t sure if they knew it was him specifically or only knew enough to tell something wasn’t right about the rider approaching the town, but it seemed they were getting ready to stop him.

‘Very well,’ he sighed. ‘I would appreciate if you would hold on, Esriaal.’

‘What? What is it?’ they asked, unable to see over his shoulder.

‘Trouble,’ he replied. ‘No way out but through, and it would be a shame to get this close only to have you fall off now.’

‘You’re going to do something stupid, aren’t you,’ they accused, even as they tightened their grip around his waist, pressed even more securely against his back. Narinder privately congratulated himself on having no reaction to that beyond noting it.

‘Quite possibly.’

‘Can you at least make sure our deaths are interesting?’

‘I thought you had faith in me, Esriaal,’ he said. The cultists had spread out across the road. ‘Do try to hold onto that for more than a day.’

The cultists had been getting ready to fight, lifting weapons or taking aim; that was when they all appeared to realise Narinder wasn’t slowing down.

Like he’d hoped, the line broke as several cultists dove to the side, shouting in surprise and anger as Narinder sped by onto the main street of Filiakvo. Esriaal’s head whipped around as he did, Narinder leaning forward as he focussed on avoiding the screaming bystanders and swerving wagons.

‘Oh, that’s – that’s a lot of heretics,’ Esriaal said. ‘Word travels faster than I thought it did – how did they expect us? It only happened yesterday morning!’

Narinder didn’t respond, continuing to lean forward. It took him a second to realise that it wasn’t just him – the cycler itself was responding, shifting bit by bit to match him as he focussed on speed. That eagerness of the enchantments was singing under his palms, the handles shaping themselves to fit his grip; the black metal was gaining a touch of a red glow, creeping through the metal like capillary veins.

Fireball, five o clock, Red yelped, and Narinder tilted to his left, just enough for the fireball to streak past him and strike the stone of the road in a useless flare of light.

‘Um. Not to complain, but what the hell are you doing to the cycler?’ Esriaal asked, sounding genuinely unnerved as they clung to him. ‘Is it supposed to do this?’

‘It is doing it whether or not it is supposed to, now hush,’ he snapped as Red called out, Ichor on seven!

Narinder tilted away from that, narrowly avoiding the splash, spotting the far side of the town – then cursed under his breath as a now familiar engine roar screeched through the air, roaring in from his left.

Before, the enchanted controls were under his paws, simple and straightforward. Now there was almost a map of cause and effect unfolding in his mind – pistons and pins, valves and veins, joints and sockets. It was disquieting, disorienting; he’d never done anything like this. He might as well be trying to control an eager, rampaging beast.

Esriaal hid their face in his back. ‘Of all the fucking times for Pale to be this petty,’ they muttered furiously. ‘I can’t do anything without it that won’t give me away.’

It’s always been like that, Red replied. Narinder, same kind of cycler as yesterday – looks like the rider has one of the red collars, too.

Narinder swore loudly, barely dodging out of the way of a wagon that had tried to pull out onto the main street before realising there was a dramatic chase in progress. ‘Just the one?’

At the moment.

‘Then we shall have to hope we can lose them in the marsh,’ he said grimly.

The ground might be too soft – we could get stuck.

‘Then we would have gotten stuck, pursuer or not, and they will be stuck as well,’ Narinder retorted. ‘I need you to keep your eye on them, Red, and let me handle this.’

In his mind he reached out to his Crown, impressing on it that this wasn’t stubbornness – he couldn’t do this on his own, his attention already split between watching the road and controlling the malfunctioning cycler. Red needed to set aside its instinct to worry about where they were going, so that he could set aside his instinct to worry about what was behind him.

Got it, Red replied, and instead of the frustration it might have felt otherwise, all he sensed from it was determination. There’s cultists on the roofs, they were getting ready for us – fireball on your ten –

Narinder left it in the hands of his Crown, as he’d said he would. The cycler beneath him was too eager now, responding more than he wanted it to, forcing him to limit his motions to even more subtle turns to get what he needed, a gentler touch to the acceleration and the brakes. What would have been a straight shot across the town was complicated not only by the cycler’s refusal to behave predictably, but by the need to dodge the curses.

He wasn’t so lucky as to avoid all of them completely, but he was less concerned about himself and more about the god currently clinging to his back. The red-collared creature on the cycler behind him fired off a seeking fireball curse, and though two of the fireballs missed and another hit Narinder’s leg, Esriaal hissed loudly in pain as the last two struck them squarely in the back. Narinder nearly drove into a splash of ichor by accident as they did, and without looking away from the road demanded,

‘How hard did that hit?’

‘Not that badly, I’ve had worse, but my figments almost definitely felt that,’ they said, having to speak up to be heard over the engine still following them. He could hear the grimace in their voice. ‘Pale too. It’s going to be pissed, it already didn’t want me to come in person.’

Narinder nodded, focussing again. He only had a little farther to go, so he pressed on the acceleration as hard as he dared. The cycler shot forward, past the cultists who’d been scrambling to get in the way. The engine was much louder now than it should have been, as if the cycler itself was choosing to roar in triumph as it leapt past the line of cultists and into the stretch of road that led into the depths of Casket.

Wait, what are they doing?, Red said. Why are they stopping?

Narinder slowed the cycler carefully, taking a split second to borrow Red’s point of view and see what it was looking at. To his confusion, the cycler following them had indeed skidded to a halt at the edge of the town’s border, cultists gathering together. Now that he thought about it, this road was empty of all other traffic, and none of the creatures seemed willing to cross that invisible line.

He continued forward, but he slowed down considerably, ears on a swivel. The road was quickly winding back and forth, the grasses tall and waving; it was currently low tide, and the sea itself was a decent distance from this road, leaving it relatively firm despite being dirt. Once the grasses stood tall enough to hide them from view of the town, he came to a stop. As he straightened up the cycler did the same, shifting with him into the shape it originally had, calm and docile once more. It almost seemed… satisfied. He had no idea what was happening, but he wasn’t sure he liked it.

‘Weird,’ Esriaal muttered, but hopped off the cycler, shaking themself off. For a few seconds he saw their current guise of a cat, taken off guard by the sight; they weren't unpleasant to look at, but he still found himself uncomfortable. Something about the familiar cream colour from their wool now turned to fluffy fur was incorrect, the fade to the dark grey of their face not abrupt enough to properly seem like their face. Which was a good thing, of course – they weren't meant to be recognisable. He was still oddly relieved when Red left their ear and returned to sit on his head, returning Esriaal's form to their own face and species. There were char marks on their cloak, but it didn’t seem to have actually done much damage.

‘Why aren’t they following us?’ they asked, looking back the way they came.

‘I could not tell you,’ Narinder said, considering the surroundings closely. The quiet shush of wind through the grass, distant bird calls and the buzzing of insects, the sound of the sea’s waves; at least everything sounded the way it should.

They seemed afraid, Red said slowly. I don’t feel anything wrong, though – it’s been a long time since we were here, but the liminality feels normal.

‘Then it may be something else,’ Narinder said, casting his eyes up to the sky; the sun was just touching the horizon, about to begin its descent for the night. ‘We have made good time, at least. Now we need to find the caravan within the saltmarsh, but…’

It won’t be easy, Red agreed unhappily. There’s a lot of ground to cover, and the liminality gets stronger the closer to the centre it gets, but that doesn’t mean they landed in the centre.

‘You two said they were probably rerouted here because your magic was interfering,’ Esriaal said, and Narinder turned to look at them, leaning his weight on one leg as he did. ‘Right?’

‘That is what we believe, yes,’ Narinder said. ‘This is the strongest liminality between the Lands of the Old Faith and the Below for quite some distance.’

‘You said it was interfering, though. So mine would still have an influence, right?’

‘Quite likely, but I know not what that influence would be. Do you have a liminality nearby?’

‘Not technically,’ they said, and he tilted his head. ‘But could it be affected by other associations? Not a liminality, but some kind of connection?’

He considered this. ‘Perhaps, but I will need to know what it is you are thinking of before I could give you any answer of substance,’ he said, and they nodded.

‘This isn’t the first time I’ve been here,’ they said, ‘but it’s been a really long time. Longer than I’ve been the Shepherd, I mean.’

‘So when you were my vessel?’

They shook their head, then wobbled their hand. ‘I mean, I think I came here once or twice, but I didn’t remember what about it mattered, back then,’ they said. ‘No, I came here when I was alive the first time. It was… it was one of a few meetings. Summits, kind of. Back before the sheep died. We had the first one here, because we were also honouring our dead.’ They took a deep breath. ‘Casket was where a small herd of sheep lived, and they were the first herd to be wiped out after the prophecy. At the time we didn’t know why, but if Casket is one of your liminalities, then I think the Bishops wanted to get rid of them as fast as possible.’

‘That would make sense,’ he said slowly, closing his eyes and thinking back. It was thankfully a memory that felt solid and sure, rather than the uncertainty of more recent memories. ‘I do recall a sudden influx of sheep souls who passed through my hands, shortly after the prophecy was made,’ he thought aloud. ‘I assumed it was the Bishops simply hunting with zeal, but it seems it was more targeted than that.’

‘Yeah. Wiped out in a few days, and burned down the hub village,’ Esriaal confirmed. ‘That was before I was born. By the time we first really came together to try and figure out what to do, I was a teenager, and the herd representatives met in the ruins of Bulrushe. It was one of the first memories that I got back when healing my brain, because it was so strong.’

‘So if it meant that much to you, and it is located in Casket, you believe that may be enough to have been the location,’ he said.

‘Yeah.’

‘Do you know the direction? I doubt you will know the roads – they have shifted far too much, and even Red and I will admittedly have difficulty, but it will be better to have a place to start. Even if the caravan didn’t remain there, I will be able to track them from there.’

Esriaal looked around. ‘I know it was in the southern part of Casket, at least, and closer to Darkwood than the sea,’ they said, gesturing to their right. ‘So we can try to go east from here, and see where that gets us.’

Narinder nodded, then held out his paw to them. ‘We will go as far as we can this evening, then stop for the night,’ he said when they blinked at him. ‘I may be a god, but in my mortal body, I do still have needs – sleep is one. You seem to need the rest, as well.’

Their left ear began to twitch. ‘I don’t really need it right now,’ they said, and took his paw, letting him pull them back up onto the cycler. ‘I just haven’t gotten to fall asleep for a long time. I’ve been sleeping, sure, but falling asleep and waking up is… different.’

‘I shall take your word for it,’ Narinder said.

‘Was it like this for you?’ they asked as he woke the cycler up, and he paused. ‘When you were first free and got to be outside?’

He focussed on the cycler, glad they were behind him so they couldn’t see his face. ‘I know not,’ he answered as they moved their arms around his waist. ‘I paid no attention to such things on my return, and when I became the Cat, it did not occur to me to notice them either.’

‘Did you ever get to enjoy any of this?’

‘I have answered your question,’ he said, trying to leach as much sharpness from his words as possible. Judging by their wince, he didn’t quite succeed. ‘You shall have to enjoy them for the both of us,’ he added, at least managing to make his words sound normal this time. ‘We should begin.’

‘Right,’ they said, and he pretended they didn’t sound so sad. It was better than acknowledging it. Thinking about it. Dwelling on it. At least where they could possibly see that it bothered him.

Chapter Text

The quiet, behaved sound of the engine was a mechanical countermelody to the far-crashing sea, the winds in the wake of the cycler serving as accompaniment while Narinder drove through the falling twilight. It wasn’t the only sound, though it took him some time to realise that for once the bone melody wasn’t simply inside of him.

As darkness descended, the humidity of the air brought with it a clinging chill that was only intensified by the breeze brought alongside speed; the moon was high and bright, already emerging from the distant haze that was Darkwood on the horizon, so Narinder was able to see without any issue, but the chill could have been unpleasant. He had never enjoyed the cold. Thankfully, there was a creature-shaped furnace with their arms around his waist, and they didn’t seem to like the chill much better than he did, given how close they were nestled. He suspected that was the only reason he could hear them, once he realised what he was hearing.

It was a touch off-key, though that could have been from unfamiliarity with the tune, but Esriaal was absently humming. It was the same melody that he’d been humming several nights past, when he’d been holding Leshy to help the little boy sleep. That same old bone melody, chiming ivory notes that were never far from him.

‘So you were listening,’ he said, and instantly regretted it. Any hope that his words might have been swallowed by the wind was vaporised by how Esriaal stiffened up against him, tense. ‘Never mind,’ he added when they were silent, internally cursing at himself. The quiet companionability had been pleasant – peaceful – and he couldn’t leave it alone. ‘It matters not.’

They finally sighed. ‘Any chance I can convince you it was just because I was making sure you weren’t going to run off or something?’ they asked, their attempt at a light tone half-hearted at best.

‘Had you tried to tell me that in earnest, perhaps,’ he replied cautiously. ‘If nothing else, I would have been willing to pretend it worked.’

Esriaal made a disgruntled noise, but they wouldn’t have phrased it that way if they’d meant for him to let it go. He thought. He wasn’t yet sure he was willing to trust any expectations he had of their behaviour, but that wasn’t even solely a matter of distrust; since they’d arrived the night before, cloaked once more, awake and alive, something had been different. Perhaps it was just that they were here in person, no longer behind the proxy of a figment. Vulnerable in a way they hadn’t been for centuries.

He’d already known it, but it suddenly struck him, the magnitude of what they’d done – what it meant that they were behind him, what they were risking. How foolish it was. Had he been asked before they did it, he wanted to say that he would have advised against it, but he wasn’t sure he could have. Not if it meant speaking to them directly for the first time in a millennium. Maybe for the first time, entirely; they’d never had their full memories in the time he’d known them, after all.

‘I… didn’t mean to listen,’ they said, dragging him out of his thoughts. ‘Or, well. Not like that. I didn’t expect Leshy to go to you, but there was no way to sneak away without catching your attention at that point. Stupid hooves.’

He snorted against his will. ‘They are not subtle when you walk on stone, no. But I know not why you were there in the first place. Red suspects you had done it before, as well.’

‘Um. Yeah, I did,’ they said, and he thought it was a good thing this conversation was held with their face hidden from him, because they sounded like they wanted to be anywhere else at the moment and he was certain having to look him in the face would only make it worse. He was doing his best to subtly slow the cycler down, bit by bit, to be certain he could hear them. He thought it might be hushing its own engine, but he didn't want to think about that too hard.

‘Why do it at all?’ he said.

They mumbled something.

‘What was that?’ he asked, frowning, one ear tilted back to them, the other still listening to the marsh around them.

‘I was worried,’ they said, only just loud enough for him to make it out. ‘The first few times, I was worried you’d, um. Try to run. Sorry.’

‘You have many reasons to suspect the worst of me,’ he said tactfully, trying not to let that sting. It was fair. It was.

‘Maybe. But you’ve been really trying to do this for a while, and I wasn’t,’ they said uncomfortably. ‘I’m trying now, but… yeah, anyway. After that, it was just what I did, I guess. Habit. Not every night, but most nights. But it wasn’t about spying on you, at least not by the time the whole Leshy thing happened.’

That at least made more sense, though Narinder could all but hear the gap between what they were saying and the whole truth. He didn’t know what that truth was, but he knew the sound of omission.

‘I see,’ he said instead of pushing. ‘Then consider it forgotten.’

‘You’re not mad?’

‘Disquieted, perhaps,’ he allowed, because it was true. He’d had no idea they were nearby, after all. ‘But not angry.’

‘Oh.’

They didn’t say anything afterwards, and Narinder knew they wouldn’t. He knew they would be silent for the rest of the drive, until they rested, and even then they would say little; he also knew he should let that happen. They were weary, as was he, and though they’d made it to Casket, their task was far from done – and they were far from safe. His time was better spent focussing on making his way east, listening to their surroundings, and holding his tongue.

‘Tell me of Bulrushe,’ he said instead, because he was a fool at the heart of it, too curious for his own good, and could never leave well enough alone. When they hesitated, he added ‘If you do so, I shall forgive you for eavesdropping.’

‘Knew there was a catch somewhere,’ they huffed, but their relief was clear in their voice, in the way their arms were less tense around his waist. ‘What, um. What do you want to know about it?’

‘What it was like. I know little of your kind. That was true even before I… well.’

Tried to wipe them out of existence. Tried to obliterate the Herald, the sheep, anything that could keep that thread of dissent and heresy alive. That was perhaps something he could comfortably say was the work of the One Who Waits, rather than Narinder – it wasn’t even a matter of respect for Esriaal and all they’d done. The idea of destroying something so rare, so close to lost as it was, made his own innate curiosity recoil.

‘Yeah,’ they said quietly. Then, of all things, they laughed. It was quiet, with little humour in it, but it was laughter all the same. ‘It’s kind of fitting, I think, that I ended up the last one.’

‘How so?’

Esriaal nestled nearer, and he realised they were getting comfortable, the way someone would before telling a long story. He tilted his one ear more fully towards them when he understood, tip of his tail hooked. His tail had ended up tucked around their waist at some point, given how they were sitting; he told himself it was from necessity and put it out of his head.

‘There’s a lot I’m going to gloss over,’ they warned him. ‘There’s kind of a lot of background information, but most of it’s not important, or you’d just find it boring.’

‘I believe you would be surprised, but very well,’ he said evenly, hiding his disappointment. Poorly, judging by their hesitation. ‘Think nothing of it, Esriaal. Continue.’

‘Okay,’ they said, but sounded uncertain, and took another minute to get their thoughts in order. ‘Well. Um. Remember when we were talking in the Pastures? When I told you about Harut.’

‘A mentor, I believe you said,’ he replied. As he did, he had to fight down the memory of the conversation (and more specifically, his many questions that he'd been unable to ask). He gave himself a stern reminder that asking too many questions meant he never received any answers, then added, ‘An instruestro, if I recall the word correctly.’

‘Oh, huh. Yeah, you did,’ they said, sounding genuinely surprised. ‘That’s not the word for mentor, though, it’s the kind of leadersheep he was.’

‘Leadersheep being…?’

‘It was a kind of job,’ they explained, setting their head against him properly. ‘And a kind of sheep, technically, but I’m not a full leadersheep that way. My mother was half, and I’m a quarter, so only just enough to count and be considered for the job, though by the end people finally gave up caring about what ‘kind’ of sheep you were. But as a job, we were kind of – support for our herd’s shepherd. There were different kinds, who focussed on different kinds of things – usually it was on things like coordination, or archivism. Not a lot of leadersheep ended up as shepherds; Harut always said it was because we were too busy doing all of the actual work.’

He twitched as they rubbed their face against his back. They must have been shaking their head. Or perhaps they were cold, he supposed, but he doubted that. ‘Then what is it that an instruestro does?’

‘A little bit of everything,’ they replied. ‘It wasn’t a super popular job, because it meant being okay at everything, instead of getting to be good at any one thing. Not a lot of glamour in that kind of job, but I always thought it was the most important, even before he made me his instruido. Because he had to know at least a little bit about everything, all of the other leadersheep would go to him if they needed help with something that they weren’t experienced in but didn’t need a specialist in. He was good at it.

‘I… wasn’t, at first. I wanted to be a leadersheep ever since I was a little lamb, but that didn’t mean I was naturally good at it, really. I was just more stubborn than I was bad at it. But that wouldn’t have mattered if he hadn’t decided he liked me and mentored me directly. By the time the first summit happened in Bulrushe, I was sixteen, so I was technically a full leadersheep training-wise, but since I was training as his instruido, I was still technically a student. Because of that, I kind of almost got kicked out.’

Narinder blinked. ‘Were you not welcome, as a student?’

‘No, that wasn’t a problem,’ they said. ‘I just tried to argue as a full leadersheep, which was technically my right, but I was up against a shepherd, and one who didn’t like me very much.’

‘Did you not say that leadersheep worked for the shepherd?’

‘There was more than one,’ Esriaal pointed out. ‘One per herd, with herders guiding the different flocks. I’ve organised the cult that way, since it worked just fine when we weren’t basically defenceless, and this time I had a whole plane to hide people away in, at least for a little while between journeys.’

‘It was annoyingly effective,’ Narinder agreed, the words cautious.

Thankfully, they didn’t decide he was trying to make light of what he’d done. ‘Good, I’m glad,’ they said with satisfaction. ‘It’s why we – as in the sheep – lasted as long as we did, too. We were mostly nomads – we had places of rest we travelled to and from, and places important to our separate herds, but Bulrushe was one of the rare permanent places. The others were in the Silk Cradle mountains, and they stayed safer for a lot longer, but they were hard to live in so not many people tried to escape there.’

They shook their head. Or rubbed their face against him again. Probably the former. ‘Anyway, Bulrushe had been wiped out years before the summit. The shepherds took a long time to get their shit together, and since sheep did things by consensus, it could take a long time for things to happen. I know there was kind of a stereotype that we all followed the leader unquestioningly, but that was only because there were a lot of arguments and discussions and all that before anything was done. The shepherd I argued with was the shepherd of my original herd – xe didn’t even want me to be a leadersheep when I was a kid. Harut was from the North Anuran herd, not the South Anuran; Arqiaal asked him to come bring me to the North Anuran herd for training, because I was enough of a pain in the ass for xem that xe just wanted me out of xyr wool.’

‘And you were a child? How old were you?’

‘By the time I was sent off? Seven,’ Esriaal replied.

‘...And you gave your shepherd enough of a headache that xe had to get rid of you?’ he said in disbelief, then paused. ‘Never mind, I can see it.’

Esriaal snickered. ‘I’m going to take that as a compliment. Anyway, Arqiaal was trying to say that all of the herds needed to act completely independently, and not work together at all, so that the Bishops couldn’t get us all at once. Xe didn’t win, whether or not I argued with xem – if xe had, we would have been picked off a lot faster, in my opinion. But I was sixteen, and xe was saying something stupid, so I told xem that. Loudly. In front of the entire summit. Which would have been fine if I was a leadersheep and not also an instruido, but xe almost got me removed from the summit altogether.

‘Harut told me to go cool off, so I did, and ended up talking with a bunch of other younger leadersheep who weren’t happy either. We talked about it until dawn, basically, and pissed off a lot of older leadersheep when we showed up together and convinced a few of the shepherds to listen to what we had to say, but it worked in the end. The herds kept coordinating together, and set up safe escape routes, and began to discuss the Lambs. It didn’t work just because of me – if it wasn’t for the others, no one would have listened to me at all except Harut, and they all had a bunch of ideas that I would’ve never thought of – but it was the first time I felt like I’d done something, you know? Something that mattered. Something that kept people alive. So Bulrushe always meant a lot to me.’

‘I see why you believe the connection may have been strong enough to act as a destination, then,’ he said when he was sure they were finished. ‘What were the Lambs? It does not sound as if you mean literal children.’

Esriaal hesitated. ‘That’s a really long story,’ they said, reluctant. ‘I could… maybe tell you another time? If you’re still interested later, I mean. It’s just kind of ancient history, now, so you might not.’

‘It is I alone who decides what I find interesting,’ he said, barely stopping himself from huffing in annoyance. ‘This qualifies, I assure you. I will accept that you will tell me another time, but I will warn you that you are continuing to collect interesting things I wish to understand, and there are only so many hours in a day.’

‘Why?’

‘Because that is how a day works.’

‘Not that,’ they said, and this time their nudge against his back had a bit more of a horn involved – not enough to cause any pain, but enough to remind him that short though the horns were, Esriaal did in fact have them. Were they a cat, the gesture would have been affectionate, but it was clear that ‘affection’ was not the intention whatsoever. ‘I meant why do you want to know so much? Most of it isn’t important for anything you want or need to do.’

‘Can I not wish to know things for the sake of knowing them?’ he returned, both ears tilted back, defensive now. ‘Can I not wish for information which is not ‘necessary’? I care little for your determination as to what I will or will not take interest in. If you wish not to speak for your own sake, then you may keep your silence, if you so wish. I will thank you to not speak for me.’

‘...that really bothers you, huh,’ Esriaal said, and he could hear their frown. ‘Why? I’m pretty sure this isn’t just about the sheep.’

Narinder winced, biting back the indignation. ‘I dislike being told what to do. You may have noticed.’

‘That’s not it, either,’ they murmured. ‘I mean, that’s part of it, but you sound more mad than that. Why?’

Narinder’s ears were flat. ‘Forget it, Esriaal,’ he said, frustrated with his own lack of self-control, his own curiosity, his own obstinacy. ‘It is unimportant, and if you let it go, so shall I.’

It’s because it sounds like things he was told a long time ago, Red piped up from atop his head, and Narinder flinched.

‘I did not give you permission to speak for me, either,’ he hissed, scowling at the road because Red was still on his head and therefore out of scowling range. ‘Leave it be, both of you. It is irrational annoyance, though it is swiftly moving to rationality.’

‘I’m not trying to make fun of you or something,’ Esriaal said, and he’d say they sounded sheepish if he were an ounce less creative in his phrasings. ‘I’m just trying to understand why it matters. It’s not useful to you, is it? So what are you getting out of it?’

Narinder didn’t even know how to answer that. How was he to explain that knowing something was its own reward? That the existence of a thing was enough to justify wanting to understand it? He couldn’t blame them for trying to find the purpose behind his questions, but when the question itself was the purpose…

He wanted to know because no one else had known these things for over a thousand years. He wanted to know these things because it was Esriaal’s story, but in a way, it was his own – the things that had led to the arrival of the Lamb, the goings-on of the world that he’d been deprived of by a thousand years in the Below. And he wanted to know these things because he didn’t already know them. Sometimes something was worth doing because it could be done.

This time, when Red spoke, it was thankfully what Narinder actually wanted to say, even if it wasn’t in words he put together. Remember this morning, when you were looking at the sunrise? That’s why.

‘Oh,’ they said, and sounded understanding this time. ‘Got it. Um. Then I’ll tell you more sometime, Narinder. I don’t know when, since there’s – well. Kind of everything we need to do, and stuff that needs to come first. But someday? If you want?’

‘I would like that,’ Narinder agreed, once again glad the two of them weren’t face to face, but he was relaxing a little. He was still annoyed at Red, mind, but as his Crown returned a genuinely contrite impression – it had been trying to help, was all – he was willing to forgive it.

‘We should probably stop for the night,’ Esriaal suggested, still a bit tentative. ‘You didn’t sleep last night, so you should get some rest.’

They were right, little as he wanted to admit it. At least if he was driving the cycler, he had something to do with his hands, and didn’t have to see the expression on Esriaal’s face; if they were off the cycler, however, they would at least no longer be pressed up against his back, and having some space from them might let him think more clearly. ‘When next I see a place, I will stop,’ he said, beginning to look around a little more closely – then frowned. ‘Esriaal? Do you see that? Off to our left.’

He felt Esriaal turn their head to look at what he’d spotted. It was faint, but in the distance was a glow. Too small to be a town or even a village of any size, but perhaps it was enough light to be from a cluster of rovers and their evening fires. With the moon so high and Casket so secluded, they might have thought it was safe enough.

‘It could be anyone,’ Esriaal said, but it was uncertain. ‘It’s too far for me to sense if any of my divinity is there in the rover cores.’

I could go, Red said. I’m quieter than the cycler, and a lot smaller than you two. If it’s the caravan, Kallamar can hear me, so I can tell him we’re on our way. If it’s not them, then I’ll come back.

‘Is that safe? What if you get hurt?’

We’re not like you and Pale, Red pointed out. If I get hurt, it doesn’t affect Narinder. And I’m pretty sure that only Pale can really hurt me like that, anyway – it takes a lot to damage a Crown.

‘Then I shall accompany you,’ Narinder said. ‘Not physically,’ he added when Esriaal flinched behind him. ‘You shall need to keep a close eye on me as I do this, Esriaal, as it requires more and more concentration the farther the Crown is from the god – when I shared Red’s sight of your crusades when you were my vessel, my body was more or less hibernating, under the guard of my attendants. I am a far weaker god now, but I am no longer crossing planes, and the distance is short. The effort will likely take a toll, but it is safer.’

‘Okay,’ they said, much less apprehensive now. ‘Without Pale, I’m not really, um. Subtle. Pale says I use brute force too much. But I’ll keep us safe. I promise.’

Their words were like iron, much more certain than they’d sounded for most of the day, so Narinder simply nodded. Trust had to start with him, and he could still feel their belief in his chest – and knew they had to feel his. He’d trusted them with far greater things in the past. He would just have to remember how, and hope that they chose to do the same.

‘Then that is what we shall do,’ he said, and began to look for a spot to stop.

Sharing Red’s vision for more than a few seconds had once been second nature to Narinder – a thousand years with limited physical movement could make an athlete of any mind. He was much less used to it now, and as Red zipped away from the small clearing where Esriaal was sitting down next to Narinder’s meditating body, he found himself dealing with no little vertigo. At least Red was remaining in its Crown form for the moment – if it was slithering along the ground or through the air, the vertigo would’ve been far worse.

Complaints, complaints, Red huffed, but it wasn’t genuine. Immersed as his focus was, Red would have had a difficult time disguising any emotions, but at the moment, it was too busy being pleased.

Narinder passed along his sense of curiosity, and Red became a little sheepish. It was nice to see you two get along, it admitted, continuing to fly through the grasses. That’s all.

If they continued to get along, Red would have to spend more time around Pale, Narinder felt the need to point out.

Don’t remind me, Red said, and while the grumbling was sincere, so was the complicated knot of emotions at the heart of it. Normally that knot was too deeply entrenched in Red’s being to make itself known in more than flashes of loathing or some such, but it was hard to miss it here.

Narinder wondered how close the two Crowns had been. If Ivory had been developing, then perhaps it had been some time before Red could truly have interacted with it. Something of a kinship bond, perhaps, before everything had gone awry.

What? No, it wasn’t like that, Red said quickly, and if Narinder had eyebrows, they would have begun to creep up. Ivory had to grow its power, not itself. It’s not the same. It wasn’t like a baby or something. We could talk from the beginning.

Narinder had no idea why Red was being so vehement about it, but he could tell that Red was starting to get prickly, so he acknowledged that he’d had the wrong of it before his Crown could get too tetchy. Red gave back an impression of gratitude, then sighed.

It’s complicated. We were close, and we can leave it at that, it said evasively.

A thought occurred to Narinder.

No, don’t, Red warned as soon as it caught the tail end of the thought. Absolutely not. Don’t even start. It wasn’t like that.

Of course not, Narinder agreed pleasantly. There was no history whatsoever in the world of extremely complicated feelings deciding to have deeply inconvenient side effects.

We’re Crowns, we don’t even work the same, stop it, Red snapped, but it was getting flustered. Aren’t you the one saying you’re just dealing with hormones or whatever your excuse is? Pretty rich coming from you.

Narinder wasn’t saying anything, of course, he thought with no little cheer. He would never. And if Red didn’t want to ever hear such suspicions again, then it would simply have to forget the involuntary reaction Narinder suffered on occasion that had no deeper meaning.

It’s not the same and it’s not true, but fine, Red said, audibly relieved to be leaving the topic behind. We’re almost there, if you’re done being a pain in my neck.

Red didn’t often have a neck to be a pain in, Narinder returned, but did let it go in favour of focussing on the approaching light, particularly as Red changed to its serpent shape and began to slither through the grass.

Had he been in his own body, he would have slumped in relief when he saw the silhouettes of the rovers. They were tightly circled, the tents set up inside of that circle almost edge to edge, blocking most of the light – if they’d had some way to hide the light from above, they wouldn’t have been visible at all. As Red slipped closer, Narinder saw that the rovers were badly battered, and his heart sank as he heard a pained groan, immediately followed by a shushing sound. The group was unusually silent, he realised, and it meant the following words were barely audible.

‘Is there anything you can do to knock him out?’ murmured someone – Allenno, possibly. That was the voice that would be most unfamiliar to him at the moment; xe was the survivor (other than Mernoan) from Fairswells Isle.

It was Kallamar’s voice that answered, stress leaving his voice strained. ‘I’m out,’ he replied. ‘We weren’t prepared for a mass accident. The best we can do is keep the fever down and keep him company so we can comfort him when he starts stirring. I’ve told you that. When the Shepherd comes back, they’ll be able to help.’

‘How?’

‘They’re our god. They’ve helped us before, and they’ve always taken care of us,’ Kallamar said sharply. ‘Now isn’t the time to start asking questions. They’ll be able to help.’

‘But… what if they don’t come back? What if the Cat does something to them?’

‘He won’t.’

‘But he’s hurt them before! What if he tricked them?’

‘He didn’t,’ Kallamar returned. ‘He wouldn’t, not anymore. He’s my brother. Shamura wouldn’t have let him come if he was dangerous.’ There was a pause. ‘Dangerous to us, anyway.’

Red had been slithering under the rovers, aiming at Kallamar’s voice, and wriggled free under the edge of a tent as the seahorse started to reply. Kallamar noticed immediately, mostly because Red wasn’t trying to be subtle, and he flinched.

‘Red Crown?’ he whispered, and Allenno whipped around, fear all over xyr face.

Just call me Red, Red replied with real relief, and though Narinder felt Red’s surprise when Kallamar held out his lower right hand, Red willingly sprang up into the squid’s grip. Once there, it was able to move onto his lap, solid black body coiled up. I have Narinder with me. He can’t talk, he’s just watching through me, but he can hear you.

‘Thank the Shepherd,’ Kallamar said fervently, then looked up at Allenno. Allenno was watching with alarm, and Kallamar’s turquoise face began to turn purple, embarrassed – more importantly, afraid. Narinder knew that face, knew that Kallamar was about to freeze up, and that even as a Bishop, Kallamar had always regretted what he said when he panicked. Now that he was a teenager (and stressed) it would likely only make his anxiety worse. Narinder had often mocked the Bishop Kallamar for his cowardice, but for all the animosity, he’d always known his brother.

He nudged Red mentally, because it needed to do something quickly. Red returned an impression of determination, rearing up. That didn't help Allenno’s fear, but it did catch Kallamar's attention before he began to fumble through an explanation.

Talk for me, I can take care of this, Red told Kallamar, who looked uncertain but nodded.

‘This is what it’s saying,’ Kallamar said, and repeated Red’s words in a passable imitation of Red’s voice, letting it speak.

‘I’m the Red Crown,’ it said, and briefly returned to its Crown shape before settling as a serpent again. ‘Kallamar can hear me, because sometimes people are born with special gifts. He’s not the only one you’ve ever heard who was naturally talented with magic, is he?’

‘No,’ Allenno said cautiously, xyr eyes flicking between Red and Kallamar.

‘There’s only two Crowns, so it wouldn’t be an obvious gift, but it’s natural to him,’ Red said firmly through Kallamar. The young squid looked much less panicked, now that the words he was saying weren't his own. ‘He can hear the Pale Crown, too, so it’s not about me being the Red Crown. Narinder, the Shepherd, and I know that there’s a lot of reasons why none of you are going to trust me and Narinder, but there’s more important things going on right now. We’re nearby with the Shepherd.’ Red looked over the camp, allowing Narinder to get a better look at it; there were a lot of minor injuries, but Allenno was no longer the only one watching the exchange. Just about the only person present who wasn’t watching was the nearly unconscious Fegreno, laid out on a bedroll on the ground next to Kallamar and Allenno. There were a handful of missing faces, however – notably including his family. Narinder hoped desperately that they were missing because they were asleep, and not injured. Or worse.

Who’s in charge right now? Where’s Shamura?, Red asked Kallamar, who took a deep breath before answering.

‘I’m in charge,’ he said, taking Narinder aback. ‘Shamura’s hurt – they’re out cold right now. Can the Shepherd help?’

They should be able to, but if they can’t, maybe we can, Red said reassuringly, bobbing its head. Next part aloud, please.

‘Of course,’ Kallamar said, waiting. 

‘I’m going to go back to Narinder and the Shepherd – we stole one of the cyclers, so you’ll hear an engine, but it’s just us. Anything you want us to tell the Shepherd before I go? Who’s hurt the worst?’ Red asked through him.

‘Fegreno and Shamura,’ Kallamar replied, and for all that Narinder had been afraid that the group would only be more terrified at the sight of Red or the sound of its words, the news that Esriaal was on the way had the flock beginning to relax. ‘Narinder’s magic kept people mostly safe on the roofs, and no rovers fell over, but the people in the rovers were more hurt.’

Narinder’s relief grew. Partly because it had helped, but he could admit that it was also because it meant the flock would see he was here in good faith, and willing to help. That meant more to him than he was willing to examine at the moment, however, so he set it aside.

‘Okay. Get Fegreno and Shamura set up for us to check on them, and we’ll see if we or the Shepherd can do anything here or it has to wait until we can get somewhere with supplies,’ Red said, then hopped down to the ground. ‘We’ll be back as quickly as we can.’

It gave Narinder the impression that he should go back immediately, and hopefully let Esriaal know if he wasn't too out of it. He gave it the impression of agreement in return, then focussed. There was a tether between him and his body, and all he had to do was follow it to return to himself.

Then he left the safety of Red’s presence behind. He was tethered to his body, but that didn’t mean no effort was needed to follow it back, and no sooner had he departed Red’s being than he was swept up in the maelstrom that was Casket.

The last thing he knew in the physical world was Red’s flinch, whipping around and trying to reach out and snatch its bearer back, but it was too late. Narinder had already been pulled under, and then the physical world was gone.

There were dozens of ways to describe what was happening, a hundred metaphors and similes about the violence in the churning aether, but it could all be distilled into a simple statement. Casket was at war with itself, and Narinder was trapped inside of it. 

Narinder panicked. This wasn’t supposed to be happening – he should have been able to sense this much instability in a liminality that was supposed to belong to him. Red hadn’t sensed anything wrong with it, either, not earlier and not in the split second before Narinder left, and Casket had seemed perfectly calm until he was in its grasp.

The disorientation of being out of body for the first time in centuries was only worsened by the violent eddies of magic and existence that was churning within the liminality. He tried to concentrate on finding his way out, but each time he did – each time he reached for the tether to his own being – he would be hit with another wave of violence. After so many tries he lost count, Narinder couldn’t pretend to ignore his growing fear. This wasn’t working. It wasn’t going to work, not with the liminality like this. Maybe it was because he was only half of a soul; maybe it was some random factor riling up the aether; maybe he was just weaker now, and there was nothing he could do. Half of the god of Death consumed by Casket would be poetic, in its way.

He could let inevitability fall where it would, he knew. The knowledge was in the part of him that he shared with every creature that had ever understood the concept of an end. Death had been mortal once, after all. The inability to die didn’t rob one of the memory that they once could. It was here, in Casket. It had been waiting, and maybe it always had been. He knew the feeling.

Narinder couldn’t do it, though. He’d never been able to leave well enough alone; he’d never been able to leave something unbroken if he could get his hands on it. Each time he tried, he tripped into destruction again, because even if it wasn’t in his nature to lay waste to everything around him, he would always be a fool. He could slip into this and let it consume him, or he could do something and let it tear him apart – but at least being torn apart was something he chose. And when he failed, if he failed, then there wouldn’t be anything left for the One Who Waits to reclaim, and he could accept a petty unmaking to inconvenience his other half.

I am sorry, he said to no one, because even if gods couldn’t pray and his ghosts would never hear him, at least he knew that he’d said it aloud. Then he reached out for his tether one more time.

He managed to catch it, but he didn’t try to pull himself along it; that was how he’d failed each time before. He just needed an anchor, weak though it was, so that he could have enough stability to look around.

The aether of Casket’s existence, the liminality that was supposed to be his, hadn’t stopped raging. With a tiny touch of balance, however, Narinder could grit the teeth he didn’t have in this form and try to grow used to the violent waves. There was a pattern, always a pattern; very little in all of the different forms of existence was truly random. Something was causing this turmoil. There must be an epicentre. He just had to find it.

He reminded himself that the One Who Waits didn’t have the monopoly on patience, and braced himself before beginning to watch. It took longer than he wanted to begin to make sense, but slowly, he began to pick it apart.

The thing about the aether was that it wasn’t physical. The violent tosses and turns weren’t literal, any more than Narinder had a literal form; it was just how a mind translated what was happening, needing to interpret its experiences as if they were physical because that was all it knew. For that reason, it took some time for Narinder to realise that it was his perception of physical sensation that was obfuscating the patterns; when he realised that, his mind began to interpret his surroundings differently, adding more than simple sensation. Sight began to filter in, lessening the maelstrom’s feeling, but it was no less violent. Clashes of colour, bright and dark and flashing like lightning, dizzying in its force, but he held on. He could do this. He could.

The colours slowly began to become distinct, and when he realised what they were, something flared to life in his non-existent chest. Not quite hope, not quite fear – something between the two, his imagined eyes widening as he watched the red and black of the aether crash and splash together, never mixing. The blackness was shimmering, the ichor’s oily rainbow sheen glistening in the ‘light’. Familiar, ancient. His, once.

The red was familiar, but not in the ingrained way the black was. It was brilliant, burning – millions of colours flickering and vanishing before any one could be distinguished, faceted and fluid, as if a fire opal could be molten and still glitter. It struck back every time the black surged up, seeping through every possible opening, but it wasn’t any more willing to meld than the black was.

He looked around, more stable now that he was no longer existing in sheer sensation. The red and black was everywhere, waging a vicious war where each side gave as good as it got. The red brilliance was smaller, at least in volume, but it was making up for it with energy, lashing out, refusing to rest. The ichor blackness was trying to play a waiting game, to endure and hit hard when it had the chance, but the red wasn’t wearing down.

The two halves of his divinity were fighting for control of Casket. He had no idea why he hadn’t sensed it, let alone how Red hadn’t sensed it, but the battle before him wasn’t decided – and he wouldn’t be going anywhere until it had. He knew it. He just had to figure out how to affect the conflict.

Without any other good ideas, he reached out to the red half of his divinity, trying to take hold of it. Like it had with the bindings on the rovers, with the cycler he’d ‘tamed’, it took instant notice of his presence, and he felt the flare of recognition. It was the breadth of a few seconds later at most, but the ichorous divinity took notice of him as well – and with it, he felt another presence turn its attention to him.

Well, well, well, the One Who Waits tutted. It was Narinder’s own voice, eerie and uncanny in the aether; his other half seemed amused. So my vessels’ reports spoke truly: you live still.

Narinder’s voice was smaller, but no less divine. You have seen fit to depart Naraka? Things must truly be dire, he replied venomously. I almost thought you chained to the temple.

I have done no such thing, said the One Who Waits, though Narinder could almost feel how his own eye would have been twitching. You may have survived, but you are only the weak dregs I have expelled from my magnificence. I need not leave my holy city to exercise influence on that which is mine.

Narinder rolled his eyes. Spare me the ego we have feigned for the expectations of mortals.

Perhaps you feigned it, the One Who Waits sniffed. I have proper respect for myself and my glory; it has been a relief to be free of you and your pathetic fixations. It is a joy to be whole at last.

You are as much half a god as I am, Narinder replied flatly.

Is that what you have believed?, the One Who Waits laughed. There was no madness in the laughter; only cruelty. That we are two halves? I have no need of you, little fool, and I will now dispose of you properly. Have the dignity to perish in silence, instead of railing against the resplendence you were too weak to become – I am Death, and you are nothing.

The One Who Waits turned his attention away from Narinder, dismissive, and Narinder felt the ichorous divinity begin to rear back, a tsunami drawing away from the shore. Destruction incarnate. They were both Death, but the One Who Waits had a cult a thousand years old, access to the Below, and no heart to consider anything except annihilation. Narinder had the Crown, but he was a new god at best, and one that hadn’t even been revealed as anything more than the former vessel of the god he hated. He didn’t have the Crown here, regardless, and none of the devotion that the One Who Waits could claim. He didn’t even know who he wanted to be as Death, yet, and without a creed or anything to offer a worshipper, he had no believers to his name.

His name.

Narinder.

‘Sometimes, though, I got to see Narinder. That was the person who was my god.’

You may be Death, Narinder snarled at him, and his other half actually paused, even the ichorous divinity hesitating. You may be the One Who Waits. But I am Narinder. I am from whence you came, it is by my hands that you will be unmade, and this is my domain. Now get out.

He threw out his imagined paw, snatching up a handful of the red divinity, then took the tether to himself that he still held and slammed his hands together.

He’d known it would have an effect, obviously. He’d even hoped it would be big enough to make his words more than a meaningless declaration before the stronger divinity wiped him out. What he didn’t expect was that not only would the red divinity leap towards him with joy and recognition, but Casket would surge towards his call. There were two Deaths before it, or Death and something that was its kin, and between the two, Casket rushed towards the one closest to its own nature. Casket wasn’t a place where things went to die, after all. It was a place that collected the dead, bodies and treasures and trash all washing up on its shores and riverbanks, and it was from Casket that all of those things found new places and things to become. Casket was where Death passed through, not where things came to an end, and in Narinder’s burning divinity it saw its mirror image.

The One Who Waits yowled in unbridled fury, the black ichor of his divinity trying to find purchase in the cracks of Narinder’s control – but Narinder’s red opalescence was already rushing into those cracks, sinking deep and standing against the tide. The ichor divinity could do nothing but splash uselessly against Narinder’s raging resistance and Casket’s stubbornness, because Casket and its liminality had chosen its champion.

It wasn’t that alone. On its own, that would be more than enough. But the strength wasn’t just from Narinder’s defiance, or Casket’s determination; there was a pearlescent shimmer at the root, an unmistakable mark of who, exactly, believed in Narinder enough to reinforce his own power.

The One Who Waits tried to strike one more time, but the molten opalescence of Narinder’s divinity had solidified in the aether, and though the One Who Waits made contact, all his strike did was make the divinity ring in defiant answer.

Quarter. Two eighths. Dotted quarter. One eighth. Four sixteenths. Triplet. Triplet. Whole. Rest.

Get out, Narinder said again, staring down his other half’s presence, unmoving. Casket and everything in it is mine. You and your poison are not welcome.

This is temporary, the One Who Waits hissed back. You may claim it for now, but it is only a fragment of this world – you are weak and you will fall to me, just as everything else has. You will fear me before the end.

Then I will kill you afraid, he returned, head held high. Get out. I will not say it again.

The aether of the liminality stirred. To be liminal was to be a place where one passed through – but it would be more than happy to eject someone who was overstaying his welcome.

The One Who Waits hissed one last time, but then his presence vanished, leaving his ichorous power to seep away like a skulking thing in the dark. Narinder waited until he was certain his other half was gone, then looked at the tether he still held. It glittered with Narinder’s divinity, and in the glitter he felt more than Casket. He could feel a distant call.

He’d spent more than long enough outside of his own body, he decided. He had places to be, work to do, and people almost certainly worried for him. He had more than the One Who Waits would ever have.

He wrapped his imagined hands around the tether and began to pull himself along, making his way home.

Chapter Text

It was dark when Narinder blinked his eyes open. It took a moment for him to realise it was because he was looking up at a ceiling, and not the canvas of the tent he was used to. It was wooden beams and slats, and as he twitched his ears, he realised he could hear the sea. Louder than before, when he’d been with Esriaal near the rover camp. Where was he?

He sat up, grimacing as he touched his head; it felt like his mind was swimming in his skull, getting used to occupying a physical container again. That was what he got for spending hours floating in the aether.

When he felt less dizzy, he looked around the room. It was a narrow, dark space, though he could see little scraps of daylight through the far wall. The bed he was on was set against the wall opposite of the daylight, with the door near the foot of the bed. He moved to at least put his paws on the floor, but frowned as he saw himself.

He was no longer in the shirt and pants he’d grown used to. These were robes, and he tensed as the black and red colour finally registered in the dim light. It was the robe of an acolyte, but it was still the raiment of the One Who Waits’ clergy. If he’d been asked beforehand, Narinder would have said it would at least be a relief to be in looser clothing again; however, though he didn’t mind being free of the confines of the pants, the top half felt too loose. It was only when he rolled the sleeves up that it felt more tolerable. 

He stood up, bracing himself with his left paw on the wall as he waited for the rolling in his head to subside. Between the hours outside of his body and the sheer power he’d had to wield, he supposed it made sense it would take its toll, but it was still irritating. He looked around again, but Red was nowhere near by. He cautiously reached out along the connection between the two of them, wondering uneasily if Red was out of range – only to relax when he found Red’s presence. It was at a distance, but as soon as he made contact, he could still sense Red’s flinch of shock and blaze of relief. Red would be hurrying here, so Narinder opened the door. If his sense of Red’s state was anything to go by, he thought there was a good chance that Red would simply break through it.

He stepped out into a dark, narrow hallway, looking back and forth. To his right was the end of the hallway and those slivers of daylight, and to his left the hallway led to a pair of doors and a corner leading further away. With a shrug, that was the direction he went in. A split second later he nearly jumped out of his fur when a door around the corner slammed open, grey daylight streaming through before a shadow blocked it. He had enough time to notice with confusion that the shadow was much larger than Red should be, then Red rounded the corner, sailing through the air in its Crown form. Less than a second behind it was Esriaal, skidding around the corner, Pale atop their head.

‘Narinder!’ Red and Esriaal said in unison, and a split second later Narinder was the recipient of two similar but opposite actions: Red leapt for him, hitting his chest in its serpent form as he caught it and nestling close. At the same time, Esriaal caught up, and he hissed in pain as they thumped his shoulder, far harder than any mortal could have.

‘What the hell were you thinking?!’ Esriaal demanded, furious, and Narinder would have snapped back indignantly if he hadn’t been distracted by realising something was off. Pale wasn’t responding to the sight of him, and Esriaal was no longer in the red cape. They were back to the clothes he was used to, though the blouse and trousers looked jarring now.

‘Ah,’ he said, trying to not be disappointed, but failed. ‘A figment?’

They hushed him, for all that his voice had been quiet, but nodded. ‘It’s not like I was going to stay out here forever,’ they said in an undertone, scowling at him. ‘Especially since I was stuck here, waiting to see if you were going to come back. What the hell were you thinking?’

‘It was not intentional!’ he snapped, disappointment and discomfort with that disappointment transmuting into frustration. ‘I was busy removing the One Who Waits’ influence from Casket, so you will forgive my unwilling absence of a night.’

Esriaal stared at him, opening and closing their mouth.

I tried to tell you, Red said, its own frustration significant. Something was changing, and I’ve been telling you that for days.

Narinder glanced down at Red. ‘Days?’

You’ve been gone for a week, just about, Red replied.

‘Ah. That would explain some things,’ he said faintly.

Esriaal took a deep breath, scrubbing at their face. ‘Do I even want to know the details?’ they said tiredly. ‘Because this sounds like it’s just going to give me a headache.’

Narinder bit his tongue, because he doubted asking if he could speak to the ‘real’ Esriaal would go over well. This was the real Esriaal, just at a distance. Considering how dangerous it had been for them to come here in person, he suspected he wouldn’t see the root Esriaal for quite some time, even if he went back to the Pastures. They were stressed, and that would be why they were so prickly.

Red sent him its impression of disgruntled agreement. Esriaal had been renewing their figment every day, just to know if he’d woken up, but they were trying to project the face of the calm Shepherd, and it was taking a toll on them. Red would have preferred they kept that toll to themself, but there wasn’t much Red could do but wait, so it had held its tongue, too.

‘It does not seem so,’ he said evenly. ‘Suffice it to say that Casket is secure for the foreseeable future.’

There was a secondary sting, one he acknowledged to Red in the back of his head. It was a triumph, what he’d just done – maybe the first real one they’d had in this war that the three of them had been waging for decades, finally taking a full step forward, and it was in the right direction. It was good. Esriaal had even been a part of it, in a way. And as far as they were currently concerned, the details of it were nothing but a headache.

Red began to sort through the memories, coiling around Narinder’s shoulders. Its solid black body now boasted red rings, and there was an opalescent flicker to the scales. At least someone took an interest in his near death and unexpected victory, he thought, disgruntled.

Esriaal didn’t say anything for what felt like an awkward stretch of time. They seemed to be considering something closely, and finally sighed.

‘I need to go back, so the rest of mes know what’s going on,’ they said reluctantly. ‘It’s not smart, but I’ll probably be the one who comes back – you know. Me, me.’

Narinder at least managed to hide the way he perked up at the thought. ‘Very well. Should I wait here?’

‘Yeah, that – that would be for the best,’ Esriaal said, and rubbed the back of their head when he gave them a confused look. ‘Things are… complicated, right now. People probably think something is wrong, so I’ll try to come back fast, because a lot’s happened. It’s not good. For me, I mean. Probably good for you. Try not to be too smug when you find out, got it?’

‘What are you speaking of?’ he said, lost.

‘Red, you explain it,’ they said, and before Narinder could object, they dissolved into mist.

Ugh. Coward, Red muttered. Thank fuck they’re gone, hopefully the real Esriaal will be less like that.

‘They’re all Esriaal,’ he pointed out.

Sure, but I still don’t like the figments, Red huffed. There’s just a difference when they know that they can fuck off instead of have to deal with things in the moment. They've been like this for days, and the one time I asked if it was worry about you they snapped at me. It wasn't like anyone doesn't know the answer, but I was hoping they'd admit it.  

Narinder went to respond, then realised he could hear some movement outside. Whatever was going on, he should probably know more about it before he dealt with it, so he retreated to the room he'd woken up in. ‘What has happened?’ he asked quietly once the door had closed. ‘Where are we?’

Red sighed. So turns out the One Who Waits ‘killing’ the Cat was a stupid thing to do. 

‘...it was part of the plan,’ he said slowly.

Oh, no, it worked out for us, but it backfired on him, Red replied. You might want to sit down.  

Narinder did so, apprehensive. ‘I doubt whatever news you bear would make me fall over,’ he said. 

In response, Red said, Killing you turned you into a martyr, and we're currently in a village full of people who worship the Cat.

‘Ah,’ Narinder replied, and nothing else for a long moment. Perhaps Red had been right to tell him to sit down. ‘Are they quite sane?’ he finally asked. ‘That would be all but a death sentence.’

That's why they're here, Red replied. They started coming here before you were ‘killed,’ so it was before you were a martyr, but once you did die, more people started coming. According to them, the One Who Waits has forbidden people to enter Casket for the last month or so, so desperate people who don't want to join the Shepherd have been coming here. And – well. That's where the second half of this comes in, and it's why Esriaal doesn't want to explain it.  

‘Meaning?’

Good news is, you're going to have some fresh believers from the flock as soon as you go outside and confirm you’re a god, Red said bracingly. Bad news is that means Esriaal has fewer believers. And judging by the people here, once word spreads to the Pastures and others hear that there's an alternative to the One Who Waits, they're going to lose more.  

He flinched. ‘But the cores –!’

Yeah, exactly, Red said, and it sounded heavy. I think it's part of why they're sort of pissed at me. It's not like it was on purpose, but we are kind of stealing our followers back, and it means more than just losing faith, for them. And it’s happening even though no one knows what kind of god you're going to be. It should be scarier to people, the idea of a new kind of Death, but…

Narinder hesitated.

What is it?  

He tried to choose his words carefully, then remembered that he had a shortcut, and pushed a memory towards Red – the moment when Casket chose him. How it had been two Deaths standing there. Or, maybe, it had been one Death standing there, and one… something else. 

What are you trying to say?, Red said, uneasy. 

Narinder took a deep breath. ‘Red, I do not think I can be Death,’ he said bluntly, and Red flinched. 

What are you talking about? I've chosen you, Red said, uncoiling from his shoulders to plop into his lap and turn, facing him. That makes you Death. I promise. I wouldn't choose you if I didn't think you can do it.  

‘That is not what I mean,’ he answered, shaking his head, then tapped one of the new red rings on the Crown's body. ‘Not fully, at least. If I try to be Death, then no matter how long it takes, I will become the One Who Waits again.’

No, you won't, Red promised him. It still didn't understand. I told you, I'm not trying to be the Death I was supposed to be. We can be the Death you're supposed to be.  

‘But I am not,’ he said patiently. ‘We know this, Red. I cannot be Death, not if we want things to truly change. And neither can you.’

Red reared back, shocked. What? I can't just – change what I am, Narinder, it said, voice deeply disturbed at the thought. I'm Death, I've always been Death, and I always will be. That's the point of me.  

‘And was Ivory's purpose not to be Life?’ Narinder replied.

I'm not Ivory, Red insisted, quickly growing more and more agitated. It's completely different, Narinder – Ivory could become Pale because it was made to grow with someone. I was just made. We can't just change what I am on a whim!  

‘It is no whim,’ Narinder said, and touched Red’s head when it started to reply. ‘Do you trust me, Red?’

I don't like that question.  

‘Red.’

It sighed. Yes.

‘Then trust me enough to hear me out,’ he said, and Red sighed again but nodded. ‘I cannot be Death, and if you are to be my Crown, neither can you – but we cannot abandon your nature, and we cannot simply leave Death’s domain unattended. I will admit that I know not what our alternative will be. Only that I believe it must be an alternative. You must feel the difference in divinity now, too.’ He brushed his fingertips over one of the new red rings on Red’s body.

Yes, but –

It shut up at the same second Narinder's ears swivelled towards the door, both of them hearing the rapid tapping of hooves on wood. Narinder didn't get a chance to even stand up before the door flew open.

It was Esriaal, and it was instantly clear to Narinder that it was them – it suddenly occurred to him that part of what was wrong with the figment before was that he couldn't see their belief. The feeling had never wavered, but now that the real Esriaal stood in front of him, that subtle dimension of belief was back in place. They set eyes on him and slumped with relief – only to hastily straighten up, left ear twitching.

‘Okay, you're still here and haven't wandered off,’ they said, marching in, a bundle of something or other in their arms. They weren't dressed in the red cloak the way they had been before he’d been pulled into Casket’s maelstrom, but their clothes weren't exactly what he'd just seen them in, either. The dress they wore was a brighter blue, and while the sash around their waist was a mellow mint green, it was fastened with the same brass loop as before. Their little capelet was the same green as their sash, and the bell around their throat was brass in colour. There was even a little lace collar, a delicate touch to a sunny ensemble. Evidently being awake had put their fashion sense in a cheerier mood. ‘How are you feeling?’

‘There was some dizziness, but it passed,’ he replied, eyebrows up as they shut the door and set down the bundle on the bed. ‘And will you not strike me as before?’

Esriaal winced. ‘Sorry,’ they said awkwardly, looking up from the bundle they'd begun to unwrap. ‘I don't really have an excuse for that. I wasn't sure you were ever going to wake up, honestly – sleeping’s my thing, okay? Get your own thing.’

It was a cautious joke, but it was in earnest, so Narinder relented and let himself snort. They relaxed a bit in answer, so it had been the right choice. 

‘It's been a rough week,’ they admitted, beginning to unwrap the bundle again. ‘If I heard right before I went back to the Pastures, though, I think your week was probably worse.’

‘I knew not a week had passed,’ he admitted. ‘It felt like a span of hours. Red was able to tell me where we are, roughly, but you were quick to return, so I know not how we are here, nor the state of the others.’ He swallowed. ‘Is my family…?’

‘Mostly okay and on the mend,’ they said, straightening up. ‘Shamura's in and out of consciousness, but they lived – I got there in time, and I was able to stabilise them. I don't know what the long term effects will be, but Kallamar's certain they’ll live.’

‘And the other three?’

‘Shamura protected Leshy, so he's unhurt, just scared,’ they said. ‘Pale’s barely keeping half of the flock from rushing in right now, but when they can, Leshy's going to be first through, just watch. Heket broke her arm, and Kallamar got some pretty impressive bruises on his back, but that's it.’

‘As for the rest of the flock?’ he asked, watching them set aside several folded pieces of fabric with curiosity. 

‘No one died. There were some bad injuries, like Fegreno, but he was already injured before,’ Esriaal said bracingly. ‘The people on the roofs were pretty shaken and there was some whiplash, but they were better off. However you tied them down kept them safe.’

‘There is that,’ he said as Esriaal straightened up, now that the bundle had been unpacked. ‘What are these?’ he asked, touching the folded fabric curiously.

‘Clothes for you,’ they said, and he blinked. ‘Your old clothes seemed kind of uncomfortable, and you probably shouldn't be walking around in robes from the One Who Waits. And they're, um. Kind of an apology.’

He frowned. ‘What for?’

‘Just in general,’ they said, waving a hand. Their left ear was twitching again. ‘Red helped me with the measurements and Pale helped with the design, so they should fit you. I'll step out for a moment.’

‘Measurements?’ he repeated. ‘Did you make these?’

‘I can't exactly go buy things in a store,’ they said, ear flicking harder. ‘Those are the ones that are finished. We have a lot to talk about, so just get dressed, please.’

They hurried out of the room before he could ask anything else, and he looked at Red quizzically.

I thought it was a good idea, it said. No idea what they look like, though, so I'm sorry if they made you something ugly.  

‘I can still hear you,’ Esriaal said through the door, sounding offended, and Narinder sighed before reaching for the clothing. 

He wasn't sure what he'd expected, but it wasn't what they'd laid out. It took him a second to understand why several of the clothes were just long lengths of fabric, but then he remembered that they'd said Pale helped.

‘Is this…?’ he asked, looking at Red and holding the largest of the fabric lengths, a pretty maroon cloth of an unfamiliar weave.

Huh. I think it is, it said with interest. I haven't seen one of those in a long time. Do people even remember those?  

‘I suppose Pale does,’ he said, and though it was clumsy at first as he tried to remember the pleating and tucking process, he was soon wearing the same sort of wrap pants he'd worn as a mortal and early in his godhood. It felt strange, because he wasn't used to it, but he was already determined to never wear modern trousers again. This was much more comfortable.

The shirt was similar to the kind he'd been wearing so far, at least, and he minded it much less once he'd rolled up the sleeves. It was fitted, not constricting, and the cream-coloured fabric was soft to the touch, with a pleasant, somewhat familiar scent. Another, shorter maroon cloth was the securing waistband, and after that were two more pieces of clothing – the first was a thin buttoned vest in the modern style, the wine-dark fabric contrasting with both the pants and the shirt, the red embroidery intricate. The second…

‘They cannot have made this,’ he said in disbelief as he shook out the coat. It was cream-coloured, like the shirt, though it lacked sleeves. Instead, it boasted a mantle that left his arms free, a thin red stripe woven along the edges of the fabric instead of embroidered on. There was embroidery, artistic little symbols, but there were also words in the cuneiform version of the Old Speech Pale seemed to favour. Nothing magical, per se, and it was only the usual sort of decorative words that once adorned clothing, such as ‘luck’. Even so. 

Pretty sure no one else could, Red said, and its admiration was extremely begrudging. It's getting colder out, so the timing is good, I guess.

Narinder nodded, folding it over his arm. ‘I am finished,’ he said, and Esriaal opened the door, peeking in. Seeing he was in fact dressed (though he wasn't sure why they felt the need to check, he'd told them as much), they opened the door and stepped inside. 

‘Oh, does the coat not fit?’ they asked, looking surprisingly disappointed by the idea. ‘Or is it not your thing? You don't have to wear it, sorry.’

‘I simply haven't put it on yet, as we are inside,’ he said, a little bemused. ‘Fear not. I appreciate the gift, but I know not how you made all of this so quickly.’

‘Many hands make light work, and I can have a few extra pairs,’ they said. ‘Besides, in the Pastures it's easier for me to make things, like tools and things. And I have a lot of materials laying around I haven't been using. Is it comfortable?’

‘Yes. For all its rightful animosity, Pale’s input is… touching,’ he said, for lack of a better word. His ears tilted back a bit at the admission. ‘I will ask you to give it my thanks. I do not believe it would prefer to hear such words from me.’

‘Maybe. Depends on how it's feeling today,’ Esriaal said ruefully. ‘It wanted to come with me today, at least, but it's been having a hard time, just like the rest of us.’

‘It does not sound as though it has been pleasant for anyone,’ he said. ‘Especially given the state of the flock, given Red’s explanation.’

Esriaal nodded. ‘I don't like it, but I've always known that I have a lot of followers who believe in me because I'm the safer bet,’ they said, their light tone doing very little to hide the melancholy there. They walked over and sat down. ‘I shouldn't be surprised that if they find out there's another alternative, some of them might choose that instead.’

‘I know not why,’ he admitted. He sat down on the other end of the bed. ‘I have no teachings to speak of, yet, and those in the flock have little reason to trust me or evidence of any power, save for that one moment atop the rovers. To say nothing of those who honour the Cat as a martyr – they may well do so, but that tells me nothing of what they have decided he stood for, let alone what they imagine him to be.’

Esriaal was looking at him strangely. ‘I, um. I guess I thought you'd be happier, knowing you were getting followers of your own,’ they said when he tilted his head. 

‘They may follow, but I know not how I wish to guide them,’ he said. ‘To say nothing of what it may cost you in belief.’

They looked away from him. ‘I was kind of hoping you'd forgotten that,’ they admitted. 

‘How could I forget that?’ he asked, blinking. ‘We only spoke of it two days ago, at least in my memory. To say nothing of how it is one of the most dangerous, albeit brilliant, schemes I've ever heard.’

‘Is that a compliment? You need to work on your compliments.’

‘It was not, though you may take it however you wish,’ he said, a little amused despite the gravity of the moment. ‘I have not forgotten, Esriaal. This is not an ideal situation for either of us, but yours is a more immediate danger.’

‘I've got your belief, and that's doing a lot,’ they said, and his ears ticked back at the reminder. He understood what they meant – he still had to tell them about Casket, after all – but even if the two of them knew it wasn't worship, it still somehow felt mortifying to acknowledge that he believed in anything. ‘Honestly, it's a lot more than I would have guessed, but I think it's mostly about you being a god, not about some kind of overwhelming devotion to me in particular. That would be kind of hard to miss. But as long as you believe in me, it can offset a lot of the damage, at least for a while. It must feel nice to have some followers of your own to believe in you, though.’

Narinder shook his head. ‘I do not feel them, not yet,’ he admitted, and Esriaal frowned. ‘They may profess to believe in me, but they know me not, and if they simply believe in Death, then their devotion is likely bolstering the One Who Waits. They cannot simply believe in a name.’

Not unless they were Esriaal, at any rate.

‘Why not?’ Esriaal asked, frowning, clearly thinking of something along the same lines.

‘Because to worship the concept is to worship the god, and vice versa,’ he explained. ‘If there is no concept – or if the concept is one that you only understand as another's – then there can be no worship. I have little to offer them at the moment, and I am not the Death that is all they have ever known.’

You're not completely empty handed – you pushed the One Who Waits out of Casket with exactly one believer, Red objected.

‘You what,’ Esriaal said blankly.

‘I told you as much,’ Narinder said, frowning. ‘When we spoke before.’

‘Well, yeah, but ‘removing influence’ doesn't sound like the same thing as ‘pushing him out’,’ they pointed out defensively. ‘What happened?’

‘Are you sure it is not only a headache?’ he asked, the earlier dismissal still stinging a bit.

Esriaal winced. ‘It was a joke?’ they tried, but wilted at his raised eyebrow. ‘Okay. It wasn’t. It’s just…’

‘Just what?’

They sighed. ‘Remember Fairswells? When you came back? It was – it was that,’ they said, not looking at him. ‘I shouldn’t have done it again. And I shouldn’t have punched you.’

‘No, you should not have,’ he replied, but he was softening even if he knew he shouldn’t. Their anger then had been about being afraid for him, and he’d only been gone an hour or two; if he’d been unconscious for a week this time, then their reaction had been remarkably restrained in comparison. Not enough to be acceptable, but enough that he could see the effort. ‘Are you alright?’

‘I’m not the one who was unconscious for a week,’ they said, still not looking at him. ‘I’ll get over it, don’t worry. I’m sorry for before.’

‘That is not what I meant,’ he said, resisting the urge to rub his temple. ‘Red mentioned that you have been upset for days. Have you had any rest?’

‘Traitor,’ Esriaal muttered under their breath, but wobbled their hand back and forth in answer. ‘I’ve spent most of the time asleep at home, so I can focus on getting used to the differences now that I can be awake,’ they said. ‘I’m used to being in multiple places at once, but it’s always been delayed. I keep forgetting that I don’t actually need to end a figment to know what’s going on, just if it’s coming up on its time limit or I need to send a new figment for some reason. I’m still working out how to get past the barrier of them only knowing what I knew when I made them, but that’s a work in progress.’

‘That does not sound like rest at all,’ Narinder said disapprovingly.

‘I’m asleep?’

‘Esriaal.’

‘It counts!’

‘Esriaal.’

‘Ugh, you sound like Puarjul,’ they complained.

‘So I sound like the most reasonable of your disciples?’ he asked dryly. ‘Truly, a tragic set of circumstances.’

‘For me,’ Esriaal huffed, but they were smiling a little. ‘I’ll get some actual sleep tonight, okay?’

‘Can you sleep properly? Or do you simply move on to your figments?’ Narinder asked, squinting.

‘No, I can really sleep,’ they said, shaking their head. ‘I wasn’t sure I could, but I fell asleep properly on our way to Casket, and it was nice.’

‘On the cycler?’

‘It was comfortable,’ they said defensively, left ear twitching.

‘How on earth was that comfortable?’ he said, bewildered.

‘It just was, it’s not important,’ they huffed. ‘I’ve seen how cats sleep, you don’t even look like you have spines, you don’t get to judge me.’

Narinder held up his paws, because he was on the verge of laughter and had an image to maintain. ‘Very well,’ he said. ‘We have more important things to discuss, anyway. Particularly as I need not worry about giving you a headache with the details of how I removed the One Who Waits from Casket.’

‘Good, great, let’s talk about that,’ they said, relaxing. At least for around a minute, but once Narinder began to describe what happened, that relaxation quickly evaporated.

He described Casket’s state under the surface, and that he was unsure why neither he nor Red had noticed. The war between the two different divinities, even before Narinder was there to command it (something he now wondered about, but had no answers for.) How he'd caught the One Who Waits’ attention and briefly spoke with him, though he glossed over the exchanged words themselves. Then how he'd claimed Casket for his own. 

‘Damn. You pulled that off without any followers?’ they said when he finished, staring at him. Then they laughed a little, the sound wry as their eyes crinkled up at the edges, the dark of their right eye warm and the gold of their left a soft muted gleam. ‘You probably don't have to worry about much when it comes to convincing people to follow you, then.’

Narinder's ears were tilting back, tail twitching, and Esriaal tilted their head. ‘I may be without followers, but I am not without believers,’ he reminded them, unable to look them in the face. ‘Without the one I have, I do not think it would have been so successful.’

Esriaal now tilted their head in the other direction. ‘Did it really help that much?’ they asked uncertainly. ‘It's just me, and I don't actually worship you.’

‘No. But you believe in me, in your way, as I believe in you in mine,’ he replied. ‘It is – different than normal faith. I have been trying to put my finger on it, but it is not anything I am familiar with. Gods should not place their belief in anything save their own power and authority.’

‘Maybe,’ Esriaal said slowly. ‘We're already doing it, though, so we're just going to have to work with it, and I think it's a good thing. Your belief is helping even though I'm going to start losing believers, and my belief clearly helped you, at least a little.’

He nodded. ‘There was something of your influence in the aftermath,’ he admitted. ‘A hint of colour, bolstering my own. Casket is not a liminality of yours, but I believe it will at least be friendly to you and your followers. I cannot promise those who dwell within will be safe, any more than anywhere but the Pastures are safe, but Casket itself will be welcoming, and hostile to believers of my other half.’

‘Really? That's good,’ they said, smiling. ‘Though I think Bulrushe might be mine, even though it's in Casket. Sorry about that.’

‘Is Bulrushe not a ruin?’ he said, frowning. 

‘You can look around and find out for yourself,’ they said, and he blinked. ‘It was built around a freshwater spring so I'm not surprised something else has taken its place. I've been testing it, and as long as it's within the limits of what I remember, it's working like it's one of my liminalities. A weak one, but still.’

‘Good. That will strengthen with time,’ he said, looking at the door thoughtfully.

‘Good?’

‘Yes,’ he said, looking back at them. ‘Do you not think it so? I would imagine a secure liminality within the safety of the claimed domain of your ally should be a good thing. That it is a place of refuge in general is fortunate, but that fact only strengthens the resonance that would establish a liminality. One need not worship Peace to wish to find it, particularly when sheltering from danger.’

‘But aren't I technically taking it from you?’ they pointed out.

‘As I have learned well, Casket is a place with strong opinions of its own,’ he said, shaking his head with no little amusement. ‘I would not be so foolish as to complain about something which is convenient, and if it is your liminality, then it was never going to be mine in the first place. If anything, it is likely only able to take root now that the influence of the One Who Waits has been dealt with.’

‘But…’

He sighed. ‘I have told you we are allies, have I not?’

Esriaal nodded, but they were biting their lip, still looking conflicted.

‘Then consider this a declaration of that alliance,’ he told them, and had the brief temptation to place his hand on their shoulder. He didn't act on it, but it did occur to him. ‘This place is full of people professing to believe in me, if you and Red are to be believed in turn. I know not what the situation is in full, but it is an opportunity, if nothing else; we should begin to place the framework for what will come after the One Who Waits is dealt with. We will coexist then, so it is best to ensure we do so peacefully. I am sure you can see the value in that, o Peace.’

They snickered, then smiled at him again. ‘If you’re sure,’ they said, like there was anything Narinder could have done about it now. ‘It'll be nice to actually be at peace for once. Well, over here. I've still got a lot of problems over in Caynero and Belemen,  and I'm going to have to start to do some work reorganising, depending on how many followers eventually choose to switch to you.’

‘I am sorry,’ he said quietly, and they blinked. ‘I have seen many of my former followers leave what was once my faith in favour of yours. I blame them not, especially as I have learned more of what I have done. That has not lessened the sting, and I can only assume you feel something of the same. Perhaps more so, as you have done nothing to drive them away.’

They nodded, making a face. ‘It doesn't feel great,’ they agreed, looking down at their lap. ‘Like I said, I knew from the start that some of my followers were always going to believe in me because I was the safer option. I'm not really looking forward to finding out just how many were only there because I wasn't you.’

‘If they try to turn to me believing I am simply a saner One Who Waits, they will find themselves swiftly disappointed,’ he replied.

‘How did you and the Bishops make it work?’ they asked. ‘Before – you know. Why did you guys work together if it meant you might lose followers?’

‘That was not a concern,’ he said, shaking his head. ‘We were a pantheon – our cults were distinct but not separate. Not until the end.’

His words were more bitter than he meant to make them, and he would have changed the subject if Esriaal hadn't frowned thoughtfully. 

‘Could we do that?’

‘Do what?’

‘The pantheon thing you just said,’ Esriaal elaborated. They were looking into the middle distance, seemingly deep in thought, which was why Narinder assumed they hadn't noticed how he was staring at them in shock. ‘‘Distinct but not separate’ – if you didn't have to worry about followers switching, then you probably shared faith, right? That could solve that problem.’

After a second, they finally noticed his stunned state, and their left ear began to twitch for the nth time in this conversation. ‘Um. Bad idea, I take it?’

‘In more ways than I can list,’ he said faintly. 

‘Right. Forget it, then,’ they said, mortified, but Narinder was still too shocked to be able to help. ‘I don't even know how to do it anyway, so let's just pretend I never said that. Okay? Okay.’

‘Very well,’ he said, not sure how else to respond. ‘We, ah. We should attend to the matters around us. Will you remain here, or will you send a figment? It is not likely safe for you to be out like this.’

Esriaal latched onto the subject change gratefully, even as they pulled a face. ‘I probably should,’ they admitted. ‘It's safer, and it's even safer to be asleep. It was honestly probably a bad idea to have left the Pastures at all.’

‘As your figments cannot die permanently, I can understand why,’ he agreed, but Esriaal shook their head. 

‘That's not it,’ they said. ‘I shouldn't have come outside because now I don't want to go back.’ They rubbed the back of their head, then looked at him hopefully. ‘It's probably safe here for now, right?’

‘I know not, because I know little of where we are,’ he said, reluctant to say so. ‘It would be best for you to return, I think.’

They sighed, but nodded. ‘I'll, um. I’ll head back then,’ they said, standing up, and he wasn’t sure whether they knew how openly they wore their disappointment. ‘And I’m still sorry about earlier. I’ll keep working on it. Punch me back next time, at least? Just to even the score a little.’

‘And cede the high ground?’ he replied as he stood up himself. ‘I would not grant you the satisfaction.’

Esriaal laughed at that, and it was only because of how the two of them were standing that Narinder could hide how his tail hooked in satisfaction of his own, let alone how it began to curl back and forth. He managed to stop it before he walked over to the door, politely opening it for them before remembering that they didn’t need to go anywhere to vanish.

‘I shall see you in a few moments then?’ he asked, and they nodded.

‘Pale’s at the door, holding back your siblings,’ they said. ‘See you soon.’

Then they misted away, but not before Narinder could see the melancholy of departure on their face. They really, really hadn’t wanted to return to the Pastures if they could instead be out in the world in person, but it was safer there. Their figments only vanished when defeated; if Esriaal died, then there was no saying what might happen. It wasn’t as if Narinder could fix that at the moment.

We’ll just have to make it safe for them to be out here, then, Red said, and he could feel its thoughts had fallen in line with his own. He knew well what it was like to be within a realm he couldn’t escape for a thousand years; if he’d had the chance to leave, it would have been nearly impossible to convince him to go back inside. They had much less animosity towards a plane of their own making, he could only assume, but that didn’t mean it wouldn’t feel stifling if they had no choice but to stay.

‘We will add it to the list of goals to accomplish,’ he said lightly, and Red snorted. It changed back into its Crown form and returned to the top of his head as he pulled on the coat. It was warm and sturdy, unspeakably soft on the inside, and had the same pleasant scent as the shirt. It fit him perfectly.

Time to go see everyone, Red said. Are you ready?  

‘It means little whether I am or not, it must be done,’ he replied. He walked out of the little room, jacket swirling in his wake, leaving only the folded robes and a faint air of melancholy behind. 

Narinder had barely turned the corner to face what must be the front door before Leshy was already barrelling towards him. For all that the little boy was mortal and Narinder was a god, Leshy still impacted him hard enough to make Narinder stagger back. He clung to Narinder's waist, and only let go once Narinder had his balance back and could kneel down to return the hug.

‘I told you I would return, did I not?’ he asked, patting the little leafworm’s head. Leshy didn't say anything, and when Narinder realised Leshy wouldn't be letting go anytime soon, he shrugged internally and simply picked him up. It wasn't as if a child would be heavy to a god, particularly a child so small for his age.

With Leshy hiding his face and secured on Narinder's right hip, Narinder was able to look over at the front door. Both Heket and Kallamar were standing in the door, but they were facing away – keeping a small crowd at bay from the looks of it. Pale was waiting on the floor behind them, antlered hare shape lean and predatory as ever, watching Narinder closely.

Good, it fits, it said after a moment.

‘It does,’ he confirmed. ‘I thank you. This is much more comfortable.’

That was one half of the intent, Pale replied, and Narinder frowned. The other half is that it is best to separate you visually from the One Who Waits, without fully denying who it was you have ‘served’ and the domain you will hold. And I believe it would do some good to remind you of where you started, lest the ego of the One Who Waits manifest in the same intolerable fashion.

Well, at least Pale’s sharp tongue hadn’t softened for all it had learned, Narinder thought with some annoyance.

You can never just say something nice, huh, Red asked, just as irritated.

That was something nice, Pale replied, round eye squinting up. I did not help Esriaal to make clothing to his comfort out of malice, and that does not change whether or not you foolishly choose to ascribe malice to it regardless. Nor did I claim it was his ego, but rather the ego of his other half. Or am I not allowed to disdain the One Who Waits?

Well. Be clearer next time, Red said, but it was thrown off by that. Narinder couldn’t blame it, since he was a little thrown himself.

No, Pale said. Now, there is much to do, not least among them deciding how you wish to present yourself to the nascent cult awaiting you. Kallamar?

The squid turned around, Heket moving to stand more fully in the centre of the door. She had a sling around one arm, and so it was a touch amusing that this twelve year old with a broken arm was more than sufficient to keep the crowd at bay. ‘Yes?’ Kallamar asked.

Is Shamura awake?

‘Not at the moment, they just went to sleep,’ Kallamar said.

A pity. Let your brother know when they wake, if you would.

Kallamar nodded, then gave Narinder a cautious little wave. ‘Come find me later, I want to do a check up,’ he said.

‘I will do so,’ Narinder agreed, inclining his head. Then he looked down at Pale. Sharp-tongued still, but at least marginally more willing to talk to him, it seemed. ‘I take it there is a head of the Cat’s cult?’

There is. A black swan named Irmeli, it said, nodding its head. The congregation will be in the chapel at the moment, which is why the crowd outside consists of members of the flock alone; once the cult is aware that you are awake, I have little doubt they will be eager to meet with their new god. For what it is worth, I suggest you speak first with Tymer and those of the flock who are willing to hear you out.

Narinder blinked once. Twice. ‘Tymer?’

Yeah, Red said. It’s a little complicated, but she’s kind of… the head of them, at least for now.

She will be a good disciple, if you are wise enough to accept her faith, Pale added. Assuming the faith you offer is one she can believe in.

Narinder hesitated, because as much as he wished to have a certain answer in the first place, much less an answer for the cult, he just… didn’t. That moment where Casket had chosen him – he didn't entirely know what it had chosen. Death, and yet not death at all. Red, with its new red rings on its body; the colour of his divinity, molten and opalescent, dead and more alive than he’d ever wielded; a nature still unnamed.

Narinder?, Pale said, frowning. He jolted at the sound, his ears ticking back when he realised he’d been standing in silence.

It’s complicated, Red said, and though its voice was normal, he could feel its discomfort. It didn’t know what to do with any of this, any more than he did. Less so, in fact – it was Narinder asking Red to change to match his nature, after all. If he’d failed at changing his own, how could he ask Red to do it in his place? What would the two of them even become?

I advise you to uncomplicate it as soon as possible, Pale said. As in within the next few minutes. We can only buy you so much more time.

‘Right,’ Narinder said, unable to look at Pale now. He didn’t much want to look at anything. The feeling of helplessness was washing up, faster than he’d expected – all but out of nowhere, and he needed to control it, same as everything else.

He almost missed being the Cat, in that moment. At least as the Cat, he’d known his purpose. A treacherous purpose, one he was ashamed of and trying not to dwell on that shame, a destructive waste that he could only do so much to atone for – but a purpose, still.

He closed his eyes to try and think, to centre himself. As he did, Red left his head to coil around his shoulders, both seeking comfort and trying to give it; in order to do so it had to loop around Leshy as well, who nestled closer. Small, and afraid, and silent in a way no child should have to be. Because of him. Or his other half. He wasn’t sure it mattered.

So much depended on what he chose next. He knew it. The trajectory of how he handled everything could change just on the words he would speak to the people who were waiting to hear him, and if he got this wrong, it wasn’t just him who would go down. It would be Esriaal and their cult; it would be this little cult, hiding from his other half and praying for a miracle; it would be his family, renewed with a chance of happiness that he could wreck all over again. All Narinder knew was that he couldn’t be the god he’d been before, and more than that, he didn’t want to be that god.

So who was he? What was left of a Death that didn’t want to be the end of things?

Something about that thought caught Red’s attention. He wasn’t sure what it was, just that Red was turning the idea it was having over and over in its head, chasing the same answer he was. Looping around, circling, trying to reach an answer that fit them both – something new, something good, something made from all the destruction he’d wreaked. A way to soothe the fear he felt in the air.

Soothe the fear.

‘The door,’ he breathed aloud, and felt Red get it a second later.

Narinder?, asked Pale again, its confusion outright palpable.

It’s what we were damned for, Red said as a warning, but he could feel that it was said for caution’s sake alone; there was too much hope rising in it.

‘And who is left to damn us?’ he murmured back. He tucked Leshy closer, his little brother secure in his arm. ‘It is already happening. If that is true – Kallamar? Heket?’

Kallamar tilted his head as Heket looked over her shoulder.

‘How old is Shamura?’ he asked.

‘Um. Thirty eight?’ Kallamar said uncertainly. ‘Why?’

That’s well within the timeframe, Red said, following the same thought. Do you think any of Esriaal’s other followers –?

‘How well do you remember their congregation?’ he asked. Kallamar and Heket were no longer the only ones confused; Pale looked more than a little puzzled itself.

I can’t remember names, it’s been a long time, Red replied.

‘Their disciples, then? Any familiar faces now?’

A brown otter, Red said slowly. That’s the only one I can think of.

‘Pale,’ Narinder said, and Pale twitched. ‘How old is Puarjul?’

Forty-six, it said slowly. What are you thinking?

‘The split must have at least begun to widen then,’ Narinder said, thinking aloud. ‘Perhaps the moment that Pale took form. We will have to discuss ages and the timing with Esriaal –’

– but it feels right, Red said. Relief and hope was in its voice – and when he glanced down at it around his shoulders, the red was glimmering more than the grey daylight could explain.

‘Then it is what we have, and it shall have to suffice,’ Narinder said, and took a deep breath. ‘There is no point in procrastinating any further. Shall we?’

Are you going to bother explaining?, Pale said, looking thoroughly exasperated now.

‘You will hear it in a moment regardless,’ Narinder said. ‘Brother, sister, if you would stand aside?’

«Don’t do anything stupid,» Heket signed with one hand, but she and Kallamar stepped out of the way, letting Narinder exit the house.

Bulrushe – or the village it had become – was a small and humble place. More than a thousand years had passed since it had been destroyed, according to Esriaal, but he could still see its bones beneath. The foundations of the houses were made of ancient stone, though the houses themselves were simple and utilitarian, nothing more. There were many unused foundations in the process of being unearthed, from the looks of it, as well as several streets; the house he exited seemed to be on the main street and already cleared, the smooth paved stones a millennia old still resting where they’d been laid. The other streets were also being cleared, carefully and with love.

The creatures here weren’t simply in hiding – they had enough hope to begin to make a home. That was something Narinder could work with.

Though the skies above were grey, a chill touch to the air that portended rain to come, more than a handful of the flock’s members were indeed waiting for him. Hetty and Julto were there, the twin duck cooks, as well Manon and Feja, the young bat siblings. Fegreno, the sandpiper holding a crutch under one arm and one wing tightly bandaged but standing of his own accord. Allenno stood with him, the seahorse much more cautious than the others, but xyr hand was still on Fegreno’s back to keep him steady. Mernoan, the coyote pup peering out at him from her safe spot behind Tymer. And Tymer herself, eyes zeroing in on him as soon as he was in sight.

Narinder glanced up at the sky one more time. ‘Is it good morning or good afternoon?’ he asked. ‘I seem to have lost track of time.’

Julto (probably) smiled at him, hesitant though it was. ‘Morning, by an hour or two,’ she said.

‘Then good morning,’ he said, and walked down the steps towards the flock members. Allenno edged back a little, but the others held their ground.

Mernoan looked at him quizzically. ‘Why do you have three eyes now?’ she asked uncertainly.

Ah. Right. Narinder had forgotten about that. ‘I was born with it,’ he said, which was true enough. ‘When I was the vessel of the One Who Waits, I thought it better to hide it. It was easier to pretend than to explain. Fear not, it is natural to me and my kind.’

‘It’s not because of the Red Crown?’ Allenno asked, still eyeing Red warily.

‘No. I am its chosen Bearer, but even one’s mortal form stays true to themselves,’ he answered patiently.

‘So you are a god?’ Manon asked.

‘Yes,’ he said. ‘A young god, in a sense, but a god nonetheless.’

‘So there’s a new god of Death, then?’ Feja asked. She and her brother held hands tightly, more nervous than they seemed on the surface.

‘No,’ Narinder replied. Pale had hopped over at one point, and out of the corner of his eye, he saw the antlered hare freeze. ‘The One Who Waits is still the god of Death.’

‘Then what are you the god of?’ Hetty (possibly) asked, tilting her head in unison with her twin sister.

‘We are still deciding the name of the domain,’ he explained, ‘as it has not existed before. Perhaps at one point the One Who Waits had the ambition to become more, but if he did, he has long grown complacent. I have no interest in stagnating as he has, and the Death he has become is nothing but an end of the road. Though Death will be in my paws once he is slain, it is not in my nature, and must be remade. I am Rebirth.’

A gentle wind rose, and in the curls of air were a faint, familiar opalescent shimmer. It felt alive. It felt like approval.

You are what, Pale said weakly.

Oh, you think you have the monopoly on new domains?, Red replied innocently, as if it hadn’t been terrified by the idea an hour past.

‘Rebirth, huh,’ Tymer finally said. She hadn’t looked away from him once.

‘Yes,’ he said, meeting her eyes and refusing to look away himself. ‘I believe we two know the feeling.’

‘Yeah,’ she said, a faint smile on her face. ‘I’ve got a question for you, though.’

‘Of course.’

‘Did you enjoy it?’

He didn’t ask what she meant. ‘I will give you the same answer I gave the Shepherd. When it came to the hunt itself, I found some satisfaction, in the same way one might find satisfaction in any plan that succeeds. When it came to the killing? The harm? No. Never.’

‘Never,’ she repeated.

‘Yes. It was an excusable evil for a long time,’ he said, ears tilting back from the shame. ‘I deny neither the damage I have caused, nor my willingness to participate. That did not make the work enjoyable. In my time free of the One Who Waits’ control, I have been able to unearth my own nature once more, and even before then, it could not remain buried forever. There comes a time where one can no longer lie to oneself. I reached mine. And when the One Who Waits lies dead before me, he will regret having ever given me the chance to do so.’

Tymer nodded. ‘Then I’m with you,’ she said simply. At that same instant, for the first time other than Esriaal, he felt the light of faith blaze bright within her – it had just been waiting to know to whom it belonged. There was still faith in the Shepherd, he could see, but she’d chosen her god on nothing more than his word.

He smiled, ignoring the faint melancholy from knowing the cost of that faith. ‘Then I am glad to have you. As well as anyone willing to hear me out.’

‘Well, most of the town here is, so there’s that,’ she said, and looked at the others. ‘And most of us. Allenno’s just here because Fegreno is.’

‘Shut the fuck up, Tymer,’ xe hissed at her, the seahorse’s face going purple as xe glared.

‘I mind not,’ Narinder reassured xem before Tymer could start teasing, the way he could see on her face. ‘The One Who Waits may be satisfied with faith garnered through fear and force; if he so wishes, he can starve his godly soul on that hollow fruit. I am not content with that.’

He then sighed, rubbing his temple with his free hand before thinking better of it. Leshy was still clinging on, so Narinder just readjusted his grip. ‘Though I will admit I am a new enough god to have neither teachings nor doctrines for the rest of you to follow, so any who choose to believe in me shall have to have patience. ‘Vanquishing the One Who Waits’ is hardly enough to base a faith on.’

‘It’s a pretty good start,’ Tymer said, which was a fair point. ‘Seems like a big task, though.’

‘We will not fight alone. The Shepherd and I are allies – our past animosities are not so easily dissipated, but we have a common goal,’ he said, honest. ‘And here in Casket, we have a safe harbour. Perhaps particularly here, in Bulrushe.’

‘But this is in the Lands of the Old Faith,’ Fegreno pointed out, frowning. ‘We’re in his territory, aren’t we?’

‘No longer,’ Narinder replied. ‘I was not unconscious without purpose. The One Who Waits was trying to reclaim the liminality here and bring it to heel. I did not allow that to happen. I will tell you the tale, if you have the time; I know little of the state of things in this town, and not much more of the caravan. I know that all of you survived, thankfully.’

‘Your bindings kept us safe,’ Tymer confirmed. ‘Everyone on the roofs got out pretty okay – when one started to tip, some of the magic pulled it upright. Didn’t expect that.’

Neither had Narinder, but he wasn’t complaining. ‘Good. Ah, that reminds me – thank you for mentioning the red collars the other day,’ he said, and she blinked. ‘We still know not the particulars of their purpose, but it kept the Shepherd and I from being caught unawares.’

‘So what happened?’ Feja asked, and Narinder started to respond – but he saw movement out of the corner of his eye and looked over.

One of the houses was larger than the others, and a sizeable crowd was filing out, talking among themselves. They were almost universally dressed in robes of the One Who Waits, and he tensed up before remembering that they would likely have little else to show their faith, if not little else to wear full stop. Narinder and the others were quickly spotted, judging by the sudden increase in volume and heads whipping around.

‘Perhaps the explanation will have to wait a few moments, so I need not repeat myself needlessly,’ he said tactfully. ‘The Shepherd told you of the fight in Anchordeep and how we travelled to Casket, yes? Good,’ he said when the little flock nodded in answer. ‘Then that will save us time. Rather than waiting, shall we go to meet them?’

A few more nods, and when Narinder turned to start walking over, Kallamar and Heket instantly fell into step on either side of him from where they’d been standing behind his shoulders. When he glanced back to check that Fegreno was able to keep up, he saw that Pale hadn’t moved. It was just watching them all go, hunched up a little. Its eye looked… lost.

It was too late to call it over to join them without catching attention, and he wasn’t sure that he should. The invitation wouldn’t be welcome, he thought; Pale might well take it as pity.

Red huffed under its breath. Are you coming with us or not?, it called over, disgruntled.

What?, Pale said, taken off guard, then shook itself. Ah, no. I should go meet the Shepherd. We will come find you.

It beat a hasty retreat, much to Narinder and Red’s mutual confusion.

What’s its problem?, Red said, and it was more than confused; it was disquieted.

Narinder gave Red the impression that he had no idea, but now wasn’t the time. As he and the little group approached the much larger one, the crowd parted to let a creature pass.

The black swan was aged, the tips of her feathers beginning to fade, and her right wing was a little crooked. She held herself with the grace of any wealthy creature in Naraka, and so Narinder was unsurprised to hear the Narakan accent when she spoke.

‘Greetings, o Cat,’ she said warmly, bowing her head. ‘We welcome you to our village. The Shepherd has informed us that it was long ago known as Bulrushe; is that name to your liking?’

‘It is the name of this place, so it would matter little whether I liked it or not,’ he said, smiling faintly. ‘It is good, then, that I mind it not. Good morning, Madam Irmeli.’

‘Then Bulrushe we shall be,’ she said, bowing again. ‘And are you well, o Cat? You have slept deeply, and between the Shepherd and the healer beside you, we have seen little of you.’

‘My brother is protective of his charges, be they mortal or be they god,’ he said, because Kallamar twitched beside him. ‘I am well, thankfully, though I will ask him to make sure nothing is amiss later. Due to my state, I have not had the chance to introduce myself properly. I am Narinder, bearer of the Red Crown and god of Rebirth.’

That paused Irmeli, as well as just about every creature behind her. ‘Rebirth?’ she repeated when she’d recovered. ‘Not Death?’

‘Yes. The One Who Waits is yet the god of Death, but his is a simple end,’ Narinder said with a nod. ‘I am Death, and what is beyond it – and the return from it. It is not a domain that has existed until now, however, so I blame you not for thinking I would simply inherit his mantle. You have had little reason until a week ago to believe I lived at all, if I am correct.’

‘We have believed the Cat to be dead,’ she said, and for a moment, a recent grief haunted her gaze before fading. ‘You can imagine our elation and alarm when the Shepherd and their caravan arrived at our humble village with you unconscious. Frankly, we believed them at fault for a moment, but it was quickly apparent that they held no ill will towards you, at least in the moment.’

‘We are allied, for the time being,’ he confirmed. ‘We have a common cause, and what differences we cannot negotiate in the moment can be set aside until my former master is no longer a danger in these lands. I have secured Casket, but there is much yet to be done, so I was glad to hear that there were already those willing to hear me out.’ He looked past her to the crowd. The creatures seemed to be from all over the Lands, all kinds and types, looking at him with hope. Before today, he didn’t really remember the last time he’d had any faithful look to him with hope.

Well. Aside from Aym and Baal, or the Lamb. But that was different.

‘If you would welcome it, I would not mind telling you what has happened in the time since I escaped the One Who Waits,’ he said to Irmeli, smiling faintly again. ‘All of you. I imagine there is a great deal of curiosity.’

‘That there is, o Cat,’ she said wryly.

‘Please, I would prefer Narinder,’ he said. ‘The Cat is a title given to me to take away the power of my own name and identity. If I am to be your god, I would do so as myself.’

‘Would Lord Narinder suffice, then?’ she asked. ‘For my part, at least, I wish to honour my god and not assume familiarity unearned.’

‘If it would make you more comfortable, certainly,’ he said with a nod. ‘Should we speak in the chapel? Or is there elsewhere you would prefer to gather?’

‘The square may be better, so that more may gather,’ she said, and lifted her head to the sky. ‘The rain is a few hours off, I believe, and it is best not to tempt the curious storms that have struck in the past days. Please, follow me.’

‘Curious storms?’ Narinder asked, glancing at Kallamar beside him.

Kallamar nodded, looking uneasy. ‘They just started happening after the Shepherd brought you to the rovers,’ he explained. ‘They don’t rain, but they only happen after the rain has started. Then there’s lightning, but it’s the wrong colour, and it lasts too long. Some of it looks oily, and some of it’s red, but strange.’

Narinder raised his eyebrows. ‘Like this?’ he asked, waving his paw. Eager as it had been since he first felt it, his divinity answered, and the red magic trailed in his fingers’ wake. Shimmering and faceted; glimmering and a-glow.

‘That exactly,’ Kallamar said, watching the red with interest; he cautiously poked it with his upper right hand before it vanished, and Narinder felt the magic react in recognition. Not long enough to say the nature of recognition, but just enough to be confident it had reacted. More fuel for his theory, perhaps.

‘Then I believe the storms should no longer strike,’ he said. ‘The One Who Waits has been expelled, and I daresay it will be some time before he is willing to make another attempt.’

‘This is where we gather as a community, Lord Narinder,’ Irmeli said, catching his attention. They’d arrived at a round pavilion of stones, laid out in a spiral pattern, long ago set in place. He wondered if this was where the sheep had held their summit; if this was where Esriaal had felt they’d come into their own. There was a much newer raised platform, built of driftwood, where announcements were likely made; Narinder could tell that was where Irmeli intended him to go, so he murmured a thank you and made his way over to it.

Kind of familiar, huh?, Red asked, looking around. When Narinder borrowed its vision for a second or two, he saw that the crowd had already grown, though the small flock that had once been Esriaal’s was closest. Those were the ones he knew, so he was grateful for that.

‘That it is,’ he murmured, smiling slightly to himself. ‘Though I think we will do better than the first few times.’

What was that village’s name? Lunaka?

‘Remind me not,’ he muttered, and Red snickered at him. He hadn’t started his cult as a Bishop; that would come a few centuries in the future. He hadn’t started out with perfect skill either, only Red, who was a new Crown itself at the time. He’d had some… less than successful days, in his early years.

He reached the platform, and while he thought the others would expect him to stand, he didn’t particularly want to. It was tall enough to sit on comfortably, and so he did so, facing the rest of the square as he set Leshy on his lap. The crowd was large enough that he suspected most of the village had already heard and come over; he nodded to Heket and Kallamar, who sat next to him.

‘Do you wish to stay here?’ he asked Leshy as the members of the flock who were present sat down, used to doing so on the ground. Though it was a bit hesitant, the other cultists did the same; to his satisfaction, they didn’t keep their distance from the flock that was his now, but sat near them as if they were already one unit. He couldn’t feel the faith yet, but he could tell it would be like Tymer’s, like the embers just beginning to burn in the little flock; it was just waiting to know which god it belonged to.

‘Yeah,’ Leshy said in a tiny voice, and briefly peeked at the crowd. ‘Oh. Should I get down?’

‘You need not do so,’ Narinder said, making sure the little boy was seated comfortably. ‘You are my brother. If this is where you wish to be, then here you shall stay. Your brother and sister will stay too, I think.’

Kallamar nodded, trying to huddle into him without looking like it, and Heket signed in a way that was meant only for her three brothers. «If I’m not here, you’ll do something stupid. I have to keep an eye on you,» she said, and huffed when Narinder laughed under his breath. She didn’t say anything when he tucked his tail behind her, though.

The crowd was quieting, and so Narinder turned his attention to them. Red left his head, coiled over his shoulders, radiating satisfaction as its new red scales glittered and gleamed.

‘Good morning,’ he said, pitching his voice to carry the way he remembered. Not quite divine authority, but more than enough to be heard. ‘I am Narinder, god of Rebirth. Much has happened in the past months, and even if I knew not that your curiosity wishes to be satisfied, I think I would owe you an explanation.

‘It is the actions of my master and my own paws that have resulted in a world so cruel that you needed to flee here. It is only by those paws and my words that I can begin the work of making a better one than the one I was responsible for creating. I cannot do so alone – I will need every hand and paw, fin and claw, that is willing to work beside my own. It is only by willing faith that the world we wish for will be made. And if the One Who Waits chooses to stand in our way, then we will tear him down, and make of his bones a foundation on which to build the world anew. Will you listen?’

To his satisfaction, many among the cultists sitting were already beginning to kindle with faith. Now it was up to him to stoke that into a flame. His nature may be to destroy; perhaps calamities would forever follow in his wake.

But perhaps not. The cultists before him hoped for more. As the cultists nodded in answer and he began to speak, Narinder allowed himself to cautiously hope for the same.

Chapter Text

Narinder spoke for longer than he originally expected. It wasn’t simply because he spoke on and on, though the crowd was polite enough to let him finish his account of the past few months, as well as his battle in the aether with the One Who Waits, before they began to ask questions. Ask questions they did, however, and so he answered. Sometimes he repeated answers, but he did so patiently. The faith before him wouldn’t grow if he held his tongue.

At some point, Leshy finally grew restless enough to be willing to part from Narinder, and Heket quickly grew bored during the questions; Kallamar took Leshy with him and Heket followed, so Narinder sat alone on the platform as he continued to speak. He didn’t mind; they were children, and he had hit his stride now.

He spoke of his time in the Pastures, and his horror upon discovering the excisions. He spoke of his (comparably) short travels with the flock, seeing how it was that another faith could function without fear. He told the story of Fairswells, Tymer chiming in, though he didn’t blame Mernoan for quietly leaving. She did so without looking upset with him at the very least, so he would rather she go seek comfort away from the memory than force herself to stay.

He described fighting beside the Shepherd, and the claiming of the cycler. He was admittedly disappointed to hear it had needed to be left behind, since it was unresponsive to Esriaal, but he knew he could go and retrieve it – as it turned out, the caravan had only been a day’s travel by rover from Bulrushe.

The fight with the One Who Waits was predictably something of a favourite, and though he’d glossed over the conversation itself when discussing it with Esriaal (it had felt a touch melodramatic), it served him better to be specific now. Part of gathering a following was understanding that there would always be an element of performance, and it was admittedly a bit of an ego boost to hear his new followers approve so highly of it.

It was a familiar song and dance, from the very earliest days of his life as a god, long before he was a Bishop. It wasn’t all at once, but the knack was returning; the sincerity of it felt odd at times, given how long he’d been anything but sincere, but it was sort of like the clothes he now wore, in a strange way. New and old; more comfortable, once he was used to it. Too comfortable at times, as there were a few times where he nearly said something that might imply he was far older than the Cat was meant to be, but comfortable all the same.

It was only the growing wind and chill that signalled the oncoming rain that made him draw it to a close. He promised to speak to them all again soon – perhaps tomorrow, should he return in a timely fashion with the cycler – and watched as a crowd of smouldering, burning faith dispersed. Not everyone was convinced – around three fourths of those present, he estimated – but that was fine. He could feel the belief in his chest. It was warm and glowing. It was his.

He stood up, intending to go seek out Kallamar, but he paused as he dusted off his coat. There were two people who weren’t leaving, but instead waiting near the road to the chapel. One of them had to stand with the assistance of the other, admittedly, but they were standing.

‘Shamura,’ he said with relief, hurrying over. The purple spider was resting against Esriaal, but even though they needed the support, they were smiling at him. The bandages on their head were extensive, but their eight eyes looked lucid.

‘Brother,’ they said warmly as he reached them, their six hands all fussing over him as they did so. ‘I’m glad to see you well – we’ve feared for you.’

‘I am unharmed, at least physically,’ he reassured them. ‘I am wearier in soul, but that is no surprise. Taking on a god with a cult of a thousand years with the support of but one believer is wearying. I am simply lucky –’

Narinder turned to look at Esriaal properly, then paused. They were in the blue dress from before, the mint capelet and sash, the brass bell and ring – but more importantly, he could see their belief.

I tried to talk them out of it, Pale said tiredly from atop their head. There is a reason there was once a saying: stubborn as a ram and protective as a ewe. They live up to both, but in particular the former.

‘Is something wrong?’ Shamura asked, concerned.

‘Ah, no – I simply recalled something I had meant to discuss with them,’ Narinder said quickly. ‘It can wait, however, if the Shepherd minds not.’

‘No, this is fine,’ they said, shaking their head. ‘Family’s important. Heket and the others are waiting for you, but, um. The caravan… isn’t comfortable with you staying there for the night.’

Narinder winced. ‘I blame them not,’ he replied, trying to conceal the sting. He’d travelled alongside them; he’d protected them; but he knew that for some his current efforts would mean nothing against his past actions. ‘I take it I will stay in the house I woke up in, then?’

‘That’s probably for the best,’ Esriaal said, though they looked genuinely apologetic. ‘I’ve tried talking to them, but –’

‘Worry not,’ he interrupted. ‘It is the price of my past, and it cannot be helped. I think I am welcome here in Bulrushe, at the very least, so I will be fine.’

‘Yeah, I wouldn’t worry about it,’ Esriaal agreed. ‘You’re good at this.’

Narinder managed to successfully hide it, but his tail hooked at the end, ears beginning to relax before he controlled it. The compliment shouldn’t mean much to him; he had experience, after all, and he had been a god for so long that his was the only living memory that remembered where it started. He had no need of approval, let alone theirs. It couldn’t hurt, but it shouldn’t matter.

‘Any success is a step forward,’ he said instead, because that was better than any alternative. ‘Tomorrow I will need to go retrieve the cycler – it is too valuable to you and your mechanics to leave it behind, even if I were not attached to it. Perhaps that will give your flock time to adjust themselves more to the new status quo.’

It probably wouldn’t, they both knew, but it was better to try than to not.

‘We’ll give it a shot,’ they agreed. Then they tilted their head at him. ‘Rebirth, huh?’

‘It fits my nature better than before,’ he said with a nod.

‘How’d you come up with it?’

‘A story for another time,’ he said, shaking his head. ‘Though it is one I will tell, fear not. We must discuss some matters.’

‘About why you were suddenly asking after everyone’s ages?’ Esriaal guessed, and Narinder nodded. ‘Okay then, I’ll wait.’

‘In any case, sibling,’ Narinder said, turning his attention to Shamura again, ‘you do not appear as though you should be up and about, as of yet.’

‘I didn't wish to miss the nascence of my brother's faith,’ they replied, shaking their head, then winced at the motion. ‘Though I can’t say mine will be swayed. It isn't that I believe your domain lesser –’

‘Fear not,’ he interrupted, and Shamura let him take their middle pair of hands. After glancing around to be sure that any lingering listeners were either occupied or out of proper earshot, he continued in a quieter voice, ‘I can only speculate, but I imagine the worship of Peace grants you ease in managing your memories of War.’

Shamura smiled wryly. ‘Yes, though I see within it more than utility,’ they said. ‘It’s a future worth striving for – and an opportunity.’

This was the first Esriaal was hearing of this, judging by the quizzical look they gave Shamura. ‘What do you mean?’

‘I needed to speak to both of you,’ Shamura answered, looking between Esriaal and Narinder with a grave expression that felt out of place with the smile of before. ‘I can’t pretend to know more than gods on the affairs of gods, let alone with memories so fragmented – but I remember enough to be concerned about the path to come, and what will become of you.’

‘Become… of us?’ Esriaal said, glancing at Narinder in confusion.

‘Yes. Your future co-existence,’ Shamura said, and Narinder sighed as he realised what they were getting at.

‘The Shepherd and I have already touched on that subject, and I’ve made it clear that it is a deeply unwise decision,’ he said tactfully.

‘Oh, the pantheon thing?’ Esriaal asked, frowning.

Shamura was studying Narinder’s face carefully. ‘Tell me why it’s unwise,’ they said. ‘From what I’ve gleaned, it was a wise choice before. I can’t say as to why, as the memory has not revealed itself to me, but I know it was particularly of use to you.’

Narinder curbed his need to tense up. ‘It is complicated,’ he said, more tightly than he meant to. ‘More important than its utility, however, was the relative lack of danger. I was joining a pantheon with a stable cult of my own, and an extensive one at that. Nor was I ever at odds with you or Kallamar before that point. Neither are true in this case, and if the Shepherd and I were to attempt such a thing, it could well kill the both of us.’

‘Kill?’ Esriaal said, face alarmed.

It ties the faiths together, Red reminded them, Narinder murmuring its words to Shamura so the spider wasn’t left out of the conversation. Faith is built on belief, and we’re already in extremely unstable circumstances – Narinder has a few believers now, but that belief is built on a cause that’ll end some day. There needs to be more, so we’re in a tenuous place until we have more words and actions to back it up, doctrines and tenets and all the norms that help make a faith function. You’re going to be losing believers whether we like it or not, and word hasn’t even gotten back to your cult yet. You’re going to have a lot of followers pissed off you’re giving the Cat a chance at all. Now picture telling them that worshipping you means some of their faith goes to him, too.

Esriaal winced.

‘It would do nothing but cause even more instability in a delicate moment,’ Narinder agreed. ‘The costs far outweigh the benefits. Perhaps – perhaps – it may be a path long in the future, but not now, and likely not ever. There is no reason to risk it.’

False, Pale said flatly, making Narinder twitch in surprise, looking up at it. It is difficult, but not impossible, and it is not something that can be done far off in the future. It is not wisdom that gives you pause, it is cowardice.

‘Pale, for fuck’s sake!’ Esriaal hissed, ear flicking, expression mortified. ‘Now’s not the time, okay?’

There is no other time, Pale replied, pointed as a dagger. Were he willing to be honest, then that would be clear. What is better – to try to fit together established faiths, or graft them together from the start? It is the ‘stability’ of their individual faiths which doomed the Bishops.

‘It has nothing to do with honesty or cowardice,’ Narinder said coldly. ‘Do you truly believe it better to annihilate the faith of your own cult? Or is this meant to allow my cult to simply integrate into yours, and forever have me as a secondary god?’

Shamura was looking between the two with wariness, unable to hear Pale’s words, and Red was looking at Esriaal. Narinder had eyes only for the Crown torn out of him, glaring hard enough to wither flesh and bone. Pale was made of neither, however, and just glared back at him.

Your fear blinds you, it said sharply. You are attempting to build a flaw into the heart of your own faith, with a crack that will someday widen into a schism you will be incapable of healing on your own.

‘Meaning?’

Your identity cannot be obliterated, it snapped. Excised or not, you remain – and the One Who Waits remains part of you. The truth will someday emerge, and the lie will do great damage. You will be able to do little to mitigate it on your own. There is a narrative you may take advantage of, however, should you cast aside cowardice and choose a duality no matter the difficulty before you.

‘Okay, hold on, Pale,’ Esriaal interrupted. ‘We can talk about this later, but you need to calm down. He’s got a lot of good points, and I don’t even know if I’d actually want to do that.’

Pale chittered in frustration. Very well. He may choose cowardice and you may choose foolishness for now, it said, and Narinder grit his teeth. Sabotage yourselves all you like, I care not. I will have it known that I tried to divert the course.

Esriaal sighed, rubbing one temple. ‘Sorry about that, Shamura,’ they said, squeezing Shamura’s lowest left shoulder. ‘Just because Narinder and I are working together doesn’t, um. Doesn’t mean everything goes smoothly.’

‘So I see,’ they said sympathetically. ‘If that’s not a path you’re choosing, very well. But I’m still a herder, and I do need to know what to tell the flock who remain.’

‘Tell them what we have said before,’ Narinder said. ‘We are in an alliance, so long as our goals are aligned, and intend to remain amicable when our goal is achieved. They are welcome in my territory, and as Bulrushe is a liminality of the Shepherd’s, they are most assuredly welcome here.’

‘But this place does belong to your cult,’ Esriaal said.

‘It may be best to at least establish a point of shared safety, then,’ Shamura offered. ‘I shouldn’t travel, not for some time, and if this liminality grows in strength, then perhaps it could become a more permanent waystation. Having presided in some capacity in both your faiths, in one way or another, I would ask to help establish it here.’

‘That would be of great use, I think,’ he said, then looked at Esriaal. ‘Assuming your god agrees?’

‘I think that would be great,’ Esriaal said, and beamed up at Shamura. They could insist their figments were exactly the same as they were, he thought as Shamura smiled back and murmured their thanks, but Esriaal really was different in person. There was a brightness to them that their figments couldn’t fully carry; there was a sincerity to their expressions and motions that simply didn’t translate into their dreams.

He could understand why they wanted to keep the true nature of their figments secret. If any of their followers learned that there was a central Esriaal and the others were facsimiles, Narinder didn’t doubt that all of the followers would swiftly come to the same conclusion he had, and prefer the true Esriaal to the figments they put out into the world.

‘We should discuss this with Madam Irmeli, when you have rested again,’ Narinder said, and Shamura nodded. The movement was careful, a grimace crossing their face. ‘Come, sibling, we should go see Kallamar – I know he wishes to check on me. Once that is done, I will make plans with the Shepherd to borrow one of their rovers in order to retrieve my cycler in the morning.’

‘I’ll talk to the twins, they share their rover with Tymer and Mernoan so it’s essentially your rover now,’ Esriaal agreed. ‘We’ll need to figure out a better fuel source than your blood for it, though.’

All eight of Shamura’s eyebrows shot up at that. ‘Your blood?’ they said in the strongest, most disapproving eldest-sibling’s tone he’d heard in millennia. ‘You can’t mean that you’re using your own blood for that cycler?’

‘Oops,’ Esriaal said innocently. ‘Well, I should go start talking to Hetty and Julto!’

‘You are a traitor and a coward,’ he hissed at them under his breath before he could think better of it, and barely controlled his wince as soon as he heard his own words. The anger wasn’t sincere – far from it – but Esriaal still twitched, eyes going wide, the gold of their false eye dull beside the flinching dark iris of their living eye. It wasn’t as if they’d know the difference, after all; the words might as well have been spoken by a much larger voice indeed, for all that Narinder hadn’t intended to say anything even close to how sharp that had sounded. ‘I, ah. Apologies,’ he said, ears flat. ‘That was not meant… regardless. I should go.’

‘Right,’ they said faintly, and Narinder took over supporting Shamura from them before leaving the square behind, tail twitching in mortification.

‘Still a far way to go, I see,’ Shamura said diplomatically once the two of them were out of earshot.

‘Yes,’ he said shortly, because he just wanted to get away from the slip up as quickly as possible.  ‘Direct me to where Kallamar is most likely to be, please.’

Shamura sighed pityingly, and Narinder ignored it, much like he ignored the gaze he could still feel on his back.

Now that Casket was his, it was infinitely more pleasant to be in, Narinder thought as the breeze slipped along, the rover trundling beneath him as it travelled back towards the place where the flock had camped a week ago. Though he was still cautious enough to insist on taking watch on the roof, he knew in the heart of him that they were safe.

Admittedly, there was – perhaps – a part of him that missed the way he’d last travelled in the open air, but he was trying to not acknowledge the specific reason why. There was little reason to dwell on the journey of before; it had been a necessity and nothing more. It wouldn’t be repeated, particularly as Esriaal had properly returned to the Pastures that morning, allowing a figment to take their place. When he returned with the cycler in the evening, Narinder would join Irmeli, Shamura, and Esriaal to discuss the future of Bulrushe, but he wasn’t looking forward to it. It wasn’t even the figment. Or mostly not. 

Pale's vehemence of the day before had continued to bother him, all through Kallamar's check up, meeting again with Tymer and the others for an evening meal, then retreating to the little house when there was nothing else left to do. He’d proceeded to spend several hours bored out of his mind until he managed to sleep. It had been a relief to leave on the rover, following a brief but awkward farewell before Esriaal left as well. Though a few of the flock remained who wished to stay with Shamura (as did his siblings), most left with their Shepherd, and both Esriaal and Narinder knew what that meant.

All the while Pale scowled at Narinder, and he knew it was only a matter of time before it returned to its argument for a possible pantheon. A duality, at any rate.

It had called him a coward, but Narinder knew that he was right. Pale no doubt believed that the end result would be a simple twining of faiths, but Narinder’s was too new – too unstable – to not be subsumed into the faith of the Shepherd. He would be derivative, and everything he wanted to build would be an extension of their Peace. Narinder could see the appeal of peace, he really could. That didn’t mean it was in his nature, and he would have to figure out how to communicate that being at peace wasn’t the same as worshipping Peace, and that one could have stability while still worshipping Rebirth in its stead.

They couldn’t be a duality, and Narinder wouldn’t allow it to happen. Too much depended on this to allow himself to be made lesser (to say nothing of his pride.)

‘Hey, Narinder!’ he heard called from below, and he leaned down over the side to see Tymer hanging out of the driver’s side. ‘We’re just about to where we were camping, but the Shepherd said it was a bit farther?’

‘Yes,’ Narinder replied, seeing the space where the rovers had sat days ago, coming up quickly. ‘Red should know the way back.’

‘Alright. Want us to wait here for you?’

‘It should not be long, so yes,’ he said, and waited for the rover to come to a stop before swinging down in one fluid motion. At the same time, Red changed to its serpent form, the red glittering in the weak sunlight. ‘I will return.’

‘Good, because your family will kill me otherwise,’ Tymer said, shaking her head. Fegreno, sitting on the passenger’s side, nodded in grave agreement.

‘That, I cannot argue,’ Narinder said wryly. ‘Red, if you would?’

This way, it said, making its way towards the tall grass, slithering through the air. It had been subdued since the argument with Pale, but when Narinder nudged it mentally, it returned an apologetic impression of ‘later’. There was a melancholy to its response that concerned him, but there was little he could do about it at the moment, and Red sent him its gratitude when he just nodded and followed.

It wasn’t a long walk, thankfully, and he soon reached the small clearing where he and Esriaal had been sitting. The cycler was precisely where he left it, but this time, he didn’t have to touch it to wake it up; as soon as he stepped into the clearing, he blinked as the black metal quite literally lit up, a red, almost shimmering glow blossoming to life beneath the matte finish. He and Red traded mental glances, but when he cautiously reached out to touch the cycler, all it did in response was that magical, silent purr.

‘I still know not why it is reacting in this way,’ he said as he took a moment to look the machine over, to ensure it hadn’t suffered too much from the weather it had endured over the past week. ‘I cannot see why it would do so. There is nothing in the magical construction that would direct it to act in such a way.’

You did change it a bit when you convinced it to be safe, Red reminded him. It had its own curiosity, however, he could feel it. I think it must have been more than that – its nature was changed. Reborn, maybe. Things are going to react to you in new ways, particularly if they have this much of your divinity.

‘I think it is still a fusion of the two divinities,’ he said, and held out his paw to Red. Red obligingly turned into a dagger and cut his palm, which Narinder set atop the fuel tank so the cycler could refuel itself. ‘I know not what the long term effects would be.’

If we’re going with the rebirth theory –

‘The theory that just occurred to you, so I assumed.’

– hush – then it’s not like it’s completely remade, Red pointed out, rolling its eye up at him as it returned to its serpent form. The experience of the past would carry forward. I don’t think it’s a bad thing, anyway. It flat out refused to move for Esriaal, even to help move you. If you’re not driving it, I don’t think it wants anything to do with anyone else.

The cycler’s magic was sated, so Narinder pulled his paw away, shaking it out. It would heal in a few minutes anyway. Its engine was quiet, all but purring again, and he was about to swing a leg over it when he realised something was different. ‘There were two wheels in the back, yes?’ he said uncertainly, looking at the back tire. He was sure there had been two a few minutes past, at least, but now there was one. The cycler just seemed satisfied when he prodded the magic cautiously.

It changed shape when we were escaping Filiakvo, too, Red said. Not this much, but hopefully you can maintain the balance with just two wheels.

Narinder huffed, but Red had a point. ‘It is good then that I have a few moments before we will have any witnesses,’ he sighed as Red returned to sit atop his head. He got onto the cycler with a bit of a hop, the way he’d tentatively learned in the short time he’d had it – and almost immediately started to tip over to the side before hastily catching himself. ‘Do not,’ he warned before Red could do more than snicker at him. ‘Unless you wish to drive, which you cannot, then you may reserve your judgement.’

It’s not my fault my shape doesn’t have thumbs, Red huffed. Unless I’m gauntlets. And you have to wear me for that.

‘My apologies,’ Narinder said with an eyeroll as he rebalanced the cycler and cautiously guided it forward. It was a bit wobbly, but respectable enough, he thought. ‘And who was it who chose your organic shape, again? I seem to have forgotten.’

It was thematic, Red sulked. I chose better than the others did. Mine is creative .

‘I cannot recall the others,’ Narinder admitted, thinking back but quickly refocussing on the cycler when he wobbled again. It would be an adjustment, he thought, but a part of him did prefer the idea of this silhouette. ‘They did not often take their organic shapes. I know not why you have chosen the habit so often of late, come to think of it.’

Red was quiet for a moment. Uncomfortable. Well. The One Who Waits told me not to, it said, and Narinder was so taken off guard that he almost activated the cycler’s brake function. I was supposed to be a Crown, after all. It gets kind of dull, though, so I’m enjoying it. Unless –?

‘No, no,’ Narinder said hastily when he realised what it meant. ‘I mind not the shape you take, Red. I was only curious.’

Red hummed an agreement, but when it changed the subject, Narinder didn’t stop it. The others didn’t use them often for the same reason, in a way. I think it was because I was near Ivory for so long, so it became a preference when I had the opportunity. That’s all. Green was a luna moth; Yellow was a poison dart frog; Purple was some kind of spider, a recluse I think; and Blue was a blue-ringed octopus. They all chose to resemble their bearers in one way or another. I wanted to be different from you. A snake seemed right.

Narinder weighed asking the question, since he could see the rover now, but his curiosity got the better of him the way it often did. ‘I know not the animal Pale becomes,’ he said. ‘Ivory must have chosen it, yes?’

No, Red replied, a quiet, bitter sorrow beneath the word. Narinder frowned slightly. I don’t know what Pale is now, either – some kind of hare, but not one I’ve ever seen. Ivory never got to have a form of any kind, organic or Crown or otherwise, but I know what it wanted to choose.

‘Which was?’

A sable, Red replied. A bone-white sable. The contrast made it laugh.

‘I see,’ Narinder said, and let it go. The bitter sorrow was growing, and he could tell that any further questions would start to make Red dwell on hurts it didn’t need to at the moment. Instead, he just focussed on coming to a stop beside the rover.

Tymer whistled, and he remembered that she was the one who’d come along to supervise Heket’s work with the rovers. Given how she was eyeing the cycler, he suspected she was itching to pull it apart as much as Heket would be. ‘Now that’s a machine,’ she said admiringly, hopping out of the rover, and Narinder obligingly got off the cycler so she could look at it. ‘The Shepherd said the others melted?’

‘This one is safe,’ Narinder assured her. ‘It is loyal to me and my nature; it would be safe for an ally to touch, let alone one of my followers.’

She nodded, though her first touch was ginger. To his surprise, the cycler responded to her properly – it was wary, but it recognised the little flame of faith within her. Tymer blinked, and there was a tiny touch of red opalescence to her eyes when she looked at him with surprise. ‘Uh. Am I supposed to just know how to drive it?’ she said uncertainly.

‘I know not,’ he admitted, patting the cycler reflexively. ‘It was of the One Who Waits’ make, so there is much I know not of its workings. I did not expect it to react to you in such a way. Are you familiar with the Shepherd’s cyclers?’

‘Only a little, I’ve never been over to Caynero,’ she said, shaking her head. ‘They’re still being tested – they’ve mainly been used as emergencies when a flock is attacked, so one person is guaranteed to get away.’

‘Ah,’ Narinder said, looking away. He hadn’t known they’d have such a purpose; he supposed he’d just thought it was another form of travel. ‘Well. We shall have to test this. I have no intention of having it pulled apart, but the hope is that it will perhaps help the Shepherd refine theirs, given the One Who Waits appears to have taken the idea and adapted it himself. We have not the time for a driving test, but – Fegreno?’

‘Oh! Uh. Yes, sir?’ he asked nervously.

Narinder bit back his sigh. ‘Fegreno. You know me, do you not?’ he asked, and Fegreno nodded, wings shuffling with his uncertainty. ‘I cannot say I intend to have informality in all things, but we have travelled together. You may choose me to be your god, but you know me still. Does the Shepherd not have those they speak candidly with?’

‘Not many,’ Tymer said, and he glanced at her. ‘They’re friendly, but they’re always… yeah. Though I guess it’s different with their disciples.’

‘I see,’ Narinder said, but now that she mentioned it, even with their disciples, Esriaal seemed to have no little caution. Puarjul had seemed to be the sole exception, come to think of it; she had mentioned that Esriaal took her in, alongside a few others. ‘Regardless,’ he continued, ‘we have travelled together. You need not fear that I will command anything but the respect I already expected.’

In response, Tymer punched him in the shoulder. Narinder jumped and whipped his head around, indignantly hissing at her, ‘Is there a reason for that?!’

‘See?’ Tymer said, unfazed. ‘I’m not being smited, am I?’

‘You could stand to have a little more respect,’ he said, glaring at her.

Tymer gave him a look. ‘Sure, but are you going to make me?’ she asked, and he hesitated. ‘Because you could. But I don’t think that’s what you want.’

He huffed, looking away, ears tilted back. ‘It is not, no,’ he said tightly. ‘Though I would thank you to choose a less disrespectful way to show so.’

‘Then next time I will,’ she said, and seemed contrite when he turned back. ‘Sorry. I just thought it would help, but…’

He sighed. ‘It is not as if that would be an easy task one way or another, but I will forgive you, so long as it is not a tactic repeated.’

‘You got it,’ she said, and held out her paw. Narinder shook it, and something about the exchange felt nice, even as something still prickled in his gut over the indignity of the address. ‘So, Fegreno, get down here. It’s still just Narinder.’

‘Alright,’ Fegreno said, and the sand piper’s expression was at least a little more relaxed this time. Narinder had the feeling that if he did this right, Tymer was going to be a very good disciple indeed. Fegreno hopped down with a little flutter of wings, grimacing but letting his wings do the work of balance while landing, then walked over. ‘What do you need me to do?’ he asked Narinder.

‘For the moment, simply touch the cycler,’ Narinder said. ‘I wish to see if it responds to you as it did Tymer.’

Fegreno nodded and placed his hand on the handle. The cycler’s response was weaker, little more than acknowledgement, but while his faith was a touch stronger now, Fegreno’s faith was still smaller than Tymer’s. He did look up at Narinder, however. ‘Is it supposed to feel aware? It feels like it’s looking at me, kind of.’

‘It feels aware to me, so I will say yes. It is not the same reaction, but it is good to know that it reacts to faith in me at all,’ Narinder said. Then he started to rub one temple before stopping himself. ‘I shall ride it beside the cycler as we return, so that I may be more used to it, but I expect the two of you to hold your tongues should anything less than dignified occur during the process.’

‘Understood, sir,’ Fegreno said, dipping his head. Narinder decided that as long as he wasn’t acting like a groveller, he could speak the way that made him most comfortable.

‘I won’t say a word,’ Tymer said. ‘I might laugh though.’

‘Then I do not doubt you shall do so in unison with my Crown,’ he said, resigned to it. ‘Shall we?’

Tymer nodded and climbed back into the rover, helping Fegreno up on the other side, and Narinder sat astride the cycler once more. When the rover began to move, Narinder moved with it, and hoped he didn’t make a complete fool of himself.

The return trip to Bulrushe was thankfully uneventful, though Narinder did wobble dangerously several times as he got used to the balance. The sky was darkening by the time they returned, which was more or less what he’d hoped for; a rover that didn’t need to worry about caution was more than able to keep up with a measured pace on the cycler, and so they made good time. The village was in the mid-evening hush of the dinner hour, but Esriaal had mentioned that they’d be eating with Irmeli and Shamura in the side room of the chapel before they began talking, so Narinder murmured a farewell to Tymer and Fegreno before they returned to the caravan. To Tymer in particular, he promised to tell her what had happened in the morning, then parked his cycler in front of the little house that he’d been staying in.

The chapel was small and humble as he approached it, as could be expected, but it was still in the familiar strict lines of his cult’s architecture (his former cult, that was.) He wasn’t sure if the distaste he could feel was just from bias against the One Who Waits or genuine dislike, but it was distaste all the same. He remembered the cathedrals and churches that were throughout the land as he climbed the steps to the chapel’s front door. The most luxurious of them were downright ostentatious, he thought, but not in a way he liked on reflection. Too exact; too rigid.

We can redecorate over time, Red said. I like some of it. The crystals especially. Maybe we can find some opals, eventually. What do you think?

‘I think that even if we cannot find opals, I would not mind weaving more magic into the construction,’ he mused, opening the door.

What, like the cycler?

‘Of course not,’ he said, amused at the thought. ‘Were anything to happen, would the buildings not simply –’

‘I suggest you rephrase that.’

Both Narinder and Red flinched as Esriaal’s voice rumbled out from deeper within the chapel. The outrage was so palpable that Narinder could all but feel it in the air.

Shit, said Red, but Narinder didn’t reply, hastily entering the chapel and shutting the door behind him. He hurried down the narrow aisle and passed the cramped pews, able to hear the raised voices more clearly as he rushed towards the back. He followed his ears off to the right, finding a heavy door that was closed, but there was a flickering light beneath. Moreover, he could hear Irmeli and Shamura’s voices competing to be heard.

‘–annot simply expect us to accept this!’ Irmeli was shouting.

At the same time, Shamura was saying ‘–sn’t a claim! You can’t just speak for him!’

Narinder took hold of the doorknob, in his haste noting too late that it was locked. The internal lock mechanism snapped under the force of the turn, but he was already yanking the door open.

Inside, standing around a table with the remains of an interrupted dinner, were Irmeli and Shamura, as he’d expected. While the figment of Esriaal’s presence wasn’t a surprise either, what he hadn’t expected was to see an Esriaal currently aglow, gold static sparking off their wool, hands in fists and expression infuriated. All three whipped around at the unexpected opening of the door.

‘Oh thank the Beyond,’ Irmeli said before Esriaal or Shamura could speak, already hurrying around the table to reach Narinder. ‘Please, Lord Narinder, you must make the Shepherd see sense – both they and their flock’s herder know not what they are asking.’

‘Tell me what is going on,’ he said neutrally, quashing the instinct to side with Esriaal and Shamura. It wasn’t an instinct the Narinder of several months past could have imagined, but he needed to stand on his own again, and that meant hearing things out before letting his instincts guide him.

‘They are trying to claim Bulrushe is not yours,’ Irmeli explained, smoothing down her feathers, calming herself down. ‘That they wish to have their herder take a place of leadership here, and develop Bulrushe under their own vision.’

‘That isn’t what I said at all!’ Esriaal snapped, sparks flickering brighter. Narinder ignored the familiar twitch below his waist; he would have to get used to ignoring the involuntary reaction eventually. ‘For fuck’s sake, I’m telling you that Bulrushe is my liminality! That doesn’t mean Casket isn’t Narinder’s!’

‘You cannot claim what we have built!’ Irmeli replied, feathers puffing up again. ‘I know not what you mean by ‘liminality’, save what the Cat described yesterday, but whatever it is, I shall not allow our hard work to be swept aside in your ambitions!’

‘What the hell are you talking about?! Ambitions?!’ Esriaal said, looking apocalyptic. ‘You just admitted you don’t even know what a liminality is, and you won’t let me explain!’

‘Shepherd, please calm yourself,’ Shamura said, their own expression furious, but alarm was far more prominent. ‘We can’t convince her of our good intentions if we’re all arguing, you know this –’

‘You heard what she said! She doesn’t want to be ‘convinced’, Shamura, she wants –’

‘Stop, all of you!’ Narinder cut through, and Esriaal turned their glare on him. ‘Shamura, you are the calmest. Explain what has happened.’

‘Lord Narinder –’ Irmeli started to protest, but shut up when Narinder lifted his hand.

‘Shamura, please,’ he said again, and they inclined their head.

‘The Shepherd explained their hope that I could stay here as their representative in a joined space,’ Shamura said, picking their words carefully. ‘Madam Irmeli began to protest, and we were discussing the issue when the Shepherd attempted to explain the reasoning, with regards to the liminality. Madam Irmeli took offence at the idea and has refused to entertain it, meaning we’ve, ah. Traded some harsh words.’

‘Harsh words doesn’t cover it,’ Esriaal added coldly, their glare once more directed at Irmeli. ‘She said the flock had until tomorrow to leave or, and I quote, ‘We will defend our home from the heretics in the name and fashion of our god’.’

Narinder slowly looked at Irmeli. She looked back at him, expression pleading.

‘This is where we have fled, o Cat,’ she said, eyes searching his. ‘We have fled the One Who Waits and his excisions – and we know well the ‘mercy’ of the Shepherd. They have killed countless soldiers who were protecting us –’

‘They were slaughtering my flocks!’

‘– and what of the Hollowing?!’ Irmeli demanded from Esriaal, who flinched. ‘What of those many you slaughtered with nothing but a light? I was but a cygnet then, but I remember! Naraka remembers! The Cat must have been a child then, too, before the One Who Waits chose him as his vessel – do not pretend your hands are bloodless, simply because you left them breathing!’

Narinder had forgotten. It had been at the beginning, and a mere annoyance then, one more or less put out of his mind instantly. Now that he thought about it, he’d heard it called the Hollowing on occasion, but he had no memory of uttering those words before.

‘That – that was completely different,’ Esriaal retorted, but they were off balance, now, the sparks dying down as they tried to find their footing once more.

‘How so? How many families were ruined then? How much sorrow did you inflict?’ Irmeli said ruthlessly, left wing beginning to extend a bit, her right wing twitching even though it was crooked. ‘How many soldiers have never come home? How many of our faithful have you stolen and lied to, coaxed over to your kindly lies and left to perish at the hands of their brothers and sisters –’

‘Enough.’

Narinder was shaking. When Irmeli turned, she flinched, taking a step back. Narinder didn’t know what he looked like, but he knew Red was rearing up from his shoulder, fangs bared and red rings shimmering with a heat haze.

‘Do you hear your own words,’ he asked, voice deadly calm. ‘Do you know what you are saying?’

‘You fought them for decades,’ Irmeli said, wings huddled against her body. ‘You know better than anyone the atrocities they have committed, o Cat –’

‘Evidently you do not,’ he interrupted. ‘If you did, you would have held your tongue. Have you spent so long swallowing the poison poured down your throat that you have come to enjoy the taste? You appear to have fled the One Who Waits, but you cling to his convictions.’

‘You cannot be serious!’ Irmeli said, eyes wide. The flame of belief within her was weaker than some but present, and so Narinder had paid it no particular attention; not until now, when it was beginning to die down. ‘What have they done to you, o Cat, that you forget the horrors by their hands?’

‘I said no such thing,’ Narinder replied, reining in the godly anger; he had to be controlled. He had to be balanced. He could do this, he’d done this before, he could do it again. ‘I am not oblivious to the damage dealt, to the faith we both once shared and to the faithful of the Shepherd. You cannot give sympathy to one and withold it from the other, Madam Irmeli. You cannot hold one atrocity over the others.’

‘Nothing would have come of this had they stayed their hand! It is for the Hollowing’s sake that the One Who Waits took revenge –’

‘Which of the two of us was closest to the One Who Waits, Madam Irmeli?’ Narinder snapped at her. ‘He would have chosen a vessel to annihilate the Shepherd whether they’d destroyed those soldiers or not. I was there, as were you, but I remember it more clearly, it seems. Those who attacked the Shepherd were the ones hollowed out, and they attacked on the orders of the One Who Waits. That makes the loss no less tragic, but you cannot discard context for sake of your own comfort. The Shepherd’s actions were their own. They do not justify what has followed.’

‘You will defend them,’ Irmeli whispered, her faith dwindling more by the second. ‘They killed those you once fought to protect, and now you will defend them. What has become of you, o Cat?’

‘I will not allow the poison of the One Who Waits to persist in the cult of Narinder,’ he said, ears tilting back, tail beginning to twitch. ‘Not the Cat. Narinder.’

‘Is it?’ she asked, faith almost vanished, a deep rot in the heart of it beginning to fester faster than he’d ever known. Dissent. ‘Or is it simply the Shepherd with another’s face? We believed the Cat to have perished, head held high until the end – but instead, he has simply found a new master to grovel before.’

Narinder hissed at her before he could stop himself, hands in fists so tight his claws were piercing his palms. Once, the shadows might have loomed in his rage; now, that heat haze was spreading, emanating from more than Red’s red rings. His forearms felt hot under the fur, the old scars beginning to ache.

‘I bow my head to no one,’ he snarled at her as she took a hasty step back. ‘Not the Shepherd, not the One Who Waits, and certainly not to you and the false idol you have made of me.’

‘That is not what I meant, o Cat –’

‘My name is Narinder,’ he reminded her sharply. ‘I am not the Cat. The Shepherd is not my master. And you are no longer welcome here.’

She flinched. ‘What?!’

Narinder, hold on, Red said, alarmed, but he ignored it.

‘You are no longer welcome here,’ he repeated, scowling harder. ‘Let me be clear, Madam Irmeli: the Shepherd is an ally, because we have a greater danger. That danger is the One Who Waits, the cruel reign he seeks to strangle these lands with, and those who wilfully align themselves with that rancid cause. Either you relinquish those convictions, or you are no devotee of mine – and you will relinquish nothing.’

‘I have built this village from nothing!’ she shouted at him, fear and rage on her face, the latter overpowering the former. ‘I have built the cult of the Cat from naught but refugees and the legends of your victories – I am the one who welcomed the Shepherd in for your sake, it is your title on the tongues of the people here, and you accuse me of lacking devotion?!’

‘Your devotion is to a reality that is untrue,’ he returned. ‘I am not the Cat you have idolised; this is the reality you must accept now, or be cast out. Choose. Quickly.’

‘Do you think the people here will follow you if you cast me out?!’ she said, desperation quickly growing on her face. ‘Do you think they will see in you a saviour when you choose the Shepherd and their cult over your own?’

‘Those of faith – those who see in Rebirth a future and not a ruin – will remain,’ he replied. ‘If you will not, then those who follow you and your false idol will leave.’

‘You will abandon us to the One Who Waits?’ she asked, eyes beginning to tear up. ‘You claim him to be the cruel one, but you only condone his cruelty should you leave us at his mercy!’

Narinder hesitated, a falter in his anger staying his voice, and it was there that either Esriaal or Shamura could get a word in edgewise. Shamura was the one who spoke.

‘Then you may depart the Lands of the Old Faith,’ they said, and when Narinder looked over at them in surprise, Shamura was watching Esriaal with a hopeful gaze. They’d been buying their god time to calm down, judging by the fading flickers of static.

‘It’s a one time offer,’ Esriaal agreed, much calmer. When Narinder glanced up to see what Pale was doing, he realised the Crown wasn’t on their head. ‘One time passage to a place across the sea, where the One Who Waits’ faith hasn’t taken hold. If you make trouble, we’ll hear about it – but if you’re smart, he won’t.’

‘Shepherd,’ Narinder said cautiously.

It was Pale’s voice that answered, Esriaal and Irmeli locked in a staring contest. He still didn’t know where Pale was, but its voice was clear.

We will move them via rover, and they will stay inside the whole time, Pale explained. They will not be in the Pastures for more than a moment, and the likelihood that they will be able to tell the difference is unlikely, if we take them to Belemen.

‘And how are we to know you will not simply kill us when we are there?’ Irmeli finally said.

‘You’ll have to trust my word on it,’ Esriaal replied with a shrug. ‘That’s your choice. And Narinder’s. You might have pissed him off enough that he’ll let the One Who Waits have you.’

‘No, I will not,’ Narinder said, recovering at last. ‘If you are offering them passage, then I ask you to bring them to the safest place you may. Belemen, perhaps.’

‘Good plan,’ they said with a nod, as if Pale hadn’t said as much. ‘Belemen’s not in good shape right now, but there’s plenty of space to settle down. Maybe even another ruined town you can build on top of and pretend is yours. So?’

Irmeli said nothing, then looked at Narinder. Her faith was entirely gone. ‘Fine,’ she said tightly. ‘And in the meantime, I see the Shepherd will take possession of the town?’

‘No,’ Narinder replied. ‘Madam Irmeli, stay here and discuss with the Shepherd the plans for your departure. You will be doing so by tomorrow afternoon, the morning after at the latest. I will go and speak to the devotees and present them the offer, and discuss among my faithful who will take your place as the leader of Bulrushe. They will hopefully be more tolerable of reality than you. Shamura, with me, please.’

‘Of course, brother,’ Shamura said, Esriaal nodding at their glance. They walked across the now-silent kitchen, stepping through the door, and Narinder followed them. Just before he closed the door behind him, a shadow slipped out; when he and Shamura began to walk between the pews, Pale was hopping along beside them. None of them spoke; it was only when they came to a stop in front of the door to the outside that anyone said anything.

‘Brother,’ Shamura said, and his eyes closed tightly.

‘I know,’ he answered.

‘That was not…’

‘I know, sibling, I assure you.’

‘Narinder.’

‘Do not,’ he warned, taking a deep breath. ‘It is done. Now I must clean up the mess I have made.’

Two days. All it had taken for him to break what was an unimaginable gift – the incredible fortune of a cult that was waiting for him – was two days. All because he couldn’t control his anger. His guilt.

He blinked his eyes open in surprise when Shamura hugged him without warning, their two upper pairs of arms wrapping around him. ‘I don’t have all the memories I would need to understand how to help you,’ they said quietly as he cautiously returned the hug. ‘Sometimes I think that is a blessing. I don’t ever want to be the spider I remember, for all that I know I don’t know who they were. Not truly.’

‘You need not feel responsible to help me,’ he said. ‘This is something I must do alone. This task falls to me, and I must do better; you need not be War to remind me of such.’

‘Is that what you expect to hear, little brother?’ they said, and sounded… sad.

‘I know not what you mean, sibling.’

‘I’m not scolding you,’ they said, and he blinked. ‘I am angry myself, but not at you. I don’t believe this was the wisest decision, but it’s been made, and now we handle it. Can I not comfort my brother? Do you think that comfort can only come with criticism?’

His ears tilted back. ‘I need no pity, either,’ he said, embarrassed, cursing himself, soul trying to curl up away from the idea and just how pathetic it sounded. ‘It is the nature of things. I have made a mistake, and I need no coddling.’

‘The Shepherd spoke to me some, while we waited to know if you would live,’ Shamura said.

‘What does that have to do with this?’

‘I’m one of two people outside of yourselves who fully understands what is happening,’ they reminded him. ‘They have few people they can turn to for comfort, themself. They needed to speak, and so I listened; they’re my god, and I consider the knowledge they gifted to me as sacred. I’ll keep much of it to myself for that reason, but I think they will forgive me this.’

‘You need not tell me anything, sibling. We should go.’

‘You were not so cruel then, the way your other half has become now,’ they said anyway, and Narinder pulled away from the hug, confused.

‘When?’ he asked, guarded. Then he flinched as they replied,

‘When you were in chains. Near the end.’

‘I have no wish to hear this,’ he said roughly, but they shook their head.

‘It’s what the Shepherd told me,’ they explained, and took his paws in their middle pair of hands, then laid their top pair of hands atop his. ‘You weren’t cruel, even after all you suffered. Not to them. They fell many times, at the hands of heretics and monsters and dangers, and even our own hands. And each time, you resurrected them and gave them comfort. Didn’t you?’

‘It was not the same,’ he said, refusing to look at Shamura.

‘You couldn’t embrace them, no. But you told them each time that it didn’t matter that they’d fallen. They were standing again, and they could try again.’ After a moment of thought, Shamura added, ‘‘Continue on, undaunted. Each time you are brought down, you rise again stronger.’ That’s one of the things they told me you would say.’

Narinder was wordless. He didn’t resist when Shamura turned his face to look at them, their bottom left hand gentle.

‘You knew the sound of comfort without judgement, once, even when you could’ve become what the One Who Waits is now, instead,’ they said gently. ‘Can you not hear it now? I’m not your god, little brother, but I am your family. This is not the end of the world. You have sincere believers out there, and you have us here. You will fix this.’ Then they smiled, the way their former self always had once they knew they had him dead to rights and found an argument he couldn’t get around. ‘You’re the one who claimed you would need every hand and paw, fin and claw, willing to work beside yours. You don’t get to turn away the willing when you’ve already asked for their help.’

He huffed. ‘You may not have their memories, but you have certainly kept some of their most frustrating conversational habits,’ he muttered, and Shamura laughed under their breath. ‘I… yes, sibling. I apologise for this.’

‘Apologise for nothing,’ they said affectionately, letting go of his hands but patting his head. ‘Where should we start? I’ve become friendly with some of the cult here, if you need my aid.’

‘I will,’ he admitted. ‘Are there any that you can think of who have a natural lean towards leadership? It would be best to appoint a leader in Irmeli’s place who is from here, rather than one of the former flock.’

‘Yes. There is one,’ she said with a nod. ‘He returned this morning – he’d left with a few others to go seek information on one matter or another. Irmeli was the first to come to Bulrushe, so I’ve suspected that was the only reason she’s been the leader. Ratau wished to speak to you himself as soon as – brother?’

‘Ratau?’ Narinder repeated weakly.

‘Do you know him?’ Shamura asked, tilting their head.

Fucking Rebirth, Red said wearily. Ask them how old he is.

‘How old is this Ratau?’ Narinder asked, and Shamura blinked.

‘Ah. I’m not sure – he seems to have lived a hard life, and is perhaps aged beyond his years. Sixty or so, perhaps?’

That’s before the Cat was introduced, Red said, so maybe the fracture was deepening earlier than we thought.

‘I see,’ Narinder said, collecting himself. ‘It is complicated, but I do not believe I have met him. You said he wished to speak to me?’

‘Yes. Him and his brother, Ratoo.’ Shamura considered him for a long moment. ‘You have not met him this time, then?’

He smiled wryly. ‘Perhaps,’ he said. ‘Please, ask him and his brother to meet me in front of the home I’ve been staying in. While he and I meet, I ask you to spread the word that I wish to gather everyone in the square, as there have been developments and plans must be made.’

‘Then I will do so,’ Shamura said, opening the door. He followed them outside, and tried to brace himself for the sight of his former vessel.

Chapter Text

Ratau was jarringly familiar as he made his way over to the steps Narinder was sitting on. He wasn't as old as he'd been when Narinder had sent him to guide Esriaal in the early development of the cult, but this Ratau was aged beyond his years from the look of it. His left eye was hidden beneath a patch, and he walked with a walking stick (albeit one much more finished than the simple stick he'd used so long ago.) Beside him, only marginally older, was his brother Ratoo; the elder rat was injured in some way, given how he leaned on Ratau despite Ratau's own need for a walking stick.

Narinder stood up and walked down the steps, because he wasn't going to make the two of them stand (given what he was about to ask Ratau to do, at the very least, it was better to be considerate). 'Good evening,' Narinder said.

'And to you, Lord Narinder,' Ratau returned in kind, smiling warmly. 'We're pleased you asked to see us so quickly, though I see the others are gathering in the square?'

Straight to the point, Narinder could see. Some things didn't change. 'Yes. I am afraid there has been, ah… a change in leadership,' he said, and Ratau's eyebrow shot up. Narinder couldn't see if the second eyebrow did the same, behind its patch. 'There are differences between Madam Irmeli and I that cannot be reconciled, and are both intolerable to me and perilous to the future of the cult itself.'

After a second of stunned shock, Ratau and Ratoo sighed in unison. 'And I'm guessing you came to Ratau to take her place?' Ratoo said. His voice was strained and wheezing, as if speaking through lungs riddled with holes.

'Yes,' Narinder said, not seeing the point in hedging around it. 'You two seem weary, and we have a few minutes more – you can sit if you need it.'

'No, if we sit we won't be getting back up for a while,' Ratau said wryly, shaking his head. 'I'll give it to you straight, Lord Narinder – we've only been back for a while, and I don't like that you saw fit to get rid of one of your most faithful out of the blue.'

Narinder knew that this was a Ratau reborn, but in the back of his head, he was relieved so little seemed to have changed. Ratau’s frankness had always been one of his best assets, whether he was using it in earnest or to bluff in one of his many gambling streaks. He’d been a personable sort, enough so that even when he faltered and returned the Crown, Narinder had allowed him to live despite his failure. Ratau had been a faithful creature until his death, some years before the One Who Waits was freed; Narinder had been fond of him, in his way. If any former vessel were to lead this new cult with this new domain, Narinder thought Ratau might well be the best for the job. Now he just needed to convince the old rat of that.

'She was perhaps the most faithful of the Cat, I grant you,' he replied, and Ratau tilted his head, frowning. 'She had decided beforehand who the Cat was, as well as her belief in what he would stand for and condone; she had little faith in who the Cat truly is and what course he may choose to chart, and now has no faith in it at all. That is not true of everyone here in Bulrushe, however, else I would have chosen to depart, myself. What have you heard of me and what has come to pass?'

'Everything the Shepherd has said, and the retelling of everything you said yesterday,' Ratau answered promptly. 'I'm not yet decided myself, but I was more sure a moment ago, before I learned about Irmeli. Now, I don't know. What were the differences? I'll admit that depending on what they are, I might side with Irmeli, myself.'

Narinder controlled his temper, but it wasn't at Ratau; the memory still made his jaw clench. 'She refused to acknowledge nuance in fault, both of the Hollowing and of the entire conflict between the Shepherd and the One Who Waits,' he said calmly. 'She has claimed that I am somehow subservient to the Shepherd rather than allied with them, and she threatened the lives of the flock that granted me shelter; she has devoted herself to a false idolisation of a Cat who only ever existed in propaganda and rumour, and believes in the convictions of the tyrant who crafted that propaganda. She did not wish to worship a new god. She wished to worship a saner One Who Waits.'

Ratau and Ratoo exchanged glances.

'That does sound like her,' Ratoo conceded unhappily.

'She threatened the flock?' Ratau pressed, searching Narinder's eyes. 'Or did she imply it? She swore to me that she would control her animosity.'

Interesting, Red murmured atop Narinder's head. It had been in quiet contemplation since they'd left the chapel, just now stirring. She's been friendly from the beginning. When did they talk about that?

'It sounds as if you have come to be friendly with Herder Shamura?' Narinder asked Ratau.

'Yes. More importantly, I respect them.'

'As do I. Though they are also my sibling, I trust their integrity independent of that tie, and they will confirm the threat that Madam Irmeli made. Over the course of the argument, I came to the conclusion that allowing Madam Irmeli to remain would only foment dissent in the long run. As a favour to me, the Shepherd has volunteered to provide safe passage out of the Lands of the Old Faith to those who wish to accompany her, but she cannot remain.'

Ratau's eyebrow was high again. 'Even the pilgrim ships from across the sea have been halted.'

'The rovers,' Ratoo reminded him, and Ratau hummed in acknowledgement. ‘I'm still figuring out the details, as the Shepherd and their flock have been cagey,’ Ratoo added to Narinder, squinting at him. Ratau’s brother had been part of that long ago cult, though Narinder had never known him well; from the looks of it, if Ratau was leading Bulrushe, then so would Ratoo. ‘Though they have good reason for it.’

‘While we won't be making the same use of the liminalities, once we have dealt with this issue, I will gladly explain,’ Narinder offered.

‘The Shepherd won't mind?’

‘If they do, they will have to come to peace with it,’ Narinder said with a shrug. ‘We can hardly be allied and keep my cult in the dark about something so fundamental. I doubt that they would take issue with it, however, so long as I preserve certain godly secrets given to me in confidence, and those have no bearing on understanding how the rovers travel.’

‘In confidence,’ Ratau repeated. ‘With you? No offence meant, Lord Narinder,’ he added quickly. ‘I mean only that you and the Shepherd have, ah… have a history.’

‘Indeed we do,’ Narinder said, concealing his amusement. ‘The Shepherd and I have similar lived experiences, in some ways, that have allowed us to set aside much of our qualms in the moment. I mean not to say that either of us forgive the other. There is much that is unforgivable. But we have a far greater danger to us all, and our animosities as people cannot be allowed to divide our efforts as gods. To be a god is to partake in an exchange with our faithful; a god must have something to offer and the will to grant boons and blessings in return for the devotion given. For all my many lingering angers and resentments, the Shepherd is a good god. Now, I must endeavour to be a better one.’

Ratau smiled at him, right eye crinkled up. ‘Well said, my lord,’ he said, and like Narinder had seen with many others over the past two days, a fully formed faith bloomed within him. The devotion had existed already; it just needed to know for whom it was meant. Ratoo’s faith followed a few seconds later, once he was certain his brother's choice was made. ‘If that's your stance on it all, I can see why Irmeli isn't the right person for this. If you're asking me to take her place, then I will. I take it that's why everyone's in the square?’

‘Yes,’ Narinder said, remembering too late to conceal his relief. ‘As I said, the Shepherd had agreed to grant safe passage to Madam Irmeli as a favour to me – and that favour will extend to those here who do not wish to follow me, because it will not be safe for them to try and return to their homes from before.’

Ratau relaxed. ‘Good, I was worried,’ he admitted. ‘Ratoo and I have seen all too well what the One Who Waits does to those who turn their gaze to anything except Him.’

‘If I may ask…?’

Ratau smiled ruefully. ‘Excision,’ he said, and Narinder closed his eyes. ‘Both of us. At the time, I’d been considering fleeing to the Shepherd, and Ratoo was trying to talk me out of it. This was a few years ago, though.’

Narinder flinched, eyes flying open. ‘Years?’ he repeated hoarsely.

Ratau sighed. ‘Long story, Lord Narinder. We think we were some of the test subjects.’

He’s been at this for years?, Red whispered atop his head. But I thought…

‘How long ago?’ Narinder asked, and Ratau hesitated. ‘This may answer some questions, and allow us to better understand him,’ he added.

‘Seven years, about?’

So within the last ten years, Red said slowly. After you started the plan to trick Esriaal.

‘There was an… event, ten years past,’ Narinder said he remembered Ratau would be unable to hear the other half of the conversation. ‘It is complicated to explain, but it holds significance, and it may be where my path and the path of the One Who Waits began to fully diverge. I was never so servile as he would have preferred, but I will not pretend I was a helpless hostage to his whims; I took part freely, at least in the beginning.’ He shook his head. ‘Regardless, that need not concern you at this moment. Is there anything I can do to ease the damage, or is that time past?’

‘Unless you can replace a missing heart, not really,’ Ratoo said ruefully, and Narinder paused.

‘You cannot mean literally,’ he said after a second. ‘You would not be standing before me.’

‘We can tell you more later,’ Ratau said, then went to the effort to bow a little. ‘For now, the others are waiting for us. I will follow your lead, Lord Narinder.’

Narinder bit back his need to demand more information, strangling down his damnable curiosity, and nodded. ‘Red, I would ask you to go ahead – speak to Kallamar if the Shepherd is not there,’ he said, and Red unspooled into its serpent shape, nodding to him before slithering away through the air.

‘So it does turn into a snake,’ Ratau said with interest. ‘It’s pretty. Does it have a name?’

‘Its name is Red,’ Narinder said, a bit bemused.

‘So is it like a pet?’

‘No. It is as much a person as you or I,’ Narinder explained. ‘Simply one in a shape and of a nature unlike ours.’

‘Huh. Interesting,’ Ratau mused as the three of them began to walk. Narinder offered an arm to Ratoo on impulse, and though Ratoo looked a bit taken aback by the offer, he took it. ‘I always was interested in the Crown. I never saw you fight, but we heard stories. It could change shape into weapons, but I heard once that it could take the shape of an animal. Don’t remember from who.’

Narinder couldn’t recall a time where Red had done so before he’d fled Naraka, but he couldn’t trust that kind of recollection at the moment anyway. ‘It is true,’ he confirmed. ‘Red can take many shapes, though as of late it prefers its organic shape.’

‘I’ve seen the Shepherd’s Crown take a jackalope’s shape, too, so that shouldn’t surprise me,’ Ratau said.

‘Jackalope?’ Narinder repeated, instantly intrigued.

‘It’s a story from Anura and Darkwood, at least in the south parts,’ Ratoo explained. ‘Old, old story. Ratau can tell it better; he always did like old stories.’

‘Not as much as you like old songs,’ Ratau chuckled.

‘How old?’ Narinder asked with interest, looking between the two.

‘Old enough that they were banned by the One Who Waits,’ Ratoo said, looking proud of that.

‘...then how did you learn them?’ Narinder asked, frowning, only to realise they were almost at the square. ‘Another time, alas. We shall have to speak at length; it sounds like you two have many things to say.’

‘Does a god have time for that?’ Ratoo mused.

‘I am the god, and I decide what I have time for,’ he said, and the two brothers laughed quietly. ‘Are you ready?’

‘Yes, Lord Narinder,’ the two brothers said in easy unison. At the same time, Tymer popped free of the collection of followers, beelining towards Narinder.

‘Good evening, Tymer,’ Ratau said, right eye crinkled up from his smile. ‘Are you well?’

‘I’ve been better,’ she said, and Narinder blinked as she hugged Ratau without pause. ‘Good to see you two, I was worried about you when you set out. So what’s going on?’ This was directed at Narinder himself, her eyes concerned.

‘I will explain it to everyone at once,’ Narinder said, wondering why she’d been worried for the two brothers but quieting the need to ask. Yet another question he had to hold off on. ‘Ratoo, would you mind…?’

‘The cubling can hold my old bones up,’ he said, and Tymer rolled her eyes but was already moving to take over from Narinder. As she did so, Red returned to Narinder, slithering up from the ground to loop around his neck.

Esriaal’s still with Irmeli in the chapel, Pale is waiting under the stage, it told him. That way it can tell you what’s going on without people thinking Esriaal is keeping an eye on you. Right now, Irmeli has agreed to Belemen, and they’re working out where exactly she and the others will be taken, but they need to know how many.

‘Very well,’ Narinder said, and walked over to the stage, actually standing on it this time. The many followers gathered looked up at him, and though some did so with only curiosity, others – most of them with either very small lights of faith or none at all – watched him with nerves.

‘Thank you for coming,’ he said, voice pitched to carry. ‘I cannot claim it is for happy news – for many, it will be sorrowful. I will do what I can to ease what is to come, but I deny not reality. To be blunt: Bulrushe, and my nascent cult, are parting ways with Madam Irmeli.’

Instantly, the crowd burst into alarmed murmurs and more than one outright ‘What.’ As the One Who Waits, Narinder would have silenced all of them with a lifted hand; when he tried now, it barely put a dent in the whispers. 

‘That is not to say that I am abandoning her to the cruel whims of fate or the crueller whims of the One Who Waits,’ he continued, increasing his volume a little instead. ‘I will explain fully, and to again be blunt, there is a strong likelihood that some of you will wish to accompany her; should you do so, you will be afforded the same protections, for I know well the caprices of my former master.’

He took a deep breath, focussing. He braced himself under the gaze of the faithful whose hope he'd enjoyed yesterday, and whose fear weighed on him now. He had been a god for a long time. He could do this. 

‘I will not be the One Who Waits. I am not a saner version of him, and I am not the Cat in the way many of you heard of me, mythologised and propagandised until the heart of me was nearly obliterated. I clawed my way free of him, fled his holy city, forged an alliance with my once enemy, because I know who he is – and I will not be made into him again, nor will I allow his poison to fester in my cult. When Madam Irmeli threatened to remove the flock that sheltered me, to expel ‘the heretics’ in ‘the name and fashion of our god’, I knew that she had not relinquished that poison, because if she followed who I truly am, she would know I am not a god who turns my back on my allies.’

That earned even more whispers. Some faces were alarmed, some disturbed, most confused.

‘She was threatening to drive out the flock with violence, in the way she believes would make the Cat proud, because she still sees the world through the lens of what the One Who Waits has told her,’ he continued. ‘She was threatening harm – potentially the deaths of innocents – because she yet believes in the straightforward lies she was fed. To her, the Shepherd holds the greatest share of the fault for the last fifty or more years of bloodshed and conflict, if not the onus entire. She fails to see – indeed, refuses to see – what has become clear to me and many of you: that it is a far more complicated tangle of blame.

‘I cannot pretend to understand all the intricacies of it – my former master told me much, but there was far more he kept to himself, likely to prevent me from forming any conclusions save those he used to keep me at heel. What I do know, however, is that no grievous sin on the Shepherd’s part is justification for the fate of many of the Shepherd's flocks. Even the Hollowing cannot justify it.

‘It was ego and pride that drove the One Who Waits to this slaughter, not righteous vengeance; it was not in the name of justice that I slaughtered hundreds – thousands – of innocents with the Red Crown. I deny not those sins. Neither will I deny those flocks their innocence.

‘I have not forgiven the Shepherd for their actions, any more than they have forgiven me for mine – discussions of forgiveness and absolution are for when we no longer dwell beneath the weight of the chains the One Who Waits seeks to strangle us with. Madam Irmeli is unwilling to entertain that reality, to find common ground with those who are as beholden to the cruelty of the One Who Waits as we are, and the god she preached of – the Cat she wished to worship – does not exist.’

He shook his head, taking the second to cast a look over the crowd’s faith. More lights – far more than he’d hoped for – were beginning to dim down. He was going to lose more from this than he’d thought.

So be it, Red murmured to him, comfort and encouragement in the words. Oldest companion, at least so far as Narinder had ever known; the first partner with which he built his first faith, and the partner with which he’d build this one. If they leave, there’ll be more.

‘I am here, however,’ he said steadily. ‘I am who the Cat truly was. I am Narinder, god of Rebirth, and those unwilling to follow me, or unwilling to accept that there must be more to this than simple blame, cannot remain here. This is not solely for the sake of my faithful, though that is in mind – but if the unwilling remain here, they threaten our chance to rid the world of the old god who has visited so much ruin upon it, and more importantly, they threaten their own safety. All of you have at least heard rumours of what befalls those who betray the One Who Waits: harm awaits them, or worse.’ He touched his chest, wishing he could remember what happened, if only so he could put even more behind his words as he added, ‘Trust me, I have learned that lesson well. I will not abandon any of you to that fate.’

‘Where will they go?’ asked one of the villagers, one he didn’t recognise. The pale blue mouse had no faith of her own in him, but she wasn’t hostile. She just seemed afraid.

Near Edonyd, in Belemen, he heard from beneath the stage. It’s a small town that’s friendly to the Shepherd but has refused to follow us.

‘Edonyd,’ he said, nodding to the periwinkle mouse. ‘It is a town in a land across the sea, named Belemen. I have never been, but I am told the land is a beautiful one; Edonyd is friendly to the Shepherd but not part of their faith. As a favour to me, and as a show of good faith in our alliance, the Shepherd will bring those who wish to leave to a place near Edonyd. How well has the idea of a liminality been thus far explained?’

‘Not much,’ Ratoo chimed in from near the stage. ‘Some. Something to do with their rovers.’

‘Indeed,’ Narinder said, nodding. ‘I will explain more of the concept to those who are curious another time. In short, there are places in the world where there are certain resonances, and where paths between different planes are easier to forge; these are called liminalities. Casket is one such place, and resonates with me. Resonances can manifest for other things, however. Though the story is unknown to me, Bulrushe itself holds significance to the Shepherd, and so it is serving as a liminality of theirs, safely ensconced within mine. Through the use of liminalities, the Shepherd has learned the craft of travelling great distances in a fraction of the time; though I imagine the travel may have to pass through more than one liminality in order to reach the destination, I am certain the journey will be safe. Though those who choose to depart may no longer have faith in me, they will yet carry my protection until they are safely delivered to their destination.’

‘Sssso we’re just ssssupposed to leave our homessss,’ demanded a snake, his eyes narrowed, his faith almost snuffed out entirely. ‘The homessss we only jusssst found and built?’

‘Yes,’ Narinder said flatly. ‘Should you be unwilling to accept this reality, or accept me as your god, then you will leave with Madam Irmeli. She will be departing by tomorrow afternoon at the latest, depending on how many choose to accompany her. I have asked Ratau to consider my offer to lead in her place.’

‘And you ssssaid yessss?!’ the snake demanded, looking at Ratau.

‘Flinky,’ Ratau said quietly, a gravity to his gaze as he looked at the snake, and Flinky hesitated. ‘How long have you known me?’

‘That hassss nothing to do with thisssss,’ Flinky hissed, but he was looking away.

‘How long have you travelled with me?’

‘Ratau –’

‘We’ve lost Klunko and Bop, Flinky,’ Ratau said, refusing to stop watching his friend. Narinder knew those names, though it took him a moment – he didn’t know a Bop, but Flinky and Klunko had been two of Ratau’s disciples, long ago. Flinky had been the disciple in charge of administration; he’d preferred bane curses. Klunko had been the head of missionaries, and something of a pacifist. ‘Shrumy is still missing. This is the first safe place we’ve found in a long time – but if I didn’t believe what he was saying, then I would have already taken you and Ratoo and started walking. You know that.’

The crowd was silent, watching the drama with baited breath. The rat leaning on his walking stick, looking at his friend; the snake refusing to look back.

‘Flinky,’ Ratau said one last time, voice soft, and Flinky finally sighed.

‘Damn you, Ratau,’ he muttered, but nodded. ‘Fine. If he acceptssss, then I’ll sssstay.’

‘I already have,’ Ratau said, smiling a little now. ‘I stand by it even more, now. Have some faith in our new god, Flinky – he says he’ll be a better god than the one before, and I think he’ll be a better god than he knows. Think of the opportunity!’

‘Bloody optimisssst,’ Flinky huffed.

‘Maybe so,’ Ratau said, one visible eye crinkled as he beamed. ‘You know I don’t take bets I know I’ll lose.’

‘That doessssn’t mean you never lose.’

‘I’m betting on the right side here,’ Ratau said with confidence, then looked at the crowd. ‘Lord Narinder means it when he says he’ll keep you safe.’

‘Take tonight to decide,’ Narinder added. Some of the faith was stabilising again, but even with Ratau’s help, the village was going to be a lot emptier come tomorrow afternoon than he’d been hoping for. ‘When morning comes, we will finalise the plans, and begin preparations. And know that even if you depart, if ever you should change your mind, then my cult remains open to you.’

I’d say at least half of the people here are seriously thinking about leaving, just going on faith, Red said as Narinder hopped down from the stage, taking a seat on it and gesturing for those with questions to approach. Tell Esriaal they’re going to need to have more rovers than they thought, or take them in trips.

They are already organising two separate caravans, Pale replied from its hiding spot after a moment’s thought. One purely to assist with the move, and the other with the first of your converts from the flocks. Congratulations.

It was said without malice but no little bitterness.

Then we’ll get started making sure things are set up for that, Red answered, tactfully (for once) not addressing that bitterness, and Narinder continued to answer questions as best as he was able, because that was what he could do for now.

In the end, just under half of the village chose to leave. Narinder had hoped up until the last moment that it wouldn’t be so numerous, but as the last rover twinkled out of existence the next afternoon, the village felt hollow.

There was work to be done, however, and so Narinder did it. He didn’t sleep for the next three days, due to all the things that needed doing: settling the new converts into their homes, working with Ratau and Ratoo on organising tasks and such, and comforting the followers who'd chosen to stay.

It was… tiring, but fulfilling. He resolved never to tell Esriaal, but it wasn't just his memories of the first time he'd done this that he was calling on now to guide him. He'd watched their early days of building the cult in his name, after all, and it had been familiar. Kinder and softer than he’d ever be, admittedly, because Esriaal had seemed to have more experience with being gentle then. They hadn't had any memories, but they were compassionate, and that drew people to their message in the name of their god.

But in the early days, when he was first Crowned, Narinder had been patient. One by one, crowd by crowd, small conversations and broader sermons; he hadn’t known the kind of Death he wanted to be, but that had mattered less, then. What mattered was being the god of those who followed him, and he'd figured it out from there.

He'd never been so gentle as Esriaal, but he'd always been straightforward. If he didn't have time, he made time. Honest, because Death was a frightening thing, and pretty lies weren't going to do anything to comfort anyone, let alone convince them to worship him. 

Still, he'd seen Esriaal’s tenderness, and sometimes it was the memory of their efforts he turned to as the days crept by. Even amongst the important work, he sat down and spoke with the creatures now under his care. That included Ratau, Ratoo, and (the still suspicious) Flinky.

It didn't include Esriaal, and not solely because they were another god and therefore didn't qualify as ‘under his care’; they'd departed with the rovers and those who were unwilling to follow him, and hadn't returned since. That didn't mean they were completely out of reach – in the three days since they'd left, three rovers had returned, all with new converts, as well as a short note for Narinder himself to keep him updated. They sounded upbeat, but the stories from the converts were… different. 

There was an intense atmosphere haunting the Pastures now, and a growing conflict beyond what Narinder had anticipated. He'd known there would be anger at learning the Cat was not only alive but had been quietly living among them, and was now a god in his own right; he'd already been stunned on the first day when he'd learned that there were those in the flock who'd chosen to follow him, sight unseen.

The part that was swiftly growing out of control wasn't resentment against him, or even the Shepherd. He was part of the problem, but the growing rift was between Esriaal's followers and those who wanted to hear more about Narinder or even convert outright. Rumours of spies and traitors were already stirring; two of the newest converts on the most recent rover admitted to have snuck on board, rather than risk anyone finding out and stopping them.

To say nothing of potential converts’ fear that Narinder might view them unfavorably for having followed his ‘enemy’, misgivings about safety, confusion about how he survived and dissatisfaction with the answer – it was a lot. The first night Narinder managed to rest, it haunted his mind as he lay on the bed with closed eyes, sleep eluding him for a solid hour before Red returned to its collar shape around his neck. Not to disguise him. Just to be there. Narinder wished it didn't help, just on principle, but it did.

His dreams weren't much better. Normally they were cloudy and unclear, but that night, it was vivid. Almost ineffable, if only because Narinder didn't know the word he'd need to describe it perfectly. 

He lay on an endless floor, its only feature being its existence. He wasn't resting, though he wasn't in pain; he didn't know why, considering how twisted up he was, sprawled out like a discarded toy. One arm was outstretched, and it was only by happenstance that his face was turned towards it. It would have escaped his vision, otherwise. He couldn't move. 

Then a single right hand descended.

It was strange, with the fingers, palm, and arm made of a deep navy velvet, firmly stuffed and sewn closed with so many tiny stitches that the seam was nearly invisible. White granite spheres served as the articulated joints, and it moved as fluidly as flesh; it was massive, many sizes larger than his in comparison, though it cupped his limp hand with a delicate touch. 

Two more right hands followed. One was skeletal, white bone sliding under his wrist. The other was flesh, warm as it touched him, the skin monochrome greys. This one covered his hand, so all three were holding his.

Other hands touched him, and though it didn’t hurt, it was still uncomfortable as the unseen fingers began to untwist him, slowly putting him to rights as it detangled his body. All the while, the first three hands that had appeared held his own, a soothing touch amongst all the strangeness. Whatever was touching him began to turn him over, onto his back, but just when he might have seen who it was –

His eyes opened, and he blinked blearily at the ceiling of his little house. Red was slower to wake, and so for a long moment Narinder was left to exist alone in that tranquil, unsettling state of mind.

Are you alright?, Red asked as it woke up, the question groggy. It was still aware enough to tell something was off, however, and as Narinder sat up, he passed the fading memories of the dream over to Red. The Crown looked them over, flowing down to the bed in its serpent shape as he got dressed in the wrap pants Esriaal had given him. He’d been able to clean the clothes the same way he’d cleaned the shirt and trousers from before, but when he’d cautiously tried to change the colour of the pants, he’d been surprised to find the fabric simply refused to change. He still wasn’t sure why. Given Esriaal had mentioned they’d been making it quickly and with the help of their figments, he supposed that there was a possibility some divine trace was involved. He didn’t feel anything strange in it, though, divine or otherwise. It just refused to change.

Sensing Red was finished with the memories, he asked, ‘It was a strange dream, was it not?’

Yeah. Those hands are kind of creepy, it said.

‘Why? It was not the hands that bothered me most,’ Narinder said curiously.

None of them were alive, Red said, and Narinder blinked. You didn’t notice?

‘I was not contemplating such things at the time,’ Narinder huffed. ‘They were animate, at any rate.’

True. Weird, Red said, shaking its head before springing up to meet him when he held out his arm. Winding around the limb and climbing up until it could take its place around his shoulders, it nestled close. What was the first thing we needed to do this morning?

‘I promised to visit with Shamura for breakfast, though we shall have to keep it short if we wish to meet with the morning congregation,’ he said, reluctant at the thought. Not at visiting Shamura and his family, but at keeping it brief; he knew he was unimaginably fortunate to have lucked into a pre-built cult, but he’d become accustomed to travelling with his family and having the time to speak with them. He was making as much time as he could, but in the moment…

Narinder was lost in thought as he made his way through the empty little house. He’d wanted Shamura and the others to live here, and Shamura had promised they would while they were recuperating, but there had been so much to do – for both of them, Shamura and Kallamar having teamed up to help settle in the new converts – that there hadn’t been a chance. He’d have to talk to them about it today, since they were still living in the tents with the rest of the original flock and many of the new converts from Esriaal’s cult. Even with all the departures, many of the homes here in Bulrushe simply weren’t ready, particularly as the weather would only get colder.

That was how his day continued, head full of thoughts of what had to be done, the means by which to do so, names and needs and requests, designs and plans –

‘Oh!’

Narinder blinked down at the young periwinkle mouse who’d almost walked into him. It was twilight, he realised; he’d been on his way to meet with Ratau. Right.

‘I’m so sorry,’ she was stammering, twisting the fabric of her skirt in her nervous hands. ‘I – I didn’t mean to, I’m so sorry Lord Narinder –’

‘Calm yourself,’ he said, as kindly as he could, but she still flinched. ‘I am not angry, fear not.’

She’s been following us all day, Red said as she nodded, mumbling another apology. I think she’s been trying to talk to you. She’s not a follower, though – I think she came when Ratau and Ratoo returned.

‘All is well,’ he said, again trying to calm her down. ‘What is your name?’

‘Um. I’m Simigre,’ she said, still anxious.

‘A pleasure, miss Simigre,’ he said politely. ‘Is something amiss? You seem to have been seeking to speak with me today.’

 She flinched. ‘I – you noticed?’

No, said Red, amused around Narinder’s shoulders.

‘I did,’ said Narinder, ignoring his Crown. He looked around, seeing there were still some people out and about (and a handful looking in his direction curiously). ‘I take it you wish not to speak where others may hear?’

‘Is that alright?’ she asked, twisting her skirt in her hands again. ‘You’re so busy…’

‘I was going to speak to Ratau and Ratoo, so if you come with me, we may speak briefly in the chapel,’ he said, and she nodded with relief before following him towards the chapel. He still disliked the building, cramped and familiar, but ‘aesthetics’ weren’t a current priority, so he set his distaste aside.

He let Simigre in, who flinched upon spotting the waiting Ratau and Ratoo. ‘Simigre?’ Ratoo asked, wheezing voice strange. ‘I thought you left?’

Simigre looked nervously at the two, then back to Narinder. ‘I… I guess I can talk about it here?’ she said, but she looked uncomfortable.

‘She accompanied us back from Darkwood,’ Ratau said at Narinder’s glance. ‘She isn’t dangerous, but she didn’t want to talk to us; she wanted to talk to the leader, but…’

Narinder winced. ‘Ah. I see. Well, Ratau has taken Madam Irmeli’s place, and I wish to hear you out,’ he reassured her. ‘We have the time to do so, I believe.’

She nodded at last, then took a deep breath. ‘We heard there might be another place like ours,’ she said timidly, and Narinder stiffened. ‘We’re not safe anymore, though – we’re too close to the parish seat? I’m not originally from there, so I could get away because I wouldn’t be recognised, when I realised Ratau and the others weren’t with the One Who Waits.’

‘We were looking for rumours of our friend Shrumy,’ Ratau explained, leaning on his stick, expression complicated. ‘It wasn’t anything we could use, but Simigre asked if she could come with us, and given the circumstances, we weren’t inclined to leave her there.’

‘I was hoping this place was what I thought it might be, and it was,’ she said. ‘I… I didn’t expect the Cat to be here, and I don’t know how much the others will be willing to listen, but if this place really is safe…’

‘Convincing them of my sincerity is work that can only be done by my paws,’ he said, thinking fast. ‘They need not worship me for my protection to be offered; any hand and paw, fin and claw, that is willing to work to undo the damage of the One Who Waits is welcome here. If they seek refuge alone, then perhaps the Shepherd will be the best choice for them, and this may well be the safest place to decide – but they cannot do so where they are.’

‘Lord Narinder?’ Ratoo asked, looking alarmed, but Ratau just looked resigned.

‘You’re going to go yourself, aren’t you,’ he said.

‘What?’ Simigre sputtered, eyes going wide. ‘But – but you’re the god! You’re needed here!’

‘My former master may be content to remain in Naraka, but I am not bound in place,’ he said, eyebrows raised. ‘I was never going to stay in Bulrushe forever – I am no general to move pieces on a board. Tell me of your companions, and where they are.’

‘But – can’t you send others?’ she asked, still wide-eyed. ‘What if the soldiers see you and attack before you can get to my friends?’

‘Then they will fall. I cannot promise success when the future is unknown, but I can promise you effort,’ Narinder replied firmly. Only good could come of the lands learning that there was another god, he knew, and one who wished to see them safe. He couldn’t leave that to mere rumour, however. He’d have to do it himself. ‘What needs to be done must be done, and I will do it myself if I am able. If you came here on naught but rumour, then it is a desperate hope that drives you. Or am I mistaken?’

She closed her eyes. ‘No, Lord Narinder,’ she whispered, wringing her hands in her skirt. ‘But I’m… I’m scared for them. And I’m scared of what might happen if things go wrong.’

‘Fear is natural,’ he said, touching her shoulder. ‘Allow no fear to turn you from your path, however. It is hope that brought you here, and it is hope that will save your companions. Do you understand?’

She nodded, and though it was tiny, there was a spark of faith in her. He’d learned very early in his godhood that words did only so much to sway hearts, particularly as he was Death. Now that he was Rebirth, he could do more. He was certain of it.

‘Good,’ he said, and took his paw from her shoulder, turning to the two brothers. ‘I apologise, but I should focus on this.’

Ratau shook his head fondly. Narinder wondered sometimes how much was truly lingering through the influence of Rebirth that must have begun decades before; how many who’d been connected to him in one way or another must have returned. The idea always made his stomach swim and so he set it aside for later, but it was still there, churning in the hollow part of his soul, chiming with a melody that might always sing in him.

‘Frankly, Lord Narinder, I’m stunned you have been this involved,’ Ratau said, and Narinder blinked. ‘I appreciate the input. My god choosing to be so earthly is… an unfamiliar concept. Even the Shepherd has always felt ephemeral – more of an idea than a god, even now that I’ve met them. You’re different. I’m glad I didn’t accept a god for the sake of safety. That said: you have greater things to do than tend to a town.’

‘Tending to a town full of faithful is not beneath me,’ he replied, tilting his head at Ratau. Carefully choosing his words, he continued, ‘I learned much from my former master – far more than I think he ever intended. Long ago, I believe he grew complacent; he grew used to power and being the sole option. He is not willing to do the work of cultivating his faith. Before I was the Cat, I was as mortal as anyone. I lived a simple life when I was a child, before I was chosen. I do not believe investing my time here is a lesser thing to do than anything else.’

Ratau watched him closely. ‘I see,’ he said at last. Narinder didn’t know what he’d seen, but whatever it was, he was satisfied with the sight.

Red had been quiet, but then said, Do you think we can still read minds? It wasn’t a power from me.

Narinder hadn’t thought of the idea for a long time; once it was a gift among his people, and one he’d always had a knack for. The tiny minds of his followers had been beneath him for so long that he’d forgotten that things had been different once. He wasn’t sure he knew how to do it. It was a disconcerting thought, now that he remembered. He wondered if Esriaal still knew the trick he’d taught them, gift unlocked by his own power.

‘Then I will leave the matters we were going to discuss in your hands, Ratau,’ he said, ‘though do not hesitate to bring anything to me.’

‘Of course, Lord Narinder.’

‘Miss Simigre,’ Narinder added, turning to look at the young mouse, who flinched. Cautiously, Narinder reached out with his mind. It felt like moving a limb that had lain still for ages, atrophied and weak; if he wasn’t a god, he thought it might well have been impossible, and the impression he received was weak and clumsy. Even so, he could sense her fear and anxiety, dread of the future and creeping hope. ‘We should sit and speak properly, so you can tell me whatever you can. The more I know, the better I can help – and the more likely I am to return with your companions.’

She closed her eyes, then nodded and opened them again. Her hands were still tight in her skirt, but she looked determined. ‘I’ll go with you. I can tell you how to find them, but I’ll be able to show you a lot better.’

‘Then we shall do both,’ Narinder assured her, and gestured for her to sit at a pew.

It would be a day’s journey, according to Simigre, allowing them to arrive just after dark. The village she and her group were hidden in – nine in all, including Simigre herself – was on the outskirts of the town that served as the seat of Marecea, the parish of Darkwood that directly bordered Casket.

It wasn't far across the border of the marsh, but it wasn't safe for Tymer’s rover to cross out of the marsh, lest it be spotted (to say nothing of Narinder’s cycler, unfortunately, though it would be kept on the rack on the front of the rover.) Two of the newer converts, a pink rabbit named Patreno and a dark owl named Suro, would wait with the rovers for the others to return; the last distance would have to be crossed on foot.

Narinder knew he should be cautious, and fully intended to be so, but there was a restless feeling under his skin, his fur bristling with impatience. He was forcing himself to ignore it, but he couldn’t help himself from planning to leave the next day. It was a matter of urgency, in his defence; that night would be the excision, and as much as he hated knowing he wouldn’t be able to interfere, it was the best chance to get in and out with as little notice as possible. He had to be realistic. 

The dream of the hands returned when he tried to sleep, and so he gave it up as a bad job, too unnerved to let the comfort taking place in the dream to comfort him. Thankfully, they’d intended to leave before sunrise, but it still meant several hours watching the ceiling.

‘Brother.’

Narinder turned from where he'd been finishing loading Tymer's rover with the emergency supplies they might need, startled. ‘Shamura?’ he asked, confused. He glanced up at the sky and the paling grey light of the cloudy dawn, a minuscule thread of bright red along the horizon. ‘It is far too early for you to be awake.’

‘We must speak,’ they insisted in the Old Speech, only confusing him further. ‘I woke from a dream, and I knew I had to catch you before you left.’

Narinder’s heart sank. Shamura had mentioned that their own dreams were sometimes more than memories, and given their urgency, he could guess what they meant. ‘By dream, you mean…’

‘Yes. I don’t believe what I saw was a memory, but I don't know if the fragments I saw and heard were visions of the present or the future,’ they admitted unhappily. ‘I believe they must be from the future, but perhaps other events have already been put in motion.’

Narinder took one of his sibling’s hands and pulled them off to the side, waving Tymer on when she looked over at him. ‘Tell me what you saw, sibling,’ he said quietly, even though no one else was around who could understand the language they were speaking. 

‘I saw an egg,’ they said, and he blinked a few times. ‘It was yours.’

Narinder's ears flattened. ‘It must be a metaphor, then,’ he said, clearing his throat. ‘I have no intentions of becoming a father.’

Not again. Even if the two weren't his by blood, and that was assuming they weren't already –

No. No, he couldn't let himself contemplate that. Not right now. If it was true, then they were better off far away from him.

‘No, it was literal,’ Shamura insisted. ‘It was your egg, though I couldn't say who the mother may have been; it seemed almost without one. It was conceived with sorrow, and bore heavy burdens. You were carrying it in a swaddling cloth like a sling, and you looked as if you would not only kill for your egg, but already had.’

‘Perhaps this vision was one of the far future,’ he said diplomatically, but he was disturbed. Once, a very long time ago, he might have contemplated the idea – but he was a god. Half a god, at the moment, and engaged in a war besides; he had no time to think of taking some kind of lover, even for a night. Let alone having an egg. His kind had died out long ago, besides. It didn't matter, and he wouldn't let it matter. 

‘It wasn't a distant vision,’ Shamura said, frowning at him. ‘You were wearing this coat and these clothes. If it is a true vision, then it will not be long before it comes to pass. However you come by it, there will be an egg soon, one that is yours, and it will cost you dearly.’ Shamura hesitated. ‘I know you have grown close to Tymer, lately.’

Narinder flinched, recoiling from the thought. ‘Have you lost all sense?’ he hissed, mortified. ‘That is in no way the association between us, and she will tell you the same. I have no intention of taking any lover – I doubt not that it was absent from what recollections you have had, but I feel no desire for strangers. For all her devotion I have known her but a few months. Who else is under this foolish assumption?’

Shamura looked uncomfortable. ‘Well…’

Narinder huffed, ears flattened again. ‘She is not my lover, nor do either of us harbour such feelings,’ he said flatly. ‘And I take great offence at the insinuation – is this because she is a woman? Does everyone simply assume I leap into the bed of any creature who keeps my company?’

Shamura sighed. ‘That isn’t why I suspected it, though that may be true of others,’ they said. ‘There were some assumptions before you were revealed as the Cat – not on my part, naturally – that, ah. You and the Shepherd might be finding comfort in one another’s company. I knew that wasn't the case, but I'll admit that I thought you might seek comfort from someone , as you’re no longer bound by so much secrecy. Between your closeness with Tymer and the vision of an egg, I thought that perhaps she would be the mother.’

‘Absolutely not,’ Narinder said adamantly, shuddering a little at the idea of it. ‘She is my friend and follower, nothing more, and I'm not seeking comfort of that kind from anyone. Nor will I be fathering an egg. If this is a true vision, it must be a metaphorical one.’

‘As you say, brother,’ Shamura said in the common tongue once more, but it was a little pitying. Narinder ignored that, because whatever form it took, that vision could never be literal. Even if Narinder was foolish and selfish enough to want to make an egg any time soon, let alone actually go ahead and do so, there was no one he'd be willing to do so with. He recalled very little of what children with divine blood there had once been; he'd certainly never had any of his own. He could recall that there was some sort of difficulty or danger for one reason or another, so if he couldn't recall whatever that complication was, how could he be so selfish as to ask any casual lover to do such a thing? He didn't want a lover regardless, and hadn't for a very long time. 

Well. 

Not technically.

But that didn't count, involuntary as it was, and utterly anathema to the idea of a ‘lover’ besides. And certainly didn’t apply in any situation with an egg.

‘You should return to rest, you are not yet recovered,’ he said. ‘I will keep your words in mind, fear not. Metaphorical or otherwise.’

‘I can't ask for more,’ they sighed, then paused. ‘Who is that?’

Narinder turned, curious. Behind him was Simigre, climbing atop the rover with Patreno and accepting a small satchel with rations from Hetty.

‘That is Simigre,’ he said, looking back at Shamura. ‘Have you not seen her around?’

‘No,’ they said, frowning now. ‘Though I suppose she might feel nervous at the presence of the Shepherd’s flock, so she may have been keeping her distance. She wouldn’t be the only one.’ After a few more seconds looking troubled, they shook their head. ‘She seems familiar, but I must have seen her in the last few days, then.’

Narinder looked over at Simigre, considering her. ‘I know not,’ he said to Shamura slowly, softly. ‘Think on it more while we are gone? Her fear for her companions is sincere, I believe, but that grants no guarantees that she is completely transparent.’

‘I’ll do so,’ Shamura said, then hugged him tightly. ‘Leshy will wake up soon, so I suggest you hurry. And return safely.’

‘I shall,’ he promised, returning the hug then letting them go. He watched them as they left, then looked back at the rover. When he reached out with his mind to touch Simigre’s, walking back to the rover as he did so, the impression he received was as weak as before (much to his consternation.) She was anxious and afraid, full of dread, but that creeping hope he’d noticed was a little stronger.

‘Ready?’ Tymer asked as Narinder hopped up into the passenger seat, her hands twisting dials and starting the rover with its quiet hum. Narinder knew the time was coming to a close for the cores made by Esriaal, but Tymer had reassured him that there was more than enough power left for such a short trip. He still wasn’t sure how to replace the cores as a fuel source, but that wasn’t the problem directly before him, so he shook the thoughts off.

We’ll find a way, Red said. It had been unusually quiet for the past few days, but Narinder was hoping it was just that Red was adjusting to its new domain. When he nodded to Tymer, he also gave Red the impression of his growing concern. Just thinking, it reassured him, though it didn’t sound happy. Just… let me think for a while?

Narinder nodded again, much tinier this time. He could afford his Crown some of the patience he’d claimed to have for so long, and Red’s gratitude was enough to make putting off his curiosity worth it.

Chapter Text

The deer path was as dark as Darkwood’s name promised, Narinder and the others following Simigre through the night blackness towards the village she’d described. There were only a few lights on, though those glinted warm and quiet through the trees; otherwise, the village was empty, the houses with their heavy beams and plaster walls as silent as a forest with a predator stalking through.

Marecea, the seat of the parish with the same name, was far closer than Narinder had envisioned. The nameless village was all but within the town lines, the densely packed thicket of buildings maybe a few minutes’ walk away. Marecea was a large town, at least the size of Fairswells Isle if not larger, and at the heart of it was a bright glow, the lights of a large gathering whose purpose was unmistakable. The temple – possibly a cathedral in a parish so large as Marecea – was always at the centre. That was where the excision was to occur; the distraction that would allow Narinder and the others to slip in and out with Simigre’s companions.

Narinder hated that knowledge, just the same as he had from the moment he decided that it would be the plan, but there was nothing he could do. Not yet. Instead, he focussed on the approach to the village, the small group reaching the edge where the tall trees gave way to brush and thinner saplings. He was glad to see the vast trunks, touching one as they crept out of the dark safety between the trees. For all that he’d once clearcut Darkwood, the trees had been undeterred. The forest here was far newer than when he’d taken axe and sawblade to it like he was dismembering limbs from the body of his memories, but given that meant the forest was centuries old now, it was hard to tell. He’d never noticed from his perch in Naraka, and never considered it as he hunted through the trees as the Cat. He’d not paid attention to many things.

Simigre was walking in front of him, her steps trembling, tail low and hands clenched in her faded cotton skirt. She walked like she was being marched to the gallows. Behind Narinder walked two of the original followers from Bulrushe: Nolino and Huyano, one a vole woman, the other a bull. They’d volunteered together, both having been soldiers before they fled to Casket. Between those two, Tymer, and himself, Narinder knew that the group Simigre was trying to save would be well protected. Even Patreno and Suro, the rabbit and owl who had stayed with the rover, knew how to fight (though neither had been soldiers.) Tymer herself was bringing up the rear, keeping a watchful eye on the path in their wake.

‘Okay,’ Simigre whispered, looking back at the others as they approached a house, the lights dark. It was a very small house, likely two rooms large at the most, and could be described as ‘rundown’ at the most generous. ‘Please, um. Please let me go talk to them and explain? If they know the Cat came with me…’

‘I’ll go with you,’ Nolino said, nose twitching as she stepped up, looking around and as alert as a scout should be. She must have been a good soldier, Narinder reflected. He knew that wasn’t a good thing, considering the orders she would have been following at the time, but all any of them could do was better.

‘I – I should go alone,’ Simigre protested, but from her expression, she knew there was no point to the request.

‘They will better believe that help has been sent if you arrive with part of the help,’ Narinder pointed out evenly.

He wasn’t a complete fool, nor one to trust blindly when he could help it. On the ride over, he’d continued to quietly check Simigre’s mind, both because of what Shamura had said and as an exercise for his own mind. It would be a long time until he was anywhere near his old proficiency, but he could feel her dread growing, alongside a sense of paranoia – and she’d been doing her best to avoid Tymer, as well as Patreno and Suro while they were still with the rover. She wanted to spend as little time around the flock as possible, and under other circumstances he would have ignored it. Shamura’s mention that they thought they recognised her made him doubt that, however.

To say nothing of the house she’d led them to, frankly. She’d claimed there were nine in total, but the house was very small (and very quiet). Even if Narinder had been under the impression that she was being completely forthright, the house would have been enough to stir suspicions.

‘I’m just – I’m just worried they won’t listen,’ she insisted.

‘Then you shall have to make them do so,’ Narinder said, trying to be as kindly as he could and likely missing the mark, judging by her wince. ‘Our time is limited, miss Simigre. If they will not come with us, then we can do nothing, but you must try.’

Simigre nodded at last. ‘I’ll, um. I’ll be back soon,’ she said, but it looked defeated.

Narinder nodded, gesturing for her and Nolino to go. Once both were walking away, their backs to the others, he nudged Red with his thoughts. It wasn’t needed, as it was already leaping down to slither after the two in silence, and it gave him the impression of it rolling its eye at him. A tiny smile turned up the corners of his mouth, just for a second.

‘Oh good, I’m not the only one who thinks this is weird,’ Tymer whispered to him as she and Huyano came up to stand beside Narinder.

‘No,’ he murmured back. ‘Something is off, and I have been under that impression since this morning; it was a risk we would need to take regardless. I have brought skilled fighters with me for a reason.’

‘I’m glad,’ Tymer said with a nod, and he gave her a sideways glance. ‘If I had to stay in that town for another day I was going to go crazy,’ she added when she noticed. She looked sheepish. ‘I was always on the move before the Shepherd, and once you get used to travelling in a caravan…’

He nodded. He’d only had the same experience for a few weeks, but he knew what she meant. Though he’d spent a long time on the move as the Cat, there was something about the process of travelling for a purpose (that wasn’t destructive) that brought peace of mind.

‘What’s it like?’ Huyano asked on his other side. The bull was only a touch shorter than Narinder, not counting the horns, and Tymer leaned around Narinder to look over; Huyano was looking at Tymer with curiosity. ‘You were a soldier before, right? It had to be boring joining the Shepherd after that.’

Tymer hesitated for a second, then shrugged at Huyano. ‘I used to go by Feyen,’ she said, and he flinched. ‘Trust me, the Shepherd was a step up.’

He was now watching her nervously, nostrils a little flared, and glanced at Narinder with uncertainty.

‘I would not let her stand beside me if I had doubts as to her loyalty,’ he said calmly, and touched Huyano’s shoulder. ‘I trust her. She has fought beside me before. Consider this a sign of trust, if nothing else.’

‘Trust?’ Huyano said, even more uncertain now.

‘I wouldn’t tell you my old name if I didn’t think you could keep it to yourself,’ Tymer pointed out. ‘I’ve got a good feeling about you and Nolino. Feyen isn’t my name anymore, though. Tymer is just fine.’

‘But you…’

‘Killed my squad?’ she said, and Huyano nodded his head cautiously. ‘Yeah. I did. But it was better than the alternative.’

She sighed, then looked out over the village. Narinder didn’t stop her from speaking, didn’t remind her that she didn’t have to; she could make her own choices, and he suspected that her taking this chance to tell Huyano was more about Narinder being there, as well. ‘My commanding officer was a prick,’ she said, and Narinder could tell she wasn’t looking at the silent village in front of her. ‘He didn’t like what I had to say about my orders, and he definitely didn’t like when I turned down the personal ‘promotion’ he wanted to give me. I trusted the people in my squad a lot more than I should have, and so when we went to that monster’s den, it wasn’t supposed to be their tomb. It was supposed to be mine.’

Oh.

‘Self defence,’ Huyano said quietly.

‘What? No,’ she said, taking even Narinder off guard. ‘I didn’t let things get that far. I figured out what they were planning when we were halfway there. None of them had fought monsters in Anura before, though – we’d been stationed in Darkwood, mostly. They didn’t know that the real problem wasn’t the toads, it was the flies. I caught the toads’ attention before the others could see, and ducked out before the others realised they had a bigger problem. Only one who was smart enough to hang back was the one new kid. Never forgave myself for not getting it out, too – I thought it got caught up in the attack, otherwise I would’ve taken it with me. Heard about what it said to the One Who Waits’ enforcers afterwards, though. Made me sound a hell of a lot more impressive than I was. It was a good kid.’

That definitely made more sense for who she was, Narinder thought quietly.

‘I’m s–’ Huyano started, but Tymer shook her head.

‘Don’t be,’ she said, then looked over at the bull, glancing at Narinder for a second as she did. ‘I got my revenge and moved on. Only way I can make it up to the kid is to make sure it doesn’t happen again. Right?’

‘If you say so,’ Huyano replied. When Narinder cautiously brushed his thoughts against Huyano’s, he could pick out the relief.

He would have added something, but he flinched as a plaintive cry cut through the quiet night, only a little muffled by the little house Simigre and Nolino had gone into, followed by angry shouts. At the same time, Red called out, Shit, Narinder – get in here now –

He was already sprinting out of the grass, Tymer and Huyano stumbling as he leapt forward before darting forward to follow. He skidded around the edge of the house as there was another angry shout, and as soon as he got his paw on the handle he tore the door open.

Red leapt to his hand the instant it could reach him, black claws with glittering red edges, and so the lynx soldier who had been about to grab Simigre was backhanded to the side. Nolino was swinging out with her own sword, a murderous fury in her eyes, and as the lynx stumbled from his hit into her blade, Narinder had the breathing room to see what was happening.

There was a dying creature on the floor – an orange squirrel, gasping for air, and three more soldiers ready to lunge at the door. They might have, if the Red Gauntlets hadn’t sent red sparks flying as they struck the lynx, and all three soldiers immediately backed away with panicked expressions when they saw who was wielding the godly weapon. The fourth soldier, the one Narinder had shoved into Nolino’s range, was already collapsing to the floor and gurgling out his last breaths.

‘I’m so sorry,’ Simigre was babbling, eyes wide and teary, ‘I’m so sorry, Dima – Dima, answer me, please –’

‘Bind her,’ Narinder commanded without looking behind him – either Simigre had brought them here knowing the soldiers were waiting or she was going to be hysterical, but he needed her out of the way. He heard Huyano’s grunt of assent, then he sprang across the room.

Three panicking, unprepared soldiers were nothing to a furious god, the last of the three barely fumbling out his blade before Narinder clawed his throat out, then it was done. Behind him, he could hear Simigre sobbing, pleading with him directly.

‘Please, Lord Narinder, I had no choice,’ she begged, barely comprehensible through the gasping tears. ‘Please – oh hell, Dima, hold on, please – please, you have to let me go –’

Narinder ignored her, turning to the orange squirrel, still bleeding out. He crouched next to her, Simigre’s pleas becoming more and more panicked, begging him for mercy. In his head, Red quickly passed its memories of what had happened: the squirrel had been the only one present at first, clearly waiting for Simigre and visibly nervous. She had started to whisper to Simigre, telling her to go and that the others were gone – but then the soldiers had burst out of the second room, stabbing the squirrel in the stomach. That was when Red had shouted for Narinder.

‘Take miss Simigre out of the house, and gag her if you must,’ he said, and looked up to see Tymer watching him uncertainly. Behind her, Huyano was holding the squirming Simigre in arms like iron. ‘Do not harm her,’ he added, because Tymer needed to hear it. ‘Leave me with this Dima, and check Nolino and miss Simigre for injuries.’

Tymer nodded to him, then at Huyano, who was holding the hysterical Simigre. The bull put his hand over the mouse’s mouth, then carried her out of the little house, Tymer following.

Dima was looking up at him with stark fear; she was middle-aged, and the kind of thin that came from too little food among too many mouths. ‘Please, Cat,’ she whispered; her paws were the only thing stemming the bleeding in her bony abdomen. ‘Please, have mercy. She had no choice.’

‘You are dying,’ he said bluntly, because he could see her life force, the draining seconds; he put his own paws over the wound in her stomach, ignoring the squelch of blood through his fingers. He was better able to stem the bleeding. ‘I cannot save you; I am no healer. You have but moments left. I suggest you use them wisely, and tell me what has happened here. Simigre’s fate depends on what you say.’

Dima nodded, taking as deep a breath as she could. ‘We were hiding,’ she said, the words wet. It wasn’t from tears. ‘With – with Simigre and two of her friends. They were supposed to be excised, but escaped. We planned to leave, but the soldiers – they found us first. They wanted the boys. They said that they would spare us if she went and found information they wanted, bring replacements for the boys. Foolish girl; she hasn’t been right since she lost her sisters. When she took too long, they killed everyone but me and the boys. They wanted her to see me die, and they –’ she had a brief coughing fit. She had maybe a minute left. ‘They took the boys to the town. They’ll be excised soon. It’s going to break her heart.’

‘I see,’ Narinder said, his own heart hurting and hiding it. ‘I will keep this in mind, Dima.’

‘Please, one last thing,’ Dima said, and he nodded. ‘Please let her come here and say goodbye. She never got to say goodbye to Fimerty and Donoty. Please.’

Narinder nodded again, though something about those names rang familiar. He then looked to the door. ‘Let Simigre in,’ he called. ‘She doesn’t have long.’

Simigre burst through the door again a second later, all but diving to the floor beside Dima. She was devastated already, hands trembling.

‘I’m so sorry,’ she whispered, voice too weak to add any other words.

‘Stay safe,’ Dima said, tender even now, struggling to lift her hand; Simigre picked it up and pressed it to her own cheek, as if she was long used to where Dima might have placed it. ‘Live. Your sisters wanted you to have a better life; do not waste it, girl. You – you hear me?’

‘I hear you, aunty,’ Simigre said, eyes closed. ‘I’m sorry I wasn’t fast enough. I tried, I swear I tried, but…’

‘You weren’t made for running, girl,’ Dima replied. Narinder could tell Simigre was waiting for Dima to say something else, but he’d been watching Dima’s life run out; dimming down, going dark. She barely made it through the last syllable.

‘She is gone,’ he said, and Simigre nodded. She wasn’t crying anymore; she was holding just as still as if she was the corpse on the floor. ‘Simigre. Tell me something.’

She managed to look at him. ‘What?’ she asked, voice as dull as her eyes.

‘She told me you did this to save her and others. Did she speak truly?’

‘Yeah,’ Simigre said, and when he touched her mind, she was all but emptied out of emotion, as if her heart had bled out with Dima’s. ‘They were all I had. When the caravan got attacked, I was the only one left. Fimerty and Donoty made me run. Dima was our mom's friend, once. She took me in.’

‘Wait,’ Tymer said behind them, and when Narinder looked up at her, she looked stunned. ‘Fimerty?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Is she a pink dove?’

Simigre twitched, but at the reminder, Narinder straightened up.

‘At the core beds, yes?’ he said, and Tymer nodded.

‘Her sisters died in an attack,’ Tymer explained. ‘She never said their names, but I know she was found by the Shepherd, almost dead. She’s never come back to Darkwood with her caravan, but she’s been in the Pastures for a while, so –’

Simigre was trembling, looking between Narinder and Tymer, so fragile she might as well have been periwinkle-coloured cracked glass. ‘Fimerty lived?’ she asked. ‘She’s… she’s in the Pastures?’

‘Were you a follower of the Shepherd?’ he asked, and she nodded, dazed. That explained why she’d been avoiding the others – if anyone had recognised her…

Narinder took a deep breath. ‘There will be consequences for your actions,’ he said, and Simigre flinched. ‘There must be: had your journey been fruitful, you would have caused great damage, and I doubt the friends Dima spoke of would have been spared. She said they have been taken already. But I will not leave you here either, unless you wish to stay.’

Simigre swallowed. ‘What will happen to me?’

‘I know not, yet. We will discuss in full what has happened, and I will decide then, should you come with me. You may remain here and take your chances, otherwise. But you must choose.’

Simigre nodded. ‘I’ll… I’ll come with you. Just… please don’t make it hurt.’

He blinked, then understood. ‘You will not die under our care,’ he said firmly. ‘If your sister lives, and you are a former follower of the Shepherd, then I would risk angering a crucial ally when I need them most. If you cannot trust my good will, then trust that it is a logical decision.’

She nodded again, and when Tymer walked over, she let the red panda pull her up to her feet. She was stained with blood, and so was Narinder. ‘Let’s go,’ she said, huddled in on herself. ‘The excision will be starting soon, and I can’t do anything to help Aym and Baal. I just want to go.’

‘What.’

Narinder had no control of the divine rumble, and it wasn’t only Simigre who flinched away. Though no one could hear it save himself, Red spoke in unison with him, their shock echoing between the two of them like a thunderclap in a canyon.

‘Narinder?’ Tymer said, unnerved.

‘What were their names?’ Narinder demanded sharply. ‘What were their names, Simigre?’

‘Aym and B-baal,’ Simigre said, afraid of him now, shrinking back against Tymer. ‘They’re the ones meant to be excised. We got away once, but –’

‘Take her back to the rover, now,’ Narinder cut through sharply, looking at Tymer now. ‘Immediately. I will join you later.’

‘Narinder, no,’ Tymer said, eyes wide, looking like she was a second away from grabbing his arm. ‘You’re not going to make it on time, and it’s in the middle of the town –’

‘Tymer, that was an order, and I expect it to be obeyed,’ he snapped at her. ‘Go, now.’

‘Not alone, you’re not!’

‘Anyone else will slow me down and I will rot in chains in the Below before I allow those two to perish because I was too afraid to save them,’ he spat. ‘Am I or am I not your god?’

She closed her eyes, then nodded. ‘Fine. But if the Shepherd kills me for getting you killed, I’m haunting your ass,’ she said, and he nodded curtly, then looked at Nolino, who was standing outside the door with a confused look. ‘Guard them with your life,’ he commanded. When Nolino hesitated, ears tilting away, he almost snapped at her too, but then he heard Huyano swear loudly outside – and a familiar rumble make itself known.

He dashed past Nolino, and he burst out of the door at the same time as his cycler burst out of the undergrowth, with a shellshocked Patreno clinging to the handles and the seat like he’d just flown.

‘It – I’m so sorry Lord Narinder, I tried to stop it –’ the pink rabbit babbled, but Narinder was already darting over.

‘You may well have saved lives,’ he said, barely letting Patreno stumble off the cycler before he was springing into the seat. As soon as his hands were on it, he could feel the cycler’s satisfaction – he had no idea how it had known to come, the need to reach the parish seat less than a minute old, but he wouldn’t complain. He could find out later.

‘All of you, run,’ he snapped. ‘Do not wait for me, I will catch up or I will not, but you will return to Bulrushe and inform them of what has happened. Should I not return, the Shepherd will guide you.’

That was as much time as he was willing to waste, and if anyone said anything afterwards, he didn’t hear them. He was already racing off, the cycler eager and vicious beneath him, Red atop his head and as furiously determined as he was. He would make it in time, or he would die trying. If Aym and Baal lived, it was only because their former master had pulled them from their afterlives without knowing – and he wouldn’t let his own hands be what harmed them, whether that be the hands of Narinder or the One Who Waits.

He raced on, praying to no one. If he did pray, then he knew there was no one to hear him, so it was the same as silence in the end.

Marecea was an emaciated town up close, despite all of the many buildings huddled together; the streets were as thin and organic as capillaries, the structures skeletal, the silence haunting as he raced through the alleys. The entire town would be gathered in one place, but the emptiness was still eerie. As someone with half a soul and intimately familiar with emptiness, it was almost too close to home.

Narinder didn’t care, aiming himself at the light of the gathering at the centre of the town. Emptiness was nothing. Haunting was nothing. His attendants had been allowed to pass peacefully before – it was one of the few things he was certain he remembered clearly, their souls and their mother's soul passing through his own hands into the Beyond – and he wouldn't allow them to die in this way.

He could feel Red’s thoughts, same as Red could feel his. He knew Red wanted to save Aym and Baal, but it still hesitated at the idea of Narinder facing down a town alone. It didn't say anything to stop him, however. It knew he wouldn't listen.

As he raced closer, weaving and darting between the tangled streets, he could hear the nervous rumblings of the crowd, and his heart flared bright with hope – the ritual hadn't yet begun. He still had time.

Then a sonorous voice began to speak, echoing out over the town as the light of the gathering turned red. It spoke in the Old Speech, or at least the clerical version still in use for rituals, and the cycler’s engine snarled as he pushed it faster.

‘Here we gather on our appointed day,’ the speaker proclaimed, and the crowd fell dead silent. The clerical language wasn't widely understood outside of the clergy, but it didn't need to be understood to hear the crackling, growing power. ‘Today, we honour the One Who Breaks Chains, He of Endings, Lord of the Above, Below, and Beyond –’

Narinder could see to the centre of the town now as he finally fishtailed out of the thin side streets to the main road. The town square was packed full of people, many of them already turning to find what the approaching sound was; he couldn't see the source of the red light through the crowd's bodies, but he could see the priest afloat at the head of it, backlit by the ominous lights of the imposing cathedral, a halo above xyr head. Not just a priest; a disciple. He didn't know xem, however.

‘– He Who Lays All Souls to Rest,’ continued the priest, even as the crowd began to push and shove, trying to get out of the way of the oncoming cycler. ‘In His name and by His grace, we offer to Him these two devotees, willingly shedding their weaknesses –’

The crowd was starting to shout, finally clearing enough of a path that Narinder could see the source of the red light: a ritual circle, vast and powerful, red like the streaks beside a wound gone septic. It was black around the edges, a gangrenous unlight etching out the more modern runes he recognised from the symbols that the cycler was composed of. In the centre of the circle, chained and shackled, were two kneeling figures dressed in rags. They were small; the two cats couldn't be older than Simigre.

There was very little in all of existence that could have possibly stoked Narinder's rage higher. Seeing Aym and Baal in chains was one of those things, and he could feel how his fury was burning beyond him, heat haze in his wake as he hurtled towards them.

The priest was too deep in the ritescraft to respond to the open shouts of confusion and alarm, continuing to speak. Xyr voice rang out as the glow grew brighter and brighter, walls of light as solid as stone and transparent like dusty, clouded glass. ‘In His name, we lay to rest our weaknesses and cast out our doubts. To accept excision is to accept perfection: may these souls be the vessels he seeks, and be purged of their impurities!’

‘Like hell they will!’ Narinder snarled as he finally reached the square, barely managing to swing around and skid to a stop; it was almost entirely the cycler that did it, in fact. Narinder was barely able to make use of the momentum to leap off it towards the ritual circle, nearly toppling as he did, but he didn't care about dignity. His boys were whipping their heads around, twin expressions of confusion breaking through the weary despair as they spotted him. Neither would have any idea who he was, but that didn't matter. Nothing mattered but getting them out.

Red leaped to his hands from his head, shifting shape as it did. He lifted the fiery opalescent blade of the Red Scythe high, and swung down just as the priest intoned, ‘We excise these souls unto thee!’

He was too late. Even as the Red Scythe tore through the power that was keeping the ritual sealed, the magic was already taking effect. The unlight of the runes was bubbling up like tar, oily iridescence climbing up the chains to the terrified faces of the cats he'd once raised.

Narinder did the only thing he could do: he flung himself through the gash in the seal.

As he breached through the magic, he felt the seal break entirely, the divinity lashing out wildly. He had no eyes for that, no thought for that, because he was fighting to snap through the strands of the ritual’s purpose, intent made manifest as cords of magic. He sliced through them heedlessly, ichorous magic recoiling from his own as he fought to get closer. He could see the life force being siphoned out of Aym and Baal; there was no saving their lives now, so he'd just have to bring them back.

He was finally close enough to grab the boys, his paws landing on them a bare second before the life was snuffed out. Dead, dead – hurt by him, just as they'd been damned for him, but he wouldn't let it happen twice –

‘Master?’

His head snapped up, eyes going wide as he saw what was above him. Within the ritual gone haywire, he could see a rift between this place and another. The Above, and now above him, the Below. There was screaming echoing out, wispy and distant, and in the swirling mists of the plane where he'd once been chained, there were cages. Endless cages, the bars black steel and razor sharp, with souls trapped inside of them – some souls partial, others full. All were trapped in the Below, however, prevented from passing on. 

There were two souls not yet caged, however. The ritual had been disrupted, the passage through the rift incomplete; though the souls were faceless, formless as anything but orbs of light, he knew them. He’d held them before, both as the soul lights they were now, and once – long, long ago – as kittens. 

‘You know me?’ he whispered, his paws still on the corpses, the rotting ichor divinity still spasming outside of this moment.

The one on the right bobbed. ‘We didn't, before,’ Baal said, and the two souls inched closer to Narinder. ‘We do now. We remember.’

‘But I do not look…’

‘You have the Crown,’ Aym's soul pointed out. ‘You're our Master.’

Narinder swallowed. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I – I was too late, but I will make this right. I can resurrect you.’

No, Red said, and Narinder hesitated. Its voice was heavy. Sad. We can't. 

‘Why,’ he demanded, looking down. He'd dropped it as the scythe, but now it was a serpent again.

I'm not Death anymore, Red replied, and his heart stopped. So we can't reverse it. Maybe one day, when you're whole, but… there's nothing we can do now.

‘I will not leave them to that!’ Narinder snapped, gesturing up to the screaming rift. ‘I must do something – there must be something, I am the god of Rebirth, I am not powerless!’

‘Master,’ Aym said, and Narinder lifted his head as the two orbs came to rest in front of him. The ritual was beginning to die back; he had little time. ‘Why can't you resurrect us?’

Narinder swallowed. ‘I am no longer the god of Death,’ he admitted, loathing every word. ‘I am the god of Rebirth, instead. So I cannot…’

He trailed off.

‘Master?’ Baal said uncertainly.

‘Red,’ Narinder said calmly, ‘I will need you in a moment. This will hurt us both, but it must be done.’

Red nodded. It was in his head; it had already seen what he’d decided. 

‘Aym, Baal,’ he said, letting go of the corpses to hold out his blood-stained paws; both orbs settled in his hands, and for a moment, he remembered how small they'd been when all three of them had been cast down. How he almost failed to catch them in time; how the two kittens, barely weaned, had wailed in fear until he began to clumsily rock them. ‘I cannot resurrect you, but you will live. I know not how long it will take, and I believe you will remember me not. But you will live, and I will keep you safe. Do you understand me?’

The two orbs bobbed in unison. ‘We really won't remember you?’ Aym asked, his voice unable to hide his disappointment. 

‘You did not remember me when you lived, moments ago, reborn as you were. You will be reborn once more, so the same will likely be true. It matters not, because I will care for you,’ he said, and elsewhere, tenderness was hard; even here, it wasn’t the easiest. These two had been the ones he'd given every scrap of tenderness he'd had, however. It was their right, and soon their birthright. ‘When you are old enough, I will tell you of your past selves. Until then, you will be you, and you will remain such after.’

‘So this time you'll be our dad?’ Baal asked, sounding confused.

‘Yes. In a sense, at any rate. Until you are reborn, however, you will rest. I owe you that.’

After a second, both orbs bobbed again.

‘Good. I…’ Narinder started, but couldn't make himself finish. He knew what he was supposed to say here; the words the two of them had never gotten to hear, because he'd never dared say it, never allowed himself to acknowledge it aloud. Even now, knowing they might never hear him say it as themselves otherwise, his tongue was frozen.

We're running out of time, Red reminded him gently, and he swallowed. It felt like glass in his throat. 

‘I love both of you,’ he said, even though it took everything in him to pull the words out. ‘Now rest.’

He didn't give the two of them time to answer; he didn't think he could handle the sound of the words they might say. He just pulled the orbs close to his chest, cradling them in his left arm as he did so, then held out his right paw to Red.

Red opened its mouth and used its fangs to tear a gash in the meat of his palm; the first drops of his blood, burning like molten jewels, struck what was left of the dying excision ritual. At the touch of Rebirth, the ichorous black cringed away, retreating. The rift above him closed like the jaws of a beartrap sullenly snapping shut, leaving the world in an almost tranquil quiet.

Narinder opened his mouth, intending to speak the words he needed. The words instead came out in a familiar tune – for once, not the bone melody. That one still sang within him, but the notes that left his mouth were far, far older (for all that the words were new to the melody, his native dialect natural on his tongue.) There had been a time, after all, when Narinder's faithful hadn’t only lifted their voices in prayer.

‘With my blood, be made anew, your newfound paths to take,’ he sang down at the two souls he held, a gentle light beginning to pulse; red like a heartbeat slowing, paling down to rest. His blood was taking in the dregs of the excision ritual, washing away the power of the One Who Waits, recycling what could be saved. ‘Sorrow passes, seasons turn, and new life takes its place. Grow and grow, then lay to rest, then grow for growing’s sake. Your flesh and blood made flesh and blood; once more in my embrace.’

The ritual was drained of energy, but even with the devotion given to him by his newfound cult, it wasn't going to be enough. He'd give as much of himself up as he needed to, but he was scraping the bottom of the proverbial barrel; he'd known this would hurt him, and didn't regret it, but he knew he'd be weakened for the foreseeable future.

Then, when he thought he was completely out of devotion, he remembered.

Were it any other moment, he would have hesitated. He needed to stand on his own, he knew. Tying their faiths any tighter, even if only by his own perception, could be the end of them both. This was for Aym and Baal, however, the closest thing Narinder had ever had to sons – and it was poetic, in its way. Esriaal had broken his chains; now, they would break Aym and Baal’s.

All that faith was waiting for him when he reached out for it, because Esriaal hadn't stopped believing in him yet, any more than he'd stopped believing in them. It wasn't the same as devotion to his own ideals, the way his followers gave, but it was enough to bolster him. There was a surprisingly active energy to it, he found; not organic, just… forward. Whatever it was, it was belief in him, and so it was with the chiming ivory melody within him that the magic finally drew to a close and the last lights finally died down.

It was silent around him, the Darkwood night deep and solemn above. Narinder didn't move, still kneeling in front of the twin corpses of Aym and Baal, an egg in his lap that was larger and heavier than a normal egg should be. There were symbols seemingly etched all over the shell, and though the egg was monochrome in the darkness, its symbols would be red in the light.

Red was the first to stir, and when it did, it flinched. Oh fuck, it whispered, alarm and nausea in its voice. Narinder lifted his head to see what was somehow more wrong than everything else, only to fall as still as the corpses in front of him. The corpses around him.

It was carnage. Bodies were strewn about, perhaps dozens of them. Most of the town must have fled, but no few – the priest, several clergy, and far too many innocents – hadn't been able to escape the wrath of the excision ritual deprived of prey. Narinder hadn't even noticed, ensconced as he'd been in the heart of the ritual; now he sat surrounded by the dead, and the only living creatures were the two inside the egg that rested in his arms.

He didn’t say anything, because there was nothing to say. He’d killed many people in the time since he’d taken his own mortal form again, stepping away from the half of him that he didn’t understand and was all but a stranger now. This… this was different.

He stood up, slow and weary, still clutching the egg in his arms. It was inert when he looked at it. His boys’ souls slumbered inside, but they weren’t quite alive, the way he’d thought. The potential of life. Lacking something he couldn’t give, and until he knew what it was – knew how to fix his mistakes – then he’d just put them in another cage than the one the excision had meant to take them into. The only difference in both destinations was that at least here they slept, not screamed.

As he looked away from the egg, however, he saw something on the two corpses before him. Something around their throats.

It’s a collar, Red said, slithering closer so Narinder didn’t have to crouch down. Like the soldiers before.

‘So that is the purpose,’ Narinder murmured, and looked above him, where the rift no longer was. ‘It is not solely devotion or power. He is taking them over, and disposing of those too weak to serve him.’

If he has the other souls of the ‘successes’, then he can probably remake them, the way you remade Esriaal, Red agreed. However many times he needs.

Narinder took a deep breath, then took off his coat, carefully moving his egg from one arm to the other; once the coat was off, he tied it in place around himself, a sling across his chest for the slumbering egg. ‘He did not take Aym and Baal,’ he said when he was sure the egg was secure, then held out his arm. Red leapt up, winding around his arm, and instead of coiling around his shoulders, it slipped into the sling. With his Crown wrapped around his egg, it was as safe as he could possibly make it. ‘We will satisfy ourselves with that for now.’

And Marecea?, Red asked. Narinder didn’t answer with words. There was no one around, though he didn’t doubt there were some watchers lurking in the shadows; that was beside the point. He had work to do.

He started to walk to each corpse, refusing to look away from the consequences of what he’d done. Most features were contorted with fear, ichor burns searing away fur and feather and hair. Each time, he did the same thing; cleaned away the ichorous sheen that remained with the dregs of power left to him, untangling their bodies and turning them onto their backs, closing their eyes if they remained open. Creatures of all ages, many far too young to have had their lives cut short. He didn’t know where their souls would be. He hoped it wasn’t into the cages he’d seen in the Below, and as he saw no collars, he tried to take comfort in that.

‘What are you doing?’ he heard to his right, followed by a panicked hushing sound. When he turned his head, he saw it was a young girl, a possum. Her mother was trying to pull her back into the shadows; she resisted. The girl should look horrified, sick from the scene before her, but instead, she just looked at him. Haunted, but not shocked. She shouldn’t have to be so familiar with anything like this.

‘The least of what I owe them,’ he replied, trying to sound calm, just sounding tired. ‘Go, little one.’

‘Why are you doing that?’ the girl asked anyway.

‘Because I must,’ he answered, closing yet another pair of eyes, moving onto the next. A woman; a dog. He remembered Hana as he closed these eyes. He wondered if the terrier woman had ever gotten a burial, or if she remained rotting in the depths of Anchordeep. ‘Because it is owed.’

‘Joona, come here right now,’ the girl’s mother begged. Narinder turned over another body, cleansing the ichor burns. A sparrow this time; a man. He remembered hearing of a different sparrow, weeks ago in the Pastures. Tynojul, he thought. Killed for helping the Shepherd in Caynero, by followers Narinder hadn’t even known were his.

He tensed up as he heard footsteps, but when he looked up, it wasn’t the little possum girl. It was another sparrow, and she resembled the one he was currently caring for. A sister, perhaps, or a daughter. She looked ready to flee, wings braced like she would leap away in a heartbeat, but Narinder held still as she came close.

‘Can I…?’ she asked in a voice he could barely hear, so full of fear that it almost couldn't leave her beak.

‘Yes,’ he said, and slowly moved away from the dead man so she could kneel beside her kin, letting her close the dead man's eyes herself. He simply moved onto the next.

No one else spoke to him for a while, but others crept out slowly. Each time, he let them care for their own dead; it was their right. He only stopped one once, an owl who was reaching for an elderly crane’s burns, and even then he let the owl return to the work once he’d cleansed the ichor from the wounds. There was weeping in the air now. Narinder could do nothing for them, save care for the dead, so that was what he did.

He couldn’t claim he would have chosen any other action, even knowing what the consequences were. Deep in the hollows of himself, he thought that perhaps he wasn’t so different from his lost half, even now.

The last two he took care of were Aym and Baal, still lying in the centre of the dead circle. It wasn’t as if the weight of the boys was too much for him, so he moved them out of the circle together. Their eyes were already closed, so he laid them out side by side. He sliced the collars off of them, even if the collars were nothing but useless leather now; he wouldn’t leave them like that.

He looked around, and though the carnage remained, at least the dead were no longer strewn around as impersonal casualties of a disaster. They were surrounded by their loved ones.

‘What now?’ asked the mother of the possum girl from before. She was the first one to speak to him since the sparrow woman had crept near before.

‘I know not,’ he said. ‘I have wrought enough ruin, however. When the clergy come, tell them that the Cat was the one to do this, not any of you; I can only hope that will spare as many of you as I failed to spare tonight.’

‘You’re just going to leave,’ demanded a stag, his eyes cold, fists tight. ‘You killed all of them, and now you’re leaving? Do you think we’ll just let you get away?’

‘Yes, because I will cut my way free if I must,’ he replied. ‘I will be unmade before the One Who Waits takes me again, or lays one claw on my sons.’

‘They were your kittens?’ the possum mother asked.

‘Yes. And they will be so again someday,’ he answered, touching the egg still cradled against his chest. ‘I am Narinder, the god of Rebirth. They will be reborn, because I have made it so.’

‘And what of our dead?’ the stag said, taking a step forward before a doe behind him grabbed his arm. ‘What of our children?’

‘They will be reborn,’ Narinder said, looking him in the eye. ‘Not to you, most likely; not for some time. When I have slain the One Who Waits, the dead will again be mine to care for, and they will be free. It is a weak promise, but it is what I can give you at the moment, and it is more than the One Who Waits can promise anyone. Care for one another; flee, if you must.’ He swallowed, then nodded to the twin bodies on the ground behind the stag. ‘And bury them with the others. They were innocents. They deserve the same honours, even if I cannot do so myself.’

‘We will,’ the possum mother said, looking nervously at the stag. ‘You should go now. Quickly.’

‘How dare you –’ the stag started, but this time it was more than the doe who stopped him; two badgers pulled him back, and Narinder stepped between the possum and the stag, hissing instinctively on her behalf. ‘He’s the Cat! He killed all of them! Are you all insane?!’

‘Go,’ the possum mother whispered behind Narinder, small hands touching his back. ‘Go, quickly, while you can –’

He nodded, stepping out of the way again. ‘Live,’ he told her, and she nodded. ‘And tell your daughter she is brave. The pride of a new god is worth little, but she has mine.’

The possum mother looked stunned, but Narinder was turning away. The cycler was waiting for him, having moved itself upright; the warm red light beneath the matte black was comforting to see. He hurried over towards it, the few creatures between him and his cycler hastening to get out of the way, and he ignored how the stag was starting to shout, the struggle to hold him in place growing more and more vicious. If he broke away, Narinder didn’t know, because as soon as he was seated on the cycler it was taking off.

He leaned forward, focussing on steering; his egg was tucked securely between him and the fuel tank, and Narinder hoped the two slumbering souls inside could hear his heartbeat through the shell.

Narinder wasn’t surprised when he reached where Patreno and Suro had parked the rover and found it still in place, just within the border of his liminality. He wasn’t surprised to see his followers waiting for him, either, watching anxiously as he approached. He was surprised, however, to see another person standing with them.

It was one of Esriaal’s figments, the prismatic dimension of their faith absent, but they also wore a far more open expression than he’d seen on any of the other figments he’d seen so far; they were more present in a way it was hard to describe. They looked as anxious as any of the others, though they hung back as he came to a stop and the others rushed forward.

‘What happened?’ Huyano asked, Nolino reaching for Narinder and helping him off of the cycler as if she did it all the time. He let her do so with some bemusement. Tymer took hold of the cycler once he was off of it, keeping it upright. Patreno and Suro were crowded close behind Nolino, and behind them was Simigre, her face resigned. He’d arrived alone, after all. She knew he’d failed. ‘You were gone so long, we thought…’

‘I did tell you to go,’ he said mildly, because it bought him time to brace himself. ‘I was delayed.’

‘The excision happened,’ Simigre said, empty-sounding.

‘Partly,’ he replied, and she froze. ‘I was unable to save Aym and Baal’s lives, but they are not lost. I cannot reverse death, but I was able to keep them from passing on.’ He touched the egg. ‘I am Rebirth. When the time comes, they will live again.’

‘How is that different?’ she asked, slumped with her despair. At least she was no longer covered in blood; Esriaal must have cleaned her up, he thought.

‘Because it spared them the reality of a successful excision,’ he said. He then looked over his followers’ heads to meet Esriaal’s eyes. Their living eye was wet with sadness, and the golden one was faintly suffused with light; they were watching him, though the unresponsive look of the Crown atop their head told him Pale hadn’t accompanied this figment. ‘Shepherd. We will have to speak of what I have learned, but not here. Why have you come?’

‘Shamura told me about Simigre when I came back to Bulrushe,’ they said. Narinder was keeping his voice even, but Esriaal’s carried open sorrow. In a way, he was grateful; he had to stay composed, but this way, he could hear the grief he was feeling in a voice he knew understood. ‘I realised something had to be wrong, so I came here – but I couldn’t go past Casket with my usual liminal travel, and this was as close as I got. When Suro told me you guys had headed out, I, um. I might have asked your cycler to go.’

‘I tried to stop it,’ Patreno said sheepishly. ‘I thought they were trying to get you caught.’

‘You could have no more stopped that machine than you could have stopped the wind,’ he said, just a spark of amusement managing to touch the corners of his mouth. ‘I blame not your instincts, but I ask you to trust the Shepherd, or at least learn to do so. They are our ally.’

‘How did you get –’ Tymer said, gesturing to the egg against his chest.

He closed his eyes. ‘At great cost,’ he said. ‘I interrupted the excision rite successfully, but it was out of control, and extracted its toll from those who could not escape it fast enough. It is why I was delayed; I could not leave without attending to the dead.’

When he opened his eyes, he expected fear. Instead, his followers looked at him with… sympathy.

‘And they let you help?’ Suro asked, beak clicking a little, orange eyes curious as he tilted his head until it was completely sideways.

‘The opposite: they helped me. I did not expect any to approach, let alone without attacking, but they wished to care for their dead. I would not keep them from that.’ He shook his head. ‘We should leave before any follow – they were not hostile until the work was finished, but no few will have laid the blame at my feet, and in some ways, they are right to do so.’

‘Alright,’ Tymer said, and squeezed his shoulder after a second’s hesitation. He nodded, taking the cycler in his paws again and gesturing to the rover for her to go. His followers moved that way, but when he got onto the cycler again, he realised Esriaal wasn’t moving with the others.

‘We need to talk,’ they said, shuffling a little uncomfortably. ‘It can wait if you want, but if you’re willing, um. Could I…?’

He realised what they were asking, and told himself there was no relief in the understanding. ‘I mind not,’ he said, and though Tymer looked a bit surprised when she saw Esriaal climbing onto the cycler behind Narinder, she shrugged and started the rover when he nodded to her. Esriaal cleaned his clothes of the blood and lingering ichor with a touch, at which he nodded in thanks; they then wrapped their arms around his waist, the way they’d done when sitting behind him, before. It felt like they were supporting his egg from beneath, resting as it was on their forearms. Though Narinder knew he would have tensed up if anyone else was that close to it, he decided not to think about it. Esriaal knew who Aym and Baal were to him, better than anyone else alive, and he could leave it at that.

He drove a bit behind the rover, though well within view of Suro and Simigre on the roof, and Esriaal didn’t say anything for a little while. Narinder didn’t mind, because it reminded him of the first time the two of them had done this, even if this Esriaal was a figment. It didn’t feel like a figment, though; their arms were warm and sturdy, keeping the night chill at bay even with the breeze from the drive, and their head was resting against his back again. Maybe there was less difference between them and their figments than he’d started to believe.

‘So what happened with the excision?’ they finally asked, and it was said just quietly enough that he could pretend to have not heard them, if he wanted.

‘I learned what its purpose is,’ he said, because putting this off would make it hurt worse. He could all but feel the way Esriaal would be frowning. ‘I know not why it does such damage, nor how it chooses the ‘weaknesses’ it takes; it is meant to take more. If I had not interrupted it…’

He took a second to word it, and Esriaal waited. ‘There was a gash in the world,’ he said after some thought. ‘A rift between the Above and the Below; within the Below, there are cages. Those cages hold souls, and they are screaming. Though I was able to keep Aym and Baal from joining their number, when the rite was over, both of their bodies wore red collars. He is making vessels.’

‘Like me,’ they said slowly.

‘Yes and no. He has no Crown to grant them. The collars must act as a conduit; Red suspects that so long as he holds the excised souls captive, he may resurrect them however many times he needs, and they may not be mindless, but they are likely utterly subservient.’

Esriaal was silent. When they spoke again, he had to swivel an ear back and listen hard to be sure he heard them.

‘What are we supposed to do?’ they whispered. ‘How do we fight that? Can we fight that?’

‘Yes,’ Narinder said, certain of it. If he wasn’t, then no one would be. ‘I do not fight alone, and neither do you. I know not what we are supposed to do yet, but I know that we have two choices: we can give up, or we can continue. I am not stopping, Esriaal, and for all we have done – for all the ways we have changed – I yet know you. You will not stop, either.’

After a heartbeat or two, Esriaal nodded against him. Their grip tightened. ‘Okay,’ they said, then took a deep breath. ‘At least we know now, right?’

‘Yes.’

They sighed, then rubbed their face against his back. He didn’t bother to tell himself it was because they were cold; he was too weary to lie tonight. He could feel when someone was trying to comfort themself, and if hiding it behind him was what Esriaal needed, so be it. When he was in his house in Bulrushe again, he knew he’d be curling up around his egg to sleep, and perhaps he’d dream again. The temporary ephemerality was the only comfort he deserved.

‘I hate to add onto this,’ they said, and sounded genuinely miserable. ‘But I… I came back because I need your help. I know you’re busy with Bulrushe, and after all this –’

‘Ratau is as competent as he was before, and this time he is no longer constrained by the same rules he failed by means of his own nature,’ Narinder interrupted. ‘He could not bear to sacrifice one of his followers, and now he need not do so. Between Ratau and Shamura, Bulrushe will thrive. What is happening?’

‘Are you sure?’

‘Presume not to doubt my will,’ Narinder said with a touch of dryness. ‘I do as I please, when I please, and this is no different. Were I not willing, you could not drag me from Bulrushe as anything but a corpse.’

They laughed a little under their breath. ‘Yeah, I can believe that,’ they said, and there was enough fondness in their words that Narinder chose not to dismiss it as something else. He could afford honesty, if only for tonight. ‘So, um. You’ve heard about what’s going on in the Pastures?’

‘If you mean the fractures because of me, yes.’

‘No, not that,’ they said. ‘I mean, that’s part of it, but… well. Um. Pale told me more about the pantheon things.’

Narinder tensed up. ‘I have told you why it is an unwise decision, Esriaal,’ he cautioned.

‘I don’t think it’s a decision anymore,’ Esriaal replied, which paused him. ‘Pale said that a pantheon can be made, the way you and the Bishops did it, but that it only works if people are willing to accept it. It also said that sometimes pantheons happened on their own, because people were believing things on their own.’

Narinder only didn’t close his eyes because he was driving the cycler. ‘So I take it that there are those who are already doing so,’ he said wearily.

‘Yeah. It started in the Pastures, a bit, but that’s not where it’s happening fastest. The real issue is overseas.’

‘Meaning?’

‘Irmeli tried to cause problems, I think, but she just ended up fucking up,’ they said. Narinder frowned at the back of the rover, confused. ‘I told you there’s a part of the One Who Waits’ cult over there, especially in Caynero, and so I think she was trying to piss them off even more by spreading rumours that there’s a new god fighting the One Who Waits with me. From the sounds of it, she also tried to make it sound like you’re just my puppet or something, which is pretty fucking rich.’

Narinder wanted to bristle at the idea, but as Esriaal sounded more or less as revolted by the idea as he felt, he let himself set the idea aside. ‘And how did that do anything less than damage?’

‘Because not everyone over there hates me,’ they said, their shrug moving their shoulders against his back. ‘It’s a pretty new faith over there, and they haven’t really had any gods whatsoever – local spirits, kind of? But it’s not the same, and it hasn’t really interfered with any of them who’ve chosen to follow me.’

‘Belief in a spiritual existence need not cancel out the faith in one’s god,’ he agreed. ‘So they have not the same long history I fomented against you.’

‘Yeah, exactly. And part of what’s kept me from making any real foothold over there the way the One Who Waits has is that it’s been a few generations since anyone’s had any real peace, apparently. They’re not familiar with it anymore. They’re familiar with fighting back, though, and the followers of the One Who Waits over there can be pretty zealous, but it’s not widespread. Since they’re trying to cosy up to the most powerful people there, it’s a pretty easy logical jump that if you’re fighting against the One Who Waits, then you’re against the people who want to do his bidding. Word’s starting to spread, but it’s, um. Not really framing you as Rebirth.’

‘Then we will run into the same problem as when Bulrushe was worshipping the Cat,’ he said, though it was an unhappy thought. He’d learned his lesson from Bulrushe; dispelling an idea was far harder to do once it had taken root. It was a lesson he should've learned from the failed erasure of the Herald. He supposed naïveté could infect anyone regardless of age.

‘Pale doesn’t think we will, and I don’t either,’ they said. ‘Pale said that most gods could have more than one domain, and the one they’re all talking about might fit you pretty well. You’d have to accept it though, from what Pale said.’

‘I am reluctant to be defined without my say so,’ he said, more defensive than he wanted to sound.

Hear them out, Red said from its place in the sling. Its voice was odd; it was hiding its thoughts when he reached out, giving him only the impression of allowing it to think.

‘Very well,’ Narinder said at last. ‘What is it they are claiming I am the god of?’

‘Rebellion,’ said Esriaal.

Narinder didn’t know what he’d expected, but it hadn’t been that – nor had it been the way it more or less instantly clicked in his heart. It was more than acceptable; it was correct, in a hard to define way. It felt in some ways the same as when Rebirth had left his own lips.

‘Ah,’ he said, a little weak.

‘Not good, huh?’

‘That is not it,’ he said, refocussing. ‘I can live with that, I believe. But I know not how that would form a pantheon, or at least not one where we are united instead of opposed.’

They cleared their throat. ‘Well, um. They’re not really framing me as Peace anymore, either. They haven’t for a little while – I think it started a few weeks ago – and it’s probably why they’re thinking of you differently.’

‘...what?’

‘I think the word’s stupid, in my defence,’ they warned, and sounded mortified; he could feel their left ear twitching against his back, thumping against his shoulderblade. ‘And it’s not like I’m not Peace, anymore. They’re just also, um. Calling me the god of Progress. I was going to try and change it to Growth or something, but Pale said it’s a little late. So while Rebellion and Peace sound like they’re opposing, Rebellion and Progress… don’t sound like that.’

‘I see,’ he said. They weren’t wrong, he supposed, though the part of him that was used to philosophising was already trying to point out that Rebellion and Peace weren’t nearly so opposed as they appeared at first glance either. After all, Rebellion wasn’t pointless violence; it was purposeful, actions made not for the sake of violence but for the sake of the aftermath. If anything, Peace and Rebirth were more opposed, but that was superficial at best. To say nothing of how well suited Progress and Rebirth could be to one another, with the right framing – and not everything needed to be perfectly harmonious, regardless.

He didn’t want to think the implications through, but Pale was right, and if he was already able to see the throughlines…

‘Yeah,’ Esriaal said awkwardly. ‘So that’s what’s happening over there. It's not the main problem, though it's feeding into the main problem – but maybe in a way we can use.’

‘Meaning?’ he asked, refocussing.

‘I've been talking to my disciples, though I haven’t brought up the pantheon thing with anyone yet,’ Esriaal explained. ‘While some of them are… not really happy about the idea, I think that if we can make some headway in Caynero, maybe even in Belemen, we could have a stronger faith base to rely on that the One Who Waits can't get at directly. That means I can make more cores, and have the materials for more rovers and cyclers, as well as the prostheses people are waiting on. The best way for us to do that is to prove we’re a viable option, though, so we'd need to cause some trouble for his cult over there. It's dangerous, and it's going to cause problems with my cult in the short term, but if we can pull it off –’

Esriaal cut themself off, sounding mortified as they cleared their throat. ‘Well. Um. If you’re willing to be in a pantheon in the first place?’

Narinder considered his options, Esriaal resting against his back. It had been mere days ago that he’d rejected the idea of a pantheon, little over a week at most, but if things were already changing that fast, no matter how small, it was going to spread. He knew it in his bones. So did Esriaal, from the sounds of it.

He’d told them they had two choices, and the same was true here, if different in nature. He could rail against the inevitable, hide from the truth and reality as it moved on without him – or he could lean into it, and make an opportunity from the danger.

‘I have told you,’ he said, and Esriaal began to slump against him in disappointment. Instead, they jolted with surprise as he continued, ‘I do not fight alone, and neither do you. If a pantheon we must be, then a pantheon we will become. I still believe it dangerous, admittedly. But so is everything else.’

‘Yeah,’ Esriaal said, and their relief was so strong that it was almost enough to relax his own muscles. ‘We’ll make a plan when we get back? In the afternoon. You’re going to need to sleep all morning, I can tell you’re basically tapped out.’

‘I will be fine,’ he objected, a bit annoyed.

‘Too bad. You’re going to sleep,’ they replied. ‘Or you can let me drive so you can get a head start, if you think you might be able to rest while I take over. The cycler might let me do it if you’re here. I think its issue last time was that you were gone, even though your body was still there.’

Narinder hesitated despite himself. He could afford honesty for tonight, he reminded himself, though it was uncomfortable now, instead of a guilty relief.

He waved up to Suro on the roof to catch his attention, and the owl peered over. ‘Give us a moment, I must refuel the cycler,’ he called up. ‘We will catch up.’

‘Alright,’ Suro called back, then moved towards the front of the rover; when Narinder came to a stop, the rover continued to trundle on.

Esriaal got off the cycler first, taking the chance to stretch as Narinder used the Red Dagger to cut open his right palm. There was a wide scar in the skin of his palm; it was a scar he minded less than the others, long faded and hidden under the fur of his forearms. Once the cycler was ready, Narinder stood up, letting Esriaal take his seat. They hopped up with the ease of someone used to it, curiously poking the cycler as he awkwardly clambered on behind them.

‘Oh, that's weird,’ they said with interest. ‘It’s got a personality, huh?’

‘So it seems,’ he said, a touch amused. He shifted the sling so it was closer to his side, cautiously putting his arms around Esriaal’s waist and keeping the egg tucked close. Even through their blouse, he could feel the soft give of their wool; when he shifted closer from necessity, there was a familiar scent from the thick fluff atop their head. It was the same scent that he’d found on the jacket and his shirt, he realised. ‘Did you use your wool for my clothes?’

Esriaal froze. Narinder hadn’t meant to ask so bluntly, and regretted it already.

‘Um. Yeah. That’s probably weird, huh?’ they said, laughing a little, but they sounded like they wanted to die. ‘Sorry, it was just the closest thing at hand, I’ll use something else for whatever I make from now on –’

‘Thank you,’ he interrupted, and they shut up. ‘I reject not the gift, Esriaal. I am only surprised, not ungrateful.’

‘Oh. Well. Okay,’ they said, sounding uncertain. ‘Well, the cycler seems like it’ll work with me, so are you ready?’

‘Yes,’ he said, and though it was more unnerving to have no control over the cycler as it took off, Esriaal seemed to have a good grasp of it a lot faster than he had. Soon they’d caught up to the rover, and Narinder waved at the curious Suro to reassure him. Suro nodded in return, then returned to his seat across from Simigre.

Narinder had meant to talk to Esriaal, though he wasn’t sure about what. Something to while away the coming hours of the drive to reach Bulrushe once more. Unfortunately, he understood now what Esriaal had meant when they’d admitted to falling asleep on the ride through Anchordeep. He still doubted they’d found his far narrower frame all that comfortable, but Esriaal was a stark contrast with that. Smaller, yes, but warm and soft, with their wool’s pleasant scent lulling.

Tucked between the two of them was Narinder’s egg, his past and future sons slumbering, and so Narinder was helpless to do anything but the same. He fell asleep, resting against Esriaal, and he did not dream.