Page 1 of The Isles of the Gods
Five hundred and one years ago…
“It’s not that I thought I’d live forever. I just didn’t expect this kind of advance notice about when I was going to die.”
“Seven hells, Anselm,” mutters Galen, breaking off a piece of the hardtack the sailors gave us, then crushing it between his fingers. We watch the crumbs land on the mossy ground at our feet.
It feels strange for him to be doing something as mundane as eating, in a sacred place like this. Then again, maybe we’ve earned the right to do whatever we want.
The two of us are sitting outside the temple itself, the worn black stone at our backs. The clearing is hemmed in by jungle, thick and lush and as vibrantly green as the magician’s marks that snake up my forearms. It’s much warmer and wetter than our open fields at home.
We left the ship anchored down in the cove, and my best friend climbed to the peak of the island with me.
I wanted to see where it’s going to happen tomorrow.
Barrica came too, though she didn’t say why. Our goddessstands on the far side of the glade, gazing at the sparkling blue sea below. She’s a full head taller than me, and I’m the tallest man I know. The gods are built on a different scale. Larger than us, infinitely more beautiful, in that way you can’t quite picture unless they’re right in front of you.
I used to have trouble concentrating around her, her presence scattering my thoughts, but over the course of the war I’ve had a lot of practice in her company.
She stands like a statue, beautiful even in her sadness. I know she wishes with all her heart that she didn’t have to ask this of me. Here we are, though. There’s no other way. Not after what happened to Valus, and to Vostain.
I glance across at my friend next. Before all this, his priest’s robes were plain, simply cut in Alinorish blue—but at some point during the war, our clergy shifted to wearing something close to a soldier’s uniform, in deference to our warrior goddess.
His is open at the neck, unbuttoned as usual. He always had some part of his clothing askew when we were children, and that hasn’t changed.
He’s so familiar. His presence is a comfort.
How did we two little boys ever grow up and find ourselves here?
“I’m scared, Galen,” I murmur.
“I know, my king.” He lets out a slow breath. “Me too.”
We’re both silent for a time, the sun dropping lower in the sky through the tangle of green leaves. We didn’t bring a lantern—we’ll have to start our descent soon.
I’m the one who breaks the quiet eventually. “When we were young, and the priests told us tales about the heroes of old, they always seemed so noble. None of them were scared, or angry, or uncertain.”
“They always seemed cleaner, too,” Galen muses, glancing down at himself. “Smelled better.”
I snort. “I used to wonder what they were thinking. Now we know, I suppose. When you tell those stories, make me a real person, all right?”
“I promise.”
It’s strange to imagine a future without me. It’s strange to imagine tomorrow night without me, come to that. My sister will make a fine queen. I wish I could have seen it. But there’s so much I’ll miss.
One day soon, the cooks back in Kirkpool will make another batch of my favorite pastries, bursting with berries that stain your fingers pink. Everyone else will enjoy them, and I…won’t be there.
Will they think of me?
“Oh, another thing,” I say, picking up our conversation of the last few days. “There’s a pair of blackbirds that make a nest outside my bedroom window every year. I don’t want to insult them, but to be honest, they’re not that bright. I usually lay out some kind of fluff along the windowsill so they’ve got something to line the nest with.”
“I’ll see to it,” Galen says quietly, closing his eyes. I’ve been doing this ever since we boarded the ship, thinking of little jobs I’ll need someone to take care of when I’m gone. He never hushes me, never tells me someone else will figure it out. He just takes note and makes that same promise.
“Galen, how did we get here?” I whisper, voicing the question that keeps presenting itself over and over.
He silently offers me a piece of his hardtack as he considers his reply. It’s just flour and water and a little salt, baked untilit’s tough enough to break your teeth. It’s sailors’ food, and soldiers’ food, and we’ve become both. But my interest in food has been waning, as if my body knows I’m not going to need it.
“Well, in the beginning there was the Mother,” he replies, singsong, threatening to tell the whole story, trying to lighten the mood.
When he pauses, though, I pull in my knees and rest my chin on them. “Go on.”
