Page 81 of Eyes of Kings

Venus clamps her hands over her ears. The palace is eerily empty—she isn’t sure what they’re going to retrieve, what might qualify as valuable for the yamen so the officials in Rincun buy their excuse. Murals on the walls can’t come off; the icy stone floors will not be easily destroyed.

“I’m stepping out,” Venus calls. “I’ll have a look around the perimeter.”

None of her attendants respond. Or maybe they do. Maybe she can’t hear it over thishorrible whining.

She feels that first thump in her chest, and Venus scrambles to exit the threshold of the palace. A gag presses at the back of her throat. Distance from the palace doesn’t help—the putrid stench of its qi follows her out. While Venus walks the perimeter, keeping deep, even breaths, the feeling clings to her shoulders. Her eyes feel hot.

Glass fragments. She peers up, finding a broken window. She calls, “Hello?” and one of her attendants leans out from the open sill.

“I’m searching the throne room, Councilmember!” she reports.

“All right,” Venus replies. “Continue.”

The attendant disappears. Beyond the back of the palace, it is a blanket of white. Dips and valleys, as far as Venus’s eye can see.

She turns. The whining changes pitch. She shouts in frustration, and a pulse beats from her chest—a flare of light, a quick snap that could be brushed away as merely a thunderstorm in the distance.

The sound goes away. Overhead, the attendant calls from the throne room, “Councilmember, is everything all right?” but Venus’s attention has moved on.

There’s something tucked in the slopes behind the palace. A dark roof, peeking just into view from where she stands.

“Keep collecting!” Venus calls up. “I’m going to have a look over there.”

She’s moving quickly, wading through the snow with new vigor. The roof is farther than she had thought, the mountains warping her gauge on proximity. Venus is out of breath by the time she’s gingerly sliding against the slope to get closer to her discovery. Beneath the cover of snow, its eaves and walls are a shade of deep red.

It’s a temple.

“Hey!” she yells. Her voice booms across the mountain, echoing to the open windows of the palace. “Bring your bags here once you’re done!”

The temple is derelict. Its decorative edges have rotted, the corners collapsed or missing. Venus approaches the door, scanning for a good place toopen it, but there is no handle. Carefully, she slots her fingers against its side. She tugs.

Nothing moves. She tries again. The hinges creak, offering a small opening before the door gets stuck again. It isn’t enough for Venus to squeeze through. She pulls hard. Once. Twice. Bit by bit, the door scrapes black lines into the frozen ground, and then Venus finally pushes herself into the temple.

She breathes out. Rubs her hands along her arms, trying to soothe the goose bumps rising underneath her sleeves.

The temple interior resembles those that still remain in San-Er. Artwork of the pantheon decorates the ceiling. Despite the clouds, enough gloomy daylight streams through the small vents at the top of the temple to offer illumination.

Venus inches forward, inspecting the shrines that line the walls. Their incense sticks have long crusted over, the sand pots stiffened with time. Surprisingly, the figurines of each respective immortal appear undamaged. The ceramic stays sturdy. The paint has held.

Venus keeps walking. She pays every shrine an equal amount of attention, almost afraid of the consequences if she happens to neglect one. Many appear human. But many do not. The old gods often took the appearance of animals when they came down to earth. Venus’s education didn’t cover the kingdom’s former religiosity in explicit detail, but there would be sporadic references in their textbooks and stories. Gods with snouts, gods with wings, gods who had two crow feet, perching on the moon.

One of the figurines even resembles a plant more than anything else.

Venus turns her attention to the front. Up ahead, the largest shrine is dedicated to the temple’s patron god. Its primary object of worship. At the center of the shrine, there stands a small humanoid figurine. A young, androgynous god—black hair cropped at the waist, eyes blindfolded.

“Councilmember?” someone calls outside.

“In here!” Venus replies.

There’s a prayer mat at the feet of the young god. It’s worn enough to bear markings, two darker indents where someone must have frequently kneeled.

Wind blows in through the open door, flapping the prayer mat at one of its corners. Outside, she hears once more, “Councilmember, where did yougo?”

“Right here,” Venus replies. “Follow my voice.”

She crouches down, brushing the prayer mat lightly. When the wind lifted it, she thought she had seen…

Venus drops the mat, startled. A beat later, her hand lurches right back to the mat, flipping it over properly.