17

The weather didn't improve as the day wore on. Winter was in the air at last. Ethos took comfort in it regardless, preferring the woods to Calaster's home and all the awkward tension therein. Strangely, Peter shared the sentiment. Una was pleased enough for the three of them, bright-eyed at the thought of a bath and scrubbing the grime out from under her nails. She and their host were off trading stories and bellying up to all the fine wine.

With Oubi clean and sleeping off his ordeal, Ethos made good on his word to haul fresh water up from the creek. Peter followed, despite his objections, and was unusually quiet as they made their trips back and forth from the house. He looked like he wanted to say or ask something. 

Ethos hoisted the yoke. The weathered wood smoothed around the back of his neck. He draped his arms on either end, content to stand and shoulder the weight while Peter loaded buckets. The creek was a pleasant aural distraction, bubbling slow between frozen banks.

A crow touched down on the shaft between his head and his wrist. Ethos glanced and knew at once who had sent it, and, despite his weariness, he already knew he'd answer the call. How cruel, he thought, should his last day of freedom invite misadventure.

But Pathos would have to wait.

Peter approached from the creek, bucket in hand. Ethos had to admit that he'd changed since departing the salty eastlands, and it wasn't just in the wear of his clothes. The way he carried himself was at ease, like he'd finally gotten a feel for his skin.

Peter shooed the crow. He saw to the yoke, blue eyes low as he tied off the water. "That should do it," he said. "How's the balance?"

"It's good."

Peter took the lead as they made for the familiar sunken roadway, retracing footprints they'd left in the snow. Faced away, he said, "So I've been thinking."

"Have you."

"I've been thinking I'd like to go home soon."

It was unsurprising, yet Ethos conceded a moment of silence. He watched the ground and listened to the brittle sound of snow underfoot. "Yeah, okay," he replied. "So go."

"I aim to. You should come with me."

"What about my revenge?"

"Don't be stupid, Ethos. You're not that guy."

Peter had him there. "I need to deal with Eadric first."

"I know that. I meant after." Peter shrugged a little. "Just think about it."

Thoughts dark, Ethos sighed. The breeze picked up and bit at his nose. "It's going to take a while," he said. "I can tell. You should probably see about booking a flight."

Calaster's house appeared around the bend, its crooked chimney spilling woodsmoke. Peter slowed at the sight of it, turned, and said, "There's something else."

Ethos frowned, elbows hanging from the yoke. "What's up?"

"There's a chance Eadric knows about my mom."

"Is that going to be a problem for me?"

Peter just stood there, eyes adamant.

"Oh. Excellent." Dispirited and more than mildly annoyed, Ethos continued on. "Here's hoping he thinks I couldn't care less," he said. "It'll be challenging if he tries to use her as collateral."

Peter stopped him short. "You can't let anything happen to my family."

"I warned you about this. About overinvolving yourself."

"I know. But you've got to do right by them."

Ethos dimmed. The pain in his head intensified. "Fine."

The rest of the walk was spent in relative silence. Ethos heard Peter say a few things to which he must have responded in kind, but his mind was elsewhere, driven out. He came upon a phrase he'd never heard before: no rest for the wicked— and the string of thought led him straight to Oldden, straight to the girl. He'd catch her looking at him now and again, as if from a window. He couldn't see her face. All he knew was her name.

Alyce.

"Ethos."

Alyce was good. That much, he knew. And she was lonely. There was a gentle, scowling softness to her that he couldn't help but admire. He'd catch little glimpses of things she could see, and what she could see was astonishing. It hadn't taken long for him to realize what kind of creature she was. Each little glimpse was of something insane; a mountaintop here, a wasteland there, an ocean, a canyon, a sinkhole, a cloud. If a twister razed a town in the east, she'd be first to know. 

"Ethos." Una was standing in front of him, as elegant as she ever was. When he gave a start, her concern blackened into a glower. "You weren't even listening."

They were in Calaster's washroom, he realized. The ache in his shoulders reminded him that the yoke was still there, weighing him down. He looked around and asked, "Where's Peter?"

"You came alone," she replied, slowly. "Are you feeling okay?"

They'd probably split ways. "Yeah, I'm good."

The spark in her eyes saw through him, as always. She turned her head to let down her hair. "You were making that face again," she said. "You're worried."

He sulked. "I wasn't making a face."

"You were. You make it when you think no one's looking." Cinching her robe, she sat on the edge of the wooden tub and lightly touched the water within. It steamed. "Ozwell's in the upstairs bedroom," she said. "You should sort him out before Cal hands him over to Eadric."

Agreed. "You think so?"

"He's been immersed for nearly a week," she grumbled. "He knows too much about us. If it were me, I'd have silenced him longsince."

"Silenced him how?"

"However. Compelling is too impermanent to rely on." She curled her hair behind an ear and sent him a slanted, rueful grin. "You don't like that about me," she said. "I'm sure Peter would feel the same if he knew. But someone has to be the bad one."

"You're not the bad one, Una."

"No?" Her amusement faded. She stood and slid her arms around his middle. "I know what I am, Ethos," she said. "You do, too, even if you won't say it. That's why we work."

She was warm. He would have hugged her back if it weren't for the yoke. "Let me set this down somewhere," he murmured. "I can't move properly."

"Shall I tickle you, then?"

"I wish you wouldn't."

She pouted. "But it's so tempting."

"Careful. I wouldn't want you to end up like Oubi."

Sly laughter spread to her lips. "What a delightfully self-destructive idea," she leered. "Poor dumb Ozwell's one thing, but imagine what your life would become if someone like me were in there with you, making you say things, making you think things." Her voice had an impish quality to it. She went to her tiptoes and lightly kissed the end of his nose. "I'd drive you crazy."

She was teasing him, but the prospect was a very real one. Too real to joke about. Ethos must have looked serious, because she smiled once more and returned to the bath.

A ghost of Alyce emerged from the ether. With friends like these…

Ethos impeded the nosy godling, climbed on board with the other strange creatures who somehow kept their thoughts to themselves, but doing so proved unexpectedly difficult. His knee gave out and struck the floor. Water slopped, spattered, and spilled. "Let Peter know when you're done in here," he said, privately bewildered. "I have things to do."

Una turned toward the sound in surprise. "Did you just fall?"

"No." But he couldn't rise yet. Grudgingly, he admitted, "A little, yeah."

Chuckling, she joined him on the floor and helped to remove the yoke. She touched his hand when he began unloading the water. "I'll take care of it."

Ethos was forcibly reminded of the first time they'd met, of her delicate outrage and, of course, her body, to which her robe had clung so appealingly. She was easily the most beautiful human he'd ever laid eyes on, personality notwithstanding.

Her brow furrowed. "Are you sure you're okay?"

"Pathos is waiting outside." Ethos reminded himself to focus. To keep moving. "He can lead me to the thing in the sky," he said. "I can make him."

"What are you going to do with it?"

"Gain an edge. It shouldn't be too difficult to swing some kind of a deal, not if Eadric gets what he wants. He'll have no further use for me." He saw her smile and asked, "What?"

She languidly shrugged, baring a shoulder. "Nothing."

"Then why are you smiling like that?"

"You spend so much time trying to fit these crazy pieces together," she said. "It leaves you with no sense of self-awareness. It's so cute it troubles me."

Ethos scowled. "Shouldn't you be in a tower somewhere?"

"Oh?" she crooned, playing along. "Would you save me, my knight?"

He smirked in spite of himself and tried to stand again. His traitorous legs responded this time. "I should head on," he said. "Please tell Peter I said to stay put. Stop him if you need to."

Her hand was falling back to her side before he realized she'd reached out to stop him. She looked confused. "Stop him?" she asked. "But you hate what I do." 

"I only hate it when you set him on me."

Her lips twitched into a smile.

"I've got to go," he said. "Don't cause a stir."

She feigned shock, one hand at her heart. "Me? I'd never."

He sent her a look as he left, but neglected to comment. She locked the door behind him. Outside, he spared himself a moment to breathe before approaching the stairway just beyond the kitchen. His feet were sluggish, heavy, dragging.

Alyce felt his anxiety; she was tapping the fogged-up glass between them, trying to see the things he was hiding. It was an honest desire to hear and be heard, to hold and be held, an effort to make all the bad seem better. She was childlike, emotional, desperate for someone to understand. The effect of it left him so disoriented that he almost overlooked the person reading at the top of the stairs.

Calaster. Without tearing away from his text, he said, "No."

Ethos slowed. "Let me through, please."

"I'm under orders to keep you away from him." Calaster turned a page, blue eyes hidden behind his glasses. He ventured a glance when Ethos didn't reply. "Your face is asking me why," he said. "But I'm guessing you have a similar reason for wanting the contrary." 

Ethos glared up at him. "Let me through."

"This is a peaceful home, Ethos." Calaster closed the book. "Keep looking at me like that and you can get out. I won't bother telling you twice."

There was no room for argument. Ethos accepted this truth. He stared up at the councilman, sensed his wisdom, his merit, his age, and cautiously advanced up the steps. Not once did their gazes part. Not once did they speak. The gap between them was immeasurable, journey enough to rival the Throat.

Calaster caught his wrist as he passed, but neither spoke. Not for a stretch. Ethos studied him from above and finally asked, "Who started the fire?"

"Someone else." Calaster didn't waver. "Be on your toes."

Ethos shook him off. There were two rooms on the second floor, both with their doors shut. Ethos could hear someone breathing within the farthermost one, so he passed the first and entered. Oubi was all alone in there, sitting on the edge of Calaster's bed, frowning down at his palms. The soft confusion in his hammered-metal expression was surprising, but then, Ethos had never really sat down and spoken to him, never seen his face in action without Eadric there to twist it into something sardonic or snide. 

Ethos dragged over an empty chair. He took a seat and leaned forward, hands clasped. "Looks like you've calmed down," he said. "Do you recognize me?"

Oubi's eyes were a pale, sky blue. They rounded. "Course."

"That's good. We don't have much time."

"How do you feel?"

Ethos hadn't expected that. He normally brushed off questions about his wellbeing, in part because people asked out of courtesy, and in part because of the cheerless truth. But Oubi truly wanted to know, and Ethos knew better than to feed him a lie. "Lonely," he admitted. "You?"

"Also lonely." Oubi grinned. He was missing teeth. "But at least I'm tall again."

Curious nostalgia. "I'm in a tight spot, Oubi. I need you to get creative."

"Creative?" he echoed. "What for?"

Ethos rubbed at his eyes. "You know me a little more intimately than I'm comfortable with," he explained. "Eadric's going to ask you about it. I'm certain." Before Oubi could interject, he shook his head several times and continued, "Vows of secrecy never end well. I can't have him hurting you. So I need you to get creative. Contradictory, even. Damaged. Anything but honest."

"Is this about the future? The ships and the fires?"

"In part. It's a lot of little things."

"Like the pass?" 

Ethos heaved a sigh. He withdrew a sprig of oupir from behind his ear. "This is exactly what I'm talking about," he muttered. "You've been swimming around in thorny waters, getting your ankles all tangled in reeds. I feel bad for you."

"Those spirits were messing with your head, Ethos." As if they'd discussed the matter before. "The war's four hundred behind us. More. You hadn't even been born yet."

"But we don't really know that, do we?"

That shut him up. Oubi stopped to search his eyes, and then, rather gallantly, he gripped Ethos by the shoulder. "It's going to be okay," he promised. "You'll get through."

Ethos suddenly thought he might cry. He cleared his throat. "Thanks, Oubi."

A grin— albeit a toothless one. "Don't mention it."

Ethos rose from the chair. "I'll visit later if we're both still alive."

"Michael, wait." Oubi instantly knew his mistake. It was clear in his eyes. Confusion didn't even begin to describe it. "Ethos, I mean," he backtracked. "Sorry."

A slip-up was inevitable. It was obvious, and Ethos could already see it. If he were smart, he'd get rid of this man. It was the only chance he'd have.

Oubi stared at him. "Ethos?"

No. Killing an innocent person out of self-preservation would only amuse Eadric. Better to choose the more dignified loss. Better to take the high road. 

So Ethos smiled reassuringly and said, "An honest mistake."

Oubi only continued to stare, frowning somewhat, just like he'd been at his palms. "Those kinds of thoughts will eat you up," he warned. "You'll hate yourself for hearing them out."

Ethos felt his smile fade. To hide it, he scratched his head and turned to the window. "I'll see about improving your situation," he said. "It all depends on how badly Eadric wants to destroy this thing he's obsessed with. Whatever it is."

Silence, at first. "It could be Alyce."

"It's not. It's too hateful. Too old. It has something to do with the tono." Ethos eased onto the sill, one leg in, one leg out. He adjusted the awning. "That's the only reason he needs me," he said. "After I'm marked he'll have the means to reach it. The gift of flight. I assume that I'm meant to die in the struggle to follow." He glanced back, wryly. "One less orphan godling, right?"

Oubi's eyes were as black as they came. Ethos hadn't sensed a thing. "Clever," Eadric said. "But what makes you think that you have to be marked?"

Ethos might have been too tired to properly react. He was surprised, of course. He'd completely forgotten that Oubi was compromised. "I wish you'd stop coming and going like this," he said, drily, thinking of Cal. "Don't you have anything better to do?"

"Presently, no. What makes you think that you have to be marked?"

Ethos felt a void settle somewhere in his chest. "It's the only logical explanation," he said. "You wouldn't have gone to all this trouble if you could possess people indiscriminately."

"Fun fact about what I do." Eadric joined him by the window. "It's as much about possession as it is assimilation. I absorb a lifetime of experience with every acquisition." He looked out at the forest, shoulder against the frame, and then looked back at Ethos. "It's an appropriation of personal data. I'm hoping that this adventure with Oubi has provided some insight as to the depths."

Indeed. The void expanded and threatened implosion. "Prove it."

"Gladly. How well do you remember the low river she-snake?" Eadric must have seen a change in his expression. "I remember her, too," he said. "You'd hardly been with the clans for a year when you killed her for biting Shima. You brought her home. You thought you'd be praised."

"I wanted to do something nice."

"Yes, I know. Very noble. But Shima was disgusted by you, wasn't she?" Eadric already knew the answer. His black gaze returned to the trees. "It's a bit hazy, unfortunately, but that's to be expected from a secondhand account of someone's life. I only know what Oubi knows, and he only knows the bits and pieces of what he managed to marinade in. The rest will come after."

Ethos felt numb. "After what?"

" 'There's something sick in the sky above us.' " Eadric was quoting him, he realized. "Those words you spoke to Peter are truer than you can imagine, Ethos. Nothing in this world is more important than its destruction. Your opinion of me is irrelevant."

"What exactly is it?"

Eadric glanced. "People these days call it Leviathan," he said. "The Demon of the Deep. The Beast of the Blue. All misleading names, of course, encouraged by the legend of Redbeard's struggle to reach the shore." It was there he fell silent, thoughts elsewhere. "But she never did like the water."

She. He'd obviously known her. "How did she end up with the tono?"

He smiled a little. "She was their god."

Blankly: "Their god?"

"That's right," he replied. "Ageless. Faultless. Every bit as stunning as Una. More so. Clear skies followed her. She could even bring the dead back to life." His bearing went dark. "She went mad. She slaughtered hundreds of our men. The tono were forced to seal her themselves when we pushed their species to the verge of extinction, and the very act of doing so uprooted Wyndemere from earth." He let out a long, dissatisfied sigh. "It was the last I saw of them."

Incapacitated and isolated from the rest of the world. Ethos shook his head. "I know what Peter would say to this."

"As do I."

"If it ain't broke— "

"Don't fix it," Eadric cut in. "I'm aware. But seals aren't meant to weather eternity, Ethos. The headaches you suffer are proof of that."

"That means it's been failing for decades."

"Correct. Not very long in the grand scheme of things."

Ethos could scarcely recall a time without the pain anymore. "So it's failing," he yielded, none too enthused about that particular detail. "I can't help but wonder what good you think we can do."

"How rude. I've had hundreds of years to prepare for this."

A lifespan to rival the clans. "Then it's true that you're cursed."

Eadric gave a single nod. "We were already warring with the tono when it happened. One of their dying swore through his teeth that my passing would be far worse than his. I laughed."

Ethos expected him to say more. He didn't. "That was all it took?"

"I didn't think much of it, either. Curses are unassuming like that. Insidious. Unexpected." Eadric imparted a glimpse of his all-too-familiar laughter. "Kind of like you, boy." 

Ethos ignored him. "The headaches will stop if we break the seal, right?"

Eadric responded with a single nod. "That's right."

"And you're not just saying that, right?"

His smile spread. "That's right."

"And she bleeds. You can kill her."

"Yes, Ethos. I can kill her." Eadric stopped him from interrupting. "I'll be honest," he said. "You won't like the method, so I won't explain how."

Ethos narrowly studied him back. "Is she my mother?"

The question gave Eadric reason to pause. Deep seriousness came over him. "I think it's possible," he replied. "It would certainly explain a number of things."

"Kacha warned me to stay away from her."

"That was before we were allies."

"We're not allies. I haven't agreed to anything."

"Then you really ought to get on with it, Ethos. Procrastination annoys me." He turned against the sill, back to the wind. "Calaster's told me about your demands," he said. "I've already rejected the first for a few really excellent reasons. The second one I'm open to."

The first had been a long shot anyway. "Then what about the third?"

"The third is garbage. You threw it in there to make me overlook the fourth."

"The fourth is nonnegotiable."

"Nonnegotiable?" Eadric held his eyes, suddenly intense. "I think you've misunderstood the nature of our relationship," he said. "I'm under no obligation to make this process easier for you. Keep getting ahead of yourself and I'll roast Kacha's headless corpse over the smoldering pit of Peter's farm. Then I'll wait for his deserting whore mother to come home so I can make her watch while I disembowel her only son and feed him to the chickens. Is that understood?"

One leg in. One leg out. Never before had Ethos wanted so badly to get away from someone. "I'm supposed to have until sundown to reach a decision," he said. "Do you have any intention of honoring that?" He tensed when Eadric drew closer. "Don't."

Eadric didn't laugh. He stopped, vacuous. "The last time we spoke in private like this, I asked you a question," he said. "Have you reconsidered your answer?"

"I don't know." Ethos couldn't concentrate. Alyce was pounding on the glass between them, trying to tell him something. Dizzily, he asked, "Which question?"

Eadric was expressionless. " 'Aren't you afraid?' "

Yes. More than anything, yes. Ethos didn't want to become like Calaster, empty and used and tired of it all. The notion sickened him. Realizing this, he rolled out through the open window and landed on all fours below, numb enough to just feel a pinch when one of his wrists gave under the impact. 

Eadric knew better than to shout after him. His voice was irritated. "Children."

On bended knee, hands in the snow, Ethos glanced up at the bedroom window. Eadric was there, looking back. "Stay where you are," he barked. "I'm taking my hours to sundown."

"I don't chase people, Ethos. Take the hours if they're so important."

Ethos bristled, but a sound from the stoop deterred his retort. Peter was frozen there on the steps, cup of ale partway to his lips. If Ethos had been more attentive, he'd have known that someone was out there. He was losing touch, making mistakes, failing at things that should have come naturally. His new reality demanded more. Forethought. Caution. Ingenuity.

Peter cleared his throat and approached, breath misting. Eadric was gone from the window by the time he looked up at it. To Ethos, he gestured with the cup and asked, "What was that about?" 

Ethos rolled his wrist. Not broken. "I'm going out for a while."

"Out?" Peter's brow deepened. "Out where?"

"Pathos. He's waiting."

Silence again. It was the nonresponses that troubled Ethos. The things left unsaid. Peter scanned the trees as he crouched. "When did you hear?"

Ethos replied, "Doesn't matter."

"Want me to come?"

Regardless of the obvious moral affront, Una's involvement had bettered Peter in some ways. He'd become more reliable, more resolved in the eyes. It almost felt like trust. Ethos couldn't help but be in bewildered awe of it; after all, he was hardly deserving, hardly worthy, hardly good or honest or kind. 

Peter smiled into his drink. "You're allowed to say no."

"I need you here with Una." Distractedly, Ethos fished the oupir out of his mouth. It sank into the snow, still warm. "Don't talk to Oubi," he said. "Calaster, either, if you can help it."

"Okay." A week ago, Peter would have asked why. "What else?"

"Just watch what you say." Ethos carefully rose from the ground. He was still unsteady, but the pain had lessened considerably. "I'll be back in a bit."

"Where should I say you've gone?"

"Tell the truth, if you like." Capricious things, odds. The truth would right the crooked scale, give him chips to bargain with, but even if he returned with nothing gained, nothing won, a lie would keep it weighed in his favor. Aloud, Ethos said, "I need to figure out where Eadric keeps his body."

"If it's you, you'll find it. You shouldn't be nervous."

Ethos threw him a look. "I'm not nervous."

"You are. You were shouting." 

"I shout plenty. Everyone shouts."

"Not you. I've only ever seen you shout once." Peter went to his feet without needing to recap the events in the Throat. "I'll hold down the fort," he said, again glancing into his cup, like he wasn't quite sure where else to look. "Keep an eye on the sun and try not to get hurt."

Ethos studied his expression. "Hey, Peter."

Peter grunted back. "Hey, me."

"I might've been alive for the Old War." He waited for Peter's eyes to return. "Back in the Throat, that's what the dead were saying. They accused me of being at fault for it all."

Peter stared, rightfully. "Why tell me?"

"Because you should know."

"Then why the wait?"

"I didn't want to make it true."

Ethos knew that Peter had taken a blow that night. It was probably why they'd never discussed it again. Puerile slight. Exclusion in its most basic form. Seemed silly in retrospect, seeing as words like us or we were more often spoken than I or me. Even without Una's influence, it seemed unlikely if not impossible for someone like Peter to abandon a friend.

Neither of them sullied the exchange with a final say, merely left it at that and saw to their ways. A bead of sunlight had squeezed through the clouds by that time, and Ethos followed it into the wilderness until he was well and truly alone. He stopped cliffside beyond a far tree line, surprised by the drop, more so by the view. An eagle was peacefully flying out there, gliding on the skyscape, racing the tiny world below for the vastly gleaming Duskfire Sea. 

His eyes ached, as did his side, the latter sporting a pale greenish bruise from the last time he'd gotten carried away with Una. He searched his pockets for another sprig of oupir, fingers clumsy; it was coated in lint, bruised and bowed but good regardless. The wind tried to steal it away.

"You're becoming reliant."

Ethos jumped. The leaf sprang for the rocky bluff, but he quickly snatched it out of the breeze and searched for the voice, heart pounding, feeling blind.

Pathos was on a low-hanging branch, feet blandly kicking at air. "Not very punctual, are you," he continued, rather flatly. "I sent that bird over an hour ago."

Ethos glared, put off. "Believe it or not, I have other concerns."

Pathos leapt down with a swing of his legs. The snow swallowed his ankles. When he straightened, Ethos was startled to see that there were shallow creases webbing his flesh, streaks of gray in the hair by his ears, subtle things, betraying his age. He'd looked much younger from afar.

But his build was solid, that of an athlete. There was a distinctly uninviting air in his bearing. "You have questions," he knew, sounding burdened. "Ask."

"You know me, right?"

The cracks in his face deepened. "Have you remembered?"

Ethos didn't answer. Instead, he brushed aside the snow with his foot and sat when a root curled up to accommodate him. As he tucked away the oupir, he asked, "Is she good, this god of yours?"

Accursed silence. Haunting. Hateful. "She was," Pathos replied. "Why?"

"Would your people kill her if they could?"

"Again, I'll ask why."

Ethos parted his hands, resigned. "I'm in a corner," he admitted. "The witness, Eadric— he knows things. About me. About the tono. About everything, really. I figured it'd be convenient if all of you had the same objective. Spare myself the indignity of surrender. I feel for the cause, but…"

Those nut-brown eyes were sharp, perceptive. "Has he seen your face?"

Ethos dispassionately looked at the ground. A second root uncurled from the snow there, thick as a roll of carpet. "I've been rude," he said, and he gestured at the open seat. "Please, join me."

"You can't let him mark you, Ethos. It would be the end of us."

"I've been rude." Ethos emphasized the last. "Sit."

Sullenly, Pathos sat. "You can't let him mark you."

"Before we get into that, I'd like to know more about Baroona."

"Baroona?" Pathos repositioned atop the root, head atilt and one eye narrowed, looking every bit like his crows. "He's one of my hunters."

"But who is he to Kacha?"

Pathos stared at him. "He's her brother."

The age difference was bizarre. "And Ataia?"

"Her sister. What's this about?"

"I want lookouts posted at Kacha's home."

He blinked a few times. Slowly, he said, "Kacha's banished."

"I don't care if she's banished. She's in danger because of me. She needs protection."

For a moment, Ethos expected him to refuse. But then he sighed and closed his eyes. "I have gatherers in the swamps of Cai," he said. "I'll send a crow to reassign them."

Ethos exhaled. "Thank you."

"You can't let Eadric mark you."

"Then tell me everything you have on him."

But Pathos was already nodding again. He'd probably intended to from the start. "I met him long before the war broke out," he said. "He went by Sutter back then. Sutter Bonesteel. He was a different man from the one you know. He was nicer. Quieter." His gaze drifted. "They were always together, he and Hans. The woman, too. Syan Battlefrost."

"You were alive for the war?"

"I was. Much like him, we tono are cursed. Wyndemere has been frozen in time since the day of our betrayal." In apathy, he indicated the cliffside surroundings. "Here, I age." He pointed skyward. "In the village, I don't. You understand?"

"So it's really been floating around up there."

"Eadric will learn the contents of this discussion if he marks you."

Eadric obviously knew it existed. Ethos wondered, "How are the children affected?"

Perhaps Pathos knew his reason for asking. His eyes fell. "We don't talk about it," he replied. "The newborns were almost completely wiped out in the first century. Grieving, tortured mothers would take their children into their arms and leap to their deaths from the village edge."

"Is that similar to what happened to me?"

Pathos showed little reaction. "I sincerely doubt it."

Ethos permitted him time to continue, but no clarification came. "I find it hard to believe that your people would willingly suffer such a twisted fate just because they're afraid of one man."

"Are you not afraid?"

It sounded too much like a reprimand. "Tell me more."

Pathos leaned forward. Briefly, he was quiet. "Hans was assassinated a few years after we took to the clouds," he said. "Sutter went north for the better part of a lifetime, laid there the foundation of what would later become one of the great northern powers. He never aged. He never slept. Colonists began to call him witness. He returned to Oldden in the Second Era and quickly became close advisor to Enmere Darga, the third ruler. I'm told he's played an instrumental role in the ascension ever since."

Ethos followed along, chewing his lip. "Any weaknesses?"

"If he possesses a powerless person, then he, too, is powerless." There, Pathos paused. "The same can be said for the reverse. He's constrained by the shortcomings of his hosts."

"Interesting." Ethos mirrored him, bowed forward, hands clasped. "Let's go back to my original question," he said. "If you could kill her, your god— would you?"

"You seem to have an idea of who she is."

"I have no interest in who she is."

"She can't be killed."

"Convince me."

Pathos glowered. "She'll come back," he said, curtly. "She always comes back. Our very existence sustains her." Temper risen, he stopped himself short. The wind howled cliffside. "The count of her deaths is innumerable. Her freedom is tantamount to setting all of our women on fire."

Riddles. Garbage. Imprecision. "Explain it properly, please."

Pathos just continued to stare at him for a moment. "Intransient," he said. "That's what she is. We made her that way." He looked out at the sprawling land. "The early tono needed hope, you see. Hope for today. Hope for tomorrow. Hope for every tomorrow thereafter. Alma was born from their desperate prayers. And they loved her. She guided our ancestors here from our homeland and gave us all a future worth living for." His eyes warily returned. "Intransient," he repeated. "She wasn't supposed to die, but she did. Shortly after her murder, she respawned within one of our own. Alma consumed that woman's mind and lived again."

Ethos felt a chill. "She was murdered?"

"By Hans himself, yes." Pathos gradually returned to being unreadable. "She threw herself at his army. She'd butcher dozens of men before being slain, and each time she died we'd lose a loved one. A sister. A mother. A daughter. A wife. Assimilation, she called it. So the only way to truly kill her, Ethos, the only way to end her, is if every single one of us is already dead and gone. Do you understand?"

Ethos wanted to scowl and tell him to stop asking if he understood, but he couldn't. "The men," he heard himself say. "What about the men?"

Pathos gave a shrug. Surprisingly, he smiled. "What about them?"

A fine response. Honorable, even. Ethos knew the feeling well, the explicit lifelessness of living without one's closest friends and family. It hardly seemed like living at all. "Eadric must mean to wipe you out, then," he said. "He's aiming to eliminate her ability to respawn."

Pathos was carefully trying to read him. "I'm here on behalf of our elders," he said. "You were never quite one of us, but they'd like to formalize it. Make it official."

Ethos almost smirked. "You want me to swear in to some miserable village?"

"No," Pathos answered. "They want you out. To cut all ties. They'll give you whatever you want just to swear it."

"Swear what, exactly?"

"Don't look for us. Don't call for us. Renounce all connection."

Ethos finally placed the look in his eyes. "That's why you haven't killed me. You're afraid I might take after her."

"Isn't that why you asked if she was good?" Pathos must have seen something, some change in his expression, perhaps. "It was the madness that made her bad, Ethos," he said. "The madness. There was nothing I could do to stop it."

The way he spoke was oddly familiar. It was somewhat repetitive; brusque, succinct. "I'd like to meet with these elders of yours. Now, if possible."

"I would advise against that."

"You can advise all you want, but dealing with me now is a safer alternative to whatever Eadric has in store. I'd hate to be forced to murder you all." He gestured between them. "We're stuck in the middle, you and I," he said. "Let's not make it harder on ourselves."

Pathos decided to glare for a while, and Ethos was more than happy to let him. Finally, with pains, the huntsman sighed and reached for his hip. He grumbled, "I'd hoped to avoid this."

Ethos was distanced and on his feet before he'd even resolved to rise. Instinct: a funny thing, alive, almost, keeping him sharp. The westerly wind was a reminder, pushing at his back.

"Relax," Pathos said. "I deliberately came unarmed."

Feeling foolish, Ethos glanced behind him, saw how close he was to the edge, and turned to retake his seat on the root. But Pathos was suddenly standing; he was touching his ears, faintly frowning in concentration. Confused, Ethos asked, "What are you doing?" 

Pathos didn't reply until his hands had fallen back to his sides. "Four centuries," he said. "In all our years together, Sei has never looked as afraid as when he described his encounter with you." He approached and reached out. "The beeswax was his idea."

So he'd deafened himself. Ethos went for his knife. Too slow. Pathos caught his arm as he brought it up to defend. "Let go," he snarled. "You— "

He might as well have saved his breath. Pathos violently twisted his wrist and instantly buckled the rest of his arm, sending the blade clear over the bluff. His body responded with mortifying compliance, joints rolling to prevent broken bones. Vile instinct. In a matter of seconds, Ethos was staring directly into the trees far below, arm locked behind him, stunned. 

"Don't look down," Pathos instructed, free hand balled in the back of his shirt. "Look at the eagle, if anything. Clear your mind and let the burn run its course."

Impossible, Ethos thought frantically. Memories from the Throat were crawling out of his box of shameful things. He'd fallen that night, too, pitted himself blindly against the open and ruthless air. Like living, he'd had to acknowledge that things meant to be would be, and, like dying, he'd realized in those helpless seconds that somehow he still clung to life. 

But he wouldn't die. He couldn't. It wouldn't make sense if he did. There were too many people he hadn't met, too many places he hadn't been. He must have tensed or given some sign that he'd struggle enough to hurt himself, because Pathos chose then to pitch him over the edge.

In the future, when he'd try to recall how it happened exactly, he wouldn't remember screaming. He'd think he must have, though. He'd never been so afraid, so he must have. Yet he'd only remember the deafening wind, the far-off sea, and the burn.

The burn! Indescribable. Inescapable. Ethos couldn't even tell where the pain was coming from, only that he'd give anything, anything, to make it stop. The evergreens sucked him in: earth, welcoming a comet. Branches. Balsam. Warblers. Snow. He'd notice the scrapes and bruises later. The world spun, righted, and tumbled askew.

Movement was ceased for quite some time before he took notice. His mind had shut itself down at some point, severed the line of anguish, so he couldn't have said with certainty how it was that he'd landed intact, nor if the pain was the burn or the cold, but the first thing he saw was a single boot. It was marooned some distance away in the snow, worse for wear, brutally torn at the toe. His, he thought. But then, he didn't wear boots. He tried to rise, to grope for oupir, but his arms—

Something was wrong with them. An arduous glance yielded white earth strewn with monstrous feathers, spots of blood, and his mangled deformation. And he wasn't alone. A man was squatting right beside him, head tilted, hair dangling. Peter. No. Not Peter. Peter was someone else. The farmer.

"I'm surprised you didn't soil yourself," the man said. "How do you feel?"

Pathos. That was it. He'd forgotten. "I could've died."

"I wouldn't have let that happen."

Ethos felt delirious. He tried again to rise, this time using his shoulders as leverage, but a rush of vertigo scrambled back as soon as he reached his knees. By chance, he imagined, he somehow managed to catch himself before abruptly emptying the contents of his stomach.

Pathos didn't console him, merely patted his back once or twice while he gagged. When the nausea had passed, Ethos spat at the ground and said, "Don't touch me."

He withdrew. "The next time will be easier."

Ethos sat back on his heels. He stared up into the spinning trees and let out a plume of hot, tired breath. He didn't want to look at himself again. He didn't want Pathos to see him panic. "Left for dead, just like I told Peter," he said. "Discarded in the wilds like a deformed infant." Sidelong, he smiled at Pathos. "But you were checking in on me, right?"

But Pathos clearly didn't find it as funny. "You know I was."

"Admirable. It couldn't have been easy to stand by and pretend like you were making a difference in my life somehow." Ethos subsided. "Or maybe it was. I don't know you." 

He said, "I didn't want to hinder your development."

"My development?" Genuine laughter spilled out of his throat, but it wasn't lasting; Ethos forgot it somewhere in the mists of his abject misery. When he spoke again, even he was shocked by the sound of his voice. "Bring me to Wyndemere."