“You must also fear the wrath of your gods,” he says finally, “if you dare to stray from their righteous path.”
“No,” I reply, taken aback. “Our gods don’t ask us for perfection.”
Just as we don’t expect rhyme or reason from our gods. They’re fickle and stubborn and heedless and indulgent, like us. The only difference is that they burn whole forests to the ground in their rage, and drink entire rivers dry in their thirst. In their joy, flowers bloom; in their grief, early winter frost edges in. The gods have gifted us a small fragment of that power, and in turn we inherited their vices.
From what I understand, the Prinkepatrios has no vices, and it would be blasphemy to even suggest such a thing. But how did a perfect being create something as imperfect as humans, so prone to caprice and cruelty? And why does a perfect being demand blood from little boys?
I look at the captain—really look at him—for the first time. He has the olive skin of a Southerner and a long nose with a harsh break at its bridge. But there’s nothing harsh about the rest of his face. It’s shockingly youthful, smooth except for the faint stubble bruising his throat and chin. When he turns and I see only the untarnished half of his face, it’s almost regal, the kind of profile you might find on a minted coin. I imagine that if he lived in Keszi, írisz or Zsófia might drag him down for some furtive coupling by the riverside, and he’d come back with a sheepish, knowing smile on his swollen lips. But I can’t see the left half of his face without wondering morbidly what lies beneath the black patch, and how he ever summoned the strength to pluck out his own eye like a crow picking over a corpse. Or wondering if that sort of dedication disgusts or impresses me.
What would I have plucked out, to be able to call fire?
“That’s just as well.” The captain seems to notice how intently I am staring at him, and he lowers his gaze. There’s even the barest flush on his cheeks. “Your gods may be mere illusions crafted by the demon Thanatos, but they do grant you potent magic. Why didn’t you use your magic against Peti?”
I detect no trace of suspicion in his voice, but my skin prickles all the same. “I—my hands were bound. I couldn’t summon it.”
The captain nods slowly, lips pressed together. For a moment I can’t tell whether he believes me or not. And then he says, “Give me your hands.”
Instinctively, my fingers curl into my palms. The rope is still chafing against the tender skin on the insides of my wrists, leaving a rash of red.
Behind us, Peti moans. Very carefully, the captain looses the rope, giving it just enough slack for me to wriggle my hands free. Before the prospect of escape even flits through my mind, the captain’s fingers close around my wrist. The pressure of his grip fills me with a mute, terrible fear, freezing me in place.
He turns to Ferkó and Imre. “Get him up.”
The two Woodsmen bend over Peti, hefting him to his feet. Peti gives a gurgling cry, spittle foaming in his open mouth. Through the skeins of leather and the mesh of dead leaves, there is a slow seep of blood flowering from his shoulder, like the beginnings of a spring ice melt. Clearly the captain’s attempt to cauterize the wound went poorly. My stomach dips.
Ferkó and Imre shuffle Peti toward me, and the captain takes his good arm. I realize what’s happening only a heartbeat before the captain loops the other end of my rope around Peti’s hand, joining us at the wrist.
A stammer of revulsion tips past my lips. “You can’t—”
“I can’t have you trying to escape again,” says the captain. I don’t think I’m imagining the note of regret in his voice, nor the dark pall that casts over his face, but it does nothing to calm the fury and horror boiling in my belly. What little gratitude I had toward him for saving my life slivers away, like a crescent moon turning new. His dainty flushes and proud nose, the pliant tenor of his voice—all of it is a veneer for his barbarity. I would rather Peti, with his frothing hatred, his openly bared teeth. With my free hand, I touch the wound circling my neck, blood pooled in the hollow of my collarbone. I’ve already seen the worst of what he can do.
The captain turns away from us and stalks toward his horse. I watch the bulk of his retreating back, measuring my breaths. With my gashed throat, my loathing aches even more to swallow.
I feel a tug on my rope. Peti has bent at the waist, coughing blood.
I took for granted the life of the forest, unsettling as it was, all those mightily twisting oaks and globular gray fruits. Now all the color has been drained from Ezer Szem. The bark on the trees is dull pewter, and all the foliage has fallen away, leaving the branches gnarled and bare. Even the ground beneath our feet feels firmer, colder, as if the horses are walking on stone instead of dirt. There’s no tree cover, but I still can’t see the sky—a frigid mist has stolen over us, blanketing our convoy in a nearly impermeable haze.