“My current employer is selling perfumes. If you are interested in them, I am sure I could arrange an introduction.”
Lady Silver laughed softly. “I apprrreciate the spirrrit of the offerrr, but alas, most human scents do not appeal to me. And I fearrr the rreverrrse is also trrrue.” She took a slip of paper from a drawer and dipped the very edge in the contents of the flask. “Forrr example…”
Shane took the proffered sample and took a sniff that nearly staggered him. His eyes started to water. The cynocephalic laughed again. “You see? I have learrrned to tolerrrate the scents that humans wearrr, of necessity, but I do not see these imprrroving my status at Courrrt.”
“No,” said Shane weakly. The smell had been an unholy mating of fermented manure and burnt hair, with a pungent and startling overtone of pumpkin. He wondered what Grace would think of it.
Probably wonder how she was doing it. I suspect they’d have a lot to talk about.
“I make them forrr my own amusement,” his hostess said. “Some I ship back home. Therre arrre
ingrredients found herrre that do not exist in my homeland.” She made a sweeping gesture. “At any rrrate, you did not come to discuss smells, I think.”
Lady Silver waved him to a chair and sat down at the oak desk, tapping a note on the table before her. Shane guessed that it was the one from Beartongue, although he could not read the words at this distance without his glasses. “The good Bishop asks about the death of gods. A most fascinating topic.”
Shane inclined his head, wondering if he was about to be plunged into the depths of applied theology. You don’t have to understand it, you just have to remember it so that you can repeat it to Beartongue and Piper.
“My people’s gods die rrregularly. It surrrprised me to learrn that yourrs do not.”
Shane’s eyebrows shot up. “They do? How? Of what?”
Lady Silver laughed. “Of old age, I suppose you would say. The yearrrs are our gods. Each one is borrrn on the spring equinox and stands between us and the calamities of the seasons. Each one lives long enough to see theirr successorrr borrrn, and then passes away.”
It took him a moment to get his head around this. “The year? As a god? You mean, your god was born a few months ago, and you pray to them?”
Lady Silver nodded. “My people mark the calendar differently than yours. We dwell now in the house of Sixth Rising, and next will be Seventh Rising. Then Eighth Waiting, and so forth, on until Twelfth Sleeping, after which a new cycle will begin with First Waking. Twelve year-gods to a cycle, twelve cycles to a Great Year, and so on.” She flicked her ears. “Sixth Rising is not quite old enough to say what kind of god He will be yet.”
Shane rubbed the bridge of his nose. The notion of worshipping something only a few months old seemed bizarre, but it would be rude to say so. And unwise to insult a god, in any event. “Huh,” he said. “I’ve never heard of anything like that.”
“And your people’s method of keeping gods about, on and on, seems equally peculiar to me,” said Silver. “Though we have our ancestors, and the great beasts, who live on and on. We invoke them sometimes as well, in need. But for the little things, the day-to-day things, we call upon the year-gods.” She laughed again. “I would be embarrassed to constantly plague my ancestors with requests, calling upon them when I misplace my keys or crack a claw. And to call upon a great beast for such a thing would be most unwise.”
Shane’s brain was a whirl of gods and beasts. He shook his head to clear it. “Do you have paladins of your gods? Or priests?”
“Priests, yes,” Silver said. “And warriors dedicated to the year-god, which I think are the closest we come to your paladins. Some simply dedicate themselves to the next god, year after year, but there are many who find that they are called at the beginning of a year to serve that god only, and not Their successor. But this is all neither here nor there.” She leaned forward, tapping her claws on the desk again, her eyes bright and interested. And I notice that she is no longer growling her words, and her
speech is flowing much more eloquently. Is the growling part of her act to seem more dog-like, and thus more harmless, in this palace full of knives?
“Our gods die in their appointed times. Not like you, my paladin friend, and your Saint of Steel.”
Shane knew he didn’t quite conceal his surprise. “Did the note tell you?” he asked.
“No.” She flattened her ears apologetically. “I guessed. You bear a sword and a note asking for information about gods dying. You ask specifically about paladins. And I have read of a human god dying an untimely death, and what became of His champions.”
“Yes, of course,” Shane said. One hand rose involuntarily to his sternum, rubbing absently at the spot that had once held a god’s fire. “I suppose it was obvious.”
“Not so obvious,” Lady Silver assured him. “Not unless one had reason to suspect.” She made a wavering gesture with one hand that he could not quite interpret. “Still, I would be wary of talking about paladins, if you wish to keep it secret.”
“It’s not exactly a secret,” he said, “so much as just easier.” After the Saint had died, the place just under Shane’s heart had felt as if it were full of broken glass, slicing him whenever he breathed.
Time did not heal all wounds, no matter what the proverb said, but it had scarred over at last. Now it was simply a numb place in his chest that ached occasionally, and a memory of glory—until the black tide rose and swept him away.
The black tide was the reason that the surviving paladins were treated like barely tame animals, as if they might turn and bite at any moment. In Shane’s case, that was unlikely, but still, it was easier if people did not know. “It grows wearisome,” he said, half to himself, “to always be treated like a wild animal.”
Lady Silver laughed. It took him a moment to recognize it as laughter and not as a sneezing fit, but something about the position of her ears gave it away. “Oh yes,” she said, “it grows wearisome indeed!”
The tips of his own ears grew hot with embarrassment. “Forgive me,” he said, “that was very rude of me. I did not mean to imply—”