I hurried to follow him, the other two behind me.
“The Trickery power is similar to the Creator power for a reason.” Yael was murmuring to me beneath his breath as we cleared the rows of seats and moved to the walkway along the bottom of the arena, twisting around to the doors that led underground. “After Staviti created Pika, he expected her to love him. He did create her to have the gift of love, after all. But she didn’t love him, and so he tried again. The next time, he tried for something a little more specific. He didn’t want a perfect being of perfect beauty, with perfect emotions and the capacity to love without limit—because when you think about it, that’s a flaw in itself. If you love without limit … how can you possibly devote yourself to just one person? That’s a fucking limit.”
“Ah,” I replied. Only because Yael had glanced sideways at me, and I assumed I needed to provide some kind of response.
“Not that there’s anything wrong with loving more than one person,” Aros interjected. He sounded oddly annoyed.
“But we’re not getting into that debate right now, are we?” Siret seemed to be speaking to his brothers. He was staring at Yael, but his shoulder had bumped into Aros’s, nudging him.
“As I was saying: Staviti tried again.” Yael ignored all of our comments. “He decided that this time, he would make a friend. Someone who was similar to him, but different. Someone who could share in his power, in the power of creating certain things—though it was impossible for him to make another Creator, so he settled for the next best thing. He settled for an echo of creation. An illusion of creation.”
Siret apparently got tired of walking behind us, because he launched over one of the aisles of chairs and then jumped down in front of me and Yael.
He stopped walking as we reached the archway that would take us down to Coen and Rome.
“Abil is able to create the same way Staviti does,” he said, his voice soft. “But on a significantly smaller scale. And he’s not the only one. Every power has an element of creation. An element of the man who started it all. Staviti put a little bit of himself into every Original God. Into every other gift.”
I blinked at Siret, all of us milling beneath the archway. This was clearly an important conversation to them, because they weren’t dragging me down the stairs and they were speaking in hushed tones as though actually afraid someone might overhear them … not to mention the fact that Staviti was the only god that they had spoken about with anything resembling reverence in their tones. Usually, there was a mix of scorn, disgust, and exasperation riding their stories about the gods; but not this god.
I opened my mouth to say something intelligent. To say something to prove that I had understood the importance of what they were saying. I mean … I didn’t understand the importance of what they were saying or anything, but it was clear that it was important. I got that much. I got that it was supposed to mean something, but I wasn’t a part of their world. Whether Staviti was an asshole or an angel simply wasn’t a thought that kept me up at night. When I died and became a Topian serving-robot, I was pretty sure that Staviti’s power wouldn’t matter to me at all. The only thing that would matter to me would be formal titles and chores.
So, I had to fake my ‘wow, I’m fascinated by how amazing Staviti is’ response.
“They did actually teach us about how Staviti put a little bit of himself into all of his gifts, back in the seventh ring.” I glanced up at Yael, who was grinning for some reason. Blinking in confusion, I continued, without really thinking through my words. “He spread himself all over Minatsol. Dropped a little mini Staviti in every second woman he came across—”
“That’s what you came up with?” Siret asked, laughing down at me. “All that internal monologue about how you needed to fake being interested and that is what you eventually say? Seriously?”
“Get out of my head!” I punched him squarely in the stomach, and then howled as though my whole arm had been run over by a wagon full of really fat sols.
All three of them started laughing, so I grumbled and pushed past them, making my way down the stairs.
“All victors of this sun-cycle’s arena games are required to attend the dining hall in exactly four rotations of the sundial,” a voice announced, skittering over the back of my neck and forcing me to pause mid-stride. It was that same cold, sexless voice that always announced the arena matches. “The gods have decided to honour those that survived with a dance,” it continued. “Formal attire is mandatory. Dwellers are not permitted to attend, as several sacred beings will be presiding over the event. That is all.”
“Say what now?” I spun, directing the question at the three Abcurses behind me. “Since when is a dance a good prize for almost-but-not-quite dying?”
“It’s not a reward, Soldier.” Siret moved past me to take the lead again, and I trailed behind. “It’s an opportunity for the gods to show themselves. To interact. To meddle. To manipulate. If they’re venturing outside of that stupid glass box, then they have a very serious personal interest in someone at this school.”
“Six tokens on Willa.” Yael’s voice was dry.
“Nobody’s going to take you up on that bet,” Siret shot back. “We all know it’s Willa. You’d have to be an imbecile not to know that it’s Willa.”
A voice floated up to us from the other end of the corridor. “The dance means that they’re personally invested in one of the sols.” We all went silent as two robed dwellers came into view, hurrying quickly past us with their heads down.
“Which sol do you think it is?” the other dweller asked, almost so softly that I didn’t catch it.
“What were you saying about everyone knowing that it’s Willa?” I asked, quirking a brow at Siret.
“Hush,” he told me, quickly stepping forward into my space. His hands were on my shoulders, and he was ducking down until his eyes were level with mine and I could almost taste his breath. “Nobody else exists, Rocks. It’s you and us. We’re everybody.”
I may have forgotten to breathe. I may have leaned forward a little, until we were so close that his face began to blur and his fingers began to tighten.
But then I was being pulled away.
“Not so soon after …” Aros muttered, capturing my hand in his and encouraging me to continue down the corridor. He didn’t need to finish the sentence. We all knew what he was talking about.
Twelve