“Sacred Abil has a cup. The Trophy of Staviti.”
That name. Staviti. It was familiar to me, but I had no idea why. I also didn’t particularly care. “Okay, great. Where’s that?”
“Sacred Abil always has it with him, always by his side.”
“And Sacred Abil is where?”
“Eating.” Jeffrey pointed off to the side, through a maze of columns leading further into the centre of the platform.
I took off, weaving through the sky-high columns, toward the sound of tinkling music and conversation. There were mini-columns set beneath the taller ones, acting as plant-stands to cradle vine-like things that were snaking out to try and smother everything in their path. They had even spilled from the columns to spread over the marble beneath my feet. Eventually, I began to see other people: robot-servers in similar, bare coverings, and then …
Gods.
They all seemed so big, wrapped in robes that dragged along the marble. Even the females seemed larger-than-life, with tall and willowy frames, their hair left free and flowing, dragging down their backs in a shining display of immaculate colour. Hopefully Coen hadn’t lied to me, because there was only one man wearing purple that I could see. He stood right beside a massive buffet table, every dish of food imaginable spread over it, the purple robes draping over his massive shoulders to pool on the marble. There was a cord around his waist, and there was a cup hanging off the cord. It looked more like a trophy, complete with a golden sheen and everything. I made my way over to him, grabbing a knife from the buffet table as I passed, and then up-ending a basket of bread and pulling out the little cloth sack that the bread had been sitting in.
“Excuse me, Sacred One,” I muttered, bumping into D.O.D., slicing the knife through the cord and catching the falling cup into my sack, which I quickly hid behind my back.
“Watch yourself,” he growled, spinning around. “Or I’ll push you off the damn platform, useless thing.”
Wow. Rude much?
“Apologies, Sacred One,” I muttered, bowing just like Jeffrey had, backing a few steps away.
I should have known better. ‘Backing away without looking’ was never a thing that had worked for me before. I backed right into one of the willowy god-women, who fell forward, also knocking over the man who had been standing next to her. I toppled toward the woman and she pushed me away, sending me sprawling onto the man, instead.
I tossed out my hands to catch myself, forgetting that I was holding the knife …
And that was how I stabbed a God in Topia.
The man looked down at the knife protruding from his stomach, his eyes wide. I also stared at the knife protruding from his stomach, my own eyes wide. Nobody said anything. The whole platform had fallen into a heavy, shocked silence. Someone grabbed me by the back of my measly covering, hauling me to my feet and spinning me around.
D.O.D.
And he was pissed.
“Another faulty server,” he muttered, planting a hand into the centre of my chest and pushing, hard.
The air closed in around me, the whole world turning black. I landed on my back, softly-packed soil breaking my fall. The darkness didn’t lift, and it took me a moment to realise that I was in another cave. I pulled myself up onto my elbows, seeking out the light of the entrance. There were some splotchy shapes blocking out most of the light, but I could still see it, so I forced myself to my feet and began to struggle in that direction. I pulled my prize-trophy out of the bag, leaving the cloth behind in the cave while I ran my hands over the smooth metal surface.
This better be worth it.
Ahead of me, the shapes began to shift, forming into silhouettes.
Five silhouettes, to be exact.
“She’s back.” I recognised Rome’s voice as I finally made it closer to the entrance of the cave. It hadn’t been the same cave, but a new cave altogether. “You were right, Trickery. She did get sent to the banishment cave.”
“I’m always right.” Siret sounded like he was laughing, but it tapered off when I stepped out into the light and tossed my trophy into the dirt in front of them.
“What’s with the blood?” Coen asked, his eyes on my left hand.
“Stabbed a god,” I told him.
His expression went blank very quickly, but I was sure that he was hiding a laugh. “Don’t go drowning in guilt or anything.”
“Well he can’t die from it; he’s already dead, right?”
Coen smiled: a wide, crazy-disarming smile that caught my breath and wiped every thought out of my head. He was looking at me as though he’d only just seen me, but then his brows drew together and he flicked his eyes up to the cap on my head, and then down to my borrowed ‘outfit’.
I tore my gaze away, almost immediately wishing that I hadn’t, because four more sets of eyes were staring in the exact same way.