The 13th God

THE 13TH GOD ALSO BY EDWARD W. ROBERTSON THE CYCLE OF ARAWN The Cycle of Arawn: The Complete Trilogy THE CYCLE OF GALAND The Red Sea The Silver Thief The Wound of the World The Light of Life The Spear of Stars What Lies Beyond The Twelve Plagues THE BREAKERS SERIES Breakers Melt Down Knifepoint Reapers Cut Off Captives Relapse Blackout Cover illustration by Miguel Coimbra. Text and additional design by Stephanie Mooney. Map by Jared Blando.  Mallon, Gask, and other lands. 1 Perhaps it was the pain on the goddess' beautiful face that looked as though her heart might shatter if she had to speak one more word. Perhaps it was the alien fronds of the eerie jungle of Yent that surrounded them, reminding him that if they succeeded, they would never again be able to return to this place, nor the Realm of the gods—even, perhaps, to the Mists, the land of their own dead—and would remain forever isolated to their one land. Or perhaps it was simply that they'd come to their solution so swiftly that he hadn't had time to take in what it meant. Whatever the cause, a weight folded over Dante's shoulders so heavily that he thought he might crumple to the ground. Blays shifted. "Should we, ah, take a moment on that one?" "Why?" Dante managed to utter. "Well, because of the thing Maralda said. About it damning us for all time and all that." "Destroying the portals is the only way to stop the entity from destroying Rale." "There's still another way." "Exile to the Realm. Death for all the world except the few people we get across, who will live the rest of their lives as Taim's slaves, and all their descendants the same." "I didn't claim it was a fun way." "We do not know the consequences of isolating ourselves," Gladdic said, clearing his throat. "To do so could be to pull down some great horror on the world. And you would be to blame for it. Then you would learn what it is like to live as the villain." Dante eyed him. "I've been chancing that my whole life." Blays frowned at Maralda. "Is he right? Are we about to do something unspeakable to our world?" "I've already told you it will separate you from your creators for all time," she said, voice ragged. "If you mean to ask if it will cause some other tragedy as well, I don't know. Nothing like this has ever happened before." They all fell silent. Carvahal, who hadn't spoken a word, watched them closely. For the first time, the ever-present twinkle in his eye was nowhere to be seen. "One choice leaves us in eternal bondage, bearing the knowledge we sacrificed untold souls to the entity," Gladdic said. "The other choice could fail, annihilating us altogether; and even on what slim chance we triumph, it could then crush us with an unseen tragedy. And yet we must decide." Dante pressed his palms into his eyes. Just a minute ago, he'd been certain what they must do. But both Blays and Gladdic were right, and the degree to which they were right couldn't be known, or even really guessed at. Something moved up in the boughs behind Carvahal: a mass of long thin legs spurted between the leaves, writhing like the green strands of the Wailing Plague that had presaged the arrival of the entity known as Nolost. A centipede the size of a cattle dog emerged from cover and ambled along a branch. He was no stranger to authority and its use. He had led Narashtovik for over a dozen years, and while in his youth he'd leaned heavily on the Council to guide him, there had been many times when he'd been much too far away from home for them to advise or aid him. That had been the case for approaching two years straight now, ever since he'd been lured to the Plagued Islands in search of his long-lost father. Many of his judgments since then had put whole kingdoms and even the entire continent at risk. But kings and high priests made decisions on that scale often enough. That was what caused the very need for such leaders. What he faced now, though, wasn't just about the future of a given patch of land and the people who lived on it, but no less than the future of all things, for all time. That was not a decision for any mortal. That was a decision that only a god could make. How many times have I asked for your help, Lord of Death? he prayed. The immense centipede came to the trunk of the tree it was traversing and made way to a new branch, heading steadily toward Carvahal. If ever there was a time for you to finally give me some answers— DO YOU BELIEVE I HAVE NEVER BEFORE GIVEN YOU ANSWERS? The voice rang in his mind like the clash of two greatswords and Dante staggered, casting out his arms for balance. EVEN THOSE WHO WOULD BE MY BEST UNDERSTAND SO LITTLE! Is that…is that you ? YOU ALREADY KNOW THAT WHICH YOU MUST DO. IF IT IS POSSIBLE TO MAKE SUCH A THIN HOPE REAL, YOU ARE THE ONLY ONE CAPABLE OF MAKING IT SO. I understand. But what I don't understand is how this is happening. Can you always hear me? He waited. Insects chirped from the trees. The centipede dawdled along its branch. But the voice—one he'd heard just once before, and with just a single word—had gone silent. Dante knew it wouldn't return. Carvahal was giving him a funny look. Had he sensed it? Even heard it? Or—and Dante knew at once that, however outrageous it might sound, it was still quite possible—had he been the voice, and was now trying to feign innocence? "I won't risk everything for an existence where our best possible future is to live as slaves to