Page 110 of Children of Fallen Gods

“We tolerate nothing from him,” he said. “Nothing. Alright?”

I gave him a nod, and Max opened the door.

* * *

The thingbefore me didn’t even look like a man.

Actually, there were a lot of things that were suddenly incomprehensible. The carvings on the walls seemed to be moving, though when my eyes landed in any one place, they were still. The room, a small box of that carved white stone, felt as if it both brightened and darkened all at once. There was no furniture in here, not even a bed or chamber pot. It reeked of human waste and decay, though I saw neither.

The figure was curled up on the floor, his knees to his chin. He wore stained, plain clothing — a shirt that had once been white and torn brown trousers. His back was to me, giving me a view of just bony shoulders and a head of thin, scraggly white hair.

“Vardir,” Max said, and when the man turned I had to stifle a gasp.

He was grinning — grinning like a madman. He had to have been mad, because his face — the pale albino face of a Valtain — was destroyed, covered in bleeding gouges.

At the same moment, Reshaye roared to life, its hatred overwhelming me.

Vardir scrambled around to face us. Up close, I realized he was actually quite young, perhaps only in his forties.

“Max,” he breathed. “Maxantarius Farlione. Two old friends, two in just so little time. What a treat, what a treat.”

He scrambled forward, fingers reaching out crooked like broken tree branches. Max yanked me back.

A flash of memory hit me. That same smile as he leaned over me, little knives in his hands, in a room of white.

I had to catch Reshaye as it lunged for control — lunged for Vardir’s throat. My body seized, but one little sliver of Reshaye slipped through, a ragged whisper, “I am not your friend.”

Not my voice. Not my accent.

Vardir looked delighted. “Ah, yes. There it is. No matter how different the carrier may be, I always know.”

Enough, I said to Reshaye, pushing it back.We need him.

{He should die for what he did to me.}

Being here is worse than death.

“We’re not here for a reunion,” Max said. “We have some questions for you.”

“Questions?” Vardir grinned wider, all those wounds over his face rippling. “I used to love questions.”

“I want you to tell me if it is possible for a curse to bind one life to another.”

Vardir paused, licked his lips. “Why? Did someone do that to you? Now that you mention it, I did feel something strange, something off-color—” He stopped abruptly, his gaze snapping to me. “Or is ityou?”

“You answer our questions,” Max said. “We don’t have to answer yours.”

But the prisoner’s bloodshot eyes crinkled with delight, fixed on me. “Itisyou.”

I slowly knelt down to the ground, until I was on Vardir’s level.

“You are Reshaye’s creator?”

A snarl.{He is not.}

He laughed. “Creator! Not creator, no. I simply helped harness it here, in Ara. Who could have created such a thing? Perhaps the gods themselves made it to punish us. They do love to do that.” His eyes found the ceiling, and his face slowly devolved into terror, as if he was seeing something there that Max and I could not.

Max and I exchanged a look.

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