blatantly masculine his features are. His jaw is sharp, his nose perfectly straight, and his eyes are narrow and bladelike…and mismatched in color.
The stranger also looks vaguely familiar to me, which is weird considering I’m a stranger in this land and I don’t know anyone even remotely close to being as perfect as this guy…and then I realize there’s a pale scar crossing over the left side of his face.
Oh my god. Like the statue.
No wonder everyone’s dropping to their feet. I suddenly realize just what it means that he’s dropped in mid-ceremony on Anticipation day. He’s sitting in that throne because it was waiting for him.
This is Aron of the Cleaver.
I laugh. Aloud. “Ha!”
Christmas has come early, bitches.
6
A god just arrived.
I find this far more exciting than everyone else does. I don’t care that he’s a god of battle or whatever. If he’s a god, he can send me home.
I might have laughed out loud.
Aron’s gaze turns to me and it’s like ice.
I realize I’m the only one not on my knees bowing, and the moment our eyes make contact, I feel a shiver go through my body. There’s power there, and even though I don’t worship these gods, I drop to my knees because it feels like I have to.
The god—if that’s what he is—continues to swing his gaze around the room, utterly silent. After a moment, he notices the prelate sitting in his chair next to his throne, and you can just tell that he does not approve.
The prelate turns sheet white and stumbles over Avalla in his haste to drop to his own knees. “Lord of Storms,” the prelate says, and his trembling voice carries across the too-still room. “It is you. The Anticipation has been fulfilled at last.”
I watch Aron of the Cleaver to see if he’s going to say anything. He continues to study the room, his mismatched gaze burning with hostility. I shiver, wondering if he’s a benevolent god. Something in me says no. There’s an element in the way that he holds himself that suggests he’s not a very nice god at all.
His gaze moves to the goblet on the end of one of the arms of his chair. It’s the same golden, jewel-crusted goblet that the prelate put there earlier, too busy enjoying himself to pay attention. Very carefully, very slowly, Aron of the Cleaver flicks the goblet away and it clatters to the floor, spilling wine down the marble steps of his dais.
“Where am I?” His voice is lethal with dislike.
I’m shocked. This is the voice I heard back in the apartment. It’s the gorgeous, smooth, deep voice that haunted me and drove me crazy. Except…
I didn’t think the owner would be quite as intimidating as this guy. I’m just as terrified as everyone else. Was this what I was brought for? To watch this? To get killed with everyone else in this room once the war god arrived? I’m still confused, even if a piece or two slid into place.
The prelate practically quivers before the god. “This is Aventine, my lord. City dedicated to you.”
“I know where Aventine is.” His tone is scathing.
The prelate presses his forehead to the marble floors, and I can practically hear the man sweating. “We are honored to serve your Aspect. Just ask and—”
“It does not look as if you are honored to serve,” Aron says caustically. “It looks like you are here for wine and wenching.”
Well, he’s got that one pegged. Wine and wenching seems to be the order of the day. Massive burn.
“No, no, my lord,” the prelate says, sitting up on his knees. “You misunderstand—”
“Do I?”
The two words practically send frost through the room. I shiver as everything goes silent once more. Everyone’s clearly terrified, including me.
For a moment, I feel bad for the prelate. It’s clear that no one’s ever expected one of the gods to actually show up. In a way, I can kind of understand. I’m not sure how Santa’d take it if he slid down my chimney and found me eating all the cookies laid out for him.
But then again, Santa’s not real.
This Aron of the Cleaver clearly is, and he doesn’t seem to be a benign sort of god. Much as I love seeing the prelate squirm, I wish I was anywhere but here.
“How can I serve?” the prelate asks, his voice turning obsequious. “Command it and it shall be done.”
“How do you think you should serve?” Aron of the Cleaver’s face is expressionless, but I