and returned to her weaving. “But we know that expression well.” She smiled. “Don’t worry. We’re not offended by your curiosity. Ask away.”
Emerahl nodded. “How did separating save you?”
“The gods, as you may already know, cannot easily affect the physical world,” Surim told her. He had dragged the snake up onto a table and was gutting it. “They must work through a mortal, preferably someone Gifted in magic.”
“So they need their priests and priestesses to do their work,” Tamun continued. “After Juran dealt with Mirar, he went after the rest of us. The Seer was easy to find…”
“Bet she didn’t predict that,” Surim muttered.
“… and The Farmer was taken by surprise. We learned of the gods’ orders too late to warn him. The only immortal we were able to warn was The Gull.”
“He is older than all of us,” Surim said, pausing in his work to meet Emerahl’s eyes. His expression was full of respect.
“His habit of moving about constantly, concealing his identity and appearing to be nothing more than a scrawny ship’s boy saved him.”
“And folk of the sea protect their own,” Tamun added.
“We, on the other hand, were both well-known and particularly recognizable. Of course we tried to hide—and succeeded for a while. Then the gods declared that people like us are ‘abominations’ and should be separated or killed at birth. All joined twins of all ages were taken to Jarime. Most attempts to separate them failed.”
“But there were a few successes,” Tamun said with deliberate brightness. “Or so we told people. The fact that we had been separated suggested that we’d been examined by Circlians and found acceptable, so we could not possibly be the famous Twins.”
Emerahl scowled. “Cursed gods.”
“Oh, don’t be angry on our behalf,” Tamun said, smiling. “We’d always meant to do it. We just didn’t have the courage. What if we didn’t like it? What if we couldn’t put ourselves together again?”
“We have no regrets,” Surim assured Emerahl. “And some good did come of the separations. Healer priests and priestesses are better at it now. More children survive.”
“But the ones they kill…” Tamun frowned and shook her head. “For that, I hate the gods.”
“Among other things,” Surim muttered.
Emerahl sighed. “I, too, though they have done no more to me than force me into hiding. I hate them more for what they did to Mirar.” Emerahl sighed. “If only we could be free of them.”
“Well, they can be killed,” Tamun said.
Emerahl turned to stare at the woman. Tamun shrugged. “Before the War of the Gods there were many gods; after it there were five.”
“Ten now,” Surim corrected.
Tamun ignored him. “So the question is: Is killing a god something only another god can do?”
“And if it is, can we persuade, bribe or blackmail a god to do it for us?” Surim chuckled. “Tell her about the scroll.”
“Ah, the scroll.” Tamun smiled. “Over the last century of skimming minds we’ve occasionally encountered rumors of a certain scroll. It is said to contain the story of the War of the Gods, told by a goddess to her last servant before she was killed.”
Emerahl felt her heart quicken. “Where is this scroll?”
“Nobody knows,” Surim said, his eyes widening theatrically.
“But certain scholars in Southern Ithania have collected hints and undertaken searches over the years. Of all people in the world, they would be the ones most likely to find it.”
“Unless someone else finds it first.”
Both Surim and Tamun turned to regard her, their faces both wearing the same expectant, meaningful expression. Emerahl laughed.
“When it comes to giving hints, you’re both as gentle as a Dunwayan war-hammer. You want me to find it.” She paused as a delicious smell caught her attention. “Is that takker I can smell cooking?”
Surim chortled. “It might just be.”
“Smells good.” She shifted into a more comfortable position and turned to Tamun. “So what else can you tell me about this scroll and the scholars of Southern Ithania?”
* * *
The island was farther out to sea than the islands of Borra. Several rocky islets had led the way, each reminding Reivan of tiny drowned mountains. Now, as the ship sailed into the sheltered lagoon the Elai king had chosen as their meeting place, Reivan suddenly realized they were sailing into a crater not unlike those she’d seen in Avven. These islands were drowned mountains. Like soldiers standing in lines, the great mountain range that divided Northern Ithania stretched not just from Dunway to Si, but into the ocean.
A narrow beach edged the lagoon. At the center stood