The Broken God
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.
Copyright © 2021 by Gareth Ryder-Hanrahan
Excerpt from The Bone Shard Daughter copyright © 2020 by Andrea Stewart
Excerpt from The Mask of Mirrors copyright © 2021 by Bryn Neuenschwander and Alyc Helms
Cover illustration © Thea Dumitriu
Map by Paul Bourne, Handiwork Games
Author photograph by Edel Ryder-Hanrahan
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First Edition: May 2021
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Library of Congress Control Number: 2020947393
ISBNs: 978-0-316-70567-7 (trade paperback), 978-0-316-70565-3 (ebook)
E3-20210419-JV-NF-ORI
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Map
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Interlude I
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Interlude II
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-One
Chapter Forty-Two
Chapter Forty-Three
Chapter Forty-Four
Chapter Forty-Five
Chapter Forty-Six
Epilogue
Acknowledgements
Discover More
Extras Meet the Author
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PROLOGUE
The same dream, again.
That same day, again. More than a year ago, now.
In the dream, Artolo of the Ghierdana swaggers down a street in the New City of Guerdon. Spring is in the air, and there’s a spring in his step, too. He looks across the unlikely vista of the New City, this realm of fanciful spires and bridges, as if the froth of a breaking wave froze and turned to marble. He looks up at the towers, all conjured in an instant by a creation of the alchemists gone awry – or so rumour claims. Across the world, Guerdon’s chiefly known for the wonders wrought by the alchemists’ guild. Weapons from their foundries and cauldrons flow out across the sea to the Godswar and streams of gold and silver come flowing back.
In Artolo’s eyes, this New City is a sieve, straining the city, skimming off gold and silver for him and his family. It was born of chaos and crisis, and chaos always brings opportunity for those with the nerve to seize the moment. That is why Great-Uncle chose Artolo, out of all the family, to oversee operations in Guerdon. He’s got the strong hands needed.
In the few months he’s been here, he’s proved it. He broke the local criminal syndicate, the Brotherhood, operating out of the pisspot district of the Wash – he owns them now.
And he’s dealt with anyone else who crossed him.
Because when you cross Artolo, you cross the Ghierdana, and no one crosses the Ghierdana.
No one crosses the dragons.
This is only the beginning. The New City doesn’t belong to anyone, not really. Half these enchanted spires are empty, or claimed by squatters and refugees who have no one to protect them, who can easily be driven out. Guerdon’s still knitting itself back together after the Crisis. The city watch’s wax golem-things, the Tallowmen, banished off the streets. The alchemists are rebuilding their broken factories, the Brotherhood’s gone, parliament’s staggering around stunned, run by some cobbled-together emergency committee. Even the local gods are moribund.
All wide open. All ripe to be plucked. Artolo runs his big hand along the smooth marble railing of the balcony, delighting in the sensation. He taps the Ring of Samara off the railing, and he can almost feel the whole city tremble, feel it quiver beneath his touch like it fears him. A horse to be broken, a woman to be taken.
It feels good. It feels right. It feels like the first time Great-Uncle took him flying. The New City around him might be a cloud in a shimmering sky, and he’s soaring towards his glorious destiny.
In the dream, he walks down a stairwell. His men bow their heads as he passes, murmur words of respect. Soon, the whole city will bow to him, too. Boss Artolo, Great-Uncle’s favourite. Great-Uncle’s Chosen.
He enters the cellar room. Two of his men wait, his cousin Vollio and Tiske. Loyal men, even if Tiske’s only Eshdana. Ash-marked, not one of the dragon’s kin. They’re holding a prisoner between them. A woman, young, dark-haired, struggling like an alley cat. Yowling like one, too.
“Quiet,” he snaps. He grabs her by the chin, twists her head so he can see her face. Her skin is marked by a dusting of little dark marks, like scars or burns. An ugly amulet of some black metal hangs around her neck. “I’m told that you’ve been spying on me. That you stole from me. That you stabbed three of my men.”
“Three that you’ve found,” she whispers.
“Do you know who I am?” He squeezes her mouth.
“Tolo,” she mumbles.
“Wrong!” he shouts.
He releases her. Takes out his knife. The hilt is gold and studded with jewels. The blade is a dragon’s tooth, given by Great-Uncle. It’s more than a weapon – it’s a symbol of Great-Uncle’s trust, of his authority as a Ghierdana prince. He lifts the knife, en
joying the weight of it, the way it fits in his hand. It was made for him.
Artolo slams it into the woman’s face, hilt first. He holds the weapon up so she can see it.
“See this? Know what it is? I’m a boss of the Ghierdana. I’m Chosen of the Dragon.”
He puts the knife to her throat, pressing the blade against her skin.
A little more pressure, and the skin will open in a red spring.
A little more work, to saw through the cartilage, and then there’ll be that parting, that hot rush as the windpipe gives way.
“Cross me, and you cross the Ghierdana!” There aren’t any witnesses, down here in this cellar. Just Vollio and Tiske. Just the glimmering stone of the impossible New City. Still, Artolo likes to say his piece. He’s said it before, many times. It’s for his own good as much as anything else. Reminds him to be tough. Reminds him not to fail.
He looks the girl right in the eyes. There’s no fear there. She doesn’t think he’s going to do it. That makes him even angrier.
“Take from me,” he snarls, “and you take from the dragon!”
He draws the knife across her throat.
There’s a screeching, scraping noise, like he’s drawing the blade across solid stone. Sparks fly where the knife grinds across the soft skin of the girl’s throat. The knife – his knife, the dragon-tooth knife – can’t injure her.
Somehow, though, it injures the room around them. A dozen wounds open in the glimmering white walls, deep wet gouges tearing the stone, mimicking the path of the knife across her unblemished, still-uncut throat.
A miracle. It’s a fucking miracle.
But Great-Uncle told him there were no saints left in Guerdon.
The stone floor convulses, flinging Vollio and Tiske away from the girl. They land in opposite corners of the cellar room. The ceiling melts, long fingers of glistening stone cascading from it like stalactites, intertwining and blooming flowers of solid rock, walling off the corners from the rest of the room. In an instant, Vollio and Tiske are immured, locked away behind stone. Artolo can hear their muffled shouts of alarm.
The girl stands up slowly, a wicked grin on her face. Flushed with excitement, drunk on power.
Behind her, the cellar door quivers, and then the stone lintel above it melts, too. The only way out of the room clenches shut. He can’t call for help.
The knife can’t cut her. He slams the hilt of the blade into her nose.
The walls of the room – no, gods below, it’s the whole New City that takes the force of the blow. She’s untouched. He punches her in the face, and it’s like punching a wall. His knuckles come away bleeding, and it’s a game to her.
He can’t hurt her. He can’t kill her. He doesn’t have a gun, or anything more destructive. He needs a gun. Why didn’t he bring a fucking gun? He’s killed saints before, across the sea, but not without weapons. Not without Great-Uncle.
He can’t fail Great-Uncle. He can’t fail the dragon.
There’s no air down here; he can’t breathe. He can’t stand, and, in his panic, he can’t tell if it’s the floor or his knees that have turned to liquid. She looms over him, suddenly terrible and monstrous. He crawls backwards away from her, or tries to, but the ground is mirror-smooth and slick.
She picks up his dragon-tooth knife, admires the jewelled hilt. Flips it around expertly, examines the blade.
“You’ve blunted it,” she says. “It’s shit now.” She throws his knife to the floor. “But I’ve got my own,” she says, laughing, and produces her own blade from some hidden fold of her cloak.
Vollio was supposed to check the bitch for weapons.
“Call me the Saint of Knives,” says the girl, advancing on him. Then she stops, glances at the ceiling. “What? It’s a good name!” She pauses, as if she’s listening to some voice Artolo can’t hear. “Fine, I’ll get a magic knife then. A fucking flame sword, maybe. But first—”
She turns her attention back to Artolo. Her eyes glitter like the stone of the New City in the sun.
“This is my city. I know what you’re doing here. I know what you’re looking for.”
She can’t know that, Artolo thinks. Great-Uncle entrusted him with a mission so secret that it could only be given to one of the family. She can’t know about the Black Iron weapons. Who is this girl?
“I’ll kill you,” threatens Artolo, summoning the tattered remains of his bravado. There has to be some way to hurt her. Poison gas. Acid. Sorcery. Dragon-fire. She’s human. “I’ll fucking kill your family.”
She laughs. “Bit late for that. But if we’re swapping threats—” She closes her fist, and the wall holding Vollio mirrors her movement. There’s a muffled scream, and red rivulets squirt from the cracks in the stone.
“I’ll find a way.”
The woman ignores him. “The Ghierdana aren’t welcome here. Go back and tell the dragon that. You won’t get a second warning.” She gestures, and the wall opens behind him, ripping and reflowing to form a new doorway. The graveyard stench of ghoul tunnels wafts from this second portal.
She steps over him like he’s nothing.
Ignores him like he’s nothing.
No one treats him like that. He is Artolo of the Ghierdana. Great-Uncle’s favourite. Chosen of the dragon!
The dragon-tooth knife is in his hand. He finds his footing, leaps at her. The bitch is half his size, small and weak, and, for all her miracles, she’s just a girl. Take her by surprise and—
—The dream ends like it always does. She turns around, like she saw him coming. Her knife goes in just under his ribcage, and his momentum carries him on as she twists, and now the white walls are all red, red, red. And he’s falling, like he’s slipped from Great-Uncle’s back.
The dragon flies on and does not look back.
CHAPTER ONE
Some days, Cari has to remind herself that it wasn’t all a dream.
The rolling of the ship is so familiar to her. The smell of sea air, the stink of the bilges. The creaks of rope and timber, the slap of water on wood, the shouts of sailors, all this was her life before, is now her life again. The wide world, sea under sky. She leans on the railing by the prow of the ship, watching the horizon. The empty expanse makes her feel deliciously anonymous. The open ocean accepts no name that mortals or gods might try to put on it. It admits no history, existing in one present and eternal moment. On the ocean, it feels like she could be born anew with each swelling wave.
On the ocean, her life ashore feels like a dream.
But it wasn’t a dream, was it, she thinks to herself, her fingers closing around the black amulet that once more adorns her neck. She’s not expecting an answer here – Spar is half the world away. And even if Cari was back in the New City, standing in the heart of the great metropolis that she inadvertently conjured from his corpse nearly two years ago, she doesn’t know if he’d be able to answer her.
Still, she prays for an answer. Strains whatever the psychic equivalent of an ear is.
Nothing.
Just the jagged whirling of her own thoughts.
She can’t help but be amused by the irony. She ran away from home long ago because she was haunted by the fear of unseen powers that called to her, and she found solace in the anonymity of the ocean. Distance muted the voices. Every mile she sailed away from Guerdon was a balm to her scarred soul.
Now, she’s terrified by the absence of one particular voice, and every day she sails is time she can’t afford to spend. If she could have teleported across the world, instead of spending months travelling around the Godswar, she’d have done that, and damn the cost.
Nothing’s ever simple with you, is it, she thinks to herself. Again, there’s no answer. Just a memory of her cousin Eladora, lying bleeding in an alleyway off Desiderata Street, whispering to her: You ruin everything.
Not this time.
“Ilbarin!” comes the shout from the crow’s nest. “Mark, the Rock of Ilbarin.”
Cari stares at the horizon, l
ooking for the distant hump of the mountain, but she can’t see it from down here yet. She suppresses the urge to climb up into the rigging and get a proper view. She spent half her old life aloft, and the swaying of the mast holds no fear for her. But she can’t abandon her prize. She pats the heavy oilskin bundle that hasn’t left her sight in six months, feels the comforting weight of the book inside.
Comforting weight? More like fucking inconvenient weight. The book’s absurdly huge, and the cover is shod in metal, with a hefty lock built into it. Probably magic wards, too. The thing could stop a bullet, and not a small one either. If Cari’s ever caught in an artillery bombardment (again, she adds), she’s hiding under that fucking book.
The Grimoire of Doctor Ramegos, to give the book something like its proper title. From what Eladora explained, it’s some sort of magical diary. Cari wishes she knew which pages were actually important. If she knew what was valuable, she could just steal that, cut the pages out and wrap them up in a nice neat bundle. But no – it’s all incomprehensible arcane runes in there. She can’t distinguish between the world-shattering secrets and the magic equivalent of “day eight of gastric distress. Today’s bowel movements were mostly greenish and inoffensive” so she has to carry it all. She’s dragged this fucking book from Guerdon to Haith, across the sea to Varinth, down south to Paravos, across to the Caliphates into the Firesea, and now nearly to Khebesh.
Thinking about it, six months with this book can be counted among her longest relationships, and she can’t even read the thing.
She listens again. Spar was always amused when she got ranty. She’s still curating her own thoughts, storing away things that he might enjoy. But he’s an absence in her soul, an unseen wound. A phantom limb that other people don’t have. She’s left only with her own thoughts, and Cari’s always been poor company for herself.
Some of the crew of this ship might understand. Some of them, too, have walked in the shadow of divinity. It’s not a Guerdon ship; she boarded this ship in… one of the occupied Caliphate ports? Taervosa, maybe, or some other stop on her long, meandering journey. Not a Guerdon ship means not a Guerdon crew – there are god-touched on board. They’ve got a weatherworker, Eld, a minor saint of Cloud Mother. Waddling around, complaining about his swollen ankles and swollen belly, occasionally called on to birth sylph-spirits to fill the sails and speed the ship along. Another sailor has a Tomb Child from Ul-Taen riding on his shoulders, the shade of a child sacrifice. Cari can see the Child, sometimes, if the sun catches it at the right angle. And there’s one mercenary who has the Lion Queen’s sigil tattooed on his chest.