So that’s the way my gravel-voiced, knit-throated patron wants to play it? Give me powers, pit me against his other creations, and see emerges alive?
Bring it on, I say.
Though I also wonder what the Man with the Colorful Scarf and Diamond Shoes saw in that 12-year-old girl he lured into that alley with promises of magic. Maybe my mother’s aura was shining through me the way Aunt Lissie used to say it did — she was the nicest of the aunts, the most spiritual but the most ephemeral, having died when I was young.
One of my first memories was her voice saying “I see your mother’s aura in you.” I remember it because I didn’t know what it meant, as much as I desperately wished I understood everything that came from her sapphire-tinted lips. My mother used to say that Lissie, the first-born of the triplets, had drained her two other sisters of their elf blood before emerging from the womb with pearlescent hair and lips the color of emeralds. (They mellowed to a soft blue in her teen years.)
But elf blood doesn’t protect you from speeding wagons carrying green cakes to the market, especially when you’re in such a deep trance communing with the spirit world that you don’t pay attention to where you’re crossing the street. So 7-year-old me never really knew what Aunt Lissie saw that would make her say such a thing.
And now I suppose whatever glowing halo or rainbow-tinted haze she saw whenever she looked at Child Me had led to the events that put Adult Me in snakeskin armor, a Whip of Certain Death at my hip and the ability to summon demons and death in my hands, waiting to find out whether I’d become god or dust.
Fig explained the runes pretty clearly: The Man with the Colorful Scarf and his three fellow viziers each chose a mortal who could become their new god. They expect us to find and kill each other until the sole survivor ascends the throne. One contender already has attempted to murder me and half the Hydra crew, failed, and been reincarnated in the body of the blasted bird-monster that Urto’s been trying to raise in his tiny captain’s quarters.
This sick game reminds me of the town-wide mock-battles that we participated in as teenagers back home. The skirmish would last a month of every four summers. We would start with three or four “armies,” all soldiers armed with fake swords that we would use to tap our enemies on the shoulder or leg to signify a kill. By the end of the first week, the teams would succumb to in-fighting and friendly fire; new alliances would be made in the second week; and by the third, it would be every player for themselves. The last soldier standing, untouched by a wooden blade, would preside over a special party the day before the Crestbalm Fete.
I didn’t win the year I played, so don’t get your hopes up for a reminiscence of victory. Neither did Ansel. And you know the Baker’s Boy didn’t live long enough to even consider playing.
But there was something about the savagery of war touching our tiny, peaceful village that was so pervertedly delicious, so taboo, that even the most sage village leaders found themselves assisting in ambushes and placing wagers on who they thought might win.
So trust me when I say I’m not a stranger to the spirit of competition. I just like to know I’m competing before almost getting torn to pieces by the opposition.
I also like to know what I’m fighting for, be it a party or what the Man with the Colorful Scarf and his trilliant-bestowing companions are offering: Godly dominion over a city of undead who toil in the shadow of a black pyramid that strangely resembles the stone that seems to have taken the place of my beating heart.
And while the population of such a kingdom might deter some, I just come to the same conclusion: Real estate is real estate. A throne is a throne. And seeing as I feel like a god most days already, actually becoming one only seems like my logical next step.