Those Who Would Not Be Gods

24. Stone:

Castelfiamma's walls were tall, proud things. Fierce crenellations bit at the sky, blunt teeth scraping the clouds. The top of the wall was thick, wide enough for two or three men to stand abreast. Cannons pointed outward, thrusting toward the night. Underfoot, worn stone told of hundreds of nights spent tracking the same path. It was the story of guards who had come before and the suggestion of guards who would come after.

Stefano laid a hand on the stone and gazed out into the night, taking a moment from his rounds. He'd always felt most comfortable here, on the walls. There was nowhere safer to be. The walls had stood for hundreds of years; they would stand for hundreds more. He was surrounded by Shrineguards and heavy stone. Nothing could get him, and he could see everything for miles. For a moment, he was king, and the forest beyond his kingdom.

His eyes wandered to the ground. A dark hole pierced the field, deep as the eye could see. They'd marked it off with rope, a crude circle tied off with a ritual knot. It wasn't the most powerful of spells, but it would last for a long time. Old as it was, it worked on a simple principle: if anyone crossed the line, the rope would burn. But the rope was still intact, so no one had crossed the line. There was nothing to fear from the hole.

He knew that, but he couldn't help the feeling of dread that welled up at the sight of it. It was a blot of ink. It was pitch. It was the sky without stars. Nothing should be able to be that dark. Even in daylight it was dark. Not as dark, he noted. He could see the walls of the cave then, instead of the utter dark blot it became at night, as it was now. But the depths were still impenetrable. The noonday sun struggled to pierce further than a few dozen feet.

The Lost Godstone was found down there. There can't be anything too inside. Stefano shook his head and looked away.

Usually, by now, Ornella would have been by to yell at him for staring out into the forest. Overachiever, he thought, vaguely annoyed at the memory. It wasn't so bad to rest for a moment. What, was an army going to crawl over the wall while he glanced away? Hardly. She needed to relax a little.

But... he scratched the back of his neck and looked around. Come to think of it, he hadn't seen Paolo tonight, either. Where'd everyone go? Normally he'd have run into someone on his rounds.

Up ahead, a cloaked man stood on the wall. He, too, was looking down at the hole. Stefano grinned. There was Paolo, after all! He jogged over and opened his mouth.

"Speak," a voice that was definitely not Paolo's whispered. It was a tortured sound, like the speaker was barely able to draw breath, let alone speak.

Stefano stopped short. What? He didn't recognize that voice at all. Come to think of it, that cloak wasn't Shrineguard-standard either. Wait, is he talking to me? He started forward again. "Who are—"

"Everything is on track," another voice responded. Another voice he didn't recognize. A second later, the man appeared, crouching on the edge of the battlements, back to the forest. Stefano's brows furrowed. He hadn't been there a second ago, he was sure of it. What was going on?

The crouching man shook his head and continued. "Not that it wasn't hard. That was a tight deadline you set. Especially since I had to heal the nasty cuts you gave me, shoving me into that tiny hole all of a sudden like that. Though I guess I can't complain; we made it out intact, right? All our limbs in the right places?"

There was a long, uncomfortable pause. The man sighed and started speaking again. "Luckily, there was already plenty of animosity towards our good Shrine in the ol' Sow's Ear. All it took was a whisper or two."

Stefano crouched against the wall, peering over towards the men. Something was going on. He should run out there and stop it, he supposed, but wouldn't it be better if he collected more evidence first? And if he caught something serious—like this looked to be—then Ornella wouldn't be able to get on his case for staring at the forest ever again. He'd finally prove to that hardass that a little rest didn't hurt one bit.