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All that mattered was the story. The myths that made gods, brought them to life in their shrines. Stories bind hope and love to make it faith.
Her incursion had been like a catching flame; little by little, then all at once.
She had never understood it, why humans chose, again and again, gods who abused their love, and demanded their pain. Were gods and humans just as bad as each other?
A god had saved her, again, and passing a message from another. Since when had gods spoken to each other? What was changing in the world?
like it here, said Skedi quietly. So many secrets, so many interpretations. So many little lies. Inara looked around and breathed in the scent of paper, bark, wood and parchment. Like a thousand autumns packed into the curving room. So many truths too, she said. Some truths are too bright to look at directly, that is why they couch them in paper.
‘Gods balance our access to power. They belong to everyone, not just the wealthy. Like our lands belong to everyone, not just the king.’
‘You had to come from somewhere. Aan said a promise bound us. What if it was my father’s promise?’ Skedi swallowed. Aan also said the water knew him. He remembered it, just. More like a dream of a memory. Sea and chaos, sinking ships and him flying between them in an attempt to calm the dying. The massacre at Blenraden harbour, a fight between the wild gods and the refugee ships. He was sure that was where he had been before Inara.
He fluffed up his fur as she pointed at the page. Skediceth. Skedi crept closer. He could hardly believe it. There he was, on ink and paper. Only one reference. But still . . . ‘I’m here,’ he murmured. He looked up at her. ‘I’m real.’
An audience with Yusef, the god of safe haven, on the great ship Moonswake. It was a long journey to the west, docking at Sakre last, and he introduced me to his companion, Skediceth. Many ship shrines to Yusef have a space put aside for this god of white lies, for each traveller knows the lie they tell themselves: I will be safe, there is nothing to fear, I will come home. How else could we bear to set our barks on these unpeaceful seas? He gave me his blessing, for my own telling of tales.
Tomb. Not shrine. ‘You have a grave?’ said Skedi, surprised. ‘This shape belonged once to a human,’ she said. ‘In a time like this one she was hunted, killed, then buried here. For pity, and admiration, people brought flowers, prayers, books. They read to her their thoughts, new ideas.’ Her voice grew distant, fading, and her robes darkened with grey dust and darker patches. Blood. ‘And in her place, I took shape. A different being in her form. A symbol of truth against all brutality. It is a pity, that such things come around again.’
This was not a god. Gods touched the earth with purpose, humans because they belonged to the ground.
