The Throne of the Gods

Prelude-3

“There!” Voran gasped, hovering over Rogned. The shadows under his eyes were even darker than before. “I made a promise to you, Rogned, when you were a boy. Did you forget? I will not let you die in vain. Not after your brother died. I loved him, you know. He was the brother I never had . . .”

Rogned couldn’t understand what Voran was saying. All he heard in his head was the song of the paradise birds nesting in the Gardens of Aer; all he could smell was the tuberose and lavender and . . .

A foul wind inundated him with the coppery smell of blood. Rogned gagged, his hands flailing. He grabbed Voran’s head and squeezed it. Every muscle in his body strained. He screamed.

“Rogned, I brought you back. You won’t die now.” Voran wheezed, trying to pull apart Rogned’s hands. He was too weak.

“What have you done?” screamed Rogned. It echoed, the sound bouncing around them as though they were in a cavern. “I was so . . . so close!”

He threw Voran aside, not even caring anymore if he fell off the edge of the Fang. The clouds above him churned with wind, pregnant with sleet. He reached for them. He could feel them between his hands like clay, like stone melting in his hands, forming into a shape. He gasped. Pleasure filled him, a rip current to the wave of disgust that now fell off him like rainwater. He . . . sculpted the clouds.

After the waves of pleasure had risen so high that his breath caught in his throat, he finally exhaled. The sun broke through the sculpture of fog and mist and ice and snow that he had made and that covered the expanse of the entire sky. It was the most beautiful thing he had ever done. The most beautiful thing any human being had ever done. He felt the Palymi’s sword in his chest again.

“Yes,” he said aloud, as his mind unmoored from his body. The word sounded distant, as though someone else were saying it. “I know now. Beauty will save this world.”

* * * *

Three days later, Rogned woke up. He lay inside a battle tent on the most comfortable pallet he had ever felt. He was so confused, he hadn’t even remembered his own name at first. Voran had explained everything to him—how the sculpture he had created had stopped all the warriors in their tracks. How all of them had put their arms down, some of them openly weeping at the sight, some in such fear that they ran away screaming. The leaders of both sides had immediately come together to discuss terms of peace.

“Everyone agreed,” said Voran. “You, Rogned, could be the only one to lead a new, unified army of the Three Cities. You’ve ended the internecine war. They’re calling you the prophet-prince already.”