Free Gods of Nabban by K. V. Johansen Page A

dead. That fine silk was scorched black over his heart. One of the giants dragged the parasol-woman away, shouting. So much shouting.
    â€œThe gods!” A wizard stumbled to her feet, hands clapped to her ears, her coiled braids shedding their pins and tumbling down. “The gods, the gods have struck down the Exalted!”
    Well, someone certainly had.
    â€œThe emperor is dead!”
    â€œWizards of Prince Dan!” someone else cried.
    Old Great Gods, were they fools? This was no wizardry. But the old Pine Lord did not deny the possibility. He was among those who failed to stir.
    â€œThe wrath of the Old Great Gods!” Princess Buri-Nai staggered to her feet. “It is the wrath of the Old Great Gods!” She jerked her arm away from the giant who presumed to seize her. “Diman, come. We must save him.”
    â€œWho, princess?” The assassin had shed the outer layers of her court robes. Beneath she wore leather armour, snug leggings. No sword, but a long knife in each hand, putting herself between her princess and the glowering giant who would have been a hero and carried her to safety.
    â€œThe prophet! The prophet of the gods.”
    â€œPrincess, he’s fried,” Diman said bluntly. Rat had an unholy urge to snicker at that coarseness. Shock.
    â€œExalted,” Buri-Nai said.
    Rat felt as though her heart stopped, as if the world held its breath, though none but she and Diman had heard.
    Diman gaped. Her face was painted for court, powdered pale, eyes outlined in blue, mouth made small and red. It hid the pock-marks that scarred her. Now her gaping made her a theatre mask, an expression of shock or horror.
    Not a plot between the two of them, then. The Wind in the Reeds were better actors than that.
    The Pine Lord, maybe? But he had died in the attack. Some other wizardry—but Rat knew the taste of wizardry in the air and this lightning had not been—
    â€”had not been any work of the gods, either. No.
    â€œThe gods have struck down the emperor for the death of their prophet!” someone cried. “We are all damned, we are all damned!”
    Very likely.
    Diman’s mouth snapped shut. “Exalted Buri-Nai,” she said, and pushed past Rat, who was fumbling with stupidly shaking hands to retrieve her parasol, as a good attendant should. But she followed close, courting a blow from a princess always too quick with the sharp edge of her bamboo-bladed fan, to see for herself what horror lay beyond the broken table.
    The prisoner was not dead. His eyes stared at the sky, dark, dilated, and his body shook with little panting breaths.
    â€œProphet of the gods,” Buri-Nai said, stooping to him. She pulled off a glove, laid a hand on him, his skin against her forbidden imperial skin. Rat was not certain what she was seeing. Concern? Prurient curiosity? Theatre? He was cold and sweating and gritty with ash blowing from somewhere. “Prophet of the gods, do you hear me?”
    Theatre. Others had followed—two wizards of Bamboo rank, Captain Oryo of the giants, the First Minister, the Master of the Treasury, the Lady Governess of the Wives.
    â€œProphet of the gods, do you hear? Do you see me, know me? I am Buri-Nai, daughter of Yao and heir to this land now. I am the chosen, the fulfilment of your prophecy. The line of the sons of Min-Jan is ended, as you foretold. I am the Daughter of the Old Great Gods, and you have been deceived by the lies of the devils, to think Nabban’s salvation lies elsewhere. Do you know me?”
    The man blinked. His lips moved, swollen and bleeding. Shaped a word, maybe. His eyes drifted closed.
    â€œBring him,” Buri-Nai ordered, looking over her shoulder. Captain Oryo frowned.
    â€œYou heard the Exalted,” Diman said. “You’ve witnessed the judgement of the gods, captain. Bring the prophet, as the empress commands.”
    Empress.
    The space of a breath, two.
    Buri-Nai straightened up.