Horsey's brows furrowed. "A gift? What kind?"
"Oh, I told you to guess first." Goatswhistle puffed his cheeks.
"Better you tell me straight." Horsey squinted his eyes. Goatswhistle began giggling, knowing well not to push.
"A giant rock," Goatwhistle said at last, unveiling the punchline. He doubled over, cackling without restraint. The boy could see Horsey's golden teeth in full display as his lips curled. Not usually a good sign.
"Goatswhistle, what makes this rock so special?" Swinebroth blurted out. "If it is an offering, I mean."
"Aside from the fact that it is from the Du Ku'am's homeland, his Elder's final parting gift…," Goatswhistle drifted off, pondering hard. "No. No, I do not know anything else."
Swinebroth frowned. Ticklebones might have been a cynic, but perhaps he was right: a liar could smell one of their own.
Horsey's expression darkened. "And Umdohar? Is he even ready?"
Goatswhistle's grin flickered, a candle under doubt. "Ready? He... well, he can manage."
"That is not an answer," Horsey pressed, his tone growing stern. "We broke laws for him, Goatswhistle. Breached boundaries we can never repair. We have placed everything on the line to secure his position."
He stepped closer towards the apathetic setikos, brows furrowed as storm clouds over a desert. "We are seeing this through."
Goatswhistle raised his hands in mock surrender, looking around to ascertain if anyone had heard. "Alright, alright. Look, I have got a knack for these things. Call it good fortune, or divine intuition, an excellent taste for victims." He looked up, running his tongue across his upper teeth, before grinning back at Horsey. "Yes. Umdohar will do just fine."
Perhaps he did not know any more than the rest of them about what was to come.
Why lie about it?
Spinning yet another web of half-truths. This did nothing for anyone. Umdohar was a mortal risk the setikosi could not sever their ties to. It had been a gamble of life and death. The gamble of a third of a millenia. It worked somehow. He was declared the next successor to Gurkiim's Du Ku'amic rank. Then at the tender age of eight summers, Swinebroth had been involved, the details of such schemes almost far gone from his memories. Yet the consequences—those risks—felt very real now.
Horsey turned away, his jaw set. "We cannot keep gambling with people's lives unless we are certain we can handle the consequences." He made to leave, no doubt to join the lousy Ticklebones in preparations, but then paused, as if remembering a debt unpaid, and faced Goatswhistle once more.
"Remember," he said, low and deliberate, "this was your experiment. You chose him. You made him Du Ku'am. Do not drag us into any more of your troubles."
And with that, Horsey vanished into the crowd, in that particularly Horsey fashion—leaving without farewell, leaving much unsaid. Swinebroth stood frozen, a resolve forming in his chest but denied at the last moment to emerge yet again.
"That was a lot of 'you's, was it not?" Goatswhistle quipped, tugging absentmindedly at one of his braids. The boy did not answer immediately. His eyes were still trained on the direction Horsey had gone.
"Horsey never waits for us to answer," Swinebroth sulked.
"Relax," he muttered. "Umdohar is going to outlive us all anyway. What is there to worry about?"
"Why do you trust the Brother Regent?"
"Do you trust me?"
Swinebroth had no answer to give. Is it okay to lie?
"I would not blame you if you said no." Goatswhistle shrugged. "I suppose you can argue the same for me too."
"Argue? I do not know if I should even listen to you."
"I can speak for myself: I am not special. Neither is the man who now happens to be regent, regardless of what fate may have planned for him. Perhaps I may be too invested in his undertakings. Perhaps I may be getting bored. The truth is, we need him just as much as he needs us." Goatswhistle smiled, watching the torch reveal shadows that danced against the limestone walls. An invisible play only he could see.
"It is alright if none of this makes sense to you," he said after stretching his back. "He used to carry you when you were much younger. I told him, 'Yes, Whinesnot is doing fine now'." Goatswhistle waved his hand dismissively.
He looked down at the boy, brows raised. "Do not let that get to your head. You are not special either, though you are lucky to be alive."
The boy remained silent, unconvinced.
"If you are so worried, well…look, you have got youth on your side. Is that not exciting? You can make it out of here."
"I am not leaving Horsey. I owe him that much."
Goatswhistle's expression softened, tender. "Someday, we might meet again. Maybe not here. Not this temple."
Swinebroth did not feel inclined to speak with him further. The very notion struck him as absurd. Templemen, after all, were bound within the temple's walls for life. That was the law unquestioned, the creed that governed their very existence. Like Horsey's existence. The outside world, with all its trappings, held no honor, no merit compared to service under the Dove.
Without so much as a reaction, Goatswhistle groaned.
"This place bores me to tears," Goatswhistle whimpered, shaking his head. His fists shook, visible from where Swinebroth stood. The boy had no clue what brought on these feelings in the first place. Of all the Setikosi, Goatswhistle seemed to possess the most time to himself, making a habit of filling it however he saw fit. He wielded influence with ease, a figure whose whims were often indulged by those around him. And yet, here he was, discontented.
Goatswhistle rubbed his forehead in frustration.
"I am a grown man whining to a child. You would not understand me," Goatswhistle laughed. At himself, or at him? The boy had no clue anymore.
From within, a dim hum of voices and the faintest swell of music began to filter into the corridor as the heavy doors of the hall creaked open.
"You wait here for Whiskers," Goatswhistle instructed before stepping through the entrance of the banquet hall. "We shall send messengers for you should we need anything. Not that I imagine you will have much to do, however." He cackled as he disappeared through the crowd.
Swinebroth had only nodded, though more to himself than to anyone. It was not like Whiskers had asked for him to be here—this was entirely Goatswhistle's suggestion. Now, standing outside the gilded doors, the boy felt out of place, like a dog tied to a post at the edge of a feast. He was not a full-fledged Setikos, after all. He was mostly that, a pet to be ordered around. An extra that never gets used.
He peered through the glass walls lining the hall, but the view offered little solace. The figures inside moved as shadows in the golden light, their backs turned to the walls. The noise of their celebration felt suffocatingly distant. Underscored by a deep, resonant rhythm that thudded like a heartbeat in the dark. Swinebroth winced at its peculiar dissonance, his unease growing with every note. He shifted uncomfortably, his hands fidgeting with the hem of his sleeve.
A cold thought, sharp and unwelcome, slithered into his mind: Maybe Whiskers would not come.
He hoped—just as he had for countless gatherings before. It was not an unfamiliar thought. Whiskers had a tendency to disappear without a trace, vanishing from events without a word. And when he did, it was always with the same air of indifferent finality.
Swinebroth's breath hitched in his chest, his hope dwindling with each passing moment. Hours passed, each minute dragging more heavily than the last. The boy clung to that fragile hope still. The hope that Whiskers might once again decide this night was not worth his time. Occasionally, cheers would resound from within, yet the boy had no clue what each was for. Yet it was a comfort, at the very least. A night of mourning turned into a night of celebration for a long life well-lived.
This minute comfort did not last as long.
In the midst of his quiet vigil halfway through the evening, a shadow flickered at the edge of the hallway. The figure that emerged from the dim light moved like a specter—slow, deliberate steps that echoed in the quiet. Swinebroth's heart sank. He had no words for the man, no courage to speak—not after what he had said to him earlier, and certainly not with the man's infamous rumors of being a man-eater, a scourge who belonged to the temple undergrounds.
The bearded man, Whiskers, stopped just a bit further away, his gaze flicking briefly to Swinebroth. The boy felt a shiver run down his spine, his throat tightening. He dared not meet Whiskers' eyes, instead staring at the floor, willing himself invisible.
"This is a waste of time," Whiskers murmured, his voice hoarse from being unused for long periods. He turned his attention to the silhouettes beyond the terrarium-like banquet hall.
The threshold to this glass-encased banquet is marked by bronze doors etched with the symbols of mythic creatures bound together in a lackadaisical dance of power and dominance. Part-human and part-animal, their stone eyes gave the life-like impression of tracking the steps of those who dare enter the halls.
Above all, in its natural place in the hierarchy, rested the Shaman Dove, believed to be a demiurge—a Seer and Fate Weaver, among many things. With that many eyes and wings, Swinebroth doubted he would be thrilled to meet such a creature at first. Yet, if the tales were true, and it could grant wishes, perhaps facing it would not be as dreadful as he first imagined.
The doors swung shut behind them, cutting the faint melody and muffling the sounds of celebration. Through the glass, Swinebroth could barely distinguish the figures in the crowd as they cheered—just indistinct shapes moving in and out of the light.
Whiskers tilted his head slightly, his voice low but clear. "They celebrate," he said, his tone laced with a quiet contempt. "Oblivious to what lies just beyond the veil."
Swinebroth's chest tightened even further. He dared not ask what Whiskers meant, not with the man's earlier warning echoing in his mind: "A night that hungers for blood."
What could he have meant?
He clenched his fists at his sides, unsure of what to do, unable to move.
Whiskers' attention lingered on the glass. "You do not think I am late, do you?"
"No."
"That is right. I arrived just in time. Just in time as the Maazati."
Swinebroth could hear it. With only a handful of Ku'ams stationed in solemnity within that same hallway, the sound of footsteps heading their way was distinct and unquestionable.
And Whiskers was right.
The Maazati, a horde of dark-robed men, hoisting a palanquin over their shoulders. Fully draped in the finest of silks that glittered both under torchlight and moonlight, the secret within the palanquin remained a mystery to Swinebroth and Whiskers' eyes.
"I know you want to see that relic so badly. A rare chance, for they will be sealing it away after. You cannot afford to lose it now," Whiskers muttered to Swinebroth as he stood on guard.
I do, Swinebroth thought. I really do.