Change of Wind and Storms by Megan Linski

Author:Megan Linski
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Gryfyn Publishing

Chapter Eleven

I spit the wine out of my mouth and all down the front of my dress.

What did he just say?

“Fliss,” Smok scolds. He grabs a napkin and starts wiping the wine off of me. “Look what you’ve done.”

The other two dragons’ mouths are hanging open. Piorun looks at me expectantly. I push Smok’s hand aside and burst out laughing.

“Me?” This is hilarious— tears are coming out of my eyes. I have to gasp for breath. “You think… clumsy… me… could be a goddess?”

I place my forehead on the table, shoulders shaking with laughter. Not even the gods could be so ridiculous. This is one very cruel joke. And I thought the dragon thing was funny. It’s not even close to this.

“It’s true,” Zizila insists. She glares at me. “You are one of us.”

“Well, tell me then,” I say, and I sit upright. “What am I the goddess of? Being late, or tripping over my own feet, or being incredibly awkward?”

“You are Lada, the goddess of song and love, youth and beauty,” Zizila says harshly. “And sometimes, you’re known as the goddess of fertility, to certain tribes.”

“I rather like that one,” Fyer states coyly.

“Shut up, you,” I bark at him. I turn back to Piorun and say, “You think I’m the goddess of song.”

“Each god has control of their own element,” Piorun explains. “You have control over music. All music. It is no coincidence that this reincarnation gave you siren blood.”

“If I’m a goddess I shouldn’t have been able to die in the first place!” I hiss. “I have three times now!”

“No. You’re wrong. The reason you can’t die is because you’re a goddess,” Piorun quips wisely. “If you were a mortal, your soul would’ve gone to the underworld after your first death. But since that is impossible, your soul is regenerating and coming back into the world again and again each time you pass away. It’ll continue like this forever, until you cease to allow people to murder you.”

“Allow?” I gasp. “I haven’t allowed anything!”

Piroun crosses his arms. “If you had control of your powers—”

Zizila puts a hand on Piorun’s arm. “Perhaps we should start from the beginning.”

Piorun’s hunched shoulders melt. He uncrosses his arms and looks to his wife. “Very well. I believe you should tell the story.”

Zizila nods. She brushes her husband’s hand before her eyes catch mine.

“The truth is that all of you are gods,” Zizila admits. “Or, you were. Smok was Svet, the god of war. Fyer was Ogne, the god of fire. And Aire was Kupalo, the god of water. And all of you were in love with Lada.”

The dragons look between each other. There isn’t any outburst from them, though their looks are skeptical.

I put another hunk of venison on my plate and start chewing rather viciously. Now I’m hungry. When I’m angry, I get starving. Don’t ask me why.

“The four of you dwelled together in Svarog— the paradise of the gods. It was a peaceful time,” Piorun says. “The world was old already, yet you were young gods newly made, more optimistic and less jaded by the ways of mortals.

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