“But what if the Glass Kingdom rejects peace?” Bit’rudam said. “We’ve spilled enough of their blood already in this war. What if they can’t forgive?”
“They have to.” Mahraveh continued toward the exit. “Do you know how amazing it would feel to watch Sir Nikserof on his knees and carry out the sentence he so deserves? I remember so much now… too much… but also his face when he destroyed my home. His life is my gesture. My father will be theirs.”
“And here?” Bit’rudam said. He hurried ahead of her and pushed open the grand doors of the Boiling Keep. The din of Latiapur immediately assaulted their ears like she’d never heard it before. The brightness of the beating sun blinded her temporarily, its heat was more apparent than ever. That was the one thing she could feel more vividly. Perhaps it was the new darkness of her skin.
She stared down the steep steps. The nigh’jel blood spilled in her honor had dried, now like swirling black veins in marble all the way down to the palace square. This time, no crowd awaited to cheer, but they were there, filling the city, every street, every market.
The district of afhems bustled as well. She couldn’t take their honorary homes, though, their armies did. Shesaitju travelers flowed through the gates, these from the nearest settlements. Lines of them extended across the dunes like marching ants. More arrived every day to give blessings to their new Caleef. Or perhaps, they imagined the arena would be filled with tournaments. Many afhemates were now without leaders, though none of them yet realized how many.
They’d all be baffled when they arrived. She could hear it already. The murmurs of confusion. What could she possibly tell them? That she’d encountered a mad goddess set on devouring all the world? She’d been unconscious, drowning.
What if it was all a dream?
“Mahi, did you hear that?” Bit’rudam asked.
She looked up. Another formerly al’ Tariq warrior kneeled before them and had apparently spoken, but she was too lost in her mind to hear him.
“What is it?” she asked.
“Babrak, he—” Bit’rudam paused. “Come this way.”
He waved her along and led her down a branching stairwell that cut through the bluffs. The Serpent Guards kept pace. An arch of moss-covered rock led them to a circular promontory. Mahi knew it had to be manmade—a place for Caleef’s to reflect.
Bit’rudam pointed across the Boiling waters, past Tal’du Dromesh to where the water calmed slightly, enough for a series of blackwood jetties to drift, held firm by thick lines anchored into the rocky coast.
There, a row of warships shoved off, filled with warriors. But the docks were bustling as well with others being left behind. Though they were a great distance off, Mahi could see the size of the man at the lead ship’s helm, and the glean of his armor.
Babrak.
His ship sailed away, but he faced back toward the Boiling Keep, toward her. She could only imagine his glare from so far away, but it set her blood boiling.
And he wasn’t the only former afhem aboard the fleeing vessels. They were easy to spot by the opulence of their armor and weapons, by the way they held themselves. Proud, always. Too much so to surrender their titles and their followings so easily.
“That fat pis’truda,” Bit’rudam cursed. “My Caleef, allow me to lead ships after them.”
Mahi stared back at him. Like Nikserof, it would bring her great joy to see Babrak and his ship lying at the bottom of the sea like rocks. He deserved it.
“Let him run,” she said. Even only a few days ago, she never would have. But so much had changed beyond only her appearance. “All he’s doing is proving that all he ever cared about was his own power. Not the Shesaitju.”
“Others join him,” Bit’rudam said. “Others still might. Rebellion is like a sickness in the way it spreads. I’ve seen it in other afhemates, my Caleef. A commander turns, kills their leader, thinking he is strong enough to win the charge. If we don’t—”
“If he won’t join us, he’ll die,” Mahraveh said. “I need you to focus only on the people within our walls, Bit’rudam. They are who matter now.”
She didn’t wait for an answer before turning on her heels and setting off back toward the city.
Mahraveh was getting used to the way people looked at her. She told herself they were just scared of the Serpent Guards surrounding her, but she knew it was her they stared at. She almost wanted to request the Serpent Guards stay behind, so she could be like one of the people again, though she knew that was foolish.
For every expression of reverence aimed at her, there were those who were equal parts livid. Older folk, mostly—staunch followers of the old ways. The changes were too quick and drastic for her not to be protected at all times. To do so would be to deny a very simple fact—she was not one of them any longer.
She didn’t want this, yet here she was. She could stare at the way Bit’rudam’s back-muscles creased as he pushed through the gathered throng ahead, at the sweat glistening on his smooth skin. She could dream and fantasize, but she’d never have anything so simple as a lover again—not that she’d ever had one before. She’d never again walk into a room and be ignored or go unnoticed.
Former afhems and their entourages roamed by. Some eyed her like they wanted to tear open her throat. Others offered a simple nod, a gesture of respect. They were commanders after all, and a good leader recognizes good strategy. Her father taught her that, long ago, when she asked why he studied texts about Liam the Conqueror’s many victories.
Markless and traders and warriors kowtowed as she passed. That level of adoration, she hoped she’d never grow accustomed to—yet, she already was. She didn’t like it, but she couldn’t hate it. She had to portray strength every moment her people looked upon her, or she’d lose more followers like those who’d gone with Babrak.
She had to be more than a young woman from a desert town whose father had gone off to meet with their enemies, and might never return. She might never see him again. And worse, if he did return with the peace she offered, her world would change even more.
“My Caleef!” a haggard old man shouted. He pushed through the gathering of onlookers and fell to his knees just behind the feet of the Serpent Guards. “My Caleef, please accept this humble offering.” The guards lowered their fauchards and pushed him back.
“Stop,” Mahi ordered.
They immediately parted enough for the man to show through. He lowered his head, his ratty beard scratching the sand, and on two open palms, presented a small figurine carved out of blackwood. It was a Siren. The detail was impeccable, from the way her face was there but not there to the wisps of sand she had for legs.
Mahi kneeled and took in from him. Then she reached out and lifted his chin. A man of such talents, she knew he shouldn’t look like a homeless beggar. But in the Black Sands, for so long, swordsmanship was the only art form that truly mattered.
“Thank you.” She smiled. It was slight, her lips raising just a hair, but he looked like he might faint.
Then she stood, and the guards closed him out again.
“I’ll hold that,” Bit’rudam offered. She handed it over, and he studied it from every angle, like he was worried it might be some sort of trap. “It’s beautiful,” he said, satisfied. “It looks just like the one from the arena that… well, you know.”
“It does,” she said. She breathed in deep, taking the Siren figurine back. He couldn’t know that, like Jumaat, who she’d killed, she was gone now, too—her life essence given to Mahraveh. Or that she was the last Siren. Mahi looked up, and over the row of Serpent Guards, she saw Tal’du Dromesh standing proudly on the horizon.
The damage caused by her father was still being repaired, but throughout the other colonnades, trading stands were packed. With so many arriving at Latiapur, there was barely enough food and goods to go around.
Her gaze lifted toward the zhulong statues lining the arena’s upper tier, their tusks clashing. She recalled how far away they looked from down in the
sands. It was as if she could hear the roar of the crowd as they watched her, could imagine the rumble and the thrill experienced by the thousands of afhems who’d come before. From her father, who won while Liam watched, to the first tournament held by the first Caleef, centuries ago.
She’d taken that thrill away from her people, but looking down at the Siren in her hands, knowing that craftsmen like this should be respected, she also knew that she couldn’t take away the essence of her people. Her father sought unification in the north, but here, in Latiapur, it was her job to win over her people.
“Bit’rudam, summon the former afhems to the Tal’du Dromesh.”
He turned to her, brow furrowing. “My Caleef?”
“We must evolve, but we cannot forget who we are… or from where we come,” she said. “There will be a tournament for all afhems. They will fight. Not to the death, but for honor. The winner will serve as the commander of the Serpent Guard. The people need a distraction before the darkness to come.”
Bit’rudam’s eyes lit up. “A brilliant idea, my Caleef! A tournament in your honor is exactly what this city needs until your father returns with news.”
“Not in my honor.” She pointed to two afhems walking past. Seaweed wrappings covered their skinned necks and heads. “In theirs. They have given so much for their future. I think a bit of the old ways is exactly what we need now.”
Bit’rudam bowed. He took one step away, then froze, looking back at her. She couldn't say for sure what she saw in his expression. Love, respect, envy, maybe all three.
“I hope you do not take offense, Caleef Mahraveh,” he started. “But I was wondering… can I have your permission to stand for the al’Tariq Afhemate?”
“You weren’t an afhem,” Mahi said.
“And you are Caleef.” He took her hand, fell to one knee, and lowered his head. “If not for the honor of the name I dedicated my life to, then in the name of Mahraveh al’Tariq, whose life was cut too short.”
All Mahi wanted to do was pull his hand to her cheek, to feel his warmth, and feel safe. She’d loved Jumaat, but it was never meant to be. Then, this fiercely loyal warrior found her, helped her find new purpose and feel full again, like she belonged. If she were luckier, she might have found happiness with him, like her own father and mother had known.
But she wasn’t lucky.
She was Caleef.
“You can fight,” she said. He looked up at her, with the same level of adoration as the old woodcarver had. A man, ready to put his chosen art on display in the name of his ruler. “But only if you win.”
XXXIII
The Thief
Together, Whitney, Tum Tum, Sigrid, Lucindur, Aquira, and all the upyr rushed down into the lower Sanctum. Most of the upyr straggled behind, likely speaking ill words of the mortals Kazimir dared bring into their oh-so-special place.
Lucindur hobbled along behind them, refusing help from anyone. She was surprisingly strong for an older lady. Aquira flew with her, making quite a racket.
“I fear this is the end of the Dom Nohzi,” Kazimir said to Teryngal.
“A shame,” Whitney muttered. “Now who will murder all the innocent people?”
“We do not murder innocents,” Kazimir said.
“Potato, potahto,” Whitney said. “Murder is murder, I think.”
“And thievery is thievery.”
Whitney smirked at that. If they all weren’t about to die, and Sora wasn't in even more danger, he’d have to admit, he was enjoying seeing the Dom Nohzi Citadel. Even if these awful, dank walls reminded him of every dungeon he'd ever been in, there was a certain elegance to the design.
The thought of dungeons made him wonder where his old friend Torsten was. If the Buried Goddess were on her way to Brekliodad, Sir Torsten Unger would have been a great help in defeating her.
“If she got to the wianu already, we might be walking right into Elsewhere,” Teryngal replied.
“I’ve been there,” Whitney said. “I survived. We’ll be fine.”
“Aye, and if these wianu taste anything like regular squid, we’ll be in store for some good eatin,” Tum Tum agreed.
As if neither of them had spoken, Teryngal continued. “She will have restored them.” He turned and grabbed Kazimir by the cloak, stopping them all. He looked the upyr in the eye and said, “You know what they are capable of. If the curse is lifted…”
“That’s the second time you’ve mentioned a curse,” Whitney said. Then he turned to Kazimir. “We deserve to know what he’s talking about. I don’t like curses.”
“We don’t have time for this,” Kazimir said.
Whitney crossed his arms and said, “Elsewhere or not, I’m not moving until I know what we’re walking into.”
“Mmmmhmmm,” Tum Tum agreed.
Kazimir punched the wall and cracked the rock. “Fine. Listen carefully, I will not repeat myself.” He glanced over Whitney’s shoulder, presumably to check the position of his fellow upyr. When seemingly satisfied, he continued. “Bliss was not the only one banished into obscurity. Although, arguably, she suffered the worst fate. The wianu are more than mere beasts of the sea.”
“Yeah, they live between realms, right?” Whitney commented.
“You said you were in the Red Tower, in the vision when you visited the Well of Wisdom. Do you recall seeing their likenesses?” Kazimir asked.
“Yeah, huge statues, glowing eyes. Evil-looking things.”
“You’ve heard stories of the God Feud,” Kazimir said, “but not all stories are the truth. Especially when it comes to the affairs of gods and goddesses.”
“Tell me about it,” Whitney said.
Whitney had heard every story there was about the origins of the world and the gods who’d hated each other. He’d just as soon ignore them and hope they paid him no mind either.
They quieted momentarily as the upyr who’d been lingering behind caught up. After they'd passed, Lucindur stopped to rest, and Aquira landed on Tum Tum’s shoulder.
“The Panpingese worship many gods,” Teryngal started where Kazimir left off. “They call them Pinyun—the Many and the Few. Those gods are the fallen, the rebels cast down by both Iam and Nesilia in the early battles of the Feud. But the war endured for thousands of years until she and Iam did the unthinkable. They cursed the gods they’d already defeated to become the wianu, beasts trapped between Pantego and Elsewhere. Made children out of their foes. Then, they used them to hunt their remaining enemies until the One Who Remained, Bliss, destroyed Nesilia, and damned her to the space between realms. Iam then cast Bliss out and stood alone as the god of this world.”
“The… wait. You’re telling me that those ugly things are gods? Well, Iam’s golden shog, people worshiping seafood.” Whitney laughed, but then his face grew deadly serious. “But you… you do eat them. That’s what makes you like you are…” He turned to Kazimir. “Are you a yigging god?”
“What is a god if not immortal?” Kazimir said.
“Shog in a barrel. This whole time I’ve been standing before divinity.” Whitney exaggerated a low bow.
“And we are walking right into their lair?” Lucindur asked, shifting her weight.
“Ye sure I can’t help ye?” Tum Tum said.
“Chivalrous, but no,” Lucindur said dryly.
“This is the safest place in the Citadel,” Kazimir assured them. “Perhaps in all the north.”
“We are hiding?” Whitney asked, then added, “Not that I’m complaining.”
“The Dom Nohzi do not hide,” Teryngal said.
“Mmmmm, this looks and sounds a lot like hiding,” Whitney said.
“We must seek the Lords’ wisdom on this matter,” Kazimir said. “I have put off this visit only long enough to allow my brothers and sisters to be present. I warn you, however, they will not be happy for the presence of mortals.” Then he looked at Lucindur. “Especially you, Lightmancer.”
“It won’t be the first time I’m unwanted at a party,” she
said.
“The question still remains,” Teryngal said. “What if Nesilia already got to them? What if we get down there and the wianu have already been won to her side?”
“It is always a risk we take that we are on the wrong side of time,” Kazimir said, pointing back in the general direction from which they’d come. “But this place is a fortress protected by the Lords themselves. Even I would be surprised if she’d breached its walls without us knowing.”
Aquira flapped her wings hard and shrieked.
“Can you quiet that thing?” Sigrid hissed.
“That thing has a name,” Whitney said. “What is it, Aquira?”
She screeched again.
“We should be moving,” Kazimir said, and then followed his own advice.
Each step was slippery, wet with condensation and mildew. Making it more difficult was the lack of lighting. Kazimir carried that same small, glowing orb which gave off just enough blue light for Whitney and the others to see, but still, Whitney slipped or stumbled more times than he could count.
Finally, the staircase leveled out to flat stone. Somewhere ahead, there was the slow rumble, echoing off the damp tunnel walls.
“Is that… an ocean? Inside a mountain?” Whitney asked.
“The Citadel has many wonders,” Kazimir responded. “Now, keep up. We are running out of time.”
“Who is it now that sounds like a mortal?” Teryngal jested.
They reached the end of the tunnels. Stepping through metal doors which the other upyr had already opened, out into what Kazimir called the lower Sanctum, the place where his Lords supposedly dwelled in their ethereal form, cold air hit them like a giant’s fist. Wind… wind inside the mountain… burned his face like hot coals.
Just as it had outside in the snow-laden mountain pass, here stood an archway, hewn from the natural rock. On either side, as if guarding the place, two mammoths of creation stood. They looked vaguely human, but in the same way Whitney looked vaguely female. They held hands above, meeting above the arch. Hanging from the curvature where their hands met, also carved from stone, was a thin line of what must have represented blood. A blood pact being made. Whitney had done it before, twice, and he knew what that looked like. And felt like. Without a thought, he rubbed his hands together as if to ward off the pain of it.
The Nesilia's War Trilogy: (Buried Goddess Saga Box Set: Books 4-6) Page 101
