The Nesilia's War Trilogy: (Buried Goddess Saga Box Set: Books 4-6)

by Rhett C. Bruno

  “Did you hear her?” Sora asked.

  “Yeah? So, what?”

  “’So, what?’ So, what is that’s what Nesilia said to me in Lucindur’s vision. ‘I see you.’”

  “Yeah? Right, and just now… that woman also saw you,” Whitney said, chuckling nervously. “She’s just a batty old kook left down in the dungeons for too long, so even the soldiers didn’t want her. There’s nothing to worry about. We are safe here, for now.”

  “For now” was what Sora was worried about. How long did they have before evil armies were pounding at the city gates—Weeks? Days? Hours? No one knew exactly, and she feared none of them would be prepared, not really. Maybe they’d all faced Nesilia in some form or another, but none of them had shared a body with her. They had no idea what she was truly thinking, truly capable of.

  “Oh, look,” Whitney said, tearing her from her thoughts. He pointed up. Webs were strewn from the stone wall at the joints of the ceiling, across and through the iron bars. “Why is it that all of our dates seem to involve spiders?”

  “Date, huh?” Sora said. “Is that what this is? Not exactly traditional.”

  “Am I ever?”

  “Are you sure you know where you’re going?”

  “This isn’t my first time,” Whitney assured her. “Besides, do you have somewhere better to be than here, with me, on a romantic walk?”

  “Old crones and dark dungeons. So romantic.”

  He wasn’t wrong. Sora had learned to enjoy every moment she was given, especially those by Whitney’s side. They’d been apart for so long it still felt like a dream, him, there, next to her. At that moment, she felt his warm hand clasp hers, instantly stealing away the chill from her bones.

  He squeezed, and so did she.

  They walked the rest of the way to the Royal Crypt in silence, but it was a good silence. It might have been the longest Whitney had ever stayed quiet while being awake. Actually, he even talked in his sleep most nights, so it might have been a record all around.

  “Here we are,” he said after a time Sora didn’t want to end. “The Royal Crypt, creepiest place in the whole world.”

  They stood within a cave mouth a bit larger than a standard doorway. Beyond it, the stone went from the rough, jagged dungeon to impossibly smooth and intricately carved walls and domed ceilings. Sora didn’t bother to examine any of the etchings. Again, her focus was singular.

  “Would you mind…”

  Sora didn’t even finish her sentence before Whitney cleared his throat.

  “You know—why don’t I… uh… I’ll hang out here and keep watch. Make sure you aren’t disturbed. Are you okay to go in alone? Dead bodies… yuck.”

  Sora smiled. For such a self-centered dolt, Whitney had become quite thoughtful.

  “Sure. You stay here. I won’t be long.”

  “Right, then,” Whitney said, kissing Sora’s hand before letting it go.

  She turned back to the crypt. It was quiet, and eerie, and felt very much like she’d just walked into an infirmary, or the royal library—like they should’ve been whispering. She took a few tentative steps forward, then turned and said, “Thanks.”

  Whitney shooed her onward.

  Her heartbeat sounded like drums, drawing back a small memory of the Earthmoot celebration in Drav Cra.

  She ignored the tall statues in the crypt’s center, kings and queens who were unfamiliar to her, relics of a history that was no more. She ignored the upright glass coffins, recessed into the walls, encircling the room. Then, she came to one she recognized. Pale, white skin, half her face covered in a porcelain mask—the Mad Queen, Oleander Nothhelm.

  She looked like any other Drav Cra, only infinitely more beautiful. Perhaps, this was the most beautiful woman Sora had ever seen. Then, Sora remembered the countless stories of the Queen’s cruelness and that notion melted away.

  Beside her was a small boy. Couldn’t have been older than a teenager. A mop of black hair swooped across his eyes, both covered with gold autlas, Eyes of Iam side facing out, like all the others. His skin looked wrinkled and withered.

  King Pi. Her half-brother.

  He looked even younger than she remembered him being on the only other time she’d seen him, floating atop Mount Lister, writhing under Nesilia’s control. She figured it was the goddess’ presence then that added to his looking older. Now, probably the most powerful boy who’d ever lived was dead… again. The only thing differentiating him from every other who’d come and passed was, instead of being food for worms, he was eternally memorialized in a glass casket.

  She hadn’t even noticed she’d stopped, so lost she was in her thoughts of the boy she didn’t even know.

  After a deep breath, she pressed on, still not having found what she came for. Three more steps took her to the place she’d been thinking about for days.

  All the stories told of a man covered in rippling muscle, hair dark as night, and a chin like hardened steel. She saw none of those things but could imagine them well. The corpse’s hands were clasped over a metal rod. It looked odd, and when she looked around at all the other kings, gripping swords, she wondered what it signified.

  However, even in death and frailty, King Liam Nothhelm looked every bit the conqueror he was named to be. Though she couldn’t see his eyes, covered by coins like his son, she knew them. Every time she stared into polished metal or a still pond, she saw them. Amber, not unlike the autlas now covering them. Like sunshine in darkness, she knew those eyes well, and saw them, even now, where his eyes should be, in her own reflection cast upon the face of Liam’s glass casket.

  She considered sitting, then chose instead to fold her arms against her chest. Finally, she resolved to just standing there, arms at her sides. She took a deep breath, let it out, then tried to find her voice.

  “What do you say to a father you never knew? Did you…” Her words got caught in her throat, and she felt stupid. What did she care if a dead man she’d never even met heard her words? Like he could hear anyway. She glanced over her shoulder and didn’t see Whitney. At least knowing he wasn’t listening in made it a tad easier.

  Sora cleared her throat and continued. “Did you… did you miss me? Did you even care that I was alive somewhere and being raised to be the very thing you lived to destroy? You tried to keep me from embarrassing you. Is that it? A King waging war against mystics, only to create a child with the most powerful mystic in Pantego. What a legacy to leave. A stain.”

  Sora heard Nesilia’s sing-song voice in her ear, taunting her. Forgotten…

  “But I wasn’t,” Sora continued. “I wasn’t a stain. I was a child. A baby. Full of potential and possibilities. But you couldn’t be bothered to ruin your reputation, so you got rid of me. Sent me to a crazy old man… a crazy old man who loved me more than you ever could have, but had no idea how to show it.”

  The thought of Wetzel, dead like the many corpses around her, shook her more than she expected it could. It was like knowing who her father was, really seeing him before her for the first time, made her appreciate the excuse for one she was given.

  “But now he’s dead, too,” she said. “Because of you. Because of your stupid wars over stupid gods who don’t give two shogs about us. All they care about is themselves. Their names. Just like you.”

  She wiped away a tear, then laughed. “Stupid,” she whispered. “This is so stupid. I’m just here to say…” She drew a deep, trembling breath. “I forgive you. For whatever that’s worth. I don’t know why, but I forgive you. I wound up right where I was meant to be.”

  She placed her palm against the glass and left it there a moment. Only then did she notice the embers floating around them. She couldn’t control it, and for once, she didn’t try to. She let her be herself. The glass crackled, and the reflection around her hand warped and fractured.

  “Torsten, you’re being ridiculous!” Whitney shouted.

  The outburst startled her, and Sora spun to see the two of them, Torsten, with
his claymore half-drawn and Whitney chasing after him.

  “Torsten, stop,” he said. “Just let me explain.”

  “There’s nothing to explain,” Torsten said. “I trusted you, and now I find you down here… doing what?”

  Before she even realized it, Sora was backing away from the charging, towering man. She’d seen him angry, but this was something else.

  “Get away from that casket!” he roared. He was now right before her. She saw pain in his eyes as he grabbed her arms, one after the other, turning them one way and then another as if inspecting them. That was when Sora realized what he was doing.

  “Get your hands off her!” Whitney shouted.

  “No, Whit, it’s okay,” Sora said.

  “It—what?”

  “Torsten, it’s not what you think,” Sora said, taking inspiration from Mahraveh in how to appear impossibly calm at all times.

  “Says every criminal who has ever been locked up in that dungeon.”

  “And this time, it’s true,” she said.

  “I saw the flame. Is that why you were sent here? To possess these preserved bodies of kings and queen more worthy than any of us? To turn our very heroes against us?”

  “No, that’s not it.”

  “Then what are you doing down here?” Torsten demanded. “Tell me. Show me that I wasn’t a fool to, once again, stake our entire existence on a blood mage and a thief.”

  “I’m just here…” Sora really didn’t know how to answer the question. Part of her didn’t even know.

  For longer than she could remember, Sora wanted—needed—to know who her birth parents were. She’d never been told Wetzel was… of that, he’d always been honest. Besides, it wouldn’t have been long before she realized her skin color, ears, and so many other things were different from the old man.

  She could remember long nights, lying in bed, or out behind Wetzel’s shed, staring at the stars, wondering who her parents were and why they’d abandoned her. Now that she knew…

  “To pay my respects,” Sora said.

  “To a King you never knew?” Torsten retorted. “Tell the truth.”

  “Torsten, old pal, you’re making a mistake,” Whitney said.

  Torsten turned on Whitney. “You made the mistake. Coming back here. Bringing her.” He jabbed a finger toward Sora.

  “She is our best hope at beating Nesilia,” Whitney argued.

  “And how do I know we didn’t just invite Nesilia right into the castle?” Torsten said. “That’s the whole plan, isn’t it?”

  “You’re out of your mind,” Whitney said.

  “How do I know she’s really gone?”

  “Torsten, would I lie to you?” Whitney asked.

  Both Torsten and Sora answered at the same time, “Yes.”

  Torsten turned to appraise Sora, and she raised her hands in a display of surrender.

  “Look, no magic, okay?” she said. “I’m not down here, cursing the Kingdom or anything. I just needed to see him.”

  She pointed to Liam, sure there was no way to get out of this without being honest.

  “That doesn’t make sense,” Torsten said. “What business could you possibly have with King Liam?”

  Sora exchanged a look with Whitney and let out a sigh. As she considered the ways she could possibly explain, Whitney blurted, “She’s his daughter. Well… bastard I guess? Can a girl be a bastard?”

  Torsten stood, mouth agape as if he were about to speak, head turning from Sora to Whitney and back again.

  “Preposterous,” he said. Then, he seized Sora by the arm again. This time, he wasn’t merely inspecting. “We don’t have time for Whitney’s games.”

  Sora had tried to do this calmly. It probably would’ve worked if Whitney hadn’t blabbed his mouth like usual. This time, at least, he was just trying to protect her, as if she needed protection. She focused on the blood flowing through her veins, through the arm Torsten held. She didn’t call forth flame, but she let it burn on the inside.

  He pulled away and yelped. Though his hand blistered instantly, he still used it to draw his sword, but he couldn’t lift it high. “Lying witch! I trusted you both like a fool. You’re worse than Rand.”

  “And you thought he’d changed,” Sora said to Whitney. Then she reached out, waved her hand over Torsten’s, and after a puff of blue smoke appeared, Torsten’s hand restored itself. He stared down at it in disbelief, all while hoisting the blade higher.

  “It’s just a misunderstanding,” Whitney said. “Please, Torsten, listen to us. It’s true. I saw it myself in the Well of Wisdom.”

  Torsten’s face went slack, like he was speechless.

  “I didn’t believe it either,” Sora said. “But I saw it, too. My mother, the Ancient One before Aihara Na, and Liam. They had a child.”

  “Not just a child. You,” Whitney clarified.

  “My mother didn’t die in the war. She died giving birth to me, and Liam knew how it would look after dedicating the entire Kingdom to wiping out the Mystic Order. So, he smuggled me away, pretended I never existed, and then sickness stole the memory.”

  Torsten staggered back, his sword slipping loose and clattering loudly on the stone. His eyes darted between Sora and the casket behind her.

  “Sora… you…” he stuttered. “No…”

  “A part of me wishes it weren’t true,” Sora said. “But it is. It’s what drew Nesilia to me, but it’s what I now realize makes us different. I wasn’t forgotten. They hid me, sacrificed their love for me, to protect me. Liam destroyed the entire Mystic Order even after their surrender… to protect me.”

  “And yet I get in trouble every time I tell the tiniest fib,” Whitney remarked, earning a scowl from Sora, which shut him right up.

  “No… No. He did it in the name of Iam,” Torsten said, shaking his head.

  “He did it for Liam,” Sora said, “as he did everything. For his love, for his first daughter, and the first woman he ever truly cared for.”

  “This is…” Torsten said. “This is not possible.”

  “You know that’s not true,” spoke a voice from across the crypt. Everyone whipped around to face an older man wearing leather overalls. Sora recognized him from the war meeting.

  “Iam’s shog, what is this—a party now?” Whitney said. “We try to get a moment alone.”

  “Hovom,” Torsten said. “What are you doing here?”

  “You were there, as I was,” Hovom said, striding into the crypt. His gait was wary, cautious, as if he knew Torsten could be unpredictable in this state. “In Panping, after the war, didn’t you find it curious why Liam himself remained there for so long after it ended when any other general would have sufficed?”

  “He was plotting the transition of power to Governor Nantby. Planning the succession. Unraveling the mess the mystics had left. Like any great leader.”

  “You can’t be so naïve, Torsten.” Hovom stopped a meter or two from them. His hand wasn’t on his blade, but Sora got the distinct feeling that it could have been in the span of a heartbeat. But the man was old—not frail or fragile, but old enough. And if the stories were true, even in Torsten’s handicapped state, he was amongst the greatest fighters in Pantego.

  “Liam was a great leader,” Hovom said, “but he wasn’t a great man.”

  “Watch your tongue, Hovom.”

  “The Ancient One during the Third Panping War. What was her name?”

  “No,” Torsten said, shaking his head even harder this time.

  “Sora Sumati,” Hovom said.

  “I won’t believe it.”

  “You think that a coincidence?” Hovom asked.

  “It’s simple, Torsty. Older Sora and Liam had a baby,” Whitney added, motioning toward Sora.

  “Then Liam didn’t know!” Torsten barked, spinning on Whitney.

  Sora stepped in front of Whitney, who had been standing between her and Torsten like a shield. “Do you think so little of my kind that you believe that if he knew of me,
I wouldn’t be here any longer?” Sora asked. Then leaving no room for argument, she said, “He knew.”

  Sora turned to face Liam’s casket.

  “He knew and chose to protect me,” she said. “Now, I understand why. Men like you would have had me killed just to preserve Liam’s legacy as Iam’s champion.”

  “We are not murderers,” Torsten said.

  “Another lie,” Hovom said. Then, when Torsten turned on him, the blacksmith raised his hands placatingly. “I don’t mean you. I mean all of us. We’ve spent so many years doing ‘the work of Iam’ that I fear we failed to stop and ask Iam Himself if we were doing his will at all.”

  “Iam wishes all to experience His light and love—“

  “By slaughtering them if they refuse?” Sora asked.

  “Look, Sir Unger. I know this is hard to grasp, but I believe her,” Hovom said. “I may not have ever been a fighter, but I repaired Liam’s armor, Uriah’s armor—anyone of importance. The blacksmith in a war camp hears all. King Liam had many dalliances. Uriah knew it, too. And no visits with Yaolin officials went longer than his with the Ancient One. Even as Uriah questioned why she and the surviving mystics were kept around so long.”

  Sora watched as Torsten’s features darkened with realization. He said nothing, but it was there. Only, she couldn’t tell if the news had broken him or set him free from a lifetime of adulation for an imperfect man.

  “We were close friends, Uriah and I. Shared stories many would be ashamed of while I repaired his armor or shared a drink. When we returned from the war after the Mystic Order had finally been eradicated, Liam was torn, broken. Now, I understand why.”

  “My mother showed him their value, but they would have never let the daughter of the Ancient One go,” Sora said.

  “I believe it was the beginning of the end for him,” Hovom said. “Uriah and I didn’t see him for many weeks, after that, and even when we did, he wasn’t the same. He spent most of his days in the stables with that Whitehair he brought back for Oleander.”

  Hovom’s eyes went wide as if he had a sudden realization. “He named the horse Sora too, right?”