by J. Gibson
“She shed the tears of the Mother for the pain of Her daughters, and embraced them with her warmth,” Athenne’s world mother had told her. “A mother’s eye holds so much, but love for her children, it holds most.”
They passed an apple tree on their way to the Blasted Keep. Their journey north did not seem as barren as the trip back, but it had been weeks. Apple season came when the northern winds brought the warmth of spring, Fevarios to Arrilios, and lasted through the heat of summer, ending near the month of Lerenios. The first small flower buds sprouted around the end of spring. Here, however, well into Vysyn’s winter, this tree bore fruit. Tainted offerings, black and withered on their branches, falling to the ground to collapse and mold.
This peculiar growth had occurred near the forests and rivers of the Fausse Woods, through which they had trekked not long before. The decay demonstrated an unnatural event. Beyond, similar trees littered the weald, and each looked the same. What had been a place of beauty and splendor, even where deprived, had shied and atrophied by the touch of something foul. This must connect to the events of Ghora. These visions had lingered in Athenne’s dreams and imaginings since the day they departed the village.
Not long after, they arrived at Uldyr’s house, a lone ship of life in an ocean of dead and dying things. Clouds obscured the stars that had earlier speckled the sky. A light rain fell. At least there was that, wind and rain. For all the natural forces and things of the land that had fled or washed out, to taunt or discourage them, a faint drizzle and a gentle gust comforted her.
They dismounted, tying their horses to the posts outside. Athenne adjusted her robes, dark grey and black as they had been for so long. They each needed a bath, and Uldyr’s facilities might be their last opportunity for days or weeks. She tapped on his door with a playful rhythm. They waited, breathless.
Had he survived his injuries?
The door opened, and there he stood.
Athenne threw herself to him, arms wrapped around his neck.
He took her about the waist and nearly crushed her ribs.
A heat permeated her face and tears welled in her eyes.
“Why do you weep?” he chuckled.
She wiped her cheeks. “You’re alive!”
“You lot are thinner and rougher than last I saw.” Uldyr grinned wider than he had on every occasion since they had met combined. “The world too.”
“You’re still a lumbering beast,” Eclih called as he came up. “Less so than last we witnessed.” They shook at the wrists and exchanged a pat on the back.
Bhathric hugged Uldyr, though not with the intensity Athenne had. “We were needful of you on the road.” She flashed a half-smile. “Many a near-death.”
Uldyr motioned for them to enter. “I must ask.” His tone grew serious. “What brings you back?”
The road-worn trio exchanged a look.
“It’s quite a tale,” Athenne said.
Uldyr poured the three of them drinks in clay cups. His toxic homemade brew, vicious enough to skin paint from wood. “We’ve apparently the time.” He sat them around his table.
Over two hours, they informed Uldyr in turn of the events that had transpired since they left him weeks ago. How they had camped, the sight of Ghora, Eclih’s abduction. They described the Matronian temple, the visions, the man that Vekshia had shown them. Bhathric and Athenne spoke of the woman the priest had attacked, how the Knights of Faith had instructed them to proceed. Uldyr listened, his expression ranging from somber to grim. They talked of the second attack from Forgebrand.
By the time they had finished, the four of them had drunk two or three cups of Uldyr’s poison apiece. The drink had defiled them, but not divorced them of their reason.
“We thought it best to return to Aitrix,” Athenne concluded. “It seemed foolish to carry on.”
Uldyr reflected for a moment, eyes downcast. “You made the right decision, I reckon.”
When these words had finished, and they had shared their information, Athenne and Uldyr headed off together for a moment alone. A gladness that Uldyr had lived spread through her, an excitement to end the strain of wondering whether he had survived his skirmish. Yet the cheerfulness did not last, and soon gave way to numbness. She had experienced this detachment in increasing increments since that first day in the sanctuary, and it swelled exponentially.
Narrowly aware of the present, she walked with Uldyr from his house toward the woods, into the sea of trees. She remained within herself, in fear, and what she had internalized; the things they had seen, the bodies and the unnatural elements, the raging stillness that had threatened them from every angle. Each tree that passed, or bush, or patch of flowers, clovers, and weeds, seemed alien to her, or unreal.
She felt both there and away.
Behind her, Uldyr hiked quietly. For weeks, she had desired to be with him, to know that he had endured, and yet she could not speak. He had heard their story, must sympathize with her. Did he wonder about her mental and emotional state? She did not feel well, but she did not wish to betray it.
A deep breath filled her lungs and escaped as a staggered sigh.
They approached a stream, which climbed upward, and down and up and down. The trees became fewer and the hills more numerous. They walked a steepening path, wordless, until at last they came to the top of a ridge.
She halted and he stopped at her side.
“Athenne.” His voice sounded subdued.
She had nearly forgotten how he towered since the last time she stood next to him, the top of her head barely to his shoulder. From their place, she gazed down to a peaceful meadow. The more she looked, the better she felt, but only slightly. This would be a fleeting instant, and perhaps their final one alone, in peace.
“When this is over,” she said, her words faint. An ache spread in the back of her throat. She verged on weeping, but held it in. “Will we finally be happy?”
Facing him, she found him inspecting her. She couldn’t read his expression, even as their eyes connected. He looked, but did not seem to see, or perhaps tried not to.
In that moment, she became aware of the duality of his character. Uldyr, her true friend, and Uldyr, the soldier of Aitrix Kravae. She couldn’t tell which eyes gazed back.
“We will,” he answered, as if there could be no doubt.
Her focus returned to the meadow.
Expanding past the rolling horizon, the forest went on and on. The world fell more silent in that instant than it had been when they first came to the top of the hill. Their breeze had left them. No birds sang. Few insects buzzed. It felt less unnatural than further north, but choked her the same.
The crushing tranquility persisted. A scent of sweet flowers carried through the air when, at last, the wind graced them once more. Far off, smoke rose from the treetops, probably the product of a campfire.
“I missed you.” The strange tension that had grown between them dissipated in a flash. With it escaped some of the stress in her chest, though not enough.
“And I, you,” he said. “Our struggle shall soon end.” He paused. “I want you to be happy. Yet you are not. My desire was not to cause you misery. I wish you to live free and well.” His hand fell on her shoulder. “If you can be brave, all will be as it should, for us and everyone else. There is no better life than to live freely.”
She chewed her lip. “Then I’ll be brave.” Her cheeks simmered.
To live freely as we call it, or as Aitrix calls it?
I must not think about this now. Not now.
His arm lowered. “I suppose we ought to get back, lest we keep the others waiting.”
It would be a long walk for her, as she went, deeper in reflection. Indeed, as they marched, even with the generosity of fewer inclines, the return felt far lengthier and more taxing than the arrival. The certainty of her spoken words had not yet made its way to her heart.
At Uldyr’s house, Bhathric and Eclih idled by their horses.
“Let’s be off,” Ul
dyr said.
Without much postponement, and neglecting an owed wash, they departed. They ventured through woodland paths, orchards, and passages that tore mountains in two. Athenne had traveled this way with Uldyr what seemed ages ago. The stillness that had infected everything north of there, to Ghora and beyond, crept southward.
When darkness came, they would set up camp and eat of the rations Uldyr had supplied from his home. The further south they ventured, the more the eerie quiet relented, until at last, birds chanted from the branches and flew in the sky and other woodland creatures scampered. Hearing the world alive brought an odd relief. She had missed it, like admiring the face of a friend one had not seen since childhood.
Yet they had not escaped the spreading darkness entirely. On the last morning of their journey back to Aitrix, grey shrouded the sky; behind it, the Mother’s Eye, a filtered orange glare. The air felt heavy and damp, ridden with a noxious haze that the powerful winds did not dispel. Her nostrils burned.
The Blasted Keep rose into view. Walls of granite connected four thin, square towers. The south tower, ruined in an explosion many decades prior, lent the Keep its name. Across these walls sat sparse windows in serpentine rows. Tens of ages ago, when the Keep belonged to a noble, artillery and archers had crewed the walls, atop overhanging crenellations. A wooden gate with defensive holes for loosing arrows centered the face of the Keep’s perimeter, accessible by a stone bridge.
“Who comes?” called a voice from above.
Eclih’s hand rose. “Saints. Eclih Phredran, Bhathric Ezeis, Uldyr Friala, and Athenne Zedd.”
“We do not recognize the name, Athenne Zedd.”
“She’s new,” Uldyr said. “Aitrix knows her.”
A delay.
The doors shuddered as a pulley contraption within drew them open. Riding into the walls on horseback, the four dismounted near a stable. Other Saints resided here, the first she’d observed outside of her companions. They greeted Eclih, Bhathric, and Uldyr immediately, while Athenne received eyes of suspicion or uncertainty before less eager salutations. Foreign leers considered her, analyzed every feature from head to toe.
Collected, the four strode across the outer yard until they came upon the main hall, which looked to have at one time been a throne room of sorts. The entrance stood open.
“Forgive us, Aitrix, for this impropriety,” Eclih said as they made their way toward her.
At the end of the hall, Aitrix stood with her back to them, gazing up at a statue several times her size, no doubt in the likeness of Aros in this part of the country. Cascading light from clerestory windows threw over her a brilliant whiteness and gave her an almost ethereal aura.
Aitrix turned around. “Why are you here?” Her voice carried a similar unearthly quality.
“We experienced a number of difficulties.” Bhathric’s pitch touched an uncharacteristic height.
Athenne disliked the tint of fear in Bhathric’s words.
Aitrix examined them without any suggestion of fondness. “Kamia caught traces of your ventures, though little precise. She lacks your ability, Eclih.” Her red eyes outlined their wounds, and scars. “You were assailed?”
“A daggerhand of Forgebrand attacked Uldyr,” Eclih said. “Later, we encountered Knights of Faith and two more mercenaries. We were able to overtake them.”
“What did the Knights want of you?”
As they had to Uldyr, they explained what had transpired on the night of Eclih’s capture. They recounted the visions, the message of Vekshia and her Acolytes. Aitrix’s porcelain features remained unmoved by their testimony, though she did not seem unconvinced. Last, they spoke of Ghora, the vanishing of the people, the village priest and field officer, and of the barren, empty wilderness, too lifeless even for winter.
When they had finished, Aitrix turned to look up at the statue again. Eventually, her lips parted with an audible click. “Our mission is our own,” she said, as if countering an opposing claim. “We’ll not be instruments of Vekshia and the games her servants play. Whatever their intentions, if their objectives align with ours, it is not our concern. Ignore the Knights. You’ll depart immediately. Other agents will follow in two hours, so as not to draw needless attention. I’m certain those already there shall await your signal, as instructed.”
“What of Ghora?”
“Bandits. Metaphysicians. Difficult to say. If we are aware of it, so too should the Church be. This may prove auspicious for us. We’ll use their distraction to our advantage.”
“If I may,” Athenne said, the first time she had spoken since they arrived. “Vekshia is called a force of chaos, but not of deceit. She fuels action to create reaction.” She paused, perhaps due to hesitation or uncertainty, but pressed on. “If we must procure these new lunar tears, would it not be wise to pursue the priest? All of this will have been for nothing if we are unable to enter when we arrive. We may die for a cause lost before it started.”
Aitrix stared at her. For a time, the only sound among them was their quiet breathing. “I have reconsidered. I shall accompany you on your return.”
“Do you think that wise?” Eclih said. “You’re the kin of one of the most celebrated mages to ever live.”
Bhathric stepped forward. “The Church disseminated portraits of your like when they declared us terrorists. Even the least learned of the common body might recognize you. Your life is of great value. Any informer would make herself rich to the grave for alerting the inquisitors to your presence.”
“You’re also elven,” Athenne added, to everyone’s surprise, including her own. “Fair folk are few outside of Reneris. You’d draw some attention even if you weren’t famous.”
“If three days after you departed, the mercenaries of Forgebrand gathered around you and demanded your lives, as ordained by their employers, most likely the Ennead, I would know too late,” Aitrix said. “The growing threat to our enterprise is adamant and ever-hostile. We cannot afford any miscommunication.”
Relief and anxiety at the prospect of Aitrix accompanying them on their return dueled within Athenne. Despite the danger that her reputation and visibility brought, Aitrix soared as one of the most powerful mages in the underrealm, and she was their leader. She never dispensed with her formality or this managerial quality. The tension of her supervision would be tangible in every deed they carried out once they left.
“What of the priest?” Athenne asked again. Aitrix had assigned her the task of disabling the source ward beneath the Priory. For her, this signified a matter of central import.
“I was remiss.” Aitrix’s face grew reflective as she appeared to weigh the choices and information they had provided. “We’d be fools to trust the Knights of Faith, yet the Church replacing their lunar tears does not drip of falsehood. If it is so that the Ennead has disabled the function of the former beads, we shall take part in that. They say death magic touches the man and he has not long to live. You affirm that he has participated in violence against others.” She pressed a finger to her painted lips. “When we are nearer the Imperial City, we’ll scry and unveil his location through your memories of those visions. We’ll take what we need of him when we arrive.”
They had made the decision.
Athenne reeled inside with the finality of it.
Soon would mark the end of who she had been; the close of a woman, once among the cherished daughters of Gohheia; the child her world mother had loved, who loved her back. When the priest perished, decayed, and turned to dust, so too would her spirit. Recollection of him would keep with her, as would every other face unto which her actions, directly and indirectly, brought death. Athenne could do little, except hope that once her light extinguished in this plane, it would remain so, and not reignite in Eophianon.
She had become a sedate minion of this faction, carrying out what they decreed, doing what they asked without outward rejection or question or expressions of reluctance. She had not always been this compliant, but she had killed the fiercer v
ersion of herself. That day in the Matrian church, in the sight of Aitrix, Eclih, and Bhathric, and with her lies for Uldyr, she had died. Every version of herself would perish in time that did not object to bloodshed and killing in the name of the Saints’ cause.
There may be a lesson for her to learn in this, something in her lived experience which would benefit others. Athenne could not say, and would leave it to those who came after them to decide. She had inherited the mind of Aitrix. Her longings and needs were hers, and theirs. There were moments of her, recurrences of her innocent self and good nature. She wanted to turn away, to be somewhere else.
The longer Athenne stayed, the further she descended, and the more this cause consumed her and replaced her with itself. She had long ago bid farewell to her former destiny, her foolish hopes, old loves, the decency her mother had breathed into her, the compassion for the guiltless, the adoration of simplicity in the domain of the Father Earth. Each of these faded by the hour and second.
She increasingly trusted those around her, and lost confidence in the All-Mother from whom she once sought guidance. For the ways the Saints and the Matrian Church were alike, they could not occupy the same space. Neither in harmony nor in discord. One must surmount the other, such that one could not exist. Only the wretched, the sick, and the feeble require the relief of hopefulness. She could no longer hope, but think, know, and choose.
Nothing remained to say. Athenne stood there, saying nothing. A feeble tinge of guilt arose in her, despite that she worked so hard to convince herself. In a fashion, she would be responsible for this priest’s death, a man whom she had never met or known. The day crept nearer in which such reservations, doubts, concerns, and contemplations would be of no further value. She must either rid herself of them, or flee.
It’s too late to flee, you fool. That hour has fallen away.
“Individuals of small minds and great means have taken a hold on this country that we shall not easily undo,” Aitrix said as they departed the Keep. “Not unless those who can fight are willing to do so for those who cannot.”
