by S D Simper
“Go,” Harbinger said, ushering her forward. “There is work yet to do. I need to commune with Onias.”
“Be safe,” Tallora said. “Thank you.” She added a strange word, though not one she might’ve anticipated feeling toward the odd Onian witch. “. . . friend.”
Harbinger’s ensuing smile held a quiet, resigned sort of happiness. “You are welcome.”
She left them, disappearing into the kelp beyond. Tallora immediately swam toward Iids, crying, “I need help! This woman needs help!”
A man she recognized as the magistrate—Gregor—immediately swam toward her, his eyes wide. “Follow me. We have healers who may be able to bandage her.”
“I think it’s internal,” Tallora said, following as he swam.
Gregor said nothing for a moment, sorrow settling onto his features. “Then perhaps we can at least ease her pain.”
The words welled dread into her stomach, and when they reached a crowded building, Gregor cried, “Adira! Come quickly!”
A mermaid with hair of spun gold approached. When she saw Tallora’s mother, her kind gaze immediately turned calculating. “Who is she?”
“My momma,” Tallora replied, and she didn’t fight when Adira gently took her. “Is she . . ?”
“I don’t know. But I will take what care of her I can.”
Tallora longed to follow when Adira left, but knew there was one more task she must do. To Gregor, she said, “I need to speak to Queen Fauln.”
“Follow me.”
Fortunately, the queen sought her too. Within minutes, she spotted the familiar woman, her crown unmistakable. “I fear the worst,” Fauln said, studying their appearance, “if only for your countenance.”
And tearfully, Tallora told the queen all—of rescuing her mother and the rest, of Yaleris’ terrible end, and of the orb’s fate. “Not even Harbinger can say what will happen, now that Yu’Khrall has the orb.”
“Who is Harbinger?” Fauln asked, her own eyes red as tears escaped into the ocean.
Tallora explained that too, the daughter of Yu’Khrall’s role in this political affair and her hatred toward the leviathan. “She’s a hero, much more than I am.”
But the queen suddenly looked beyond her, and when Tallora followed her gaze, she saw an odd sight.
A small envoy of Onians, revealed by their distinct tentacles, approached the outer wall, a large, closed carriage pulled by sharks in their company. Tallora followed Queen Fauln to the gates of the city, two guards at her side. One of the Onians, his skin a deep, yet florescent red, approached, his tentacles undulating not unlike Harbinger’s. “Greetings,” he said, his subtle accent typical of the northerners. “I seek the one in charge.”
“I am Queen Fauln of the Tortalgan Sea,” she replied, her expression more confused than unpleasant.
The Onian bowed, his smile revealing pointed teeth. “Queen Fauln, I am Prince Rek’Thir of the Frigid Abyss. We have heard the tragedy that has befallen your people and wish to offer what aid we can. This is the first of many carriages of food and supplies, if you will accept them, donated from the people of our capital.”
Tallora saw the guards beside Queen Fauln, their expressions wary, yet the queen appeared only touched. Her lip quivered as she spoke. “We would humbly accept, but we have nothing to offer in return.”
“And we will accept nothing, save the promise of aid should this tragedy spread. My people speak of Yu’Khrall in a whisper; to hear of his return is a terrible omen for us all.”
Queen Fauln offered a hand, which the Onian Prince accepted. “This is as much of a treaty as I can offer for now. But you have my word as queen that we shall be allies during this tragic time. When it has passed, I would happily open up discussions for further alliances between our people. I thank you for your kindness.”
The carriage beyond came closer, and though many in the populace watched warily, the children’s faces held only intrigue. Tallora offered her own smile to the Onians but saw there was little she could contribute. She wondered, bitterly, if they knew that it was her king who had released Yu’Khrall in the first place, if they would be as generous.
Instead, she darted back to what she assumed was a medical ward, pushing through the sea of people as she said, “I’m looking for Adira! Someone, please help!”
She was pointed to a room in the back, and there she saw her mother lying upon a stone slab with Adira inspecting her supine form. She looked up at Tallora’s entrance. “She is conscious, but barely so. You should speak to her. I don’t know how much time she has left.”
Tallora trembled as she approached. “What do you mean?”
“Something has crushed her ribs, and they’ve likely punctured nearly everything within her. There’s nothing I can do.”
Tallora immediately grabbed her momma’s hand, noting her distended stomach, the deep blossom of purple upon her abdomen and chest. Tears welled in her eyes as her momma’s batted open. “Tallora?” she whispered, though it was airy and pained.
“Momma,” she managed, though already sobs threatened to steal her voice. She idly noted Adira’s departure and brought a hand to gently run through her momma’s white and grey locks of hair. “Momma, I’m so sorry. I should have listened to you—”
A light squeeze on her hand stole her words. “Tallora, my world, this wasn’t your fault.”
Her mother didn’t know the half of it, but the poignant words punctured a flood. Tears welled in her eyes and disappeared into the sea. “I love you.”
“I love—” A cough stole her mother’s words, and she cried out in agony. Blood seeped from her mouth. Tallora’s fingers touched her face, her hair, providing whatever comfort she could.
“Don’t try and speak.” She met her momma’s eyes, her lip trembling to see their fading light. Despite the days spent worrying for her mother’s death, to face it felt like a knife between her ribs. “I’ll just say what I know we’re both thinking—that yes, I know you love me and that I promise to keep living and to live well and be happy—” Her voice choked to see her momma’s soft smile. Her heart lay in broken pieces yet it seemed it could still shatter. “Give my love to papa. I . . . I’ll see you again.”
When her momma reached up to touch her, Tallora guided her hand, helping it to rest on her face. Momma’s thumb drew soft lines upon it, her smile of infinite worth. Tallora whispered a soft prayer to their goddess, one she’d learned years ago at her father’s passing:
Mother Staella, carry me
Into your arms where I may be
Safe and sleep upon your breast
and take my final rest . . .
Her momma’s lips mouthed the words with her, until they suddenly stilled. The light faded. Her momma’s hand became limp.
Tallora fell upon her momma’s chest and wept.
The queen made the announcement of Yaleris’ fate and proclaimed a day of mourning—for both the dragon and for the massacre on the city. She said it would be a holiday forevermore, that the tragedy and sacrifice should never be forgotten.
Patrols were sent to covertly watch the ruins of Stelune, to report on Yu’Khrall’s activities. He appeared to be sleeping—and they prayed it was for a long while yet.
In the following days, more Onian aid arrived. Some lingered among the populace, helping to build shelters for the refugees. Tallora marveled at the distrust between their people, yet saw small miracles scattered about—watched children asking innocent questions about their tentacles, saw tentative friendships form, and, perhaps the oddest of all, saw the queen’s eldest daughter chatter glowingly with Prince Rek’Thir.
It warmed Tallora’s heart to watch, despite hers being so broken.
And so the village of Iids expanded in the following weeks. With the shock of the tragedy settling firmly into reality, Tallora adjusted well enough to her makeshift shelter—there was little time to mourn, with all the work to be done. She threw herself into this new adventure, finding moments of happiness in aiding he
r own. With heartbreak came a sense of purpose, even with the looming shadow of Yu’Khrall in the distance.
Harbinger had yet to return, but Tallora knew the witch lived in her own timeline. Her mind often wandered in quiet moments, dwelling upon what she’d lost. She thought of Kal; she prayed he was comfortable. She thought of King Merl and wondered if he knew the slaughter he’d brought.
She thought of her momma and wept lonely tears every night. It was foolish to think she might’ve fixed this, that something so simple as a mother’s embrace could soothe the hurt, but perhaps it might’ve been a small boon. Instead, she spoke to no one.
Darkness pervaded the sea when the bells sounded. Tallora awoke with the rest, panic pulling her from deep sleep.
“Something’s coming!” a voice cried. “Return to your homes immediately!”
Tallora peeked out her window and saw, in the center of town, a ship’s anchor sink to the sandy floor. Queen Fauln approached; a guard swam down to meet her. “It’s a ship from Moratham, your majesty. They wish to speak to you.”
Tallora’s heart seized at the statement. Whatever compulsion spurred her to act, she couldn’t say, but she darted out the door of her little hut and cried, “Wait!”
Queen Fauln frowned at her approach. “Tallora?”
“My Queen, I . . .” Her voice faded as the guards held their spears forward, the threat apparent. “If you’re going to meet with them, please be careful.”
Visibly wary, the queen seemed to study her, searching for an explanation. “Do you think I shouldn’t?”
“They aren’t trustworthy. If they offer aid, you must ask what they expect in return.”
Queen Fauln’s frown deepened. “Forgive my tact, but your judgement on who is and who is not trustworthy has shown to be lacking.”
Her curt words clearly said, ‘Go away.’ Tallora simply offered a nod as the queen and her small envoy swam up to the ship.
Tallora returned to her hut. She laid upon the sandy floor and shut her eyes, refusing to consider who was on that ship and what it meant, praying it truly was only for aid.
But when she might’ve drifted off into sleep, there was a sharp knock on her wall. Tallora peeked her face out the window, only to see Queen Fauln herself meet her eye. “Your majesty—”
“They asked for you,” the queen said from beyond the window. Tallora swore her heart skipped. “I told them you’d died in the destruction of the city.”
In the oddest of ways, it was the greatest kindness she could have received. Tallora couldn’t find her voice to express her gratitude . . . or fear.
“They blamed you for the betrayal at the summit,” Queen Fauln continued, “and wanted to use you as leverage against Solvira. But while I think you’re a naïve fool, I don’t believe you are malicious, and if the time ever comes to condemn you for your crimes, it is my right—not theirs.” Her frown remained, but her eyes seemed sad. “And you were right to advise me to ask their motives. They seemed keen to help, but when I asked if they would aid our Onian allies as well, they were hesitant. When I asked the price of an alliance, they wanted one of my daughters, so she could be given to Morathma to wed. If you and I see eye to eye on nothing else, surely you can understand why I would never sell my daughter to them—we are not so desperate as that. But I told them I would consider it. I also cannot afford to insult the ones offering the aid. Not yet.”
Tallora slowly nodded, gratified when the queen’s expression softened. “Did they say anything of Yu’Khrall?”
“They did not, and they were patronizing when I pushed the subject.” Her sneer spoke volumes. Tallora understood well the frustration of dealing with Morathan nobles as a woman.
Beyond, Tallora watched the anchor’s chain twitch and grow taut. It slowly rose, and Tallora frowned at the implications of Moratham’s visit, as well as their request. Did they know the truth of Tallora’s relationship with Dauriel?
Well, former relationship. Bitterness filled her at the thought.
Confusion furrowed Queen Fauln’s brow. “They said they’d stay,” she muttered, and she and Tallora both watched, mesmerized as the anchor disappeared. High above, the faint shadow of the ship steadily moved forward.
Realization stirred in Tallora’s gut, sickness rising with it. “Queen Fauln, you knew of your husband’s plot to release Yu’Khrall—Moratham wanted it too.”
“My heart prays they would not have wanted this carnage,” the queen whispered, but there was little hope in her voice.
“They did, but for Solvira. I don’t think they’ll mourn us, though, if Solvira still falls.” With those words came a damning sort of knowledge—that this was their purpose. It must have been. “I think they’re going to speak to Yu’Khrall. Our people couldn’t reason with him, and so they’ll try instead.”
Horror steadily fell upon Queen Fauln’s countenance. “I fear what that will mean for us.”
“I’ll go,” Tallora said, the words stupid but the chance for any redemption one she must take. “I’ll eavesdrop. Yu’Khrall has only one eye—it’s powerful, but all I must do is hide beside Moratham’s ship. I’ll be safe.” In theory, but she wouldn’t cause any more worry than necessary. “And if they do spot me, they won’t kill me—they want me to negotiate with Solvira, remember? I’ll say I was with a different refugee camp. Nothing would be on your hands.”
“You would risk your life for this?”
“I would. Let me help.”
Queen Fauln shut her eyes, giving a slow nod. “Go. Return and report. I . . . I’ll pray for your safe return.”
Tallora left. There was no time to waste.
Ships travelled slowly, even in the best of weather—within minutes, Tallora caught up to the side of the sleek vessel, wondering if Moratham had any sort of armada. Though pieces of their land touched the ocean, they were not known for sea warfare. The ship appeared new and unseasoned, the wood still holding a subtle shine, no barnacles upon its hull. Tallora dove to the base and found a small handhold—a place the wood had not quite sealed together.
She held it, comfortable enough as the ship sailed along in the quiet night.
It left far too much time for speculation, for Tallora to shut her eyes and reflect on this new and dangerous life. In a twisted sort of way, at least Stelune’s destruction meant she wouldn’t be tried as a traitor—too much work to be done, and too few citizens left to bother punishing any, save the most dangerous and violent. Iids had a prison, but rapid reformations had led to many being freed.
They were comfortable. Their Onian neighbors had provided sustenance enough for months. Tallora lived a life of little finery, but at least she lived.
It was half a day before she recognized the scenery. They neared Stelune. The smell of rust remained in the air, and through the dissipating cloud of red was a docile monster, its golden eye nowhere in sight. Tallora swam around the ship, gasping when she realized they were laying anchor—she narrowly dodged the great iron emblem, watching as it slowly sank to the side of the canyon.
She surfaced in time to witness a miracle.
Dauriel had slain the Speaker—Morathma’s host upon the world. But Morathma himself lived, for to slay a god was no easy feat, considered impossible by most. As Tallora peaked around the bow of the ship, she watched the final pieces of a transformation she understood now.
The man at the railing glowed like a brilliant star in the night, rapidly growing, translucent wings bursting from his back. He was beautiful, unbearably so, though upon the shiny sheen of his false image was the unmistakable pattern of scars, the source of his blasphemous name—Snake God.
This was Morathma, Jewel of the Desert, and as he rose into the sky, he enlarged by impossible degrees, larger than the slain Yaleris.
Tallora cowered behind the ship, hardly daring to breathe lest she be spotted. Gods were not omniscient, but even an unexpected ripple might reveal her presence to the powerful deity.
“Yu’Khrall,” a great, booming vo
ice said, calm and assured, yet bearing the power of thunder, “awaken. We must speak.”
Staella, save me, Tallora silently prayed, and she pressed harder against the hull of the ship, stomach clenching at the pulsing waves below. They rose ever higher, and Tallora dug her nails into the soft wood, fighting tears as the ship nearly capsized. She swore she felt a caress upon her tail, and nearly screamed when the great monster surfaced—opposite the ship. She needn’t face his eye to see the gentle undulations of his tentacles below the surface.
“I . . . was sleeping.”
Yu’Khrall’s voice brought dread unparalleled, but with those words, Tallora felt a surge of rage. Harbinger had said he might’ve slept a thousand years . . .
“I would have thought you’d slept long enough, Son of Onias.”
Damn Morathma, Tallora thought. But she couldn’t curse; all she could do was listen.
“You . . . are . . . Morathma.”
“I am, indeed,” the deity said. “I seek your aid.”
Tallora did not have to see Yu’Khrall to feel the strange turn in the air, the intrigue radiating from his gargantuan figure. She knew it like the palms of her hands. “Tell me.”
“The merfolk who woke you saw you as a weapon to wield and nothing more,” Morathma said, and she strained to listen as his voice suddenly lowered. “But I see you as you are, Son of Onias. I see the injustice done to you and would offer you pardon. I cannot break your curse, but if you will help me topple Solvira once and for all, I shall offer you all the sustenance you could ask for.”
“I have sustenance . . . enough,” Yu’Khrall replied. From the depths, he lifted a single tentacle; it bore Yaleris’ orb. “For now. But I do not trust your kind . . . angel.”
Hatred steeled Tallora’s resolve as she gazed upon Morathma and his glory, speaking as an equal to Yu’Khrall—whose head floated well-enough outside the water, his single eye revealed to Morathma.
Morathma could have summoned a weapon to stab him, perhaps end the conflict once and for all. Instead, they negotiated, despite his genocide of Tallora’s people.
