by L. Penelope
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For Paul, who took the leap of faith first
PROLOGUE
“Blessing from the Goddess?” The little girl’s voice wobbles with apprehension. She is eight or nine years of age with coppery hair pulled into a topknot, mimicking the style of the women of the Sisterhood. Perhaps she is an aspirant. She bends her body at an awkward angle, in a sort of half curtsey, her little limbs stuttering either from holding the position or from nervousness.
I touch my thumb to her hairline and trace it across her forehead. Blessing bestowed.
There are others, so many others, waiting for their chances. The temple seethes with them—a swarm of busy insects climbing over themselves, reaching for me, yearning, hoping. Precisely what they believe a brush of my skin against their skin will accomplish, I do not know.
No, that is not true. I understand who they believe me to be. And though it pains me, I answer to the name they have given me, the Goddess Awoken, just as I did the previous moniker of the Queen Who Sleeps. I sleep no more; instead I walk among them offering their faith a rare embodiment.
Beside me stands the new queen of my people. Jasminda’s calm and placid exterior masks the swirling doubt that has yet to abate. I do not know the cause, but her constant uncertainty is a pinprick needling my side. She asked to accompany me today, to better understand the people whom she is to rule.
I abdicated the throne I never wanted in the first place nearly as soon as I was free. She and Jaqros will share it now. It is better this way.
Have you seen enough, Jasminda? I call to her using my Song.
She looks up sharply, tearing her attention away from the retreating figure of the little worshipper.
You do this every day? Her inner voice is incredulous, though the only external indication is a slight widening of her eyes.
The people come every day. So I do, as well.
It must be exhausting. She scans the vast temple interior. White marble stretches out around us. Every inch is filled with people—my followers. There is no seating; the crowd stands facing the raised dais where we loom above them, surrounded by blue-robed members of the Sisterhood.
Before I awoke and left my prison in the World Between to return to my body here in the Living World, the worshippers would drag their blankets and mattresses to one of many temples erected around the country and sleep, hoping to have their dreams graced by me. The Sisterhood would preach words attributed to me, words I never said, and tell tales of deeds I never did. But their belief gave them hope and peace and joy. I watched over them, spoke to those I could in dreams, guided them when possible, and withstood the aching loneliness and solitude.
And the followers did not question what they were told. Centuries passed, and my life, my own existence, faded into myth and, even worse, ideology.
It does not tire me, I tell Jasminda. We all do what we must.
These people, the descendants of those I knew and loved, are all that are left for me. If I did not become the goddess they expected, what else would I do in this new world? Who else would I be?
I am no longer a girl called Oola who ran across this land when it was little more than wilderness. I am no longer the woman whose people made her queen so she could stop a war she was responsible for starting when I gave my twin brother, Eero, a taste of my power and it drove him mad. Turned him into a despot—the True Father. Caused him to rend our land in two, separate our people, and reign with terror for five centuries. But there is no one left who remembers who I was.
It is almost as if I have been erased.
The woman I was before is no more. These people only see the goddess they have made me. Perhaps some hint of the truth remains in Eero’s mind, somewhere inside the madness. He corrodes in the palace dungeon, not speaking, not eating, while the people he tormented burn him in effigy and curse his name.
Meanwhile, I repent and mold myself into an idol, a version of myself that bears little resemblance to reality.
The crowd teems and pulses, and my senses skate over them. I recognize a few individuals whose dreams I visited, back when I had no control over where I went and with whom I spoke. The hope and expectation in their hearts slice through me.
With my Song, I extend my awareness beyond these walls. The city bristles with people. The press of so many consciousnesses in such proximity is unnerving. In my youth, there were not so many alive in the entire land as there are in these ten square kilometers.
The gathered throng ripples and spits out another devotee. An elderly man seeking a blessing steps up to the dais. He greets Queen Jasminda with a stiff bow before turning to me. The worshippers hum with a hopeful anxiety. Their emotions press against me, thick as the crowd itself.
My Earthsong-fueled awareness narrows to a fine point. I block out the swarm of bodies, even the seeker before me and the girl-queen next to me. There is someone here quite unlike the others. Malice pulses through his pores. Bitter hatred twists his energy. I cannot locate him in the crowd; I merely feel the strong sense of malevolence. Drawing deeply from my connection to Earthsong, I focus my inner Song until the man’s intentions come into clearer resolution, so clear it’s almost like hearing his thoughts.
I snap back into my physical senses and look at Jasminda beside me. Her brow is already furrowed. Her weaker Song may have picked up on the danger, but she is slow to process it and appears confused.
“Queen Jasminda is leaving now,” I announce to the Sisters nearby, punctuating the statement by pushing a sense of alarm into them. The Royal Guardsmen assigned to Jasminda rush out of the shadows and surround her, whisking her off down the aisle of the temple before she can even protest. I give an extra mental nudge of anxiety to the guards, and they take off at a near run. It is impolitic to make them pick up the queen and haul her away bodily at such a pace, but there is no time to waste.
The old man still stands before me, his perplexed expression mirroring Jasminda’s from a moment ago. Hundreds of people fill the building, but it would be impossible to get them all out in time. Their last moments should not be spent in a panic. So I do not tell them what is coming. Instead, I lean forward and press my thumb against the man’s forehead, bestowing my blessing, for what it is worth.
It turns out to be worth very little. Only a heartbeat later, the bomb planted in the temple explodes.
CHAPTER ONE
Look to the beginning to find the end. The venerated matriarchs who held us in their wombs and nurtured us in their bodies could not bear to let us falter. To them we dedicate our praise, for they were First. What shall be Last is still unknown, but the journey of the seeker is not yet ended. May she uncover the truth before the end of things.
—THE AYALYA
Tai Summerhawk stalked through the streets of Portside, adjusting to the feel of solid ground under his feet after so many weeks at sea. The stench of horse dung mixed with diesel exhaust and a hint of sewage assaulted his nostril
s. He longed for the equally foul, but far more familiar, odor of the selakki oil that filled his ship.
His first mate, Mik, matched his stride, his eyes constantly roving, searching for threats, as was the man’s habit. The last time Tai had been in Portside, he’d nearly been killed.
The silence between them was not the comfortable kind, but Tai relished the break in his friend’s constant haranguing. He’d almost rather have to fight a cutthroat or angry dockworker than listen to any more of Mik’s admonitions on how foolish this trip was.
“The king will have your head,” the man had stated almost daily, scratching his bushy green beard with thick fingers. “She’ll put you back in irons when she finds out.”
Tai had merely shrugged. The last time he’d seen his mother, the current king of the island nation of Raun, was two years ago when she’d sentenced him to hard labor for defying her as well as his part in thwarting his younger sister Ani’s apprenticeship to a rival captain. He’d served his time, not focusing on the backbreaking work, the heat of the sun, the stink of the vicious selakki that the chain gang fished from the ocean for slaughter and harvesting, or even his anger at his punishment. His only thought had been of fulfilling the promise he’d made to a dead man.
Mik knew exactly why this trip was so important. He’d been there and heard the dead man’s final words, knew of Tai’s vow. That was why Mik had been waiting with Tai’s ship, the Hekili, the day Tai was released, with a course already charted for Elsira. Ever cautious, the exhaustive warnings were just a part of his makeup. As cautious was not a word ever used to describe Tai, they made a great team.
The Portside neighborhood in the capital city of Rosira was different from what he remembered. There were still people from every nation on the continent mingling in the streets and pubs, but far fewer than normal. Entire sections of the dock were empty, whereas just a few years prior it would have been difficult to find a place for even his small ship.
“Rather deserted around here, isn’t it?” he asked Mik.
His friend nodded. “Elsira’s harvest has been small so far this year. Not as many vessels going from here to Yaly. Add that to your mother’s embargo and things have been slow to say the least. We’ll likely see very few Raunians here.”
His people were deeply involved in the commercial shipping business—both legal and illegal—across the Delaveen Ocean. Tai wondered how the Elsirans were getting on since King Pia’s edict barring trade in Rosira. That wouldn’t stop the most stalwart of smugglers—it certainly hadn’t stopped him.
“And on top of all that, they’ve got internal problems,” Mik said, motioning toward a group of men on the corner holding picket signs. As Tai drew closer, their chants rose over the din of horse-drawn carts and autos clogging the street.
“Elsira for Elsirans! Grols go home! Cull the herd! Grols go home!”
Tai caught several passersby looking askance at the protesters. One man, an Elsiran judging by his reddish hair and anemic coloring, scowled and muttered under his breath.
“What’s that all about, eh?” Tai asked him in the Elsiran tongue.
The man shook his head. “Damn fools don’t appreciate peace. Civilians, the lot of them. If they’d fought in any of the breaches, they’d be singing a different tune, I’ll tell you that. They’re afraid the refugees from Lagrimar are here to take something from them. Those poor souls just want to live free like the rest of us.” He spat on the ground. “The war is over!” he shouted at the protestors before walking away.
This land had changed much in a few short weeks. The Elsirans had been at war with their eastern neighbors, the Lagrimari, for centuries. But the war had ended six weeks ago when their deity, the Queen Who Sleeps, awoke from Her magical slumber. Even in a prison an ocean away, Tai had heard tale of the wondrous event. According to Mik, the Queen, now known as the Goddess Awoken, had ordered the two lands to be united into a single country. Lagrimari refugees were pouring in from their desert land into resource-rich Elsira in search of a better life. But the drought and the economic downturn, along with many lifetimes of hate between the two peoples, made unification a difficult proposition.
Tai regarded the protestors, a sour taste filling his mouth. “I need a drink.”
“That’s the first sensible thing you’ve said in weeks, mate,” Mik replied.
They entered the nearest pub and sat at the bar. The crowd was light, and the mood inside somewhat somber. Maybe it was because of those idiots shouting in the street. Elsirans had always been small-minded and bigoted. Tai had been here countless times but never stepped foot outside of Portside. Until recently, the city’s strict immigration laws had always prevented foreigners from violating the hallowed ground and entering the rest of Rosira.
A surprisingly pretty barmaid set a cold beer in front of him, smiling suggestively as she did. He winked and brushed her fingers with his as he grabbed the tankard. Then again, not all Elsirans were bad. The promise in the young woman’s eyes and the refreshing liquid soon eased his ire. He would find out when her shift ended, but for now he needed to focus on why he had returned to Rosira.
His fingers moved to the pouch around his neck, the kind all Raunians wore. It carried his birthstone, given to him on the day he’d come into this world and to be sent back to the sea after his death, but it also carried another stone. One that was bloodred in color and had powerful magic locked inside. Its origin and purpose were unknown to him, but the journey he’d taken to retrieve it had been harrowing. His sister had risked her life fishing it out of the ocean, and Tai had watched a Lagrimari man and his two sons give their lives to protect it. All on the orders of this Goddess Awoken.
Tai had no allegiance to the Elsiran deity, but he had sworn an oath to complete the mission and deliver the strange stone to the Sisterhood. Now he might be able to give it to the Goddess directly. His vow would likely land him back in prison for defying his mother’s wishes and daring to travel to Elsira—in violation of the embargo and new travel restrictions—but it was a small price to pay. At least he’d be alive. Dansig ol-Sarifor and his twin sons had not been so lucky. Their bravery still humbled him.
Somehow he had to find a way to contact the Goddess. Once he gave her the stone—a caldera was what Dansig had called it—the deaths of the family he’d known only for a short time but would always respect would not have been in vain. His sister Ani’s pain—she’d lost not only her hand in the blast that had killed the three on the Hekili, but also the boy she’d hoped would one day be her husband—would not have been in vain.
Mik was quiet beside him. The low drone of the pub settled Tai’s nerves. He caught the barmaid’s attention and ordered a second beer.
“Sure thing, sailor,” she replied, her voice husky. He grinned, admiring the cleavage she had on prominent display. Mik snorted next to him, and Tai chuckled.
“When’s quitting time?” he asked as she set his drink before him.
She propped her elbows on the bar top and leaned forward, lazily looking him over from his freshly dyed blue hair to the tattoos covering his cheeks and forehead. By the way her eyes danced across his sun-toasted skin, he suspected she was after the novelty of sleeping with a Raunian. That was fine by him. He would give her plenty of stories to tell about her night with a “barbaric” foreigner.
He raised the mug to his smiling lips, but it fell from his grip when the pub shook and rocked. The roar of an explosion caused immediate panic as glasses toppled from the shelves, and he and the other patrons dove to the ground as the smell of smoke invaded the air.
CHAPTER TWO
From the roots of the tree sprang three branches, each vying for water and light. A fruit blossomed—a girl child—though withered and failing. She was plucked too soon and left to die. But Siruna the Mother found the babe, healed her body, and claimed her as her own. She named the girl Ayal, and on her back would rise a nation.
—THE AYALYA
Darvyn ol-Tahlyro rounded the corner of th
e busy street that divided Portside from Lower Rosira. He ran through the gate separating the two parts of the city, easily bypassing the guards who normally stopped him on days like today when passage by non-Elsirans was still forbidden. They were too busy staring at the billowing blaze not three blocks away.
The Queen’s Temple—the Goddess’s Temple now—was on fire. Thick black smoke shot from the ruined entryway. The normally pristine, white marble facade with its square columns and carved landscapes was completely destroyed.
He sprinted up the street, barely aware of the line of black vehicles he passed until a familiar figure stopped him in his tracks.
“Your Majesty,” Darvyn said, breathing heavily. “What’s happened?”
Queen Jasminda’s face was pinched, worry and shock vying for dominance across her features. Her beaded silk dress was rumpled and a smudge of ash marred her cheek. “I need to get in there, but She must have brainwashed my guards. I didn’t even know She could do that. Can you help?”
Darvyn noticed the phalanx of Royal Guardsmen lining the sidewalk and blocking off the new queen’s access to the blast. Each man had a determined set to his jaw that brooked no opposition. Darvyn reached for his Song, tapping into the infinite flow of Earthsong and drawing it inside himself. The guards’ emotions were clouded and difficult to parse, something he had seen from those who’d had recent contact with Oola, the Goddess. She had not taken over their free wills but had pushed an emotion into them so strongly that the men were slavishly committed to a course of action beyond reason or rationale. Intense fear or pain could create such a reaction in people.
Darvyn dropped a sudden cover of darkness around himself and Queen Jasminda, blocking them from view. The Guardsmen froze, blinking rapidly as if trying to understand why a black void had opened up before them.
