by L. Penelope
For a moment, she considered actually killing the other prisoners. They were probably all pay-rollers and, like her, guilty of atrocities done in the True Father’s name. Many of those working for the immortal king had reveled in the depraved tasks he’d demanded of them. Kyara weighed the benefit to humanity of taking them out now against her desire to live the rest of her short life without blood on her hands. With a sigh, she settled back onto the pallet and rested her head against the wall. She was not judge, jury, and executioner.
The coolness of the stone was a relief for her pounding head. But she winced when the rusting hinges of the iron gate to this section of the dungeon creaked and the gate swung open. She wondered idly who she’d see passing by her door, then scrambled up on wobbly legs when an imposing figure stopped just on the other side of the bars.
The Queen Who Sleeps—no, the Goddess Awoken—stood regally before her. Kyara had never seen Her before, hadn’t even heard anyone describe Her, but recognized Her on sight. It was impossible not to sense the power crackling around the woman, even for a Nethersinger such as herself.
Not knowing what else to do in the presence of a deity, Kyara fell to her knees, bowing her head.
“Stand.” The Goddess’s voice filled the cell, echoing off the stones. Kyara rose, keeping her head down, then peered up at the woman through her lashes. She was tall, a head taller than Kyara. Her skin was richer and so vibrant it almost glowed from within. Tightly coiled locks cascaded to Her shoulders, and Her eyes stabbed Kyara with their intensity.
“Why do you kneel when you are not a believer?”
Kyara had no idea what she believed anymore and struggled to find her voice. “Just because I lack faith does not mean I lack respect.”
The Goddess drew closer to the bars until She gripped them with long fingers. “And what is it that you have respect for? Certainly not human life.”
The statement stung, and Kyara had no response.
“You have allowed yourself to be captured. Will you let them execute you?”
Kyara swallowed around the lump of dread in her throat. “Yes.”
“In my youth, those with your power were killed as babies. You should never have been allowed to live in the first place.”
Ice raced down Kyara’s spine as her vision tunneled, the words from the Goddess’s lips echoing in her head. “You’re right,” she whispered. She gripped her head in her hands and shivered.
“So you are here to be a martyr. You think that will bring you some peace.” Her cold voice chilled Kyara’s skin even more.
“Will it?” She forced herself not to look away from the Goddess’s fierce stare.
The Goddess narrowed Her eyes. “Do you think he will forgive you?”
“Who?”
The Goddess released the bars and held out her hand. In Her palm lay a tiny red stone. A caldera. Blood magic. Ydaris used such things all the time for various purposes, from communicating over long distances to changing the temperature of a room.
Shaking her head, Kyara backed away. Whatever the stone did, she didn’t want to know. But it levitated into the air, following her across the cell. The little caldera hovered in front of her face before pressing itself into her forehead.
Images of Darvyn flooded Kyara’s mind. Him tied to a table screaming in pain, his skin sliced to ribbons by a wicked blade. The sounds of misery fading as unconsciousness took him under. His limp form being dragged away, then it starting all over again.
She couldn’t escape the barrage of images. Pain seized her, and she dropped to the ground, curling into a ball, whimpering against the onslaught. The wound on her chest had been agony when used against her, but somehow, reliving Darvyn’s suffering was worse.
“Please stop!” she gritted through clenched teeth. “Have mercy!”
The images ceased. The caldera clattered when it fell. The cold of the stones seeped through her tunic, the fabric doing nothing to warm against the chill of the dungeon floor. Still, she lay there, the discomfort a balm after the anguish of the vision.
“Mercy?” the Goddess asked. “The same mercy you gave your victims? Mercy is reserved for those who do good. I wonder if that is possible for you.”
Kyara shivered violently. “I can give them their justice. Wouldn’t that be good?”
The Goddess smiled coldly without showing any teeth. Her eyes sparked with inner light. “We shall have to see if that is enough.”
* * *
The whispering darkness surrounded Kyara, though this time her senses were clearer. She was cold. Her teeth began to chatter as the voices grew louder, then quieted.
Then they came.
Ahlini, her only friend. The only one to disregard the customs shunning the ul-nedrim—those in the harem who were daughters of the king. Ahlini had played by her side, shared what she learned in the classroom she went to every day, and treated Kyara like a person. Now Ahlini stared up at her, eyes blacked out by Kyara’s power, asking why her friend had killed her.
On and on it went. Those the True Father had ordered her to kill. Those she’d accidentally killed in the early days before she’d learned the little control she managed of her deadly power. Her Song beat against her ribs now, longing to be set free.
The circle of her victims grew larger, their pleas louder.
“My children starved without me,” one man cried. “My wife killed herself.”
“I did nothing but try to survive,” another said. “And then the True Father grew tired of me and sent you. Didn’t you know what he was?”
She covered her ears, but the words penetrated. She held herself tightly, trying to maintain control, but something shattered within her and her Song leaped forward eagerly. It sprang to the waiting Nethersong that filled the darkness, drinking it up. If this truly was the World After, then this was the origin of her ability. Maybe she did belong here.
Bursting with power, she opened her eyes to find all her victims frozen around her, staring. She stood, turning around in the circle, eyeing them. The current of strength running through her bolstered her.
“I met the man of light,” she called out. Mooriah was nowhere to be seen, but Kyara knew she must be nearby. She always was.
“Embrace the Light. Did that mean him? Fenix?” She spun around again. None of the men and women had moved a hairsbreadth. “I freed him. He went away—disappeared—but said he would return. Will I find salvation now?”
The people surrounding her disappeared. She turned to discover Mooriah behind her. She was draped in black from head to toe as always, but somehow she was set apart from the gloom now.
“You spoke to Fenix?” she asked, a note of hope in her voice.
Kyara nodded slowly, feeling the Nethersong swell inside her. “Please tell me. Is that what you meant? Does releasing him stop what’s to come?”
Mooriah tilted her head. She was clearer now than she ever had been. Her features were regal, with a high forehead and proud nose. She was so familiar, odd as that seemed.
“Freeing him will help, but it has stopped nothing. You must learn to control your power. It is the Light.”
Kyara groaned in frustration. “My power is death and destruction—nothing close to light. You sound like Murmur. Besides, who is there to teach me?” she demanded. “There is no one else like me. The Cavefolk claimed they could help, but they are manipulators. I would rather die than be controlled by another puppeteer.”
“Die?” Mooriah sounded incredulous.
Kyara folded her arms over her chest. “I’m to be executed in two days.”
“Why would you allow yourself to be executed? You are controlled no longer by blood magic.”
“Because of them.” Kyara waved her arm toward where her victims had been moments before. “Because I deserve to be punished for my crimes.”
Mooriah shook her head and glided closer. “None of that is important. You have seen a taste of the war to come, have you not? Can you imagine what will happen when it is not ju
st a handful of angry spirits breaching the veil between worlds? What about when it is untold thousands, all vying for another chance at life?”
Kyara released her Song. The Nether that had been buoying her slipped away, and she deflated. “What can I do against that? What can any of us do?”
The hand that reached for Kyara was covered by the sleeve of Mooriah’s dress. But unlike before when the woman’s touch had been just an echo of icy sensation, this time the contact was substantial. Still cold and not quite solid, but tangible.
“You must learn.”
The touch was likely meant to be comforting, but it was the opposite. Kyara stepped back, out of Mooriah’s reach. There was no one to teach her. And without more control, she would always be a danger to others. She could exile herself to some far-flung place or accept the punishment she deserved, even if Mooriah and Darvyn didn’t agree.
Mooriah flinched, and her hands flew to her midsection as if she was in pain. “Not yet!” she cried, appearing as though she was trying to fight whatever force it was that made her disappear so suddenly. “You must not—” But her words were lost when she vanished.
If the war she’d spoken of truly was coming, Kyara wished she could help. But her own people wanted her dead and she couldn’t disagree with them. She was still a danger. And while she would love to learn to control her power, she’d been trying on her own for a decade with only moderate success.
The destruction she’d wrought in Sayya the day Raal kidnapped her could have been so much worse. She wished she could see Mooriah again and explain it to her, but it made little difference. Kyara’s time in the Living World was nearly at its end.
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
She emerged onto the grasslands, throat parched and heart numb. A rushing river swept by, wider across than she could see. Stopping on the sloping bank to slake her thirst, she saw Child-Who-Gathers-Water swim by. She called out in warning, but the child ignored her, diving down, then flying from the water like a dolphin.
Ayal’s worry turned to wonder, tinged with fear.
—THE AYALYA
Darvyn paced the small room, wearing out the woven rug in front of the fireplace, where the dying embers gave off a light smoky scent. He leaned on the mantel and let his forehead hit the wood.
Papers rustled behind him. Jack and Jasminda stood at the massive desk, paging through the law books they’d had brought in from the library.
“There is precedent here, I think.” Jasminda’s voice was low and insistent. “After the Princeling’s Scourge two hundred years ago, the new Prince Regent declared the wartime trials null and void.”
“I don’t think so,” Jack said, shaking his head. “He nullified the tribunals set up by the previous monarch. We’re talking about trials we ourselves approved.”
Darvyn turned around. He moved to a chair in front of the desk and fell into it with a thud. Jasminda’s kind gaze held pity. Jack’s brow creased as he read over the enormous book before them.
“Nothing?” Darvyn asked.
Jasminda stood. “The ruling monarch can reverse the judgment of a wartime tribunal, but we’d need to prove some sort of wrongdoing took place.”
“They’ve been … unusual,” Jack said, “in their speed and efficiency. But nothing that is illegal by current law.”
Darvyn sank back into the seat farther, cracking his hands. His whole body ached from head to toe.
“The judgments have brought some measure of peace to the Lagrimari,” Jack explained. “And has made the call for two states more nuanced. Sympathetic Elsirans learning of what the people suffered under the True Father’s rule have been supporting unification. Given the current division, for us to nullify a ruling…” He looked at his wife, who looked at Darvyn with anguish.
“No, I understand,” Darvyn said, leaning forward to put his head in his hands. “You would look capricious. It could undo what little goodwill exists toward my people. There could be chaos and riots by Lagrimari already wary of rulers and their whims. It would be a disaster.”
Jack ran his hand through his hair and nodded.
Jasminda rounded the desk to sit next to Darvyn, taking his hands in her own. “I believe she didn’t want to do any of those things and that the True Father forced her with magic, and I know that she saved your life … but even if Ydaris testifies to that effect, it doesn’t look good. I’ve spoken with the Keepers. As the prosecutors, they could petition the tribunal for a retrial if new evidence came to their attention. But even telling them how Kyara helped save my brother’s life has done no good. They said no good deed can erase the bad ones.”
Her jaw tensed, and she looked away. “I don’t know what we can do that won’t make things worse.”
Darvyn’s eyes clouded over.
“We are teetering on the edge of unification and division,” Jack added. “A gust of wind in the wrong direction could be disastrous.”
He couldn’t just accept this. He understood the king and queen had tried their best, but Darvyn wasn’t done yet. He jumped up from his seat. “You say it was the elders of the Keepers who gathered the evidence?”
“Yes,” Jack said. “Why?”
“I would like to have a word with them myself.”
* * *
“I should have a place among the elders.” The door to the assembly hall’s meeting room had barely shut behind Darvyn before the words were out of his mouth.
Six faces looked up at him with expressions ranging from bewilderment to shock to disapproval. At the table sat Turwig, Aggar, Talida, and Rozyl, along with two additional elders he was familiar with, Lyngar and Hanko.
Darvyn did a double take at Rozyl. “Are you an elder now?”
She nodded gravely. “Fresh meat,” she said, quirking her lips. Darvyn cracked a smile, grateful for another cool head among the leadership.
He turned to Turwig, whose rank was the most senior of those gathered. “I believe the Shadowfox should have a seat here. I think the people, were they to be consulted, would want it to be so.”
Turwig remained impassive, but Lyngar, seated beside him, frowned. From the corner of his eye, Darvyn saw Aggar puff up, as if he’d been personally insulted.
No one spoke for a few moments.
Finally, Hanko swiped at his face and shrugged. Unruly tufts of hair clung to the sides of his bald head. “The boy has a point. For all he has done, I think Darvyn has earned his place here.”
“Arrogant one, isn’t he?” Lyngar said. He was the eldest of the elders and looked even older due to the permanent scowl etched into his deeply lined face. “I’m not sure we should make any change just now. Could throw things into confusion.”
Darvyn gritted his teeth to hold back any unwise comments. He took a breath and waited for the others to have their say.
“A powerful Song does not make someone ready for leadership.” Aggar spoke up, his voice like gravel. “And I think Darvyn has proved very recently that his judgment is suspect.”
No surprise there. He hadn’t expected any support from that quarter.
Rozyl leaned back, appearing uncomfortable in the Elsiran chair. “I agree that the people would want the Shadowfox to represent them. And I think Darvyn’s judgment has been just fine.”
“You weren’t there in the days before the Mantle fell. You didn’t witness his wild temper.”
Aggar’s gruff tone didn’t appear to bother Rozyl at all. “And who made the decision to collar a fellow Keeper?” Her low voice was unemotional, her face placid, but steel edged her words.
Aggar’s nostrils flared as his jaw worked silently.
Talida squared her shoulders, looking between the two of them. “The Shadowfox has been an important tool. But I agree with Aggar: The decisions we make here go beyond his expertise. He is not ready for a place at this table.” She ignored him as she spoke, as if he was unworthy of addressing directly.
“Should we hold a vote, then?” Turwig asked.
“Fine,” Lyngar spat. �
��Let’s get this over with so we can get back to more important matters.”
“All in favor of elevating the Shadowfox to the rank of elder?” Turwig asked. He touched his hand to his forehead to indicate his vote. Rozyl and Hanko did, as well.
With a grimace, Lyngar added his vote to the mix. Aggar and Talida didn’t move a muscle.
With that, Darvyn was in.
“Have a seat, young man,” Hanko said. Darvyn dragged over a chair from against the wall and sat between Rozyl and Turwig. Waves of bitterness flowed from Aggar along with icy disregard from Talida, the Keeper here he knew the least.
Turwig picked up the top page of a stack of papers before him. His voice filled the awkward silence. “The order of business now is the trial of Osyn ol-Krastigar, former Commandant of the Enforcers. What discussion is there?”
Talida cleared her throat. “Witness affidavits have been notarized and delivered to the judges. All that needs to be decided is the manner of his defense. No witnesses have come forward on his behalf, and due to his position and the nature of his crimes, none of the settlers who speak Elsiran are willing to translate a statement for him for the Elsiran judges. I propose we submit a waiver of his right to defense to the tribunal.”
“I agree with Talida,” Aggar said, spiking a vicious gaze at Darvyn. “Really, none of these swine should be allowed the privilege of a defense. If no one can be found to speak up for them, why force the people who have been their victims to hear another vile word from their vile mouths? We all know what he’s done.”
Darvyn blinked back his shock. “That isn’t justice. That sounds more like a continuation of the old regime, not a new way forward. Elsiran law requires a sincere defense for all accused of a crime.”
“Yes, but a defendant can waive their defense if they have no statement to give and no witnesses,” Talida said, jaw tight.
Darvyn shook his head. “Osyn’s crimes may be undeniable, but we sink to the True Father’s level when we subvert the law in the name of justice and deny him the opportunity to speak on his own behalf. I’ll translate for him if no one else will do it.”
