Shadow of the Void

by Nathan Garrison

  Arivana stared at the flames until Tior clenched his hand, extinguishing them. She always did love to see magic in action. “I see. What is the problem, then?”

  “The problem is our allies—­a term I use loosely. Some have begun grumbling that the war is unjust and have threatened to pull their troops from the front lines.”

  “Unjust!” Arivana gripped the arm of the bench with a shaking hand. “How can they possibly say that? They were all there at the summit when the Sceptrine assassins . . .”

  She couldn’t even finish. Tears fell from her eyes, unbidden, and sobs began wracking her chest. She buried her face in her hands.

  Tior wrapped an arm over her shoulder, pulling her close. “It is all right, my queen.”

  She cried into his chest for half a mark, staining his robes with her tears. Suddenly embarrassed at the whole situation, she pulled back and scooted as far from him as she could, wiping the moisture from her face. “I’m sorry, Minister,” she said. “It’s just . . .” I miss my family. So very, very much. She cleared her throat. “What can I do about our allies? How can I help?”

  “You need not do anything, Arivana. I merely wished to bring it to your attention lest you start hearing whispers from . . . other sources.” His eyes flicked past her, and he frowned. “I have the situation well in hand.”

  Arivana turned around to follow his gaze. A cloaked figure was walking down the garden’s path towards them. She wore a skintight blouse and leggings, both purple with edges of coppery lace, and had on riding boots and gloves. Arivana recognized her immediately.

  “Aunt Claris!”

  She sprang up and bounded over to the smiling woman, who pulled back her hood to reveal black hair edged by hints of grey. Both of them spread their arms, then wrapped them around each other as Arivana crossed the last two paces with a jump.

  Arivana laughed and cried, feeling the woman’s arms squeeze out the last frozen drops of sorrow and filling her instead with blessed warmth of joy. You’re the only family I’ve got, Aunt Claris. I’m never letting go!

  After their mutual fit of giggles had passed, her aunt set her down, mussing her hair. “And how is my favorite little queen doing?”

  “Much better now that you’re here. How was your trip? I didn’t even know you were coming back today!”

  “Yes,” Tior said, coming up behind Arivana. “Neither did I.”

  Arivana, inspecting both their faces, found that neither of them looked particularly surprised to see the other. Most casters she knew were like that, though. And yet, there was something else in their looks, something she couldn’t quite put her finger on.

  “Minister Pashams,” her aunt said, with only the slightest nod.

  He returned the gesture in kind. “Minister Baudone.”

  Arivana stepped back, trying to remove the girlish grin from her face. Claris Baudone was the Minister of Dance, and though not related to her by blood, she had grown up fast friends with Arivana’s mother. That bond had carried over to the former queen’s children, all of whom had never called her anything but “aunt.”

  “To answer your question,” Claris said, “I cut the trip short because my mission was complete. Fasheshish peasants took to my instructions on blade dancing with surprising aplomb. Those few who have mastered the techniques are more than capable of finishing the training in my place.”

  “That is . . . good to hear,” Tior said. Arivana was pretty sure, though, he thought it was anything but.

  Why?

  “Yes,” Claris said. “It’s so grand that we send the poorest ­people from the poorest countries to fight and die on our behalf.”

  “The treaties are clear on the matter, Claris. It is not up to us which of their citizens our allies choose to fill the required troop tributes. They should be grateful for the chance to receive such high-­quality training. It will serve them well in Sceptre.”

  “How altruistic of me.”

  Tior sighed, and Claris busied herself removing her gloves one finger at a time. Arivana had the feeling this was the continuation of an old argument between them, but the specifics of it seemed far above her understanding.

  Right now she didn’t care. Her aunt was back, the only family she had left, and that was reason enough for celebration.

  Tassariel twisted in flight, her body and wings alike canting sideways as she swooped between a pair of greatvines beneath Halumyr Domicile. The plants were thicker than three valynkar standing on top of each other and connected each section of their city to the cloud-­touched mountains far below. But they left little room between them. Tassariel didn’t even have to look to know that her pursuers hadn’t followed.

  “You can’t go in there!” Eluhar called, still safely outside the vines. “It’s too dangerous!”

  “Only if you don’t know what you’re doing!” Tassariel replied.

  She tucked her wings in, free-­falling into a dive below two greatvines that had knotted together. Once clear, she spread them fully and banked into a long arc around another twisted trio.

  “Yes,” Eluhar said, “but I’m pretty sure it’s out of bounds.”

  Tassariel glanced down at the Serpent cradled in her elbow. Her team had already located the abyss ring, now she just needed to deliver the prize. Victory is so close, I can taste it! “I’m trying to lose our opponents, El. But the longer you talk to me, the harder that will be!”

  “Oh. Sorry.”

  “Shut it!”

  “Right.”

  Tassariel growled, canting upwards to lose velocity. When she had come to a stop, she grabbed onto an arm-­length thorn sticking out of the nearest greatvine, then turned to look behind her. Belying her earlier assessment, two members of the opposing team had entered the vine forest in pursuit.

  Abyss, they’re persistent! She could understand why, though. Her team had won the last six contests. Today, she meant to make it seven.

  Tassariel looked up towards the silverstone belly of Halumyr. A plan formed in her mind, and she put it into action immediately. She dismissed her wings. Their lavender glow—­a hue that matched her short hair braided over each shoulder—­winked out, leaving her in shadow. She climbed from thorn to thorn, until she was on the opposite side of the greatvine, and waited.

  Ten beats later, her opponents flew by, oblivious to her presence. They headed deeper into the vine forest. Tassariel smiled, waiting until she could no longer see the red and green auras of their respective wingspans. She then tucked the Serpent into the belt of her midthigh breeches and began climbing upwards, swinging between thorns when they were close enough and leaping when they weren’t.

  She soon reached the very bowels of the domicile. From there, it was simply a matter of locating a suspended walkway and strolling out towards the playing space.

  Loranmyr Domicile shone like mirrors in the midday sun across a league of empty sky, while Fanilmyr and Gormatismyr lay to the south in a distant haze. The other domiciles couldn’t be seen. Somewhere far below her, beneath the perpetual fog, rested the mountain peaks of the Phelupar Islands, to which each section of the valynkar homeland was connected by the greatvines.

  Tassariel enjoyed the sight, as she had for the last ninety-­nine years. But with her century mark approaching, the opportunity for freedom beckoned, and she had no intention of ignoring that lure.

  It’s about time I had an adventure.

  Eluhar’s pale yellow wings glimmered in her peripheral vision, reminding Tassariel of her present task.

  An adventure, she thought once more, greater even than the game.

  She did a quick tactical scan of the playing field. It was obvious their opponents knew the location of the abyss ring. They flew in a ragged circle around its invisible location, swiping viciously at her teammates when they drew too near and forcing them to fall away. But with two of their members stuck wandering t
he vine forest, her team now had the advantage in numbers.

  Tassariel loved punishing her opponents for their mistakes.

  She withdrew the Serpent and took aim. “Hey, Eluhar!” she said. “Feel like winning the match for us today?”

  He turned and she chucked the Serpent at him. The twisted black snake bounced off his chest and over his head. It took him a few frantic moments, but he finally managed to get a solid grasp on it.

  A look of terror crossed his face.

  To find the Serpent, teams had to follow the clues left in a unique set of symbols created by the arbiters specifically for each contest. Everyone knew that Eluhar was the best among their peers at deciphering the messages. Opponents had even taken to following him instead of solving the riddles themselves, thinking to dart in at the last moment to claim the prize.

  But Tassariel always came with him. And no one is quicker than I.

  Six members of the opposing team now swept towards Eluhar like vultures, sensing his weakness and hoping for an easy reclamation of the Serpent. Tassariel smiled. So predictable. She leapt off the end of the walkway, unfurling her wings.

  Eluhar took one glance at the half dozen other valynkar streaking towards him and blanched. “Not today, Tass.” He drew back his arm and flung the Serpent at her.

  Tassariel caught it one-­handed and began picking up speed. A gap had been left by those overzealous players, and she had an almost unobstructed path to the abyss ring. Her teammates around the perimeter dove towards their respective opponents, grappling with them in midair so they couldn’t impede her path, and it became a race between her and the six who had chased after Eluhar.

  Four of her allies darted to intercept them. But the six formed a tight wedge and drove them all off, losing only two in the exchange.

  Tassariel wasn’t worried. She flapped her wings faster and faster, ascending towards the ring. She could feel it now. It had to be close. Those chasing her couldn’t match her speed, and she even heard one of them cry out in frustration.

  That same one started energizing.

  She dared glance back. A whip of light energy lashed out from the rearmost one’s hand, wrapping around her foot and jerking her backwards with a burst of pain.

  It vanished almost instantly. A crackle of lightning struck her assailant, and he plummeted groundwards. Thank Elos for those arbiters. Casting was strictly forbidden during a match, and one of the game arbiters, floating nearby unseen, had penalized the offender. Safety artifices activated, catching him in a net of light.

  It didn’t matter, though. The pull of his whip had stopped all of Tassariel’s momentum. She hovered, unmoving, as the other three converged.

  Three at once. Difficult, but not impossible. I just need a little . . . distraction.

  Tassariel held out the Serpent in a gesture of defeat. “Looks like you finally broke our streak.”

  They didn’t even hesitate, barreling forward with victorious grins.

  “Or maybe not.” Tassariel laughed and tossed the Serpent high above them.

  Their heads all jerked up . . . just as they came within arm’s reach.

  She jabbed forward and broke the nose of the middle one, a female. Blood sprayed as the woman’s head snapped backwards.

  The males on both sides tried sweeping up past her, intent on the Serpent. Tassariel drove her elbows into their sternums, doubling them over with twin grunts. She grabbed a collar in each hand and yanked with all her strength. Their skulls cracked together with a thud.

  The males fell, and the female flapped blindly, clutching her bleeding face. Tassariel, almost lazily, stretched out a hand. The Serpent plopped into her palm.

  Four beats of her wings later, she penetrated the concealing spell around the abyss ring and dropped the Serpent inside.

  “VANQUISHMENT!”

  The pronouncement boomed from each of the half dozen arbiters at once, who were now dropping their spells of light bending. The game was over.

  Her team converged on the tiered viewing stands, where friends and family had gathered to observe and show their support. Tassariel didn’t have anyone there for her, but she was more than used to that. After several rounds of everyone’s congratulating each other—­and healing the small injuries inevitably sustained during these games—­she pushed Eluhar towards the path that led to their quadrant of the Halumyr Domicile.

  “You were magnificent as always, Tass,” Eluhar said after the walk had allowed them to cool down.

  “Thanks,” Tassariel said. “It’s too bad this was my last game.”

  “Shade of Elos, you’re right—­”

  “Hey, watch your language!”

  “Sorry. It’s just that I had forgotten your hundredth birthday was only one month away.”

  “Thirty two days,” she corrected. “But it’s not like I’m counting down or anything.”

  Eluhar chuckled softly. “I take that to mean you’re looking forward to finally becoming an adult?”

  “Who wouldn’t? Sure, the games are fun, but if giving them up means I finally get to escape this dull place and see the world?” She sighed. “Don’t expect me to cry over their loss.”

  “Oh. I see.”

  Tassariel glanced at his pathetic-­looking face. “Hey, cheer up, El. You’ve only got three years left before it’s your turn. Think of all the places you could go? The ­people you could see?”

  “I don’t know. Traveling doesn’t seem like a very worthy use of one’s time.”

  Tassariel went silent, unable to think of anything to say in reply.

  The path before them split, curving both ways around a public garden ringed by hedges. Tassariel’s mirth vanished when she saw who was there. She stopped in her tracks.

  Eluhar took two more steps before realizing she wasn’t at his side. He turned. “Tass? Is something wrong?”

  “I . . .” she gulped. “ . . . I wasn’t expecting to see them here.”

  He joined her gaze as they looked upon the two figures in the garden. A woman lay on her side, sniffing flowers and twirling her fingers around in the dirt. Violet hair spilled down from her head in a tangled mess. Like the other thirty-­nine of the returned, she had reverted to infancy, and even after a year of treatments, the woman still hadn’t retained any sense of herself. And the golden-­haired man standing over her . . . well, there wasn’t a valynkar alive who could fail to recognize the great prodigal avenger.

  Lashriel and Gilshamed.

  Eluhar’s eyes widened. “Isn’t that . . . ?”

  “Yes,” Tassariel said. “My aunt and uncle.”

  She turned away, unable to bear the scene one beat longer. “Please, I need to be by myself right now.”

  Tassariel walked the rest of the way home alone, struggling to fight off tears.

  Elos, she prayed, please show mercy to your suffering children. Help them find their way out of darkness and back into the light.

  CHAPTER 2

  Mevon stared straight down at a drop of over three-­quarters of a league. His feet dangled over the edge of the Shelf, which was far higher on this westernmost edge than elsewhere in the empire, as he tore off another bite of dried goat meat. The ocean waves were too small to make out individually at this distance, merging into pockets of sparkling brilliance wherever sunlight peeked through the overcast sky.

  It was, he decided, a beautiful sight. Such things had become much easier to recognize.

  Mevon held out a hand. Draevenus, seated next to him, dropped their shared waterskin into his grasp. Mevon quenched his thirst with the cold liquid, glacial runoff they’d procured just that morning, and thrust it back at his companion. He felt, more than saw, Draevenus hesitate as he held apart the edges of their food sack. Mevon gave the barest shake of his head, and the mierothi began packing up their lunch.

  They both stood, and Mevon hef
ted the larger of two travel packs onto his shoulders. He didn’t mind the burden at all. Draevenus would have to cast blessings on himself just to be able to carry an equivalent weight. And besides, carrying 90 percent of their combined load allowed his companion to scout ahead, as was often necessary, and helped Mevon stay strong.

  Killing had always been his primary form of exercise before. Now, I must look for alternatives anywhere I can find them.

  They set off to the south in silence, picking their way across the rocky strip of land between the Shelf and the snowy summits of the Andean Mountains, which seemed like points of white spears thrusting up to pierce the void itself. They avoided what little trail could be found. It often became lost among fields of boulders and tough tufts of grass, or veered into hidden draws among the foothills that would leave them backtracking for tolls. They stuck close to the cliff’s edge instead.

  It’s truly wondrous how little needs to be said between us anymore. After a year of being constantly on the trail together, all the routine things, the little wants and needs, could be expressed more easily by simple gestures and motions. Now, they primarily used their voices for three things: planning their next move, discussing pertinent matters or events from their pasts, and telling jokes.

  Mevon used to have no desire to engage in this latter form of communication, thinking it banal and immature. But the past year had taught him differently. The ability to make someone smile or laugh, to impart joy upon his soul, had become the greatest of treasures he’d obtained from this journey. He almost viewed the pastime as sacred, holy even.

  The gods alone know I’ve had little enough joy in my life.

  “You did well back there, Mevon,” Draevenus said, breaking the long silence. “You should be proud.”

  “Proud?” Mevon said reflexively, shaking off his reverie. “What do you mean?”