Shadow of the Void

by Nathan Garrison

  “I know it’s still hard for you to walk away from a fight. Last night, in that tavern, you made it look like you’d been doing it your whole life.”

  Mevon shrugged. “Those ­people were just scared.”

  “Yes, but there were at least fifty of them. With weapons bared. Surrounding us on all sides.”

  “Simple folk with simple superstitions. It wasn’t difficult to see they just wanted us gone.”

  “Some of the best ­people I know are ‘simple folk.’ I’m beginning to think they’re better off for it.”

  “Is that so?” Mevon said. “It sounds like you’re implying that knowledge is a thing to be avoided. If it’s so dangerous, perhaps we should give up this quest while we still have a chance?”

  “But we’ve finally confirmed we’re going in the right direction!”

  “All the more reason we should turn back now.”

  Mevon glared at Draevenus. The mierothi glared right back.

  Both of them burst into laughter.

  “Seriously though, Mevon,” Draevenus said after they had composed themselves, “you’ve come a long way in the time we’ve been together. I mean, do you even remember those first few villages we went to up north?”

  Mevon cringed. “I’ve been trying to forget.”

  “A dozen men with broken bones and egos aren’t likely to.”

  “Can you go back to the part about my having ‘come a long way’ please?”

  “Oh, come now. We can’t very well expect ourselves to grow if we try to bury our mistakes. We must acknowledge them. Embrace them. Learn from them what we can. And, you know, try not to make the same ones again.”

  Mevon flashed a brief smile but felt his mirth melting away. But I’ve made so many. Can such a debt of sin ever be overcome?

  Draevenus sighed, “I know what you’re thinking—­”

  “Of course you do.”

  “—­you’re thinking you can never right all your wrongs. Never atone. Never make up for all the pain and death you caused in your ignorance.”

  “Ignorance?” Mevon shook his head. “I knew what I was doing.”

  “You knew about your actions, sure, but not about the motives behind them. You were born into a system designed to turn you into a monster. They taught you to justify, and rationalize, and push off the blame onto others. Onto duty, and loyalty, and justice. You had no choice but to shield yourself from the horror of your own existence by willful stupidity.”

  “How is that better exactly?”

  “It’s not. But now you’ve decided to take responsibility for your actions. And that is the only way healing can begin.”

  Mevon grunted, grinding his jaw in thought. Healing? I don’t know if I deserve that. Not after losing so much.

  Losing her . . .

  “The only thing I know,” Mevon said, running from his own thoughts, “is the same thing I came to realize back in Mecrithos.”

  He recalled standing there with a mountain of molten stone falling down on him, Justice at his feet, an open door at his back, and a question that had plagued him since he’d first joined the revolution.

  Draevenus raised an eyebrow. “And what’s that?”

  Mevon smiled. “I’m not ready to give up. Not yet.”

  The mierothi laughed and clapped Mevon on the shoulder, flinching as all casters did when they made contact with his magic-­deadening skin. Flinching, but not shying away—­accepting him. Trusting him. “That’s good to hear, my friend.”

  “We’re friends now, are we? Just a year ago, I was at war with your ­people.”

  “And almost two thousand years ago, I helped my ­people enslave yours. We’d be small men if we let such trivialities define us.”

  “It was no trivial thing, the death we caused, the violence we let consume us. The blood . . .” Mevon hung his head. And I enjoyed every drop of it. He took a deep breath before continuing. “How did you ever get over it?”

  “Get over what?”

  “The bloodthirst. By all accounts, you personally caused more death during the mierothi rise to power than any of your kin. Yet, as you’ve told me, you somehow turned away from violence completely in favor of a life of peace. And you did so for centuries. How were you able to accomplish such a complete turnaround?”

  Draevenus looked skyward, contemplating—­and accessing ancient memories, no doubt—­for an entire mark before answering. “At the beginning, our conquest wasn’t going well. I saw a way to shift the momentum in our favor, so I started doing it. Turns out, I was pretty good at it.”

  “Assassination.”

  Draevenus nodded. “But I’m not like you, Mevon. I never craved violence. I wasn’t born to it. It was simply a necessity. I’m afraid I’ll be a poor mentor if you’re seeking my wisdom to help you change your ways.”

  “Perhaps you’re right,” Mevon said. “But you’ve already helped me come so far. I haven’t killed anyone in over a year, a feat I could never have done on my own. Even if our pasts aren’t quite the same, I’ll always be grateful for what you’ve taught me. And more importantly, what you’ve shown.”

  Draevenus let his gaze drift, seemingly unsure what to make of the praise. He stared off towards the horizon and became silent.

  Mevon hiked at the mierothi’s side, peering down the sides of the Shelf at flocks of seagulls that nested in the cliffs. He watch as an osprey swooped down among them and lost sight of it just as it brought its talons to bear. When it came back into view, Mevon was surprised to find those talons still empty and a pair of seagulls pecking at the osprey as it retreated.

  Mevon chuckled under his breath, hoping to share the amusing moment with Draevenus, but when he looked at his companion, he noticed a storm cloud of despondency surrounding the other man.

  “Is something the matter, Draevenus?”

  The mierothi clinched his eyes and lips shut for a few beats, sighing. “I think you were right about those villagers.”

  “How so?”

  “They were just scared and superstitious and defensive. Not truly a threat at all. It’s just . . . I don’t think your newfound resolve of peace has been tested yet. Not really.”

  “I . . . see.” Mevon couldn’t help but feel ashamed. He had been so proud of his accomplishments. But a year without blood on his hands didn’t make him a good person, or even a better one. I’ve been given a second chance, and what have I done with it? He shook his head. Nothing of worth. “You don’t think I’m ready for a life free from violence, do you?”

  “Perhaps. Perhaps not. I don’t rightly know. I think you’re the only one who will ever be able to answer that question. I wasn’t lying when I said I’d be a poor mentor, Mevon. But I want you to know that when your trials do come, I’ll be here, at your side, ready to pull you back from the abyss should you need it.”

  Mevon closed his eyes. In his mind he replayed the words just spoken, paying close attention to the meaning behind the words, and realized, at last, just what Draevenus was getting at.

  “You had no one,” said Mevon. “No companion or teacher. Nobody to help you or keep you accountable.”

  Draevenus slowly shook his head.

  “Not even your sister?”

  Draevenus stared at him in horror for three straight beats. Then he belted out a single peal of laughter. “Vashodia is many things, Mevon. But a shoulder to lean on is not one of them. She thinks that she alone carries the fate of the world on her back. For her, there’s no time for . . . distractions.”

  Mevon smiled. “Well I, for one, welcome them.” He pointed. A league distant, and barely visible around the curving rim of this section of the Shelf, a thin haze of smoke rose from a cluster of dwellings. “Care for a race?”

  Draevenus returned the grin. “Terms?”

  “Same as before. Only this time I present you with a ch
allenge.”

  “Oh? Let’s hear it.”

  “You are allowed to cast all you want, but . . .” Mevon shrugged out of his pack, dropping it to the ground with a thump, “ . . . you have to carry this.”

  Draevenus energized, casting what Mevon could only assume was a temporary self-­blessing to increase his strength and speed. The mierothi picked up the pack, which nearly dwarfed him, and shoved his arms through the straps. “Challenge . . . accepted.”

  Jasside blew on her tea, sending rivulets of steam towards the ceiling as she peered over the rim of her cup at Angla. The mierothi woman knelt on a floor cushion opposite her, hoisting her own drink to her lips and taking short sips. Jasside followed suit. The tea nearly burned her tongue and throat, but she was glad for the warmth on this chill day, not to mention the soothing effect it had on her body.

  A kettle not much larger than her fist lay suspended over a fire between them. Real wood, real flames. That, plus the archaic style of both kettle and cups, made Jasside raise an eyebrow as she inspected them.

  “Old ways,” Angla said, noticing the gesture. “Sometimes they are best.”

  “Only sometimes?” Jasside said, unable to keep the amusement from her face.

  “Bah. Only fools cling to useless traditions when better, more practical solutions come along.” Angla raised a clawed finger. “But it does no good to forget where you came from. A fire built from logs your own hand chopped, and vessels formed from your own labors—­such small things serve well to help you remember who you are.”

  Jasside bowed her head. “I thank you for sharing.”

  Her time as Vashodia’s apprentice had taught her many things, knowledge chief among them. But as far as wisdom went, there were few sources so inexhaustible as her recently discovered grandmother.

  Once we overcame the awkwardness anyway.

  “And I,” Angla said, “thank you for coming early.”

  “It’s a pleasure,” Jasside said, truthfully. “I’ll always try to make time for what little family I have left.”

  “Family . . .” Angla closed her eyes, lowering her teacup to her lap and turning away. “It always seems such a . . . tricky business.”

  “None trickier.”

  Angla grimaced. After a long moment, she cleared her throat. “It is nice to finally be settled down somewhere. I enjoy a good journey every now and then, but a year on the road is a bit much. Even Harridan is glad for a repose.”

  “Glad to hear it.”

  “I suppose I have you to thank for the new dwellings?”

  Jasside sipped, flipping one wrist dismissively. “I only helped a little. The construction was mostly your daughter’s doing. If you feel so inclined, you can save your thanks for when the new crops come in.”

  “Oh, I certainly shall. Still, it never ceases to amaze me what the two of you can accomplish.” She waved an arm around to indicate her home.

  Jasside let her eyes wander, examining her surroundings more completely now that pleasantries allowed. A rug decorated one wall, freshly woven and dyed in swirling patterns of yellow and orange that made it seem a sea of flame. Another wall held a trio of paintings, all landscapes, depicting the broken string of islands they had crossed to reach this new continent, each spaced in intervals with a pair of tall windows so one appeared to be looking out on two different worlds. Four sculptures sat atop clay pedestals, the largest no bigger than her head, each an abstraction, a depiction of a dream she would have liked to share.

  The mierothi, it seemed, were rediscovering talents they had all but forgotten. Jasside thought it was a sign that things might turn out all right for them. If, that is, they could conquer a few lingering issues.

  “I suppose,” said Angla, “that you are wondering why I asked you here, ahead of the others.”

  Jasside set down her cup. She had been expecting this for some time. “You wish to speak of the daeloth.”

  Angla nodded.

  Jasside felt a tremor rising in her right hand and had to grasp it with her left to stifle it. “Yes. They are . . . a problem.”

  And that isn’t even close to a mere understatement.

  Jasside fought off the memories, which always made her feel like a helpless child again. The rare visits from her daeloth father. The beatings that ensued each time, for both herself and her mother, when his insane expectations inevitably failed to be met. His hands around mother’s throat. The mierothi who had given the order, laughing as the life left her mother’s bulging eyes.

  Two different days, with two different daggers, when Jasside had made each of them pay for the crime.

  What a fool I was to think I would feel better when it was done. Safer, maybe. Not better. Her father had been a cruel man, but he had been born to a life where kindness and compassion were laughed away as weaknesses and he had been forced to choose between murder or death. He’d taken the coward’s path. Jasside’s thirteen-­year-­old self had been unable to comprehend the semantics.

  But she’d had plenty of time since then to contemplate.

  “What is it you wish?” Jasside asked.

  “I wish,” Angla said, “to no longer feel shame when I look at them.” She wrapped her arms around herself, moisture forming in her eyes. “I wish to no longer feel so small.”

  Jasside swallowed hard, not knowing what to say.

  “Why?” Angla continued, a tear now staining each cheek. “Why did Ruul have to make us this way? Why couldn’t he let us continue to bear children as we always had?”

  Jasside brought her cup to her lips once more and drained the rest of her tea in a single gulp. “I can’t speak for Ruul. But as far as I’m concerned, it’s ludicrous to make children suffer for any reason, especially because of the circumstances of their conception.”

  Angla nearly gasped at this. “Could it be so simple as that?”

  “Nothing is ever simple, but maybe holding this truth in our minds will help make it start being a little easier.”

  “Perhaps.” Angla nodded to herself, eventually forming a weak smile. “Perhaps.”

  Jasside reached across, laying a firm but gentle hand on her grandmother’s forearm. “We’ll find a way through it, somehow. Together.”

  The sound of a whistled tune, in perfect pitch, of course, gave them warning as to figures approaching the house. A moment later, three knocks sounded on the door. Angla wiped her pale face dry. “Come in.”

  Harridan Chant pushed open the door and poked his head in. “You were expecting this one, love?” he asked, jerking a thumb over his shoulder.

  Angla peered past him, sighing. “Yes. Send him in.”

  “I’ll just be outside if you need me then.” Chant winked, conspiratorially, then withdrew. He wisely left the two women to handle matters themselves.

  The emissary from Weskara tiptoed in, scanning the room with a wary look on his face as Harridan closed the door behind him. “Is the child here?” he asked.

  Jasside raised an eyebrow. “Child? Do you really not know?”

  “Know what?”

  She laughed, looking towards Angla. “I think you’d better explain it to him.”

  Angla glared up at the man. “For all intents and purposes, we mierothi are immortal. My daughter, the one you insist upon calling ‘child,’ is more than nineteen hundred years old.”

  The emissary’s jaw threatened to attack the floor. “But . . . how is that possible? Not even valynkar age so slowly!”

  “A fact you can take up with our god should you ever be unfortunate enough to meet him.”

  The man shook, as if insulted, and dropped a hand to the sword at his side. Jasside energized on reflex. Though not a muscle budged, she readied four different flavors of obliteration to the point where even a relaxing of her will would activate them if the man posed the slightest threat.

  Angla gesture
d towards a cushion at her side. “Please have a seat. I’m sure Vashodia will be here shortly.”

  The man grunted, looking askance at the choice of furnishings. But he sat all the same.

  As he did so, the mierothi woman shot Jasside a questioning glance. She knew Angla couldn’t help but feel the virulent energy pulsing within her, but Jasside wondered at the strength of her own reaction. Surely, the man posed no threat. He was here to negotiate, not threaten. Why did she feel the need to so casually prepare his annihilation?

  Power begs to be used. This power of mine demands it.

  Jasside cringed at the thought. She exhaled slowly, bleeding off the energy she had gathered.

  Angla was just finishing pouring tea for the emissary when Vashodia burst in. Vashodia snatched the cup meant for him from her mother’s hands and began sipping even as she sat down opposite the man.

  He sighed, shaking his head. “I don’t understand you ­people. You two . . .” he pointed to both Angla and Jasside, “ . . . are at least civilized and reasonable. Why do you let this one speak for you?”

  Vashodia smiled, staying silent.

  “Because,” Jasside said, “my mistress knows things you’ve never even dreamed of. And none of us would be here at all if she hadn’t allowed it.”

  The man stared, blank-­faced, seemingly unable to comprehend her words. After a while, he waved a hand dismissively. “Fine. As long as you all abide by the agreements we make here, the king will be satisfied.”

  “Oh, do please tell us your demands,” Vashodia said. “I’m dying to hear them. I’m in need of a good laugh.”

  The emissary fumed but took a deep breath and went on. “Very well. Our first and most vital stipulation is that you relocate your settlement immediately.”

  “And why should we do that?” Vashodia asked.

  “The First Law of Weskara states that no persons with sorcerous blood in their veins may dwell within our borders.”

  “Then there you go.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “We’re not within your borders. We both know your nation hasn’t made claim to this ground in thousands of years.”