Shadow of the Void

by Nathan Garrison

  Arivana felt a hand on her shoulder and jerked around. Tior stood behind her, having left his house’s pod and silently padded over to her. He leaned down, whispering in her ear, “Be still, your majesty. And be patient. The woman you call ‘aunt’ is having a difficult time of late. Take no heed of what she might do or say.”

  Arivana nodded, finding the strength to beat the tears into submission.

  “The war,” Claris said, finally, “goes well. Sceptrine forces fall back at every encounter, beaten and bloody. We’ve established a front line encompassing nearly a third of their considerable landmass. The captured are put into labor camps, working fields and mines to provide a source of local upkeep for the coalition’s outposts and garrisons. Their children starve and break their backs so our officers can continue their extravagant lifestyles amidst bloodshed and squalor.” Her gaze shifted to Arivana, not a glance, this time, but a glare, boring holes with its intensity. “Tell me, o’ queen, has your family been avenged yet?”

  Arivana’s sorrow came flooding back, and, despite Tior’s words, she could do nothing to hold them in check this time. Tears gushed forth amidst heaving sobs and sniffles. She buried her face in her hands.

  What happened next, she wasn’t sure, but she felt her feet shuffling beneath her as twin masses pushed gently on her shoulders. She continued crying, she knew not how long. Eventually, her emotions played themselves out, giving way to exhaustion, and she wiped the salty fluid from her nose and cheeks and chin. She looked up.

  Tior and Flumere stood over her, concern writ plain on their faces. They were in the hall outside the council chamber.

  Arivana took a deep breath. “Sorry,” she said.

  “No need to apologize, my queen,” Tior said. “It was my fault to begin with. I thought that sitting in on a council meeting would do you some good. Help you to see how things were run in your kingdom. But, I must confess, I had an ulterior motive.”

  “Oh?” Arivana said, barely able to summon up a false show of curiosity.

  “I’m afraid so. I had hoped your presence would temper Claris somehow. Keep her from making a scene.”

  “You knew she would?”

  “Suspected. I’ve known for a while that she is opposed to our actions in Sceptre but not how vehemently until now. It is I who must apologize, for putting you in the middle of such . . . nasty business.”

  Arivana shrugged, as if that could dismiss all she felt. But a tremor in her lips threatened to prove the lie of that assertion. And a thought nagged her, a terrible thought, that could only find resolution in its release. “Why does Claris blame me?”

  Tior slowly raised an eyebrow. “You don’t know?”

  “Know what?”

  He stepped close, grimacing, and lowered his voice. “As queen,” he began, “you have the power to put an end to the war. I did tell you, but that was nearly a year ago. I suppose the grief must have overwhelmed you. You truly do not remember?”

  Arivana shook her head.

  “It is your right, of course. It was, after all, your family who died in that tent. Either by burning or by suffocating as the air around them was lost to feed the flames, I do not know.”

  Arivana closed her eyes, conjuring memories of her family. Their mannerisms floated into her conscious mind. Tomil’s mischief and Lisabet’s temper and Beckara’s strict adherence to etiquette. Father’s roaring laughter. Mother’s sad smile.

  But for some reason, their faces refused to surface. All she could see when she tried to draw them out was fire, vague figures writhing amidst the flames, screaming and melting in the heat. This fanned not sorrow in her but rage.

  “No,” she said, firmly. “We make them pay.”

  Tior pressed his lips together. “Very well. I will make your wishes known.” He pivoted and walked away down the hall

  Arivana turned to Flumere. “Let’s go.”

  Her handmaiden stared at her, a strange mix of calculation and confusion painted on her gaze. The woman shook herself, smiling to banish the image so thoroughly that Arivana doubted it had ever been. “Yes, my queen? What did you say?”

  “Take me to my chambers. I need to rest.”

  “Of course,” Flumere said, gently guiding a hand across Arivana’s shoulders. “This way.”

  Tassariel had always loved commune. It was like being on an impossibly high mountaintop at midnight on a perfectly clear night. Stars surrounded her, varying in intensity, each representing a living valynkar soul. She wondered what it was actually like, out there in the void where the real stars rested. Nothing like this, of course. Eluhar’s studies in astronomy indicated that stars were, in fact, very large and very distant and so far apart from each other that every other one still seemed just a pinprick of light. She was almost intrigued enough to consider the practice for a future Calling.

  But the world would soon be hers to play with, which would provide more than enough adventure. For a few lifetimes at least.

  She could see a few others present here in commune, in conversations across domiciles or across continents. She paid them no heed, racing her disembodied soul out of the bright cluster of the valynkar city into the great gap of darkness without. A few dim lights dotted the landscape, here and there—­half-­blooded or less—­but she aimed for a grouping so luminous by numbers alone that it rivaled her homeland.

  Panisahldron.

  She made her way towards a small grouping of stars far brighter than most of the rest and set apart. There was someone at the valynkar consulate that she needed to thank. She sought out his soul and brushed against it. Then she withdrew.

  As she waited, she looked around. Much like the seat of the valynkar, the dark spaces dominated the area around this city. Though individual specks of light could be seen in most any direction, the area to the north and west seemed the most devoid. Spectre had almost no casters to speak of, and Weskara, of course, had none. Almost involuntarily, she found her gaze drifting instead to the northeast. Her vision seemed to shift along the countless leagues to a spot she knew well. In the waking world, it would be an island, tucked inside an inland sea in the middle of Yusan, another island, massive and horseshoe-­shaped, just off the mainland in the Endless Sea. A place she’d never dared to go. A single bright star rested amidst a scattering of lesser ones.

  Her father, and the spawn of his lusts.

  She shook herself as the light before her dimmed and winked out. A moment later, the man she had come to see formed his corporeal body in front of her.

  “Tassariel!” he said. “It is good to see you.”

  She smiled, admiring the strong lines of his jaw, the thick green hair and beard that made it appear as if spring grasses were sprouting from his head, the deep sparkle in his matching eyes. “It is good to see you too, Lerathus.”

  “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

  “Just wanted to give you my thanks in . . . well . . . as close to ‘in person’ as I can, at the moment.”

  “You received the book?”

  “Yes, and it’s marvelous. How did you even get ahold of a copy? I’ve heard it’s quite rare.”

  Lerathus waved a hand. “Oh, we have quite a few connections here, being nosed up against the Panisian council as we are. I’m only sorry it took so long to fulfill your request.”

  “Please. As you’ve done me a favor, it is ludicrous to expect an apology for delays. Besides, I’m simply thrilled to have it.”

  “Put the lessons to good use already, have you?”

  Tassariel shrugged, grinning wryly. “Just in practice. So far.”

  Lerathus grunted. “As it is with most initial Callings. All study and theory and repetitive training, at least until your wings are no longer clipped. How foul this great sin called youth!”

  She chuckled, warmed by his bright demeanor. A response that Lerathus never failed to draw from her. “So
on enough, I’ll be able to fly free of this place,” she said. “See the world. Find a new Calling. And maybe even put this one to use somewhere.” A thought came to her, then. “Is there any demand for martial instructors in Panisahldron?”

  “They call it ‘dancing’ here, which, at your level of competency seems as apt a description as any. Unfortunately, House Baudone has prime control of that particular commodity. And they don’t tolerate outsiders encroaching on their territory. Their matriarch is a fierce one.”

  “It sounds like I would probably like her.”

  “No doubt. But if you’re looking to take up teaching, I’m afraid you’ll have to look elsewhere.” He paused, his face twisting as if he were tasting something sour. “There are plenty of ­people up north in need of lessons in self-­defense.”

  Tassariel bowed her head. “War. It’s a terrible thing . . . I’ve heard.”

  Lerathus only nodded.

  She had read her history thoroughly and knew that he’d seen a few conflicts in his five and a half centuries. Mere border skirmishes compared to what was taking place now in Sceptre, but he’d been far nearer to the action then. Far more involved. She hadn’t pried, since she was pretty sure their friendship hadn’t yet progressed to the point where he would likely feel comfortable sharing such experiences with her. But when the time came, she would gladly allow him to open up as fully as he wished.

  The thought drove a spike of embarrassment through her, and she turned her head to hide whatever telling looks might cross her face. Hoping to cover herself, she asked, “Is there hope for a resolution to the conflict anytime soon?”

  Lerathus shook his head. “I have it on good authority that the young queen does not wish it to end. And besides her, there are other factors at play, other interests, with far more of a stake in matters than the petty vengeance of a child.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Lerathus blinked, as if waking up. Then, he shrugged. “Don’t worry yourself over such things. I’ve said too much already.”

  “But—­”

  “Peace, Tassariel. Keep your mind clear. You’ll have need of all your faculties for your birthday ceremony.”

  She sighed, letting go of her inquiry. For now. “Very well, then. Care to give me any intimations for my meeting with Elos?”

  “Now that,” he said with a smile, “would be cheating. You would dare come before our god with such behavior on your conscience?”

  Tassariel’s face went grim. “No. Of course not. Please forgive me for asking.”

  Lerathus laughed. “Oh, come now. It was merely a jest. I’m sure Elos would—­”

  “I’m sure he would like to speak for himself,” Tassariel said, nearly shouting. She hung her head in shame. “It is written in his very precepts that ­people are not to share what they experience in his presence, in order to preserve the sanctity of the ritual. It was foolish of me to ask.”

  He sighed, chuckling softly. “You’ll get over it.”

  She furrowed her brow. “Get over what?”

  “Piety.”

  A squeak of indignity erupted from her throat, far beyond her hope of containing it. “Why would I ever want to?”

  “Because,” he said, “it has little place in a world dominated by . . . practical matters.”

  To this, Tassariel did not know what to say.

  CHAPTER 4

  “Would you take a look at that . . .”

  They were the first words Draevenus had spoken all day, and they carried naked traces of wonder. Mevon, lifting his gaze from the trail, could easily see why.

  The incline they’d been ascending all morning finally crested, revealing a wide swath of land gently sloping from the foothills in a series of stepped terraces. Each showed obvious signs of agriculture, a rare enough occurrence in these parts. Rarer still was the lake, a placid blue coin formed from the runoff of the farms, and the collection of dwellings clustered thickly around it. It was the closest thing to a town they’d yet encountered this side of the mountains.

  Mevon inhaled in satisfaction, allowing himself a slight smile at the sight. With figures dotting the fields, collecting the final harvest before winter no doubt, and a breeze carrying scents of hearth fires, the picture conjured into his mind a single word.

  Peace.

  Which was shattered a moment later by a woman’s scream.

  Mevon dropped his pack and surged forward, kicking up dirt and stones as his boots tore ruts in the ground.

  Draevenus was quicker.

  Mevon felt a tingle, sharp due to their proximity, as the mierothi energized. Draevenus shadow-­dashed once, twice, leaving an inky residue in his wake like thin, midnight smoke. On the third such dash, he disappeared behind an outcropping of rocks on Mevon’s left. The scream sounded again.

  Mevon vaulted forward, skipping across the tops of the man-­height boulders in his path. Around the corner, a yurt came into view, round with a conical roof and a pillar of smoke drifting out of the hole in the center. Covered in animal hides and painted in colorful tones—­dyes no doubt crafted from the vibrant mountain flowers nearby—­the dwelling seemed to contrast sharply with the dull, squarish, wooden homes of the town below. It was no wonder it was set so far apart.

  Mevon took in all of this in the two beats it took him to cover the distance. He pounced through the leather flap hanging over the entrance, legs coiled beneath him, hands raised in a fighting stance. As his eyes adjusted to the dim interior of the yurt, he realized what he’d just done.

  Preparing for violence, without a second thought. He lowered his hands and stood upright, reversing the anger he felt until it was directed solely at himself. Is this the test you thought I needed, Draevenus?

  Have I already failed?

  The scene materialized before him. Thankfully, it appeared that the need for violence had already passed. Two men, wrapped in thick furs, lay sprawled to either side of the abode, unmoving except for the rise and fall of their chests. A third was suspended in midair by Draevenus’s outstretched hand. Mevon could practically feel the sorcery that lent unnatural strength to the mierothi’s limbs, allowing him to hold up a man nearly twice his bulk with ease. A man whose eyes bulged from a hairy face made red by a lack of air. Or embarrassment.

  Or both.

  Mevon almost failed to notice the last figure in the now-­cramped space. The woman who, presumably, called this place home . . . and whose screams almost certainly had called Draevenus and him to her now. Her braided black hair hung past her waist, with bones and colored stones knotted up and down its length. Her face was smooth, young, and the vivid patterns on her shawl seemed to speak stories of ancient days. A quick glance around the room revealed shelves full of bottles containing colored liquids and powders, and pouches brimming with dried herbs and roots. Half a dozen black cauldrons of different sizes completed the picture, and Mevon knew exactly what she did for a living.

  “You’re the town shaman, my lady?” he asked.

  The words broke the stillness holding them all like ice. The woman sniffed, blinking, and jerked her head towards him. Draevenus sighed, lowering the man until his feet were just able to press against the ground.

  “Yes,” she said. “I am.”

  Mevon gestured around him. “And these gentlemen were . . . customers?”

  Her lips pressed thin. “Hardly.”

  “They were beats away from leaving her bloody and bruised,” Draevenus said. “This one looked like he was about to enjoy it.”

  “Perhaps,” Mevon said, “he had better explain.”

  Draevenus released him. The man crumpled to his knees, coughing and wheezing, one hand rubbing his throat. After a full score beats, he glared up at the mierothi with murder in his gaze.

  “It’s not me,” the man barked, “who needs to explain himself. You two outsiders have no business interferin
g in the affairs of our town.”

  “I’d say we have whatever right we feel like taking,” Draevenus spat. “Especially when thugs like you threaten a defenseless woman.”

  “The witch ain’t defenseless. Just likes to attack in ways no one can defend against.”

  Draevenus bunched his hands into fists and took a step.

  Mevon bounced forward and placed a hand on his friend’s shoulder. He understood the anger, the sense of a hanging injustice and the power to right it. But if he were to truly turn a new leaf, he couldn’t let emotions drive his actions. Not always. Perhaps not ever. And letting someone else perform the violence he so desired in his stead was not an answer. It was nothing but cowardice.

  Somehow, he managed to convey all this to Draevenus in a single look. The mierothi nodded, exhaling, and stepped back.

  Mevon peered down at the hairy man. “What’s your name?”

  “They call me Hakel.” The man spat near Mevon’s feet. “And you?”

  “Mevon. And my companion there is Draevenus.”

  The woman flinched.

  Mevon tucked that strange reaction away for later, trudging forward with his interrogation. “Would you like to tell me why you felt the need to attack this shaman?”

  “She’s been poisoning ­people, them that cross her. Killed the town chief just last night.”

  “And you’ve proof of this?”

  Hakel grunted. “Don’t need it. Ask anybody, they’ll tell ya’ it was her all right.”

  Mevon gritted his teeth. “If that’s the case, then I suggest you leave. Now.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “Because I have no patience for those who think their strength over others gives them leave to enact justice as they see fit.”

  Hakel laughed, a roaring cackle that set his whole body to shaking. He took a breath, wiping the back of his hand across his lips. “Hypocrite.”

  Mevon’s anger vanished. In its place rose despair. He lowered his head, eyes becoming blurry with shame.