Hakel resumed his derisive laughter as he pushed past Mevon towards the yurt’s entrance. He grasped the collars of both his unconscious companions, hefting them one in each hand. “You want the witch? She’s all yours. But don’t expect that we’ll be forgetting this anytime soon.”
“And don’t think my friend’s reluctance to have you choked to death in any way makes you the stronger man,” Draevenus said.
With a startled look, Hakel backed out through the flaps, dragging the other two men behind him.
A hand fell on Mevon’s shoulder from behind. Draevenus, he knew without looking, reaching up to give him comfort. Mevon angled his gaze down as the mierothi edged around to his side. Just as he’d passed wordless meaning to his companion earlier, so, too, did Draevenus now return the gesture. The look in his red eyes bore all the compassion in the world, as well as a twinkle of flippancy. Take no heed of the words some ignorant village tough spits in anger, they seemed to say. Mevon expelled a deep breath, centering himself, and nodded in thanks.
Then they both turned to the shaman.
She stared out the opening of her home, face set in grim resignation. “You’ve saved me from a beating, and for that I thank you,” she said, “but I’m afraid you’ve only made matters worse.”
“How is that?” Draevenus asked.
“Hakel would have settled for hidden bruises, but you’ve delayed his . . . satisfaction. I’ve no doubt he won’t stop now until blood is shed, and far more than I’m willing to part with.”
“Our apologies, then,” Mevon said. “When men like us hear a woman screaming in terror, well, it’s nearly compulsory that we run to her aid.”
A ghost of a smile brushed her lips as she stared into his eyes. “Men like you. I see. It is good to know that there exists such a kind in this world.”
Mevon smiled back, allowing his gaze to fall deeply into her eyes, brown wells so dark they seemed nearly black. Imagining, for the briefest of moments, that she was someone else.
Then he shook, breaking the reverie. Partly because too much of this wasn’t true—she wasn’t Jasside, and he and Draevenus weren’t exactly paragons of justice and chivalry. At least, they hadn’t always been. He was still trying to find out if he would be going forward.
But there was also his recollection of the reaction she had when he introduced Draevenus. First things first, then. “You’ve heard our names, shaman. Perhaps we’ve earned enough of your trust to hear yours?”
“I am Zorvanya,” she said, dipping her head. “It is interesting that you call me ‘shaman,’ when the people around here simply call me ‘witch.’ I happen to know it is a title used more widely up north. Did you come from there?”
“More or less,” Draevenus said.
“Less, I should think.” She grinned deviously.
“And why would you think that?”
“Because,” Zorvanya said, staring at Draevenus, “you can do magic.” Her gazed flicked towards Mevon. “And you are immune to it.”
Mevon glanced at his companion, but Draevenus could only shrug. He turned back to her. “So you’ve found us out. What now? Turn us over to Hakel and company?”
“No. I’m going to pack.”
“Pack?” said Mevon and Draevenus at once.
“Yes. Did you not hear what Hakel said?” She began rifling through her stores, stuffing clothes and bottles and other provisions into a small travel sack. “I suppose it would never cross the minds of such fine men as yourselves to even question me about it.”
Mevon closed his eyes and shook his head, unable to hide his amusement. “The chief. You really did kill him, didn’t you?”
“Indeed.”
Draevenus raised an eyebrow. “Something tells me he had it coming.”
“He’s been luring girls into his bed for years. Young ones, not even come to their first blooding. When he grew tired of them, he tied stones to their feet and released them from his boat in the center of the lake. I only found out recently, or I’d have done something sooner.”
Mevon frowned, conflicted. What she had done appealed to his sense of justice, but he no longer trusted it. Such feelings had driven him to acts he’d rather not relive. To death untold. To innocent and guilty alike, falling prey to his blind loyalty as surely as they fell to his blades. Hakel’s accusation of hypocrisy raked at his guilt like talons.
For every soul that lies quietly in my shadow, a thousand more cry out for my blood.
“Where will you go?” Draevenus said.
“With you, of course,” Zorvanya replied. “And we’d better get a move on soon. There’s another town a few days south of here, and I have a friend there who will provide us shelter.”
“I’m not so sure,” Draevenus said. “We’re on pretty important business, and—”
“It’s only for a few days. I promise I won’t slow you down.”
“But we hardly know each other.”
She shrugged. “I may have only met you a few marks ago, but you’ve already displayed more character than any men I know. And I’ve already told you the worst there is to know of me.”
“I . . . suppose that’s true,” Draevenus said although his tone didn’t exactly match his words. “We’re running low on supplies, and I think we’d best do our shopping elsewhere. What say you, Mevon? Up for an extra body in our little troupe?”
Mevon grimaced at the use of the word body, images flashing before his eyes of all the ones he’d caused. “One question, first.”
Zorvanya cinched her pack shut and slung it over her shoulders. “What?”
He tilted his head towards Draevenus. “Why did you flinch when I said his name?”
She froze, eyes making a study of the floor. Mevon could hear not a breath in the room, not even his own, as he waited for her reply.
“Because,” she said at last, “it’s a name I’ve heard before.”
Jasside sniffed, inhaling the swamp’s fetid air. There was no movement in the thick mists around her, no sound. Neither the croak of frogs nor the buzz of insects nor the low bellow of alligators. Even the snakes and birds seemed chilled by unnatural fear.
Looks like I’ve finally found the right place.
She’d left the others behind three days ago, with her only instructions being to find and destroy all traces of the shadow beast that plagued the region. Her thoughts returned to her conversations with Yandumar during the revolution, when he told her of the tunnel he used to escape the empire, and later, with Gilshamed in tow, to return. He’d spun tales of his grand adventures beyond the Shroud with a perpetual smile and words always leading towards laughter. But of the tunnel itself, he spoke little. The horrors there must have been too unimaginable to recount.
And that’s what she was making her way towards now.
She’d seen the corpses of the twisted monstrosities outside Mecrithos. What was left of them, at least, after Angla had finished with them. Most people had thought that all of the beasts had been consumed on those plains.
But some, it seemed, had escaped.
Jasside closed her eyes and energized. At Vashodia’s behest, she’d been masking her signal for nearly a week. It had been a complex skill to learn at first, but now she could maintain the effect even in her sleep. No one, man or beast, could detect her through sorcerous means, neither in commune nor the waking world. Her mistress, before she’d fallen out of the emperor’s favor, had done much of the initial research that laid the groundwork for these creatures’ creation and had taught Jasside most of what she knew. The shadow beasts were able to sense magic, like a hound sniffing after a fox, and their raw, physical power gave them some resistance to it, making them ideal candidates for tracking and hunting casters. A producible army, nearly as effective as natural voids, but far more controllable. It was a good thing most had already been destroyed.
But not all.
She sent a wave of energy outwards in all directions. It searched, seeking out the heartbeat of any creature it might sweep through and returning the results to her. She waited a dozen beats. Nothing.
There was no balance between predator and prey here. No natural order. No life at all. This was a place of death, pure and simple.
They must be close. Perfect.
She drove deeper into the swamp, keeping to the dry areas when she could find them, and forming temporary bridges with her sorcery when she could not. The mist grew thicker, more foul, curling around crooked trees like smoke and coating her skin in grime. Besides the sound of her own boots pressing through the muck, the silence was absolute, a heavy blanket pressing down on her thoughts.
After ten marks, she came to a place where the land rose into mounds on three sides of her. Here, finally, something managed to overwhelm the normal stench of the rotting swamp: rotting flesh.
Jasside knelt, running her hands through the moist vegetation at her feet. Only beats passed before she found what she sought. She lifted her prize, inspecting it as she dangled it before her eyes: a human rib, chewed clean of meat by sharp, powerful jaws.
The barest hint of a growl was all the warning she got.
A monster sprang out of a hole in the mound to her front. It bore down on her, closing half the gap before she could blink.
Plenty of time . . .
Jasside thrust her hand forward. Razor-thin discs of pure darkness shot forward, aimed towards the beast’s front knees. They connected, embedding deep into flesh, and exploded in a ripple of shadow with a sound like tearing fabric. Black blood burst from both forelimbs as they split in half.
The creature toppled forward. Its horned head thrashed in murky waters, and its hind legs clawed at the mud, pressing it forward in pitiful increments. The whites of its eyes shone wide as it stared at her with rabid fury and an intelligence far too human for her liking.
Jasside stepped back, steadied her breathing, and replenished her dwindling reserves of dark energy. She shot quick glances around because Vashodia had told her one more thing about the beasts.
They hunted in packs.
She felt, more than saw, seven more converge on her position, fanned out in a semicircle behind her. More than she had expected—a lot more.
She no longer had plenty of time.
Jasside eyed the top of the mound beyond the beast in front of her and shadow-dashed forward. She turned. A great, crushing paw swiped through the space she had occupied a moment before.
Her foes advanced, huge and dark, and snarling with something more sinister than mere animal hunger. Two of them snapped at their injured companion as they passed it, tearing out chunks of bitter flesh with knifelike teeth. Keening cries erupted from their throats. It almost sounded like laughter.
Jasside raised her hands before her, manipulating her energy into seven individual formations. Her mistress had been trying, repeatedly, to teach her how to cast without the use of her hands, but it was the one thing she was reluctant master. I’m not even sure I want to. The mind was a fickle thing, and keeping her sorcery tied to the motions of her body—to something requiring conscious effort—ensured that stray thoughts did not inadvertently turn into stray spells.
The seven formations solidified into spikes that were as thick as tree trunks, harder than steel, and longer than her body was tall. She guided their points towards their targets . . .
. . . and pushed.
The seven shadow beasts were dead before their bodies hit the ground.
Jasside admired her handiwork. “Another test passed. What else have you got for me, Vashodia?”
Her gaze drew towards the first shadow beast. It had rolled over onto its side, bellowing in pain as its blood stained the waters around it even darker. The head lolled, turning towards her and . . .
. . . savage lips curved into a smile.
She only had time to raise a curious eyebrow before talons gripped her from behind.
Her stomach lurched as she was lifted skyward by a feathered limb. A guttural howl raked her ears from less than a pace away. Hot breath blew her hair into her face. The talons bit into her torso, drawing waves of agony with every pulsing clench. Her skin split apart, spurting blood.
She screamed.
Energy lanced out from her fingertips, formless, destructive, searing the very air around her. The creature’s shriek of victory turned into one of pain, echoing her own. Its flesh began to roast, emitting a sick, savory scent that churned her gut but was almost a welcome relief to the pain of the talons piercing her body.
It released her. She slammed into the ground. Crumpled. The wet grasses turned black around her as energy continued to writhe chaotically. She sucked in a breath. Then another. She twisted her head.
The shadow beast staggered, its outstretched limb curling inwards and shedding muscle, skin, and bone in flakes of ash as her power slowly ate it away. The sounds coming from its beak-like mouth chilled her to the core.
Time for silence.
Jasside formed a ball of power in her fist and punched forward. The energy crammed its way down the creature’s open throat, gathering in its stomach. She opened her palm. The power . . . expanded.
Chunks of the shadow beast splattered in all directions. A shower of dark blood and flesh and feathers cascaded over her, coating Jasside from head to toe.
She wiped her face clean, gulping huge lungfuls of air to still her frantic heart, and took one last look around. No more threats. No more sounds. Except, or course, for the wheezing laugh of the monster dying behind her.
Arivana waved to the crowds from atop her float, gaudy thing that it was. She hadn’t minded it, in years past, when she’d ridden with her family, feeling Father’s soft but firm hand on her shoulder, kicking Tomil’s shin and having him kick back while trying to keep Mother from noticing, pulling Lisabet’s hair, trading weird faces with Beckara.
The golden railing seemed empty now, with only Flumere for company.
The float drifted down the long curve of the avenue, with dozens more before and behind her, as crowds gathered, reveling in bright green clothes for the festival of . . . she couldn’t remember what.
I’m not even sure what there is to celebrate anymore.
It was strange being down at street level. Her own chambers were hundreds of stories up, and she traveled from there by skyship anytime she had appearances to makes. This road was at least clean, being the main divide between the inner cluster of towers and the city beyond. Lightglobes lit the way every few paces, suspended by thin wires, and constables armed with shock-spears and wrath-bows stood straight and proud, holding back crowds that cheered for each passing float. She couldn’t recall the last time she’d ventured any deeper into her own capital. There were so many people. So many . . . strangers.
Her smile wavered as her ceremonial crown tilted, forcing her to steady it with her nonwaving hand. She felt Flumere’s deft fingers reach from behind, quickly right the bulky ornament without messing a single strand of her hair. Arivana gave the woman a smile—a real one—before once more presenting her queenly face to the masses.
The parade continued almost an entire toll, making a full circuit of the avenue and ending where they started. One by one, the floats turned in towards the central tower and began rising into the air. They made another revolution, fully airborne this time, until they were all lined up equidistant around her home and palace about thirty stories high. She had almost forgotten. The festivities were only just beginning.
“Ugh,” she said. “This is guaranteed to be a dull affair.”
“Oh, it can’t be as bad as all that, your majesty,” Flumere said.
“This is your first time, so I’ll forgive you for not knowing. These parties are nothing more than an excuse for people to make themselve
s feel important.”
“Well, as queen, I’m sure you have the right to tell them all what prancing fools they are.”
Arivana gasped, opening wide eyes on her handmaiden. “Why, Flumere, I do believe that would be quite wicked of me.” She smiled. “I’ll have to keep it in mind.”
They both giggled.
The float finally reached its destination, docking itself through some sorcerous means of control. Arivana stepped off, clearing her throat and fighting down a private smile. She walked straight onto a platform that held the throne she would sit in for the majority of the night while she waited on all the guests to pay—at their leisure of course—their supposed respects. She’d seen how her parents approached evenings like this. She’d paid careful attention and learned how to deliver an insult without breaking the pretense of propriety, but tonight would be her first chance to do so herself. Maybe it won’t be so bad after all?
She sat down and graciously accepted a glass from a servant, whose eyes remained downcast behind a full-faced mask. Loose grey cloth covered him—or maybe her?—allowing him to blend in with the carved stone walls and pillars dotted around the pavilion. She took a sip from the glass, which contained wine watered to account for her age and weight, and mixed with a variety of frozen berries. She took one, a blackberry, in her mouth and squeezed it between her molars, savoring the cold, crunchy burst of flavor.
She leaned back, examining the crowd. Picking out targets ahead of time so she could plan how best to rattle them. A woman with her hair done up in a spire and laced with thin golden chains looked far too much like she carried a beehive atop her head. The whole city will be abuzz with talk of your fashion. A man grabbing double handfuls of pastries from every passing tray. The breadth of your sweetness knows no bounds. Way too much perfume. I’ve heard it said that you teach men how to cherish the very air in their lungs.
Arivana snickered through her nose, taking another mouthful of her drink.
A chair slammed down beside her and she jumped, nearly spilling the contents of her glass. Two grey-clad servants pushed the seat—nearly a throne itself—right up next to hers. The Minister of Gardens plopped down in it.
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