Shadow of the Void

by Nathan Garrison

  “Tior,” she said, giving him a crooked smile. “I wasn’t expecting . . . um . . . whatever this is.”

  He cast a wary glance over the crowd, then presented her with a tight smile of his own. “It is the royal family that is supposed to host the Festival of Blooming. Such duties are too much burden for one person, even one as radiant as yourself.”

  Arivana blushed under the praise.

  “Plus,” Tior continued, “you appeared lonely, to my aging eyes. I thought you might appreciate some company.”

  “And I welcome it,” she said.

  The statement was more than just social politeness. She had been lonely. So very lonely. Especially since that day at the waterfall. Claris had always been there for her, before and after the death of her family. Mother’s best childhood friend, ever present in her life, was more a member of the family than any of the distant blood relatives who, by political necessity, never stepped foot anywhere near Panisahldron. Claris’s shunning of her felt the worst sort of betrayal.

  Arivana wiped a bead of moisture that had collected in her lower eyelids. Sad, how I don’t call her “aunt” anymore, not even in my thoughts.

  As she lowered her hand, it fell into Tior’s palm, waiting on the arm of her seat. Though delicate, it held none of the soggy tenderness she’d come to associate with the elderly. He gave her hand a firm but gentle squeeze. She exhaled, feeling the twisting tension inside her if not dissipate, then at least dwindle to a tolerable level.

  He must have observed the change in her, for he immediately sat back into his seat. “Now, my queen, I’m afraid I have confession to make.”

  “Oh?”

  He returned his gaze to the celebrants, his expression strained but cordial. “What I’m about to say will be . . . upsetting. Can you promise to keep yourself calm?”

  She took deep breath, smoothing out her gown over her thighs. “I can.”

  “Someone is plotting to kill you.”

  Arivana felt her heart take to thumping, as if threatening to tear free of her chest. She sucked in a harsh breath, unable to release it. What little preamble Tior had given to the message had not been nearly enough to prepare her.

  Remembering his warning, and her promise, she worked to bring herself under control. “Why,” she finally managed, “would anyone want me dead? And how did you find this out? And who is behind the plot? And—­?”

  “One question at a time, your majesty, please.” Tior pressed his lips together as a servant drew near. He took a glass from the proffered tray and shooed the woman away with a backward wave of his hand. He swirled the wine around, brought the glass to his face, closed his eyes, and inhaled, all before taking the daintiest of sips. He tilted his head back, the barest smile decorating the corner of his lips.

  His drink, she noticed, hadn’t been watered down at all. She took a full gulp of her own and chewed on the half dozen berries that invaded her mouth.

  Tior’s eyes finally popped back open. He glanced down at her, as if he’d forgotten she was even there. “Where were we? Ah, yes, your questions.” He cleared his throat. “The ‘why’ of it could be any number of reasons. We Panisians have always drawn the enmity of other nations. Or, perhaps, it would be more accurate to call it envy. We are a beacon, beautiful and pristine, shining among the filth and the darkness of the world. Those without will only ever despise that which they lack.”

  Arivana nodded, supposing that made some sort of sense. But somehow, it didn’t feel quite right to agree. After all, I’ve never lacked for anything.

  “As to how we found out,” continued Tior, “we apprehended a man in the city yesterday. A foreigner. I’ll spare you the details, but suffice it to say he found good reason to tell all he knew and revealed intimations of a plot against your person.”

  She shivered, trying—­and failing—­not to think of the measures taken to “persuade” the man to speak. Lisabet had always threatened to send her to the royal carnifex if she wouldn’t stop bothering her. Arivana had never found such jests very funny. She’d never seen behind the man’s mask but heard from numerous sources that he took far too much pleasure in his work.

  “Who is behind all this?” Tior shrugged. “Any attempt that hopes to have even the barest measure of success would require help from within these very halls. That, you see, is the true reason I am here. I’ve seen assassins aim their blades and spells at six generations of Celandaris kings and queens. And I’ve had a hand in stopping four of them myself.”

  Realization slowly dawned on Arivana. “You’re to be my protector? But why? Couldn’t we just increase the guard?”

  “And draw attention to the fact that we know something is afoot?” Tior shook his head. “Better to let our enemies, whoever they might be, continue thinking we are ignorant of their intentions. With your family gone, having your most trusted advisor close at hand will appear natural to outside observers. I’m afraid you’ll have to get used to my presence. I’ll try to be as unobtrusive as possible, but believe me when I say that this is absolutely necessary for your protection.”

  Arivana nodded. Something stirred in her belly, a sick feeling, drowning out all the pettiness of her life. The mischief she’d been plotting earlier now seemed such a stupid thing. Abyss, what a child I’ve been.

  It appeared she would have to start growing up, and quickly, if she wanted to survive.

  “Do you understand everything I’ve told you?” Tior asked.

  “Yes,” Arivana said. “Unfortunately.”

  He patted her knee. “Try not to worry too much. It’s not good for your complexion. Besides, our information suggests we won’t have to wait long until our assailants strike. This will all be over before you know it.”

  “I see.” She gulped, standing suddenly. “Please excuse me. I need to . . . freshen up.”

  Tior stood.

  “You don’t have to come with me,” she blurted. “I mean, I’m sure I’m safe enough within these walls. With so many witnesses.”

  He smiled, grunting softly. “Merely giving my queen her due respects.” He bowed.

  Arivana gathered her skirts and, with a calmness she didn’t feel, strolled off. She waited until she was out of sight of Tior and the other guests before breaking into a run.

  She crashed against a balcony railing. The tears that she’d been holding in check now burst forth in a flood amidst chest-­heaving sobs. Her sorrow was formless, directed at nothing and everything. This is all too much for me.

  Flumere came up behind her, gently placing her long arms across Arivana’s shoulders. She knew enough to say nothing. Her presence was comforting, though, and Arivana soon found exhaustion bleeding into the space occupied by her sadness. She straightened from the railing and turned. She stood impassively, drained of all emotion, while her handmaiden wiped her cheeks dry and reapplied a quick veneer of powder to her face.

  “Thank you,” Arivana said once the woman had finished. “Given how close you always stand to me, I take it you heard what Minister Pashams said?”

  “Yes, your majesty.”

  She grasped the woman’s hand. “I’m sorry.”

  “Whatever for?”

  “You’ll be in danger now because of me. I’m sure that wasn’t what you had in mind when you became my handmaiden.”

  “Oh, don’t you be worrying about me, my queen. I know how to take care of myself.”

  Arivana couldn’t help but smile at Flumere’s casual assurance. “I suppose we should return to the party now.”

  “It’s probably for the best.”

  They started back the way they had come. As they crossed a hallway, movement drew Arivana’s attention.

  Three figures stood in a doorway. Two of them were foreigners, Fasheshish if their oiled beards were any indication. The third, a woman, had her back to them. One of the men handed something—­she couldn’
t see what—­to the woman, then stepped back and closed the door.

  The woman turned. Arivana saw a brief flash of her face before she disappeared back into the main chamber of the pavilion. She recognized her, of course.

  Claris? What are you up to?

  Tassariel touched down upon the edge of Elos’s Gaze, leaving her wings out for the moment. Evervines twirled around the borders of the path before her, and her own lavender glow mixed with their silver light to bathe the flagstones and lilies and hedgerows in a surreal cast that left her spellbound. Even the willows, dangling branches like threads high overhead, were caught in the interplay of color and light.

  With a contented sigh, Tassariel furled her wings at last and stepped her sandaled feet up the trail. This was no domicile. The only structures present were the grand temple of the high council and the tombs of all the valynkar heroes. Elos’s Gaze was the highest point in their city. Made that way, supposedly, so that the honored dead could rest closest to their god, and so the penitent living could worship without interference or distraction.

  She passed throngs of her kin, usually sitting in small groups on the scattered stone benches, or en masse in one of the amphitheatres, paying their respects to Elos in whatever way they saw fit. There was no wrong way, according to the precepts, which was just as well; getting everyone to agree would have been impossible. She’d read stories of the days, eons past, when all of her kind had been united in purpose, one voice and one mind in all things. But to see such tales placed next to the ­people of the present made her think they were nothing but myth and legends, self-­satisfying nostalgia on the part of the few left who might have lived through such times.

  Tassariel shook her head, berating herself for the thought. Remember why you are here. It is not to pass judgment, but to absolve yourself before Elos. She inhaled deeply, renewed by the scents of flowers and grass around her and soothed by the murmur of the wind through the trees. Her purpose restored, she continued her uphill trek to her destination.

  She passed groups large and small basking by ponds or lounging in gazebos. Around one curve, she spotted the sweep of Eluhar’s blond hair over the side of his face as he sat with four others in quiet conversation. He turned as she approached and smiled.

  She returned the smile but continued to march, shaking her head slightly as Eluhar motioned for her to join them. She did well one-­on-­one or as an observer in a large group, but the size in between made her feel nervous for some reason. Too difficult to be myself, I suppose, when more than a single set of expectations are thrust upon me.

  Her friend did not seem upset, at least. He must have grown used to her predilections by now. Still, he never failed to extend the invitation, possibly hoping she might one day change. Not likely, but the gesture was sweet all the same. And besides, her observance today was in a place it was best to be alone.

  Another mark later saw her to the gates of the necropolis. Stepping inside, she was greeted by a view of the newest structure, its entrance carved into the shape of a giant seashell, midnight blue like the aura of the man interred within. She’d heard he had always liked the sea.

  Folding her hands respectfully, Tassariel shuffled into Voren’s tomb.

  The narrow stairs spiraled down, following the shape of the shell. A single evervine reached in, twisting along the roof as it released its soft, sad luminescence. Carved into the walls were images depicting Voren’s life and deeds. It began during the War of Rising Night, when the valynkar had united to stand against the mierothi . . . and lost. A war, it seemed, they had never truly recovered from.

  Tassariel reached the bottom step and peered down the length of the burial chamber. With a start, she realized she was not alone.

  A figure knelt at the opposite end of the narrow space, head bowed, one hand resting on Voren’s sarcophagus. Golden hair tumbled down, obscuring his face. But she knew who it was anyway.

  “Gilshamed,” she said. “I’m surprised to see you here.”

  He shifted his head, glancing once at her before turning forward again. “Why should that surprise you, niece?”

  “I rarely see you out since you’ve returned. Not without . . .” She gulped. “Not without Lashriel anyway.”

  He moved not a finger’s width, but Tassariel sensed a sort of deflation all the same. “Her turn with the healers today. The fools think there might still be something that can be done.”

  Tassariel stifled a sob. Swallowed. “Isn’t there?”

  “Not by them. Elos alone can restore her now. If he’s even able.” His hand clenched into a fist. “If he even cares.”

  “How can you say that? Of course he cares!”

  “Such belief. Such . . . conviction.” He slowly straightened, pivoting to face her. “As was I, in my youth. Enjoy your unflinching devotion while it lasts, Tassariel. The sentiment will pass.”

  She shook, struggling to contain the fury, and sorrow, that writhed within her. Finding fewer reasons to fight it by the beat. First Lerathus, and now her uncle. I am sick of my age being used as a weapon against me. “When,” she spat, “did you become such a cynic?”

  “When I came back from the Veiled Empire and realized how impotent our god truly is.”

  “But you returned with my aunt, with the others, too, after everyone had thought them all long dead. All those centuries, and Elos kept them safe—­”

  Gilshamed slapped the lid of the sarcophagus. “He kept them safe! Not Elos. Not anyone else. Voren. The man we had written off as a traitor. He did more for them than our god ever tried to. Even after that very same god abandoned him to his fate.”

  “But the Shroud. That was Ruul’s domain. Elos couldn’t help what went on there.”

  He raised an eyebrow. “Couldn’t? Or wouldn’t?”

  Tassariel frowned, pondering the question, chilled by the implications if Gilshamed was even partially right. What does that say about Elos if he didn’t have the power to intervene? And if he did have it, why not do something?

  She folded her arms, tapping her foot nervously. “I don’t know,” she said at last. “But you can’t argue that some good managed to come of it anyway. Some light, some hope, even when all seemed darkness.”

  He turned away from her, leaning over the interred body of Voren once more. “Perhaps. But, if so, it had nothing to do with our god. If he can even be called that anymore.”

  Tassariel gasped. “You . . . you can’t mean that.” She lowered her voice. “That’s heresy!”

  Gilshamed shrugged. “If that’s what you want to call truth, then so be it. Too long have we played his games without proof that what we do has any meaning. I, for one, have had enough of it.”

  “Faith does not require proof.”

  He shook his head. “So all gods say.”

  She cried out in frustration. “Fine then. I can see debating with you will get me nowhere.” She turned, placing a foot on the bottom step in desperate need to get away from him. She froze before lifting her back foot. In a week, she would turn one hundred and attend a ritual conducted by the Valynkar High Council. A council her uncle was a part of.

  “Will you be there?” she asked. “At my centennial?”

  “I don’t know,” Gilshamed said. “I and the rest of the council haven’t seen eye to eye in a long time. A very long time. Why do you ask?”

  “Let’s just say, I wouldn’t be upset if you weren’t there.”

  “As you wish.”

  She stomped up the stairs, fleeing a darkness that had nothing to do with the crypt’s lack of light.

  CHAPTER 5

  Mevon thrust his hands forward. Twin blades flew forth, spinning through the air. They whistled for a beat before crashing into their target with a dull crack.

  He lifted his blindfold to check the accuracy of the throw. The ivory-­handled daggers, which he’d carried for over a decade, were not
meant for throwing, but he’d learned to use them in that capacity anyway. The blades stuck neatly into the tree trunk, one of many in loose formation at the base of a cliff. One blade cut halfway through the fist-­sized circle Zorvanya had painted on the bark, and the other was just skirting the opposite edge. He smiled at his aim. Then he looked at the other tree. The smile vanished.

  Two black daggers, nearly the size of shortswords, quivered in the wood. Completely inside their circle. And even from a distance of twenty paces, he could tell that they were nearly touching each other.

  Mevon sighed, glancing down at Zorvanya. “You sure he didn’t peek?”

  The woman quirked a smile. “Quite sure.”

  Draevenus lifted his own blindfold, inspecting his handiwork. “A good effort, Mevon, but I’m afraid you’re outmatched.”

  “I can see that. No need to rub it in.”

  “Not that,” Draevenus said, marching to retrieve his blades. “But in matters of darkness, I’ve had quite a bit more experience.”

  Mevon grunted.

  Zorvanya laughed, a throaty rumbling that sounded odd coming from a figure so small and so . . . feminine. “What is it with men?” she said. “Anytime a woman is present, you always feel the need to try to impress.”

  Draevenus yanked one dagger free. “Did it work?”

  “Indeed it did. Perhaps I should leave the flap of my tent open for you tonight?”

  The mierothi froze with his hand on the handle of the other blade. “I don’t . . . I’m not . . .”

  “Yes?”

  He gritted his teeth, then pulled the other dagger and slammed it into its sheath. “That won’t be necessary.”

  Zorvanya darted her gaze back and forth between the two men. “Oh. I see. Then you two are . . . ?”

  Mevon locked eyes with Draevenus. They both burst out laughing.

  She placed her hands on her hips, taking on a playful, mocking look as she waited for them to stop. “Well, if that’s the case, then why do you reject me? Am I so hideous to look at?”