Shadow of the Void

by Nathan Garrison

  He stepped away. “I’ll go get the caretaker.”

  “No!” She grabbed his hand, pulling him back towards her. “Just stay with me. Can you do that, please?”

  “Of course.” He sat next to her on the bed. “Why don’t you lie back down?”

  She let him guide her head to the pillow. He pulled the blankets up to her neck. “How long has it been?” she asked.

  “Four days.”

  “Does anyone know what happened yet?”

  “I haven’t been told anything really. No one has. The only information the council let out was that something went wrong during the ritual and you . . . fell.”

  Her memory flashed back to the experience, to the ground rushing up, to her sudden fear of the wind.

  Tassariel rolled onto her side. She pressed her eyes shut, clenching the sheets to her chest.

  Eluhar was silent for a time but remained a warm, welcome presence at her back. His breaths evened out. She felt his rigid form begin to sag. She rolled over and caught his head bouncing up from his chest. “Do you need anything?” he said quickly, slurring his words slightly.

  “Oh, El,” she said. “You haven’t left my side this whole time, have you?”

  He shook his head. “I just wanted to make sure you were all right.”

  She reached out from under the blanket and grasped his hand. “You’re a good friend, El. The best I could ever hope for.”

  A slim smile broke through the exhaustion on his face.

  “But I think I’m going to be fine,” she said, nearly choking on the words. “There’s no point killing yourself over nothing.”

  “The healers don’t think it’s ‘nothing,’ Tass.”

  Her eyes widened. “Wh-­what do you mean?”

  He sighed, running his free hand through his hair. “They found some . . . peculiarities with your injuries. Something they’ve never seen before. Do you . . .” he looked away, “ . . . do you know anything about that?”

  “Get rid of him.”

  Tassariel tensed, going stiff as a statue.

  The voice. It was back.

  She’d been holding on to the hope that it had been a hallucination. A trick of her mind as a result of the trauma. Perhaps, even, an unexpected side effect of the botched ritual, an echo of Elos as he attempted to communicate with her. But the words then, and the fact that the voice still spoke inside her mind, put any such notions to rest.

  She had become . . . inhabited.

  “What are you?” she whispered.

  Eluhar leaned in close. “Sorry, I didn’t hear that?”

  “You cannot let on about me, my child. Do please put an end to this line of inquiry before it becomes uncomfortable for us both.”

  Her heartbeat raced. Cold sweat trickled down her temples. She shivered violently.

  Eluhar stood, releasing her hand. “I’m sorry, Tass. Forgive me. You’ve just woken up, and here I am battering you with questions. You look freezing. Is there anything I can get you? Something warm to drink? I know how you love hot cider.”

  “Yes, thank you. That would be lovely.”

  He marched towards the archway of the room.

  “Oh, and Eluhar?”

  He stopped and turned.

  “Of course I forgive you.”

  His shoulders lifted, back straightening at the words. He departed the room with a smile on his face.

  “Finally. Some privacy at last.”

  Goose bumps sprouted on every surface of Tassariel’s skin. That cold knot in her back seemed to be pulsing with waves of dread. Being alone with the voice was the last thing she wanted right now.

  But I need to find out what the abyss is going on.

  She clenched her fists. Opening her lips, she started to speak, but couldn’t form more than half a word at once. She realized she had no idea where to even begin.

  “Strain yourself not, young one. All will be revealed in time. We can speak freely now that the pest is gone.”

  “Pest!” she spat. “Eluhar is my friend. How dare you speak of him that way?”

  “A friend, is he? Good luck convincing him of that.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Nothing. Now, where were we? Ah, yes. You were going to ask some very pointed questions that, no doubt, seem of utmost importance in your mind.”

  “H-­how did you know that? Can you hear my thoughts?”

  “If only! That would make all of this so much less difficult. Well, in some ways. Have you any idea what a jumbled mess the subconscious is? Thoughts and ideas and dreams and fears all crashing into each other like waves breaking in a storm. I’d get pulled under just from dipping in a toe!”

  “Please stop. Just stop. I can’t make sense of any of this.”

  “I’d be worried if you could. But enough musing. Can you do me a favor?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Nothing vile, I assure you. I just need you to stand up.”

  “Why?”

  “This would all be pretty pointless if you couldn’t. And seeing as how it took a tremendous amount of effort to get this far, I’d know sooner rather than later what state my chosen vessel is in.”

  “Chosen . . . vessel?”

  “In a moment. Now stand.”

  Sighing, she moved to obey. To be honest, she was curious what shape she was in as well. She swung her legs off the bed and pressed her feet into the tiles. Pushing off the bed, she rose. The grey walls spun slightly, and her head seemed to drain of all blood at once, but otherwise she felt fine. A bit stiff, but that was to be expected after four days in a bed.

  She took a few steps and stretched out all her muscles, groaning in delight as she began to feel herself again. “Nothing damaged beyond repair,” she said. “I’m actually a little exuberant, to tell the truth. I feel ready for anything.”

  “Excellent. Now, before we go any further, I need you to make me a promise.”

  “What’s that?”

  “You must tell no one about me unless I give you explicit leave.”

  “Right. Like I was about to go shouting in the streets about the voice inside my head.”

  “That’s the spirit!”

  Tassariel took a deep breath. “Okay, I’ve done as you’ve asked. Are you ready to tell me who you are and what you want with me?”

  The voice laughed, like a grandfather amused by the antics of babes. “Oh, Tassariel. My dear, sweet, devoted child. Have you not figured it out yet?”

  A word bubbled up from its hiding place beneath the surface of her mind. A name she’d hoped and feared to hear herself speak. Somehow, she had known from the very beginning.

  “Elos.”

  “The one and only.”

  “B-­but you’re a—­”

  “A god? I suppose I am. As far as the colloquial use of the term is concerned, at least.”

  “My lord, I am honored.” She bit the inside of her cheek, afraid to say more. To think I’ve been swapping words with my own deity. And with such irreverence! She couldn’t help but cringe.

  “No need to fret, my dear. I’m no stickler for formalities, despite what your high council may think. You’ve done nothing to upset me . . . yet.”

  Yet. The word echoed in her mind. She knew it was only a matter of time before she disappointed him. This was not at all what she had in mind when she’d been craving the chance to bring her questions before him. But everything she’d been planning to ask had escaped her mind like smoke through her fingers. None of it seemed to matter anymore.

  “What,” she said at last, “do you wish of me?”

  “Nothing you haven’t been doing your whole life already. And doing splendidly, I might add.”

  “Which is?”

  “Obedience.”

  Tassariel n
odded. “If you truly are Elos, then that is something I can do. But, if you don’t mind me asking, to what purpose will my obedience lead?”

  “Well, to be perfectly frank—­and please believe me when I say I am not placating you—­I’m not exactly sure. I may excel at examining available information and extrapolating the most likely outcomes, but even I can’t foresee the future.”

  “What does all that mean?”

  “It means I will send you where I think you may be needed. Where you can do the most good.”

  “I see.” She closed her eyes, struggling to absorb all that she had learned. “But I still don’t understand one thing.”

  “And that is?”

  Tassariel swallowed. “Why me?”

  Elos laughed, a warm sound that offset the lingering web of frost. “Because, my dear, you alone may have what it takes to save us all.”

  She smiled, feeling a ball of joy surge up within her. Reward, at last, for the years of faithful devotion, dedication to her Calling, and adherence to the precepts. It had all been worth it.

  Then why am I still crying?

  She wiped a tear from her cheek, knowing exactly why it was there.

  “What happened to my wings?” she asked, shaking.

  There was silence for a time. Elos seemed to sink away from her, as if he had simply gone to sleep. But she knew that wasn’t the case. After several marks, his presence returned.

  “I needed room, and there is nowhere else for me to go. I’m . . . I’m sorry.”

  Her eyes stayed blurry with moisture until the smell of hot cider approached from down the hall.

  CHAPTER 8

  Mevon watched as Draevenus reopened his pack, checked the contents, and cinched it closed for the eighth time already that morning. The mierothi resumed wearing a rut in the yurt’s floor with his pacing, the naked agitation in his manner making him seem as young as his age-­frozen features suggested.

  Seated on a wooden bench, Mevon sighed and resumed honing his blades.

  Mother Poya shuffled up behind him. She’d been able to maintain her feet longer, and steadier, with each of the last few days. He took that as a sign she’d recover fully, or at least as far as her years would allow.

  “You’d think,” she said, low enough that Draevenus could not overhear, “that one so old as he would have learned a thing or two about patience over the centuries.”

  Mevon grunted. “You’d think.”

  “What’s got him so riled up, then?”

  “Ruul. While I agree that he has much to answer for, Draevenus has taken it upon his shoulders alone to make the god atone. Or die trying, it seems.”

  “The latter looks more likely.”

  “Aye.”

  “And yet you still accompany him. Blindly. Tell me, what reason could a strong, smart man such as yourself have to participate in such foolishness?”

  “Someone’s got to keep him out of trouble. As much of it as possible anyway. Besides”—­Mevon shrugged—­“I made a vow.”

  “One that will see you both in pointless graves.”

  “Neither of us could have done otherwise and still lived with ourselves.” Mevon slid the blade into its sheath on his hip and shoved the honing strap into a pocket of his travel pack. “Ruul isn’t the only one in need of atonement.”

  Before she could respond, Draevenus let out a loud huff from across the room. “Where is she?” he said.

  “Zorvanya will return in due time,” Mother Poya said. “Bearing gifts, if you recall her promise. I only wonder if you remember yours?”

  Draevenus glared at her. “We promised to stay until she gets back. But if this is another one of her games designed to make us dance to her tune, don’t expect me to—­”

  “To what?” Zorvanya said, pushing through the yurt’s hide flap. “Wait forever until I return?”

  The mierothi sprang his gaze upon her, his scowl deepening. “I wouldn’t put it past you.”

  “I told you the time for games had ended, and I meant it. You may not have known me for very long, but you should at least be able to tell when I’m being sincere.”

  “Should I? I seem to recall nothing but jests from your mouth these many days. What part of that is supposed to instill confidence in your supposed honesty?”

  She took a deep breath. Mevon couldn’t help but marvel at her ability not to rise to his bait, not to escalate the conflict further even though she had ample cause. An admirable trait, and one he’d not seen in her before. Though, perhaps, he hadn’t been looking hard enough.

  Perhaps I didn’t want to.

  “I promised you gifts for your journey,” Zorvanya said after a lengthy pause. “To you, Draevenus, I give this.”

  She handed over a bundle of reddish herbs wrapped in a thin leather pouch. Draevenus narrowed his eyes as he accepted it. “What is it?” he asked.

  “Winterweal,” she said. “A rugged flower that grows in the mountains around here, blooming even during the harshest freeze. Chewing on a few leaves will stave off frostbite and other cold-­related maladies. For a time, at least. Where you’re going, I’m more than certain you’ll have need of it.”

  Visibly taken aback, likely by the thoughtfulness of the gift, Draevenus at last managed to muster enough grace to bow his head in thanks.

  Then, Zorvanya turned her soul-­searching eyes towards Mevon.

  “I have something for you as well,” she said. “But it’s . . . best given in private.”

  Mother Poya was at Draevenus’s shoulder in a blink, pushing him towards the exit. “Get you on now, young man,” she said.

  Draevenus raised his hands in protest. “I’m not—­”

  “I know very well what you are. And isn’t a quick exit what you wanted anyway?”

  “Yes, but . . .”

  Mevon heard no more as their voices faded away outside. He slowly turned back to Zorvanya, suddenly nervous to hear what she had to say.

  One glance at her, however, revealed that she was far more nervous than he.

  Shaking fingers pulled a vine from her dress pocket. A twisted thing, it let off a pungent fragrance that, even from across the room, made him feel invigorated. He’d never seen or smelled the like.

  “Vir vine,” she said in response to his unasked question. “A common cure to the ailment of many a young wife. I’ve administered it many times, but never to myself. No such reason until now.”

  “What does it do?”

  “It acts as a . . . fertility aid.”

  Mevon inhaled sharply. “You mean . . . ?”

  “Yes,” Zorvanya said. “I wish to have a child.

  “And I wish it to be yours.”

  He sprang to his feet and turned away from her, unable to make sense of the request. Fatherhood had always been the furthest thing from his mind. He was a warrior, built for war, knowing he had nothing else to offer a woman but a cold, lonely bed as he sought one battlefield after the next. It was simply out of the question.

  “I can’t,” he said at last. “That’s not who I am.”

  “It could be. You can be anything you want, Mevon. All you have to do is make a choice and stick to it.”

  Mevon shook his head but knew that she wasn’t far from the truth.

  After all, I made the choice to love someone once before. To try to make myself something more. Why shouldn’t I choose to do it again?

  He had to know something first. “Why me?” he asked.

  “You’re strong,” she said, “and far more intelligent than your brutal exterior would suggest.”

  “So I’m . . . what? Good breeding stock?”

  “That’s part of it, I’ll admit. But there’s more. I can’t afford to let any man in these parts become the father of my child. It would give him a claim over me that I’d have no power to subvert. What little
autonomy I have would disappear.”

  “You ask too much. I’d have to abandon my friend in his greatest time of need.”

  “Only for a toll at most.”

  “What? I thought you wanted me to be . . . ?” He swallowed hard, unable to finish the statement.

  “If it’s that upsetting, you don’t have to think of it like that at all. I merely need a . . . donation. After that, you can continue on your merry way. If, in time, you feel the desire to return, and fulfill . . . other roles . . . well, I’d consider that well beyond what any woman could reasonably hope for.”

  He turned to face her and knew immediately that it was a mistake. Her eyes met his, sparkling with beauty and desire enough to melt away his objections. He felt his mouth go dry, and his heart began to race in his chest.

  She stepped closer, hips swaying, lips parting ever so slightly.

  He held up a hand, and she stopped, for which he was grateful. Another pace, and his already wavering resolve would have likely shattered.

  “I must finish this,” he said through gritted teeth, wishing it didn’t have to be so. “Until then, I won’t be able to think straight, much less trust myself with a decision as big as this. Please.”

  He almost expected tears, or perhaps a furious outburst, but he underestimated her once again.

  She merely took a halted breath and snapped the vine in two.

  “Take this,” she said, tossing one half to him. “The potency will fade by day’s end, but it will still serve as a reminder. Should you find the steps of your path ever winding my way again, know that I’ll be waiting.”

  Turning away, she stuffed the half she’d kept between her breasts and left the yurt without a sound.

  Mevon could only stare after the memory of her retreating body, wondering if he hadn’t just made a huge, huge mistake.

  The peaks rose up to either side of the narrow game trail, lost in low clouds that rolled through the pass. Jasside marched, boots squishing through soil moistened by the mists. She rarely rode on the wagon anymore. The trail was so steep, she felt as if she might roll right off it, and Feralt would insist that she ride at his side. She didn’t have the heart to tell him it was over between them.