For a long moment, he was silent. She feared her small burst of defiance might have been a step too far. At last, however, he let loose a low chuckle, one ringing with genuine amusement, not scorn. He stepped past her, smiling. “You may have some of your mother in you after all.”
The corners of her lips curved as she met his gaze.
He began marching in the direction of the exit, threading between palm trees and beds of ferns. “Enjoy yourself, my queen,” he called.
“I will.”
Once Tior was fully out of sight, she turned to the boys. “Go play,” she ordered. They obliged, whooping and hollering and splashing around.
She watched them, feeling amused and confused and a hundred other emotions, sure they were all the things young women were supposed to feel when surrounded by beautiful young men.
And it was at that moment Arivana resolved never to enter that level of her tower again.
The caretaker laid a wreath over Tassariel’s head. Strands of woven silk, white as pearls, signified the purity of a patient’s well-being. She had been healed as far as the temple’s skills could manage. She accepted the symbolic ornament with what little grace she could muster, nodding in unfelt gratitude. It felt like a betrayal.
“There now, love,” the caretaker said. “You’re fit as can be. Lovely as your face is, I hope it doesn’t end up back in here anytime soon, yeah?”
Tassariel did her best to smile. “Yes. Thank you for all you’ve done.”
The caretaker patted her shoulder once, then strode from the room. Tassariel was glad the woman hadn’t lingered. Her body had recovered from the fall, but nothing could be done for the loss of her wings. She had shed every tear she had for it. Now, keeping the sorrow at bay paled before the difficulty of holding back the rage.
Elos remained . . . distant. It was as if, having divulged his bidding, he had nothing else to say until she could fulfill it. He seemed to be waiting. For what, though, still wasn’t clear. Tassariel trudged out of the room, glad to see the last of those four bland walls. The temple exit lay less than a hundred paces away, down the corridor to the right.
She turned in the opposite direction.
If Elos will not answer my questions, perhaps someone else will.
She extended her fingertips, brushing them against the smooth stone walls on her left. She turned one corner, then another, passing rooms occupied by the sick and the dying. Aging valynkar filled only a small fraction of them. The rest held humans from all corners of the world who had traveled here to receive the best care possible. It had not always been this way. Once, she’d read, valynkar ran healing centers scattered around the planet, so that few died who could be saved by sorcerous arts. Now, only those who could afford the price of the considerable journey enjoyed such a boon.
My people look ever inwards. How long until we stop bothering altogether and even turn away those in need?
Eventually, she came to a cut in the stone wall like a curved, inverted “V” and peered into the room beyond, finding whom she sought. Gilshamed, sitting stoically at Lashriel’s bedside.
The ice stirred as she gazed at the back of his golden head.
For the hundredth time, she wondered why the god of light had to be so cold.
She tensed to step inside but was stopped short by the urgent rush of Elos to the forefront of her mind.
“What are you doing?” he said.
Tassariel paused, gripping both edges of the archway and pushing herself backwards out of the room. “I must speak to him, my lord,” she whispered.
“Why?”
“He owes me an explanation.” She sighed. “And I suppose I owe him one as well.”
The chill churned, driving slivers of frost to every extremity. Elos faded. “Do not betray me,” he said, as if from far away.
“I will try.” If I can help it, that is. Gilshamed was shrewd, she knew, and skilled at drawing truth from the most uncooperative of subjects. Vulnerable as she felt at the moment, it was the best promise she could give.
She stepped into the chamber.
Gilshamed’s head snapped round after she made an effort to add force to her stride. He jerked upright and bowed. “Tassariel. Niece. I am honored by your presence.”
She returned the bow. “Uncle. I trust you are well?”
“Fine.” He glanced at the wreath on her head. “I see you’ve healed nicely. That is quite a relief.”
“I’m not all better,” she said. “Only . . . mostly.”
“Mostly?”
She lowered her eyes. “There was one thing the healers could not fix.”
Gilshamed glanced down at Lashriel as she slept. “There seems to be a lot of that going around these days.”
“Yes, well, I was hoping you might be able to tell me something about that. You were the one channeling the ritual, after all.”
“So I was.”
“Did you notice anything . . . unusual?”
His eyes widened, boring holes into her with his gaze. “The very fact that I was present—and the seemingly endless series of coincidences that led me there—was unusual enough.”
“Prod and pull,” said Elos. “A thousand times a thousand times. Each, by themselves, no more noticeable than a mote of dust, but together, they’re almost able to make up a man’s mind. It’s all I can do, nowadays. And only to those with even a speck of faith left in their bones.”
“Do you still have faith?” Tassariel asked.
“Faith?” Gilshamed grunted. “I had thought it all but dead. He was great, once. Powerful. Present in the lives of all our kin. But in my four millennia on this world, I’ve witnessed the influence of Elos dwindle to almost nothing.”
“And now?”
“Now, I’m . . . not sure. Something happened, up on that platform. Some power took over, far beyond any hope I had to control it. I might have nudged the connection open a bit wider than usual, but I never expected . . .” he shook his head, “ . . . whatever it was that happened.”
“Is that an apology?”
“Would you like it to be?”
“To be honest, I don’t know yet.”
“You don’t know? How can you say that? From my perspective, nothing good came of the experience, whatsoever.”
Tassariel bit her lip.
Gilshamed stepped closer. She felt him energize. “What are you—?”
“Just hold still.”
Hands glowing with power reached to cup her jaw.
“Keep him away!”
Tassariel lashed out a palm, striking Gilshamed in the chest. He sprawled backwards, crashing off the edge of Lashriel’s bed and tumbling across the floor.
She gasped, horrified by her own reaction. The physical response seemed almost involuntary, her training and her faith combining for a sordid outcome. “Uncle! I’m so sorry. Are you all right?” She took a timid step forward, not knowing if he would welcome her aid.
He held up a hand, stopping her advance. Gasping for breath, it took him half a mark before he could respond. “You’ve done enough,” he said at last.
“Please forgive me for reacting like that. I was just surprised. And the last time you used sorcery on me . . .” She shrugged, as if that would explain everything.
Gilshamed coughed and laughed simultaneously. “It’s funny what happens when the gods get involved. Isn’t that right, Elos?”
Ice contracted into her spine. “Now you see why I wanted you to be careful.”
“It wasn’t my fault,” she said.
“I never said it was,” Gilshamed said.
“I wasn’t talking to you.”
His eyebrows rose. “Oh? Interesting. Can he hear me? Can he see my face?”
Tassariel turned her head to the side. “Well, can you?”
“I can.”
<
br /> She glanced back towards Gilshamed and nodded.
He shook, hands clenching into fists. “I must apologize in advance then, niece. None of this is meant for you.”
Gulping, she said, “I understand.”
She closed her eyes as Gilshamed began a rampage of words. Spittle flew from lips on a face turned red as her uncle broke the dam on his long-held rage. She’d never seen him like this before. Words poured forth, so vitriolic she was surprised her skin wasn’t melting. More surprising still, the fact that she could find no fault in the accusations, all of which came down to pretty much a single question:
What kind of god would allow such atrocities to befall his faithful?
Through it all, Elos never even stirred.
CHAPTER 9
The bear thrashed about in the bushes two hundred paces away, foraging, no doubt, in preparation for the long winter to come. Mevon peeked around the thick trunk, downhill and downwind of the creature. They’d been tracking it for three days as they scoured the countryside for food, furs, and other things they would need to aid them through the trek to come. The pickings had been slim. They were lucky to have found a bear this close to the plateau.
Mevon pulled his head back. He turned, inhaling the sweet, almost cinnamon scent of the tree as his fingers stuck to the dripping sap. Draevenus leaned against the other side of the trunk, caressing the hilts of his daggers.
“Plan?” Mevon whispered.
“Get you a new winter coat,” Draevenus replied, grinning. “And enough meat to last a month, if he’s as big as the tracks suggest.”
“I meant what’s the plan of attack?”
The smile vanished. “Sorry. Just give me a moment, will you?” The mierothi turned away to study the terrain for the fifth time that morning.
Mevon frowned. Draevenus had been doing that a lot lately. Starting with a playful attitude, then dropping it as soon as he realized what he was doing. Almost as if he felt guilty about it. But for the life of him, Mevon couldn’t think what could have caused such a shift in his demeanor.
Though the assassin had been driven, almost obsessive since they’d left Mother Poya’s, Mevon hadn’t objected too harshly to the haste. If anything, he had become infected by it himself. Despite the dangers, he now found he was longing for a conclusion to this quest almost as much as his companion was. Holing up for the winter—with or without Zorvanya—seemed less appealing by the day.
“How do you cook bear meat anyway?” Mevon asked, trying to keep his tone light.
Draevenus shrugged. “Same as any other wild game. Steaks, stews, and sausages mostly. You’ve never had it before?”
“No. My rangers would go hunting on some of the longer missions, but they mostly brought back venison or fowl. Rogue casters avoided bear country. No way to defend themselves without giving away their position.”
“Well, you’re in for a treat, then. Bear’s good eating. And that coat of his ought to be big enough to keep even you warm.”
“You’re sure it’s alone?”
“No cubs. No mate. It’s probably only got a few years left anyway. Poor thing.” Draevenus scratched his nose. “Want to hear my plan for killing it?”
“Go ahead.”
The mierothi pointed to their left. “See that boulder? The one covered in moss? I’ll dash over there and wait behind it. When I’m set, you’ll charge towards the bear, making as much noise as you can. The terrain is pretty constricted here, so I’m betting it will run right past me.” He jabbed out a hand, mimicking a knifing action. “Straight to the heart. Easy. Clean. Quick.”
“What if he doesn’t run?”
“In that case, he’ll likely come after you.”
“This is sounding like a good plan less and less.”
Draevenus dismissed that with a wave. “Just fall straight back, into that clear spot fifty paces behind us, then circle around and come towards me again. I’ll dash in and catch it the same way.”
Mevon frowned, rubbing his chin. “I don’t know.”
“What is it?”
“There’s no denying you’re fast, but one lucky swipe, and you’re done for. I should be the one that faces it.”
“Is that going to be . . . safe for you?”
“Safe?”
Draevenus sighed. “Violence, Mevon. It’s like any addiction. Most people, when trying to kick a habit, either need to abstain from the barest hint of their chosen vice or find some alternative that’s similar, but less destructive, and wean themselves off it. I’d always thought you fell into the former category.”
Mevon’s eyes lost focus as he contemplated the words. He thought back over the last few weeks and realized Draevenus had not let him so much as skin a rabbit. He felt gratefulness as an ache deep inside him that the assassin would go to such lengths just to keep him safe from his own sin.
He felt something else, too, and peered now into the other man’s eyes, finally seeing the guilt writ there, plain as ink on parchment. Guilt the mierothi had been carrying around since that night. Since Mevon had almost lost control. He’d been too tangled in his own thornbush of melancholy to realize it until now.
“Draevenus,” Mevon said, “this journey of mine is a personal one. While I appreciate any advice you can give me, you have never been, nor will you ever be, responsible for my actions. Some ghosts a man has to face alone.”
Draevenus leaned his head back against the tree. “I know. I just . . . I promised I would be there for you, and back in that town, I failed to keep that promise.”
“You owe me nothing, you understand? Nothing.” He fixed Draevenus with a grateful expression. But not for too long. The moment of shared vulnerability—of feelings—was already dragging on too long. It will only grow more awkward if I let it linger.
Mevon smiled. “And besides, it’s only a beast.”
“No prohibitions against animals then, eh? Good for letting off a little steam?”
Mevon pulled both of his daggers, examining the curved steel in the sunlight. “Something like that.”
“Well then,” Draevenus said, twiddling his fingers as if in mockery of some circus magician, “I’ll do my best to keep him distracted. Ready?”
Mevon nodded. As one, they sprang out from opposite sides of the tree.
Jasside stared at the woman standing beside the road ahead of them, who was rocking a tiny infant in her arms.
Tattered rags hung about the woman’s body. Hollow cheeks, smeared with dirt or something worse, puffed in and out as she sang a wordless lullaby. The child bounced upon limbs more bone than flesh, itself little more than a bundle of wrapped cloth. The mother cradled its head against her withered breast.
Jasside wiped away a tear that had found its way down her cheek. She glanced down to Prince Daye Harkun, who rode his black stallion at the side of her wagon. He must have sensed her regard, for he turned his face to her. A face that mirrored her own lament.
“What’s going on here?” she asked.
“Didn’t I tell you?” he said. “War. And our people are losing. Badly. Few of our casualties come from actual combat. The rest . . . well . . . you’ll see in a moment.”
“I don’t—”
“Look.”
The road straightened ahead, and through a break in the trees, she viewed a vast valley sprawling below them. Every acre was infested with humanity.
“That’s no city,” she said.
“No. It’s not.”
Not a building could be seen. Ramshackle tents and lean-tos filled a massive maze of swarming men, women, and children, a hive of languid activity that spoke of life hanging by a thread, lost to hope, waiting for a salvation it knew to be a dream.
It made Jasside very, very angry.
“Who are all these people? Why are they here?”
Daye sighed
, shaking his head. “Refugees, my lady. A million strong, the last time we attempted to make a count. They’ve nowhere else to go. My brother tasked me with doing what I can to keep them safe and fed.” He looked about in despair. “I haven’t been able to do much.”
“Why not?”
“Have you seen war before?”
“I have.”
“Then you must know that it makes monsters out of men. Wives become widows. Children become burdens. Everyone becomes desperate as the things they took for granted are stripped away all at once, leaving them destitute in their flight away from chaos and bloodshed. Tell me you haven’t seen these things before, with your own eyes, and I’ll say you haven’t seen war in its most honest form.”
Jasside swallowed hard, her anger evaporating in an instant. “You’re right, I suppose. I guess I haven’t seen war. Not really. I was too caught up in the fighting to pay attention to the . . . peripheral effects.”
The prince lowered his head. “My apologies if I seemed harsh. Despite my best intentions, I am made a failure every day. People pay for that failure with suffering I cannot even fathom.”
She shuddered at the pronouncement, wracked with guilt for her judgment of the man yet still furious at the dismal situation. There had to be something that could be done.
“What are your greatest needs?” she said.
“We have plenty of water, thanks to the summer melt running off the mountains,” Daye said, “but food is scarce. Ten thousand new mouths arrive every day, bringing with them stomachs we can’t fill and a host of diseases that our few casters are sore pressed to keep contained. Women and children are dragged away in the night, used for abyss knows what end, while most of our fighting force is out throwing their lives away to stall the inevitable.
“What do we need?” he asked, steel in his voice. “We need a miracle, my lady. Have you got one lying around somewhere?”
“I might.”
Jasside stood on the wagon seat and called a halt. The daeloth obeyed within a beat, and the Sceptrine soldiers, marching in columns along the edges of the road, drew up short after seeing their prince stop alongside her.
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