Shadow of the Void

by Nathan Garrison

  Nothing happened.

  A strange sensation took over her body. It took her a moment to realize what it was.

  Falling.

  “Now you’ve gone and done it, girl.”

  A moment of panic set in. It stretched to eternity.

  Something latched onto her pack and began to pull, halting her unobstructed descent. Slowly, painfully, the force wrenched her backwards onto solid ground.

  Her frantic heart beat in time to ragged breathing that was not her own. She rolled over. Eluhar lay next to her, face red with exertion as his chest heaved up and down.

  Tassariel jumped up. She methodically brushed the dirt from her cloak. “I thank you for saving me, Eluhar. But this changes nothing between us. I cannot stay here.”

  Before he could answer—­she didn’t have the heart to hear it—­she spun away and stepped onto a platform attached to the lip of the domicile. A single lever sprouted from a pedestal at waist height. She moved it from UP to DOWN. The lift, meant for flightless humans, began its descent.

  Like a feather, she fell away from the only life she had ever known, unfamiliar moisture drenching her cheeks and jaw.

  CHAPTER 10

  Mother Poya had lied about the wind. It didn’t blow like a thousand wolves all howling at once.

  It felt more like a million.

  Which made Mevon conflicted about the giant crevasses.

  “You doing all right down there?” Draevenus called.

  Mevon craned his neck to see the assassin perched on the top of the ridge, holding his cloak closed against the cold, biting wind. Down where he climbed, Mevon didn’t even feel a breeze. “Just fine, thanks,” he said, pulling himself up another few arm lengths on the knotted rope. “Not all of us can cross thirty-­pace gaps as if they were a single step.”

  He thought Draevenus might have laughed at that, but the sound was lost as an abrasive flurry swirled snow up into the mierothi’s face.

  Mevon chuckled, yanking himself higher as he stepped up the vertical surface of the crevasse wall. This was the sixth time today. Though he’d had little trouble with the climbing itself, they’d been forced to stop every other one so he could get some food in his body. Their progress had ground to a crawl.

  At last, he reached the top and tumbled over the edge onto flat, frozen ground. The wind returned with all the fury he’d been dreading. He sprang up and shivered inside his bearskin coat.

  “Care for a bit of warmth before we continue?” Draevenus asked.

  Mevon spied the blue flame hovering above the mierothi’s palm. He crowded in without a word, reaching out to collect some of the heat with his hands.

  “Not too—­”

  Mevon’s fingertip dipped into the dancing flame . . . just before it winked out.

  “—­close.” Draevenus sighed. “I suppose I can make another one?”

  “Don’t bother,” Mevon said. He reached down and grasped the straps of the pack, flinging them over his shoulders. “Let’s keep moving. That will warm me up just fine.”

  Draevenus pulled up the rope, wrapped it around his shoulders, and began marching.

  The flat expanse stretched out before them, a seemingly endless white blanket whose edges disappeared in spirals of dancing snow. The Shelf lay somewhere on their right, and to the left, a series of jagged ice cliffs soared towards the very summits of the Andean Mountains, so frail-­looking that a single shout would likely send them tumbling down to crush them. They stayed between the two extremes, where, unfortunately, the worst of the crevasses split the land open.

  The cloud cover broke. Mevon looked skyward. The sun offered no warmth but far too much light. And it looked like it would last awhile this time. He felt a tingle as Draevenus waved a hand across his eyes. A spell of darkening, to protect from the insidious glare. Mevon, of course, could not be helped the same way.

  He reached into a pouch on the side of his pack and withdrew a thin, white cloth. He wrapped it around his head, covering his eyes. The sunlight bouncing off every snowflake and patch of ice nearly blinded him already. Crude as it was, this was the only defense he had against it. He trod forward, guided by the tail of his companion’s flapping cloak, just visible as a shadow ahead.

  “So,” Mevon said, “ready to turn back yet?”

  “Just when we’re beginning to have such a lovely time?” Draevenus replied.

  “If this is your idea of lovely, I’d hate to see you on a dreary day.”

  “Of course it’s lovely. Every step brings us closer to Ruul, after all. And I’ve got some words saved up for him that will bring all the warmth I need.”

  “Do you, now? What words might those be?”

  “A most thorough scolding, I assure you.” Draevenus chuckled. “But what’s this nonsense about turning back? Surely the great Mevon Daere isn’t thinking about quitting?”

  “Quitting? Never. But right now, I think I’d prefer the company of Hakel and his cronies over this cold. And if that means I get to dish out a bit of justice at the same time, all the better!”

  They both shared a good round of laughter at this. But the wind still whistled by, drowning out the sound and putting an end to the mirth. The effort of conversation warred with Mevon’s dwindling energy reserves. Though they made better time than normal men, and the wind kept the snow from piling too high, the chill seemed a permanent occupant in his bones, making each step seem harder than the last.

  At least out here there’s no one to tempt my desire for blood. Indeed, they’d not even seen an insect in days, nor an animal in weeks. Of men, there was no sign. No one could call this place home. No one sane anyway.

  They walked in silence for a time. A long time. Eventually, though, Mevon spoke.

  “Draevenus?”

  “Yes?”

  “Back then, when I talked of meting out justice, I wanted you to know that I was only joking.”

  Draevenus paused, turning slowly. “As was I.”

  Mevon nodded. He could imagine the difficulty. He had no idea what he would say were he to meet a god he once had faith in and who he believed had betrayed him.

  The assassin began trudging forward once more but stopped again almost immediately.

  “What is it?” Mevon asked.

  Draevenus gestured forward. Mevon lifted the cloth over his eyes.

  Another crevasse cleaved through their path.

  The mierothi lifted the rope from his shoulders and began tying it to the pack before Mevon had even finished dropping it. “Ready for another go?”

  Mevon glanced down into the icy shadows. “At least I’ll get a break from the wind.”

  Jasside yawned as the sun set over the fields. Four days, and she’d only slept once, and briefly at that. These ­people had needed her far too much to allow any further rest.

  She shook her head to banish the exhaustion and focused once more on the task at hand. A clay jar sat on the table before her. She energized, cringing against the pain that came from excess use of sorcery before managing to ignore it. She arranged the elements of the fluid within the jar, forming another batch of her elixir.

  A million refugees, and almost half were beset with ailments of some kind. Many were life-­threatening. She didn’t have enough days left in her life to heal them all individually, so she’d come up with this remedy, which could scour a body clean of most common illnesses.

  Jasside slumped down into her chair, the transformation complete. A young girl in twin braids came and lifted the jug, grunting with the effort. “Thank you,” Jasside said.

  The girl flashed her a smile, then carried her burden over to a wagon filled with similar containers. She hefted the jar into the wagon then jumped up and sat on the back edge, feet dangling in the tall grasses. She slapped the sideboard. The wagon driver flipped his reins, kicking the mule team into motion.


  Jasside watched through blurry eyes as the sixth such vehicle this day pulled away to deliver its goods to those in greatest need. She only hoped it would be enough.

  It had better be. I have nothing left to give.

  She glanced around at the cadre of volunteers who had come to her aid. Hundreds of men, women, and children, all bustling about with the tasks she’d given them. There was the old woman and her six granddaughters, who had categorized the elixir distribution, the triplet boys, who’d taken to guarding her at all times, the young ­couple, who saw to the proper placement of the harvest constructs, the one-­eyed matron, who’d organized round-­the-­clock patrols by enlisting idle hands, and many others, who aided in smaller but no less important ways.

  She felt terrible that she hadn’t had time to learn their names. The smiles on their faces, though, reminded her why she was doing this. It felt right to be using her power for something wholly and undeniably good.

  Jasside only regretted that her time was up—­there was still so much work to be done here. So many ways in which she could help. But the fourth day was nearly over, and she had promised Vashodia that she would rejoin the caravan. Something told her that disobedience now would put a permanent end to her apprenticeship. And she doubted any of Vashodia’s previous pupils ever got out of such a show of defiance alive.

  She stood, stretching and yawning once more. A quick glance around told her that no eyes were focused on her at the moment. She used the opportunity to slip away quietly, knowing better than to make a show of her departure. The praise and veneration they’d heaped upon her as she began her “miracles” were already more than she could bear. If she let them give her the send-­off they wanted, she wouldn’t be able to leave before morning. If ever.

  Jasside threaded her way between a pair of tents into a small copse of trees. From there, she came clear out the far side, peering at the road heading north out of the valley. A smudge on the otherwise-­unbroken path indicated the presence of the caravan, nearly cresting the gap to the lands beyond. She took one last look over the fields filled with workers harvesting the newly sprouted crops.

  I’ve done the best I can for these ­people. Now, let’s see what we can do for the rest.

  Smiling with a sudden surge of elation, Jasside energized, then shadow-­dashed forward. Four quick leaps bridged the gap between her and the caravan. She landed, breathless, just outside the ring of daeloth. None was startled. They had been expecting her, it seemed.

  She strode towards Vashodia’s house on wheels. Curiously, she didn’t see any Sceptrine soldiers about, and the prince was now astride a horse. She marched up to him.

  “Are your men hiding in the woods again?” she asked.

  He twitched at her voice, from surprise no doubt. Unlike the darkwatch, he’d not yet become used to ­people showing up out of nowhere. “No, my lady,” he replied. “Every man of mine is still needed here. I venture forth in your company alone.”

  “Alone? Isn’t that a little risky for a prince?”

  He shook his head. “I’ve seen what your kind can do. The power you wield. If you meant ill, having more men around would only mean they died along with me. That, at least, is one risk I don’t have to take.”

  “And that,” she replied, “is a decision I can respect. Please know, however, that I intend you no harm.”

  “I believe you. But we both know, it’s not you we need to worry about.”

  Jasside eyed the wagon. “Is she inside?”

  He nodded.

  “I’ll do my best to discern her intentions. I’ll let you know if I have any—­”

  “Luck? Yes. You’ll definitely need that.”

  Jasside shot him a crooked smile, then pulled open the door.

  By noon, Arivana’s neck hurt from gazing upwards. The towers of her city seemed so different from street level, now that she was actually in a mood to study them. Each one held a personality all its own, a little piece of its owners making its way into the construction of the buildings that, from here, seemed to scrape the sky.

  The one on her right was built from some greenish stone, with arched windows at regular intervals and over a dozen discrete peaks pointing into the clouds like emerald spears. The tower on her right was bulbous, topped by a brass dome, with vines hanging like teardrops from enormous, circular windows. Ahead, the building was square and made of grey stone, but it more than made up for this supposed plainness by draping itself in glittering strands of glass every shade of the rainbow that bathed the street below in a wash of dancing color.

  “Stop gawking,” Flumere said for at least the tenth time that morning. “You look out of place enough as it is.”

  Arivana pulled the cotton shawl tighter around her shoulders. It, and the dress beneath, were as plain as the tower before her but intensely comfortable. High fashion could learn a thing or two from my maid’s wardrobe. The disguise proved useful in getting them out of the palace. No one had looked at her twice.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Arivana said. “I thought you said I fit right in?”

  “Your clothes, maybe. But you still carry yourself like a queen.”

  With a sigh, Arivana slumped her shoulders and brought her eyes to stare at the ground a few paces in front of her. “Why must commoners walk like this? It’s as if they’re afraid to let anyone know what they’re interested in. What things their eyes are drawn to.”

  “Not everyone must do so, Arivana. Just those who are trying to remain unnoticed.”

  “I see your point. Dejected it is.”

  Flumere sighed. “Besides, it’s not the architecture we’re here to see, is it?”

  “No.” Arivana said, darting a glance at the ­people on the street around them. “But I’m not sure what I am supposed to be looking for.”

  “Nothing in particular. You need only to watch the ­people of your city. Get a feel for their lives. Just . . . observe.”

  “How can I do that with my chin in the ground?”

  “Use your peripheral vision.”

  “Peripheral?”

  “It’s how the rest of us tend to view the world. The perspective might do you some good.”

  And so, for the next few tolls, they simply walked the streets. And Arivana was given the chance to observe her ­people, unfettered by the bonds of privilege or position, from the corner of her eye for the very first time. She couldn’t help but smile at the purpose evident in every motion as they partook of their daily routines.

  But when Flumere led her down a street leading away from the city center, away from even the most fringe of the hundred towers, the smile slowly vanished.

  The change came gradually, but potently. The pristine cobbles faded to dirt. Pungent odors drifted from refuse piled in corners. The clothes on every back lost all color but dust. The tallest building didn’t climb past four or five stories, and those that dared seemed brittle, ready to topple before a stiff wind. Faces once painted with joviality were now painted with desperation. And the city guard, patrolling down the center of the lane, commanded the same wide berth as before, but out of fear instead of respect.

  “What have you brought me to, Flumere?”

  “Truth, Arivana. Were you not ready to see it?”

  “Not like this. I thought . . .”

  “What? That everyone was happy?”

  “I don’t know. I . . . don’t know.”

  They shuffled to the edge of the road as the patrol made its way past them. A surge of dread swept over Arivana. She had no protection here. No authority. Declaring herself the queen would likely garner laughter from ­people who had never seen her face before. If they got into any trouble, they’d be on their own.

  “Let’s get out of here,” Arivana said. “I don’t feel safe anymore.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yes.” She pu
lled on her handmaiden’s sleeve. “Please.”

  “All right. Let’s just—­”

  “Get him!”

  They both jerked their heads towards the voice barking out angrily. A man darted through the crowd with frantic eyes. He didn’t make it far. Three city guards grabbed hold of him and dragged him back to their commander, the man who had first yelled for his capture.

  “Well, now,” the commander said to the captive, “if it isn’t old Jarrick Wanes. Fancy meeting you here. Word is, you’ve been late with your payments again. Isn’t that right, corporal?”

  “Right as rain, sir,” another guard said.

  “I’ll get the money,” Jarrick said. “Just give me more time.”

  The commander laughed.

  A woman threw herself against the commander, dropping to her knees. “Please, our children are starving.” She waved to three bedraggled youths behind her. “Can’t you have mercy, at least for their sake?”

  “Corporal?”

  “Yes, sir?”

  “In your most honest opinion—­”

  “I’m as honest as they come, sir.”

  “Of course you are. In your opinion, do these here ­people meet the requirements laid out in statute eighty-­seven of the Citizens’ Refinement Act?”

  The corporal gave the man and woman a quick glance. “After careful review, I can say without a hint of uncertainty that they fail to meet those requirements, sir.”

  “And what is the punishment for that failure?”

  “Immediate seizure of all assets, sir.”

  The commander grinned. “Best get to it, then.”

  The rest of the guardsmen snatched up the woman—­obviously Jarrick’s wife—­and their children, placing them all roughly into metal bindings. They marched off amidst Jarrick’s cries of vengeance and his wife’s pleading wails. The children wept.

  Everyone else on the street turned back to their business, emitting a collective sigh of relief. Arivana instinctively understood the gesture.

  They aren’t relieved justice has been done. No—­they are all just glad it hadn’t been them.