“No. Not now, but soon,” Elos said. “Yes, very soon indeed.”
She nearly fell out of her seat. Springing up, she covered her flub by grabbing a book from the table beside her and shoving it back onto a nearby shelf. Flumere and Arivana didn’t even notice, still too mired in their debate.
Tassariel feigned searching for another book, keeping her body turned away from her companions. “What are you talking about?” she asked.
“They’re coming. Can’t you feel it? Like a scar on the heavens, a shadow of the void growing nearer by the day. A force I cannot stop any more than I can cease trying. We are all of us—gods included—ever slaves to our own natures.”
“What does that have anything to do with our problem here?”
“Maybe nothing. Maybe everything.”
“Enough with the riddles!”
“Not a riddle. Some things can never be calculated. Logic is quantifiable, after all. Passion is not.”
“Whose passion? What the abyss are you even trying to say?”
He answered with silence, as usual. But something was different this time. After a moment, Tassariel realized the ice no longer churned. The revelation took her breath away. Warm for the first time since losing her wings, Tassariel sighed in ecstasy. Still, she couldn’t help but worry. If Elos had finished his predictions, it could only mean one thing.
They’d reached a crossroads, and the bridge behind them had collapsed. There would be no going back.
She only prayed they hadn’t chosen the road bound for doom.
A book slammed down onto the shelf next to her, and Tassariel jumped.
“Did you say something?” Flumere asked.
A flare went up within her at the sudden sight of the woman, but it quickly died out to a mere crackle of flame. Not the raging torrent of lava she’d come to expect. Elos, it seemed, no longer had the passion required for hate. If she were to label the jumbled alien presence inside her, she’d have to call it resigned.
“No,” Tassariel said. “Just muttering to myself is all. You find anything?”
“Nothing useful.”
“Yes we did!” called Arivana.
Tassariel turned to face the queen. “How so?”
Flumere folded her arms. “She wants to take her grievances against Tior to the other ministers. She seems to think they’ll take her side in all this.”
“They’ll at least have to listen to me,” Arivana said. “The law is clear on that.”
Flumere raised an eyebrow. “But what do you think they’ll do after you’ve spoken?”
“I don’t know. I guess we’ll find out, won’t we?”
“It’s not worth the risk. Challenging Tior’s authority is the same as challenging theirs. I can’t imagine they’d respond well.”
“I think I’m with Flumere on this,” Tassariel said.
“I didn’t trust him the moment I set eyes on him, and nothing I’ve learned since has made me change my mind. And what your aunt said—”
“He and Claris have always been at odds. Their opposite stance on the war just brought things to a head.”
“That’s putting it mildly. I’ve plenty of people in my life I’m ‘at odds’ with, Arivana. None of us have ever tried to kill each other.”
The queen bowed her head. “She only did what she thought was right.”
“So you’re defending her now? I thought you’d taken Tior’s side?”
“I don’t want to take anyone’s side!”
Arivana’s lip trembled, and Tassariel realized she was on the verge of tears. Flumere rushed to her queen’s side, producing a silk handkerchief just as the first sobs began wracking the tiny frame. Tassariel had never seen the queen looking so frail, so vulnerable, so alone. It was probably there all along. Arivana must have been adept at hiding it.
Tassariel sat next to the queen and hugged her close. “I understand,” she said.
They embraced for a while, rocking gently back and forth. Tassariel hummed some wordless tune, a melody remembered from her childhood. It seemed to work, as Arivana soon steadied her breathing, and all tension leaked from the form between her arms.
The queen lifted her head. “Thanks.”
Tassariel only smiled.
“Tassariel?” a voice called from somewhere nearby. “Tassariel, are you in here?”
She released Arivana and stood, recognizing the voice. She wasn’t sure if she was happy to hear it. “I’m here, Lerathus.”
A few beats later, he came into view and spread his arms out wide. “Ah, there you are,” he said. “I was hoping to find you here.”
“And so I am.”
He drew up short, obviously second-guessing his decision to try embracing her. Maybe she wasn’t sure about him, but her body language must have held no uncertainty.
Lerathus sighed. “You probably want to know why I’m here.”
“Yes.”
“I came to apologize.”
“Really?”
He nodded. “You haven’t been treated like an honored kinsman. And you”—he gestured towards Arivana—“haven’t been given the respect due a queen.”
“Do you speak for every consular official in this?”
“Unfortunately, no. Things in the consulate aren’t . . .”
“Aren’t what?”
He drew in close to her and lowered his voice. “I can’t really explain it here. Please, join me for dinner tomorrow night. I’ll tell you all I can.”
Tassariel pondered the invitation. They had been good friends, once, even if from afar. She at least owed him the chance to redeem himself. “Very well. I’ll be there.”
“Good. Thank you.” He smiled, laughing boisterously. “I’ll look forward to seeing you then.”
Tassariel managed a smile as he retreated. “Things might be looking up after all,” she said.
“Don’t count on it,” Elos said. “Dark days are yet to come. For all of us here. The darkest days indeed.”
Tassariel shivered.
CHAPTER 19
Draevenus awoke to the sounds of fighting, determined not to let the tiny old woman wrestle him back into bed again.
It had been annoying the first time, and an embarrassment the second. He wouldn’t allow a third. He couldn’t. Not when he knew how long Mevon had been standing guard, alone, against far too many enemies. It was a suicidal task, even for one of his considerable talents.
Draevenus managed, after several grunting tries, to sit up on the feather-filled sack that the villagers used as a mattress. He paused, hugging his knees as he caught his breath.
It’s sad that I actually consider this a good start.
His back still burned with agony, but the stitches seemed to be holding. Draevenus probed what parts of the wound he could reach, thankful that his fingers came back free of his own fresh blood. Another good sign.
Soft as he could, Draevenus rolled over onto his hands and knees. Then, with a slowness made necessary as much for the need to remain quiet as it was for the limit of his own muscles to make haste, he lifted himself to a standing position.
Head spinning, he lost his balance and stumbled forward. He crashed to his knees, grabbing desperately at the thick, round branches that made up the hut’s wall in order to avoid a full return to the floor.
Mevon needs me!
The thought grounded him, focusing his effort. With another grunt, he pushed aside the pain and weakness and pulled himself back to his feet.
The old woman who’d been caring for him barreled through the entrance a beat later.
She jabbered in that almost-speech these villagers used, gesturing wildly towards the mattress as she drew close. Grabbing his shoulder, she tried to pull him to it. He resisted. Finally. She reached for him again, but he snatched her wrist out of the
air and gently pushed it away. Her eyes widened at this; he’d barely been able to hold his own cup just a day ago. Draevenus tried not to show how much effort it took, but unable to see his own face, had no idea how far he’d succeeded.
She stepped back, cooing softly like a hen in a roost as she examined him from head to foot. At last, she shook her head.
Draevenus let go of the wall and straightened. “I’m fine,” he said, tapping a hand to his chest. “Well, not fine, I guess, but well enough to do what needs to be done.”
She crossed her arms, raising an eyebrow. Some gestures, it seemed, needed no translation.
He sighed. “Look, that’s my friend down there. Or, he was once. I can’t imagine, after the way I’ve treated him, that he’d still want anything to do with me. I let this quest overwhelm my reason. I put him in danger needlessly, over and over again, never thinking how it might affect him. I even mocked his own efforts to find meaning within himself just because I couldn’t fathom the logic behind his methods. Maybe I didn’t want to. Maybe I recognized that his struggle was my own and that I wasn’t ready to face it. That I didn’t have his courage.
“I know you can’t really understand me right now, but I have to help him. Can’t you hear what going on down there? If I held back even one morsel of strength, and the worst came to pass, I’d never be able to forgive myself. He doesn’t deserve that. Especially not for my sake. Please . . . help me.”
The old woman sniffed loudly, pursing her lips, and tugged on her greying braid for several long moments. At last, though, her features softened. Whether she understood him or not, the pleading in his tone must have crossed the barrier separating them still. She called out, and a moment later, two young men came in. Draevenus gratefully draped his arms over their shoulders and let them assist him out the door.
The village wasn’t large. Still, it took several marks to maneuver over suspended walkways meant for more nimble feet. At last, they came to the edge. Draevenus extricated himself from his helpers and leaned on the wooden railing atop the thick tree that served as the village’s lone point of entry.
Bracing himself, Draevenus looked below.
What he saw at first was chaos to his eyes, a tangled mess, indiscernible in the murky, predawn light. One thing quickly became clear, however: Mevon was nowhere in sight.
He widened his gaze in an attempt to establish context for the confused images. At the farthest edges of the field, dark men circled with arrows held to strings, twitching their heads at phantom sounds. Closer in, beasts roamed with noses to the ground.
They were searching.
It was a small thing, but it gave him hope. If Mevon had fallen, there’d be no need to continue their hunt.
Draevenus let his eyes spiral back towards the center. Around two sides were littered the remains of what looked like wooden barriers, nearly a dozen beasts impaled upon the spikes. And now, directly beneath him, he finally understood what he was seeing.
Bodies. Three dozen at least.
Piled almost two paces high, the twisted mass of fur and flesh seemed to ripple as breezes washed past. Slash marks across throats, puncture wounds in hearts, severed limbs and torn heads—the causes of death were apparent and precise.
Mevon had been busy.
How the abyss have you kept it up this long?
Five days of ceaseless combat would weaken any man to the point of death. Hardohl were not exempt from the need for rest. Even if Mevon was still alive, Draevenus couldn’t imagine there was any fight left in him.
Taking a deep breath, Draevenus began reaching for his power.
A half dozen of the sniffing creatures drew close together, just below his position, stepping onto the bodies of their peers. Harsh growls passed between them, as if they were coordinating their efforts, closing in on their target. Draevenus didn’t know if it was possible, but he couldn’t discount it. He strained ever harder to energize.
Between one breath and the next, the mass of dark flesh exploded, dead beasts flying through the air.
A monstrous form emerged from below the pile.
The two closest beasts received daggers through their eyes before the others pounced. The next few moments became a flurry of black forms writhing in furious contest. Angry barks and howls and screeches were cut short, one at a time, as the smell of fresh blood splashed across that of the old.
Then, as quickly as it began . . . stillness.
Draevenus could barely recognize the man left standing. His clothes were torn to ribbons or less, and new scars carved maps across skin drowning in black seas. His chest heaved, the shrill wheezes as loud as dying birds. The whites of the man’s eyes were as red as mierothi irises, darting around as if seeing ghosts in every shadow. His muscles seemed to quiver but no longer in rage.
Draevenus felt as if punched in the gut as he saw what Mevon had gone through on his behalf.
The darkness at work here should have drawn his full attention, but he’d been so focused on his goal that he’d been blind to the danger until it was too late. Someone else had had to confront it, suffering for the effort.
A situation that sounded far too familiar.
Draevenus shook loose his melancholic thoughts, realizing their futility. Dealing with Ruul would have to wait. For now, a friend needed his help.
You’ve done more than enough, Mevon. Let me do the rest.
Draevenus found his power at last.
He began acquiring targets. From this vantage point, none of them could hide from his gaze. Conjuring scores of sorcerous arrows, Draevenus shot them forward, taking out dark men and beasts by small groups. They fled, and he picked them off one by one.
By the time he lowered his hands, exhausted by his efforts, Draevenus couldn’t see a single thing moving in the surrounding woods.
Mevon looked up at him and smiled . . .
. . . before falling unconscious atop the pile of his foes.
Ongshaith looked different this time.
Banners hung from every window, displaying the bear symbol of Sceptre. The damage from the battle was mostly repaired, a fast feat in the two months they’d been gone, and smiling citizens were sweeping up what remained. People moved about as if life were back to normal. As if no occupying army had ever been present.
Jasside almost felt the need to chastise them for their lack of caution but realized there was no need. Panisahldron and its allies had retreated. And every set of lips in the city sang of the praises of King Chase, who had banished the foreign terrors, once and for all.
The only problem was, she and Vashodia couldn’t find the target of that adulation.
A skeleton crew remained in the city. A few companies at most, augmented by civilian volunteers to help keep order. And that meant there was a vacuum of power. So when they questioned every soldier who could be found, none had the authority to take the prisoner. Worse, none could tell them where either Chase or Daye had gone, which worried her.
The practical part of her hoped they and their army hadn’t run into any unexpected trouble. Another part just wanted to see Daye’s face again.
There was only one place left to check.
“That must be it,” Jasside said, pointing down the avenue.
Vashodia shrugged. She’d been unusually quiet since they’d left the fleeing mass of coalition forces. Something was unsettling her, but Jasside could not figure out what. And she knew the futility of pressing for answers. Vashodia’s lips could be tighter than casket lids, two paces underground, if she wasn’t ready to share.
The road split around a large square directly ahead of them, now a hive of activity. Thousands worked to repair the structure there, but this was different than the rest. The building had been destroyed almost a year and a half ago, falling prey to the first wave of the Panisian offensive, and had stood empty and cold. A reminder to the people of Ongs
haith about the price of resistance.
The Sceptrines were rebuilding their palace.
They drew to a halt just inside the construction zone and waited. Jasside eyed the passing soldiers until she spotted one who—finally—had sufficient rank on his uniform. “You!” She aimed her hand towards him, then curled up a finger. “Come here.”
The man nearly tripped in his effort to run to them. He skidded to a halt and bowed low at the waist. “Great ladies,” he said. “It is an honor.”
Jasside returned the bow, though not nearly so low—she wasn’t flexible enough, and she was fairly sure it would be considered some kind of insult anyway. “We have a prisoner to drop off.” She flexed her eyes towards the bound man standing with head down behind her.
Vashodia tugged on his chain. He lurched forward a step but made no other motion or sound. He’d been broken of defiance on the trip. Jasside’s mistress had made sure of that.
“We were told,” Jasside continued, “that someone here knows where the city prison is. Might you be able to help us?”
“Might I?” The officer bowed again. “I’d cut off my hand before denying you the slightest whim. Your desire is mine.”
He turned and began shouting for help, and scores came running at his call—nearly every soul in hearing range. Jasside felt more than a little uncomfortable at the reception. It’s nice to be appreciated, but this feels more like worship. Earning rabid followers might have been Vashodia’s idea of a good time, but it certainly wasn’t hers.
The assembled company took charge of their prisoner and led him away. The officer remained behind, waiting expectantly.
“Anything else you wish,” he said, “hesitate not to ask.”
“You can start by telling us where Chase is,” Vashodia said.
The man’s exuberance deflated. “The king is . . . not here.”
Vashodia nearly growled. “Where else could he be? Drunk in some brothel?”
To his credit, the man hid his shock well. “Not to my knowledge . . .”
“Then where is he?”
“South.”
“We came into the city from the south,” Jasside said, “and saw no sign of him. All our queries led here.”
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