by Stina Leicht
“It won’t do anyone any good if you kill yourself doing it.”
I’m already dead, Blackthorne thought. A long, discordant howl echoed through the woods, jolting his heart with a flash of terror. “Come on!” Somehow, he scraped together enough energy to run.
They got as far as the first perimeter before the malorum caught up to them. They’d just entered the ravine leading to the river dock. Tall pines and birches towered along the top ledges, casting long shadows in their path. Blackthorne didn’t have time to sense the creature. The malorum leapt down onto Hännenen and his burden from behind, landing to the right. Blackthorne’s exhausted warning was cut off by two gunshots from the trees. The malorum dropped and rolled off Hännenen. The pristine snow was painted with ichor. Three sentries hopped down from their perches to meet them—all three dressed in Eledorean uniforms. One of them used a series of loud whistles to signal that friends had reached the perimeter.
“Thank the Mother you’re here,” Hännenen said, gasping. “Gustafsson, get Reini. Hirmi, Isokoski, help me with the reindeer.”
The sentries with torches rushed to assist, relieving Blackthorne of Reini’s weight. He would’ve protested, but he didn’t have the breath. No longer running for his life, he was slammed with a bout of dizziness. His lungs refused to obey him and squeezed shut with agonizing pain originating in his back, close to the spine. At the edges of his blurring vision he spied two more malorum. Unable to speak, he pointed.
Hännenen retrieved something from his pack and turned. “Get down!”
Blackthorne didn’t have time to wonder how Hännenen lit the fuse. He threw himself onto the ground just as Hännenen tossed it at the monsters. The bomb landed at the feet of the malorum. Then came the explosion and pressure. Time became disjointed. Blackthorne couldn’t hear. He felt clumps of snow, rock, and ichor land against his cheek, head, and back. The agony trapping his chest didn’t stop. He smelled burned gunpowder, his own sweat, and blood. The taste he associated with the presence of malorum flooded his mouth. Someone or something tugged at his body. He closed his eyes and fought to breathe. His training had taught him to welcome death, and he thought himself immune to the fear of it. Still, he didn’t want to watch himself be torn apart.
Hännenen’s voice was muffled. “Laine, get over here!”
The dizziness was all-consuming. Blackthorne didn’t know one direction from another. His ears were ringing. Everything was moving both too fast and too slow. Coughing, he stood up with the help of one of the others. He choked on powder smoke until, just as suddenly as it happened, the attack stopped and he could breathe again.
Hännenen asked, “Are you hurt?”
Blackthorne shook his head.
The group headed homeward, chased by a hunting pack of malorum. Blackthorne lost count in the rush but had stopped around ten. That’s simply not possible, he thought as he used the last of his reserves to get home. They aren’t group hunters. They cannot cooperate.
He collapsed in a heap the instant the door slammed shut behind him. The muffled sound of malorum cries echoed down the passage as they threw themselves at the wooden door.
DYLAN
THE HOLD
GRANDMOTHER MOUNTAIN
NEW ELEDORE
SIXTH OF PITKÄKUU, 1785
Entering the shrine he’d created in a less-traveled corner of the Hold, Dylan was taken aback by the presence of a woman he didn’t recognize. She was sitting on the rug positioned in front of the seawater font with her back to him. She was heavyset, and her dark brown spirit knots were mostly gathered high on her head, while some spilled down her back and onto the rug. The prayer tokens tucked into her greying braids were shaped like tiny ships. She was dressed in a loose silk shirt dyed in greens and blues with flecks of yellow, and a pair of brown sailor’s breeches. Her feet were bare. He recognized the intricate pattern painted into the silk as a traditional Waterborne wax-relief process his sister, Joan, specialized in.
Dylan hesitated. He didn’t wish to disturb the woman’s prayers, but at the same time, he was curious as to who she was. The Waterborne shrine was intended to be private. He hadn’t heard of any new arrivals, much less any new arrivals of Waterborne descent. He decided to go ahead with his plans and released the bead curtain he’d been holding. The glass beads made a clattering sound like rushing water. He began replenishing the oil in the lamps around the altar. The room wasn’t large—he couldn’t have avoided disturbing her. Still, he attempted to be as quiet as he could.
“Good morning, little lordling,” she said in perfect Ocealandic. “I’ve been waiting for you.”
Dylan knew that voice. Aegrir. His heart staggered inside his chest, and his blood grew cold. He turned and tried not to gape. “Great One?”
“Thank you for the shrine. You thought of everything.” She waved a hand at the font. “It’s filled with seawater. This far inland, such a thing is … good. River water is so bland and flat.” She got to her feet and held out her brown arms. “Don’t stand there with your mouth open. Come. Give your mother a hug.”
He obliged her. She smelled of the ocean and fresh air. Her pale eyes were the same color as Dar’s, a shifting blue-green, and her skin was warm like the sun’s reflection on the surface of the sea. She gave him a gentle, loving squeeze and released him. Respectfully, he stepped back and bowed.
“I apologize, Great One,” he said. “I did not expect you here.”
She gazed around the room, taking in the furnishings and hangings he’d used to give the space a more homelike feel. “So much rock. It is understandable.”
“It is necessary, Great One.”
“Because of the abominations,” she said, a sad expression tugging at the corners of her full lips. “And it is about them that I’ve come.”
“The soulbane?”
She nodded. “Sit. We need to talk.”
He gathered a couple of cushions and offered one to her. When she refused it, he settled on the rug, using them both.
“Have you ever been to Ghost Crescent?” she asked.
Ghost Crescent was an uninhabited island about seventy miles south of the Acrasian peninsula. It was known to be haunted. “I haven’t, but I know where it is,” Dylan said. “There are many stories told about it—none of them good.”
“There’s a reason for that,” she said. She traced a pattern in the air at her side, and a bottle and two small glasses appeared. “Long, long ago, when I was young, this world was peopled with many beings like myself. Mortals were much fewer then. Our world, this world, was linked to another not unlike our own. On it lived beings much like us. In the beginning, those beings who lived in this other place were intelligent and wise. They learned how to harness power from the land, the water, and the air. They built cities high into the sky. Their thirst for knowledge became insatiable. They abandoned wisdom and empathy in exchange for gain and control. Their desire for more took on a darkness. It became an obsession. In the process of their pursuits, they enslaved and consumed all life and all light, and yet they craved more. They asked for this world, and we refused. The light of their sun was consumed at last. Hungering in the dark, they invaded. A great war was fought. The force of it scorched and shook the very earth. Seas boiled dry, and much of the beautiful world this once was … was destroyed. Rifts were opened with the force of the fight. But at long last, we drove the abominations back at great cost. To do so required the united power of all the peoples and surviving beings of spirit. We closed the rifts against the other-worlders, although many of the others like me were lost. The abominations drove themselves mad in their defeat.
“Unfortunately, too much damage was done, and there are weaknesses in the closures. Each place in which one of these rifts exists has a guardian people. Each was charged to pass on the necessary lore. The seals had to be reinforced periodically. Over time, the lore was lost. The guardian peoples stopped paying attention. Other needs overshadowed their duty. Some of the … doorways no longer have the
ir keepers.” She uncorked the bottle, filled the cups, and handed one to him.
Dylan accepted the cup. He smelled finely crafted rum. “That doesn’t sound good.”
“It was to be expected,” she said, taking a sip. “Mortals have short lives and even shorter memories. When memories change, mortal history changes with it. We knew the lore would be lost. That is why the seals were built to overlap and reinforce one another. They’re connected. In this way, this world has been made safe for centuries. Every so often, one of the abominations forces its way here.”
“The soulbane and the malorum are one and the same,” Dylan said, unsurprised.
“And the more they consume, the more they become what they eat.” She nodded. “One hundred years ago, one such creature crossed over. The being it first encountered was a lesser spirit. As a result, the creature was more powerful, more aware than the others. It survived and thrived in the night. It grew to know this world and its people until it could disguise itself as a mortal. It has taken leadership within the mortal country in which it resides. Since then, it has been bringing over more and more of its kind. It has been working to break the seals and remove any possible defense. It was that creature who ordered the extermination of the kainen. It is also the one who collected the water steel swords you seek.”
“The Emperor?” Dylan asked. “The Emperor is one of—of them?”
“Not the Emperor. A consul,” she said. “There are two consuls. And one of them is … this creature.”
“Oh.”
“There is a place—an underwater cave,” she said. “It is on Ghost Crescent. This is the source of the abominations who have been infecting my oceans. The guardians there were destroyed. Therefore, you, my little lordling, must go to this island and close this rift.”
Dylan blinked. “Me? I can’t! I—”
“I am doing what I can,” she said. “But I cannot go to Ghost Crescent.”
“Why?”
“As powerful as the Acrasian consul is, that abomination consumed a lesser spirit. If one of its kind were to encounter and consume me … the result would be unthinkable,” she said.
“Oh,” Dylan said. He paused, staring at the contents of his glass. “How am I to do this? I don’t know anything about closing a rift. Should I consult the Sea Mother? Perhaps there is someone more qualified—”
“There isn’t time,” Aegrir said. “The one I had chosen before you was unable to complete the task before she was consumed. I made a mistake. I sent her alone.”
Dylan swallowed. “Tell me what I must do.”
“You have friends here,” she said.
“I do.”
“They have weapons that will be of some use. The Eledoreans must give you these weapons,” she said.
“How many will we need? Enough for me, Dar—”
“I must caution you against bringing your Darius,” she said. “He doesn’t have the necessary connection to the ancestors. He is unprotected.”
“I can’t leave him behind,” Dylan said. “I promised never to leave him again.”
“Then I will not ask you to break your oath, little lordling.” She paused and gazed past his shoulder, apparently seeing something he could not. “Interesting. It seems he will prove useful. Not at the rift … elsewhere. On the island itself. Your Darius may go with my blessing. However, he will need to do something for me.”
“I’m certain he would be honored.”
“Normally, I would not permit you to speak for him, but time is far too short.” She then closed her eyes and spread her arms out wide with her palms to the ceiling and began to sing.
Dylan didn’t recognize the song, nor did he understand the words. Her quiet voice resonated through his entire being. It was the most beautiful thing he’d ever heard. After a time, Aegrir brought her hands together. A ball of blue light appeared. It drifted, finally resting inside her cupped palms. She stopped her singing, and then with a sad smile, she blew into her hands. The light grew brighter before it went out.
She turned to him. “I will entrust your Darius with this life. He is to protect them and nurture them, for they are the last of their kind. Neither of you is to tell anyone of their true nature. There are those who might make use of them elsewhere. This one is intended only for Ghost Crescent. Understood?”
Dylan nodded and reached his hands out. A small brown lizard with jewel-blue eyes crawled into them. “What is it?”
“The parent of Ghost Crescent’s new guardians,” Aegrir said. “Your Darius will know when to release them on the island.”
Dylan nodded. “Thank you. How soon does this need to be done?”
“No more than two months’ time.” Aegrir stared him in the eyes. “And do not go alone. Take only those you trust.”
SUVI
THE HOLD
GRANDMOTHER MOUNTAIN
NEW ELEDORE
SEVENTH OF PITKÄKUU, 1784
“You’re sure?” Suvi asked. Her heart was thudding inside her chest as she attempted to accept what she’d heard. I’m going to die? I can’t die! This was the first time Ilta had given her bad news since the fall of Jalokivi, and she was doing her best not to panic.
Don’t be stupid. Everyone dies eventually. No matter how much one avoids talking or even thinking about it. You’re a queen. Mother would want you to be brave and face this, and you know it.
She understood she must have given away the strength of her emotions when she saw Ilta wince. Suvi thought, Get control of yourself. Now.
Ilta said, “Nothing is certain.”
Suvi frowned. Stop. Stay alert. She’s softening the blow. She’ll get in the habit of not telling you the full truth, if you let her. You must be strong for everyone else’s sake. “It’s okay. I’m not afraid.” It was only partly a lie. “I’m not my father, you know.” The remark sounded defensive even to her ears.
“Every Silmaillia is trained to gauge the character of their regent. And have been from the time of Samsa Rasi,” Ilta said. “If I thought you were like your father … well … Gran wouldn’t have breathed a word, and neither would I.”
Suvi nodded, and the conversation died. An uncomfortable silence lingered in the air until she ventured, “So, what does one say when one is told they’re going to die?”
“I didn’t say that,” Ilta said. “I said that if you go to Novus Salernum, it’s highly likely that you’ll be captured.”
“There’s a difference?”
“There is,” Ilta said.
“Well … there’s that, I suppose,” Suvi said.
“Remember, the future isn’t simple or certain. It’s mutable. The act of telling you in and of itself affects the outcome.”
Again, Suvi nodded. “Hopefully in a positive way.” She was trying to take in everything she’d been told, but none of it was fitting easily inside her mind. Wait a moment. “I’m not needed in Novus Salernum. The rift is located on an island called Ghost Crescent.” Dylan had approached her about the swords and about a venture to the island. He hadn’t asked for her help. He hadn’t needed to. She’d volunteered. “I can remain aboard ship while the others retrieve the swords.”
Ilta tilted her head. “So, technically, you won’t be in Novus Salernum proper. You’ll only be in the harbor.”
“Exactly.”
“That’s a fine line.”
“But one I don’t mind risking,” Suvi said, and then paused. “What if this is one of those events we can’t avoid?”
Ilta said, looking away. “I don’t get the feeling that this is one of those. The visions feel more like a warning.”
“You’re sure?”
“As I can be,” Ilta said. “Of course, no Silmaillia is perfect. We’re just as flawed and just as prone to mistakes as everyone else. And this is even more so in my case.”
“I’m aware. No one expects perfection from you,” Suvi said. “I certainly don’t.”
Ilta frowned. “The truth is, sometimes I have trouble sorting out what i
s a vision and what is … reality. That’s why … well …” She shrugged. “If it makes you feel better, I can conduct a more specific, personal reading for you.”
Although Suvi had heard of it being done, she’d never witnessed an actual stone reading before, and while her curiosity threatened to get the better of her, she knew requesting one at this time would only undermine the tenuous line of trust between the two of them. “It’s not necessary,” she said, suddenly understanding that Ilta was more nervous than usual. “I know you’re doing the best you can. We all are.”
Ilta nodded. She still seemed jittery, in spite of the reassurance. “I had that vision or variants of it three times in the past week. Tea?”
The Silmaillia’s apartments smelled of a combination of medicinal herbs and flowers. From the moment Suvi had entered the room, she hadn’t been able make up her mind whether that was pleasant or not. Ilta is your Silmaillia. Trust that you will work together to find a means of avoiding what can be avoided.
And if it can’t?
Then it can’t. And your duty is to mitigate the potential for disaster. You aren’t the important factor in the survival of New Eledore. Your people are. And that means you’re going to have to give some thought about what happens to them when you die.
Ilta’s discomfort appeared to be getting worse. Now she seemed unwilling to meet her eyes. Suvi watched Ilta fuss over whatever concoction she was substituting for tea and tried to be more … queenly?
Since when has the relationship between a regent and the Silmaillia ever been comfortable? But it could be, and ultimately, that was what Suvi wanted. Too much depended upon it. This is a phase. We’ll get through it.
Suvi allowed Ilta to place a delicately painted teacup and saucer in front of her without showing her distaste. The Hold had run out of black tea a week earlier. Suvi hated having to settle for herbal tea, particularly chamomile. She didn’t want to drink it, but one of the surviving Eledorean customs was hospitality to visitors. Therefore, for the sake of civility, she picked up the cup and brought it to her lips. All at once, she caught the scent of cinnamon and cardamom and paused before tasting it. It was surprisingly good.
