by Mok, DK
The glass panes of the sunroom began to rattle, the floor shuddering beneath them.
“I can’t stop it, Seris. I can hear them. I can feel them. They’re tearing through what’s left of me and I can’t control it.”
Seris looked down at the massive sword in his hands, and his gaze stopped at the crest on the hilt—the Talgaran stag, the hart.
A curve of glass burst inward, raining glittering shards across the floor.
“I can’t kill you, Elhan,” said Seris.
Elhan rolled her inky eyes.
“I’m not going to bloody stab myself through the heart,” she said.
Another pane of glass shattered, then another, spraying in a circuit of razor slivers. Seris looked from Elhan to the sword, his heart thumping in his ears.
Can I do it?
Can I sacrifice one life to save countless others?
Can I make that choice, raise my hand, and murder for the common good?
There were people who believed they could solve problems through violence. Who believed that, sometimes, it was the only way to protect the people they loved. There were people who knew that when the time came, when faced with that choice, they would act. Perhaps with regret, with anguish, with grief, but they would act—because it was what had to be done.
Kneeling in blood, his robes stained scarlet. And reaching out with empty hands, he offered life.
“I’m sorry,” said Seris, his eyes dark with grief. “I took an oath.”
The edge of the sun rose over the hills, the first cast of daylight rushing across the land and slanting off the jagged remains of the sunroom.
“Is that the—” Elhan began angrily.
The noise was sharp and sudden, like the sound of wet gristle tearing. Elhan jerked suddenly, like a puppet whose strings had been hit by a passing bird. She seemed to hang for a moment, her feet not quite flat on the floor, and she stared at the blade protruding through her chest from behind.
Elhan’s eyes went blank, and she collapsed forward slowly, her shadow sliding from the figure behind her.
“I’m sorry,” said Valamon softly. “So did I.”
Wordless horror swept Seris as he lunged forward, catching Elhan in his arms. He knelt on the shuddering stone floor, trying desperately to stanch the stain of blood rising from her chest, but it was already too late. There were some things you couldn’t fix. You couldn’t re-capitate people. And you couldn’t mend a broken heart.
Seris shook with rage, with sorrow, with grief as he looked up at the dark-haired man and the armoured woman beside him. Valamon knelt beside Seris.
“I’m sorry,” said Valamon gently. “You would be the cleric, the Kali-Adelsa’s companion.”
Seris looked into the Crown Prince’s eyes.
“You—” said Seris.
Her shadow falls on rising son…
“You just—” said Seris.
And sinks a kingdom to its grave.
“I don’t mean to be alarming, but I think the sky is falling,” said Haska.
“You just fulfilled the destiny,” said Seris.
He looked through the broken panes of glass at a sky slowly emptying of stars, points of light streaking down from the heavens. The earth convulsed, and Seris gasped, feeling as though his skin were lifting from his bones.
He could see layers of shadow tearing from the surface of the world, whipping through the air towards them, towards Elhan. The power was pouring into her corpse like a vortex at the heart of a whirlpool.
Gods, it was trying to bring her back.
“Destiny?” said Valamon.
“It’s trying to resurrect her,” said Seris. “That’s how the world gets destroyed, how they finally come back. Destroy the world and rebuild it…”
Destroy the world and rebuild it right.
The spell would resurrect her with the life of the world—this imperfect world and all of its people the sacrificial lamb for a new, brighter existence.
Seris looked at Elhan’s body, grey and seething with the souls of long-dead sorcerers. The Kali-Adelsa. The Accursed One.
…rebuild it right.
Seris’s eyes shone with fervour, and Valamon and Haska exchanged a look.
“You fulfil the destiny by killing her,” said Seris. “You break it by bringing her back.”
Seris knelt beside Elhan and wrapped his arms around her, holding her gently against him. He closed his eyes, feeling the energy clawing at his skin.
Concentrate.
He could feel Eliantora flowing through him, into Elhan, and he focused—not just on the heart, not just the organs, not just the flesh and bone, but deeper, further. Into the blood, into the cells, into every particle of her body. As far as he could go.
Seris trembled with the effort, feeling the energy tearing through his veins, draining from him like a river of candles snuffing out one by one.
You can’t bring back the dead.
That was what they always said, but it wasn’t exactly true. You could. But only once.
Seris struggled for breath, cold sweat mingling with the blood.
Eliantora…
He could feel her beside him, her empathy washing over him.
I want to make a trade.
Seris could taste blood on his lips, and still he concentrated. Further, further back, to the beginning, before she had been changed. Digging through the scars and sorcery, ripping away a lifetime of damage to expose the new skin beneath. He could feel the power flowing through him, from him now, flooding her like light.
His breath was loud and hollow in his ears, and his skin tingled into numbness. He tried to concentrate everything he had into finishing this—
Take it all.
He could fix her. He could bring her back righ—
NINETEEN
Two figures stood atop the eastern tower of Algaris Fort, silhouetted against the breaking dawn. They looked towards the ravaged keep as a misty trail of light began to drift around the tower, like a lost aurora.
“That was less fun than I expected,” said Amoriel tonelessly.
“It usually is,” said Barrat.
They stood in silence for a moment, the ragged clatter of fighting below now intermittent and half-hearted. The earthquakes had ceased with unnatural suddenness, and it was hard to imagine that, only moments ago, the world seemed on the brink of some cataclysmic disaster. Barrat glanced at Amoriel.
“You knew it was a long shot,” he said. “Especially after Olrios waggled his fingers in it.”
Amoriel shrugged. “I’d hoped it would cause more spectacular damage…”
Her flippant tone faltered, and she turned her face away slightly.
“What’s that?” Barrat nodded towards the slowly swirling halo above the sunroom.
Reluctantly, Amoriel followed his gaze, a hint of guilt in her eyes.
“The tears of Eliantora,” she said, her mouth screwing up slightly. “Dammit, I hate it when she cries.”
“You did just kill a third of her followers. And she was never very popular, even when she was alive.”
Amoriel looked balefully across the darkness.
“I suppose you want me to do something about it.”
Barrat crossed his arms. “I would never presume to suggest such a thing. Although, as I recall, it wouldn’t be the first time you’ve come to her aid.”
Amoriel’s cloak stirred in the breeze, disturbing a light layer of ash by her feet.
“Her cleric broke my spell,” she said with faint accusation.
“He also sacrificed himself for one of your kin.”
Amoriel considered this grudgingly, new possibilities trickling into her mind. Finally, she gave a smile that turned into something else by the time it reached her eyes.
“Perhaps I’ll call it even,” she said.
TWENTY
Dawn broke across a deeply marred land. The chasms had closed, but jagged furrows remained. The rubble of collapsed homes filled the streets, and pocke
ts of fire were still being extinguished by exhausted townsfolk.
In the remains of the sunroom, Valamon knelt by the two bodies on the floor. They both looked so frail, so helpless, yet they’d embarked on a perilous quest to find him, and had taken it upon themselves to save the world. It really should have been his job.
Valamon gently lifted the cleric’s body from the Kali-Adelsa—from Elhan—and placed him on the floor beside her. He suddenly stopped, his gaze drawn to the gaping wound in Elhan’s chest, or rather, where there should have been one. He tentatively pulled aside the edge of the sliced hessian and saw a freshly sealed welt over her heart. It was at this point that Valamon noticed the girl’s eyes were open, staring at him with an expression that suggested she was thinking about biting him. He quickly withdrew his hand.
“Kali—Elhan?” said Valamon.
The girl blinked, then shifted stiffly into a sitting position.
“I feel funny.”
She held up her hands and looked at her palms.
“Hey, my scar’s gone,” said Elhan, then her brow furrowed. “Why am I pink?”
Her eyes flicked around the room as though mildly offended by the colour and shape of everything. Then her eyes stopped on the limp body of Seris.
There was a silence as unfamiliar gears began to work in Elhan’s mind.
“What happened to him?”
“He put himself between you and death, when his own hands were empty,” said Haska softly, looking at Valamon.
Valamon took Elhan’s shaking hands.
“I think he broke the curse, the destiny,” said Valamon. “He brought you back, so the spell didn’t have to. He gave his life for yours.”
“That’s stupid,” said Elhan, her voice catching. “He thinks you can just free prisoners and destroy rebel camps, but I’m the one who ends up having to save him. I’m the one who has to—”
Elhan tried to pull away, but Valamon didn’t let go.
“I can bring him back,” said Elhan, her voice slightly strangled. “I can save him.”
She reached for Seris, but Valamon put his arms around her, pulling her gently away from the corpse. She’d known death as the Kali-Adelsa, but she hadn’t known death this way, and it wouldn’t help for her to see her friend’s body now.
“I can…” said Elhan. “I’m the…”
Valamon kept his arms firmly around her as she began to shudder.
“I’m sorry, Elhan,” said Valamon softly. “He chose to make the trade.”
“I don’t want it.” Elhan struggled for air. “I can’t breathe—I think he put the windpipe in the wrong place…”
“You relax, and water comes out of your eyes,” said Valamon.
Elhan gasped and gurgled while Haska watched with mild fascination. Elhan suddenly stiffened, and her gaze snapped sharply to a point somewhere over Valamon’s shoulder. He turned and saw the hazy outline of the east tower, blurred against the rising sun. He thought he saw a flash from the roof, but when he looked harder, there was nothing there.
“Did you feel that?” said Elhan.
Valamon glanced at Haska, who was still looking at the east tower.
There was a sudden, painful gasp, and Seris’s body convulsed. His eyes opened wide and he took another desperate gulp, like someone surfacing from a frozen lake. His throat made a horrible noise and he jolted upright, sitting slightly lopsided.
“Seris—” Elhan tried to pull away again, but Valamon held her firmly.
The last thing they needed was for her to start having a conversation with a corpse undergoing death spasms. Seris’s head turned blankly towards them, as though not quite seeing.
“Nngk,” said Seris.
He raised a hand weakly in front of him, pawing the air. Haska crouched before him.
“Cleric? Do you remember me?”
Seris swivelled his head towards Haska, his eyes filling with panic.
“She’s gone,” he said.
Seris reached out in front of him again, as though falling, as though trying to grasp something that wasn’t there. Haska grabbed his wrists tightly, forcing him to remain still.
“Cleric, do you know where you are?”
Seris’s eyes welled with desolate loss.
“Eliantora. I can’t sense her… She’s gone…”
“Seris,” said Haska. “Here. Now. Focus.”
Seris looked around at the room in blank disorientation, his gaze stopping on Elhan, still gently restrained in Valamon’s arms. She leaned eagerly towards him with bright, hopeful eyes, and Seris stared back with uncertain recognition.
“Where’s Elhan?” said Seris.
The glow of dawn crawled across the glass-strewn floor, creating a mosaic of light.
“I guess I’m what’s left,” said Elhan. “After you take away all the cool powers…”
Seris sagged slightly. “I guess…same here.”
Valamon gently released Elhan, and Haska let go of Seris’s wrists.
“You never actually had cool powers,” said Elhan. “They were pretty average.”
Seris looked at his rough, blistered palms. Ordinary hands.
“What are you without your powers, Seris?” said Haska gently. “You’ll find some other way forward.”
“Did you ever get your speech?” said Seris.
Haska glanced at Valamon, who was drawing a rope down through the cracked roof. He stopped the flag at half-mast.
“I think you and Elhan should go help the people in the city,” said Haska quietly. “A pair of hands can always be of use.”
Seris cast one final look around the shattered room as he and Elhan descended the broken stairs. In the pale morning light, Valamon stood silently by the white bed. Beside him, Haska gently took his hand.
“There goes a whole carnival of issues,” whispered Elhan.
“Actually,” said Seris, “I think they’re going to be fine.”
And so are we, thought Seris.
You couldn’t always stop the fear and hatred. You couldn’t create a peace that would last forever. You couldn’t stop people from being people. But you could be there to pick up the pieces, and you could try to put them back together stronger, wiser. Every time things fell apart, through war or disaster or human failing, you could try to rebuild it…better.
They buried them in a sun-dappled glen, in the bend of the mighty Alagar River. Two modest headstones, carved by brothers bound in grief, marked two fresh graves. The clearing lay encircled by slender silver birches, and blue-eyed flowers bloomed in the fine grass.
There had been no fanfare, no parades, no grand gestures of state. Just an announcement by Prince Falon. Then an announcement by Lord Haska. And then a lot of sitting down and talking. The king was dead, long live…
There’d been grief in the city, of course. Fear and resentment, uncertainty and anger—but mostly just exhaustion. Neither Valamon nor Falon had known what kind of a funeral their parents had wanted. It had always been assumed that the royal machinery would take over with an appropriate amount of pomp and ceremony. But the royal machinery lay silent, and neither son could stomach pomp and ceremony now. All they wanted was a private place to grieve and a chance to say goodbye.
Very little was said. The graves were dug, the earth poured back. The king and queen were laid to rest. Valamon and Falon were silent for a long while, each lost in thoughts more similar than either would have guessed. Qara stood at attention nearby, her face taut with grief. Haska and Elhan had thought it perhaps inappropriate to attend, but they’d been asked, so here they were.
Seris and Morle sat together on the grass, eyes lowered in quiet prayer and meditation. After a little while, Valamon and Falon approached, and Seris and Morle rose from the damp grass.
“We wanted to express our gratitude, for attending to our mother in her final weeks,” said Valamon.
“I’m sorry there wasn’t more I could do,” said Morle softly.
“You did what you could,” said Falon.
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“As did you,” said Morle.
Falon’s expression remained a mask of stoicism, but his eyes betrayed him. One of the cruellest concepts in life was that of “too late”. Too late to change. Too late to apologise. Too late to save someone. There were few times when one could truly say it was too late, but funerals tended to top the list.
“They loved you both,” said Morle. “But the longer you say nothing, the harder it becomes to speak. They may not have spoken the words, but it was certainly felt.”
Falon gave a curt nod, walking away quickly. Valamon gave Seris and Morle a sad smile before following after his brother.
“Were you there, when the king…” said Seris quietly.
Morle looked down at the feathery grass, tiny flowers tumbling against her robes.
“His dearest love dead, his sons turned against him, his kingdom fallen,” said Morle. “A heart of stone is harder to break, but it never learns to heal.”
Something stirred in Seris’s memory. A last request, a voice already faded into the next world. He excused himself quickly and caught up to Falon just beyond the treeline.
“Your Highness, did you know a man named Garlet?”
Falon’s expression, particularly at the tense of the question, was sufficient answer. He turned his gaze towards the wide, green river, winding through the autumn hills.
“He…was…a friend of mine,” said Falon.
“He asked me to give you a message. He said a heart of stone isn’t stronger. It just breaks more quietly.”
Falon gave a bitter smile, his eyes like a sea of memories evaporating into desolate wrecks.
“So like him for his last thoughts not to be of king or country but of fairytale endings.”
Seris followed Falon’s gaze, coming to rest on Qara.
“Is that such a terrible thing?” said Seris.
Falon’s thoughts seemed far away, or long ago, perhaps thinking of things lost to him forever, and things not yet too late to change.
Russet leaves drifted gently through the clearing, carried in from the maple hills across the river. Qara walked tentatively towards Valamon, as though treading through some dark, foreboding land.
“Your Highness,” said Qara, her voice slightly strained.
