by Nikolas Lee
Mearic Mythborne: fourteen-years-old, only son of the Chancellor, Mother deceased upon birthing bed. He looked...different than I’d expected. Something about his eyes and hair...it was just strange looking to me at first. Then, his lips parted into a smile, and my eyes went wide. It was a smile wide and bright and true. Exactly like Mother’s. And the sight strangely made me smile.
For the first time in almost a year, I was sure.
“Ah, Mearic!” said the Chancellor, sporting a smile for the first time, “you’re just in time. Endari, this is my son, Mearic. Mearic, please greet the new pantheon of Sol.”
He stared at his father for a moment, clearly a bit dismayed. Then, he looked to us and bowed, his golden curls falling over his forehead as he did. “Greetings, Endari. I am pleased to hear the news.”
“Mearic will be giving you a tour of the city grounds this afternoon,” said the Chancellor.
Mearic pushed his curls from his face and smiled. “Um, yes, I will,” he said.
We bowed in turn, and I felt Illindria’s hand on my back. “Go on, now, Endari,” she said, ushering us toward the lift. “The Chancellor and I will continue this discussion while you get to know the lay of the land. And don’t be afraid to do a little redecorating along the way. The well-being of Sol is now your responsibility.”
She winked, and after the three of us joined Mearic on the lift, she waved goodbye before the platform sank beneath the floor.
For the first few floors, we remained quiet, Mearic standing before us, his hands crossed in front of him. But his small voice soon broke over the winds rushing through our hair.
“So...you’re the Endari?” asked Mearic, his big eyes kept straight ahead, at the passing levels of the Serpent’s Spine.
“We are,” Solara said smugly, her hands together behind her back. “The Endari of Sol. And soon to be of all the Human Citadels.”
“Interesting,” he said.
“Interesting?” Solara sneered. “I think it’s more than interesting, little boy.”
“Little boy?” he replied, drawing his gaze over her. “You look no bigger than me. Or is this how all gods think of humans? That’s what the rumors say anyway.”
Solara clenched her jaw. She knew she couldn’t go too far. But I could see on her face, her need to strangle Mearic with a summoned vine was becoming dire.
Regardless, she said, “Yes—little because you seem to fear not the power that surrounds you.”
He smirked to himself, looking ahead. “Obviously not enough power to do something about that mop of straw you call hair.”
Solara gasped, her hand to her chest. Suddenly, surprisingly, for the first time in nearly a year...I laughed. It was a small laugh. A barely noticeable one. But it was a laugh, nonetheless. I looked at Mearic, scanning him up and down. I liked how he stood, swaying back and forth on his heels and toes. How he seemed so natural even around gods he’d heard so many bad things about and hardly just met. What a strange human, I thought. But then his eyes snapped over at me, and I quickly looked forward, warmth rising in my cheeks.
“Funny,” he said to me. “Your freckles look weird when you blush.”
I swallowed, still looking straight ahead. If my cheeks hadn’t felt warm before. Embarrassed so easily, Ion?
Suddenly, the lift slowed and we found ourselves on the bottom level of the tower. Mearic stepped out first, and gestured us out of the Serpent’s Spine.
“Your city awaits, Endari,” he said with a smile. Mother’s smile.
We followed, Solara muttering something scornful under her breath as she passed him.
“As you might already know,” Mearic began, walking us left, down the only main road of Sol, “the City Under the Sun was not always surrounded by desert.”
To our left, clinging to the cliffs beneath the Serpent’s Spine like crustaceans, were small buildings of red sandstone. Shops, with homes above, their decayed, wooden shutters closed to the heat of the city.
“At the end of the War of 2100 with Illyria, the humans built Sol in the heart of the Southernlands, the Continent of Origin for our kind,” explained Mearic. “In the heart of the Southernlands, the city rose in the midst of a grand jungle, surrounded by water and plant life. But being that Sol was the home of the Scepter, the lifeline of the Citadels, Illyria refused to let us exist.”
The sound of metal clanking against metal rang through the city air as we passed a blacksmith hammering away at a sword in his forge.
“First came the Great Drowning,” said Mearic, leading us onto the next Terrace, where buildings rose on both sides. “I wasn’t alive to see it, but my father said the Sea Queen rode a wave five hundred feet tall from the coast inland, to Sol. The water swept away all the trees, all the animals, all the food, in moments. But as mighty as the Sea Queen and her wave was, the shield of Sol stood sturdy. The city beyond the walls was spared, but then came the Plunge.”
“The Plunge?” asked Spike.
An old woman appeared at a window above us and beat her lace carpet against the wall below.
“The deserts of the High Heat had already claimed the north and south of the Continent,” said Mearic, “but in only a month, Adalantis had used his deserts to swallow the entire Southernlands. That was the Plunge. Then, of course, came the armies, and after that, the Forever Clouds. We’ve been baking beneath them for the past fifty years now. And our caravans carrying the weapons forged from the Scepter’s light are struggling to reach the other Citadels more and more.”
“That is soon to change, little boy,” said Solara smugly.
She stopped in her place and crossed her arms, observing the street before her. “Spike, brother—can we please do something about these streets? No city of mine should be paved in dirt.”
“It’d be my pleasure, sister,” he replied, cracking his knuckles as he stepped forward.
There was silence: from us, from the women and children staring down from their stone balconies, and the men sweeping the dust from their shops that lined the descending streets. Spike lunged upward, and in his fall, slammed his fist to the floor. A wave of golden energy rushed outward from his fist, the dirt and sand compacting and turning over in its wake. I watched as in moments, the once dusty, sandy street was paved in thousands upon thousands of tiny, perfectly-squared tiles of black stone.
Still, though, there was silence. I looked up, gaging the opened mouths and wide eyes of the Solian citizens. One man, old and decrepit at his apartment’s balcony, began to clap. And in moments, the city was alive with the sound of cheers and applause.
Spike stood before me, taking in the praise with a smug smile, seeming even taller and burlier than normal. It was the first time, I realized, I’d ever seen him do a kind thing.
Mearic knelt, one hand to his mouth, the other running over the beautiful tiles. “Amazing.”
“Citizens of Sol!” Solara cried, her voice silencing the cheers. “You stand before the Endari, your allies, your guardians, your gods. Please accept these gifts from us, as a means of showing our loyalty to the City Under the Sun.”
She walked down the sloping street, her white tunic fluttering behind her. With a look of venomous sweetness, she flicked her hand carelessly to the right, and web of ivy sprouted out of the street. It swept up the side of the building and crawled over one of the many bridges overhead. From its leaves bloomed a hundred blue flowers, some hanging in tendrils from the branches growing over the bridge. She pointed to her left and a tree sprang from the earth just as easily as the ivy, its branches unfolding above, followed by a feathering of pink flower petals and countless glistening cherries.
Children rushed out of their homes and clambered to the tree, quickly plucking the fruits from the limbs. All the while, Solara continued down the street, calling ivy and flowers and trees up from the ground in a matter of seconds. Mearic appeared at my side as I watched Solara work. His big eyes were closed as he chewed on one of the cherries he’d picked. He was somewhere else as he ate,
a dream perhaps. It was amazing how much hope something so small could provide.
He opened his eyes, and they pierced me like swords. “So,” he said, brushing a bit of his hair off his face, “what can you do?”
My cheeks still felt warm under his attention, so I kept my eyes on Solara as she proceeded down the street. “I can make rain.”
“Triplets be good, you can?” he asked, eyes wide.
I nodded. “But Spike will need to fortify the buildings here before I can do anything. Otherwise, Sol will be reduced to a pile of mud. This place is dry, too. Very dry. I’ll need to be higher in the atmosphere to summon any moisture.” I looked up, searching for a place to collect my thoughts and center my focus.
I spotted a walkway jutting out of the Serpent’s Spine above. It ended in a tiny balcony that overlooked the entirety of Sol.
A hand slipped through mine, and I looked down to find Thornikus and his brilliant eyes staring up at the balcony. “There,” he said quietly. “That is where we’ll impress him.”
CHAPTER TWELVE
THE HAND OF THE MOON
In the Beginning, after the Nether had been separated into the elements and the earth had been formed, the Triplets created the seven races.
Well, it was not so much all of the Triplets as it was one. The Fleshgiver, the one the world called Atara. She was worshipped far and wide as the Mother of the Races, the only one of the Triplets who dared create beings to walk the bountiful world. Elves most especially revered her, both during her existence and after her disappearance. Genossa was heavy with her image—statues melded in her like, gardens constructed in her name, temples and shrines to her on every street.
But I was never so sure about Atara.
She seemed...reckless to me. Creating all those races and then letting them loose to run amok. How many wars had been fought, slaves traded, cities razed, because she seemed to forget to endow most of her beloved races with half a brain.
And now, as I walked through the opened gates to the temple of Adalantis, I felt even less about her. Gods were one of those seven races, and were noted as her favorite. Yet they were the most destructive, most power-hungry, most sinister, I had found.
You are responsible for this madness, Atara the Fleshgiver. But unlike the poor victims of your godly race, you are nowhere to be found and punished for your crimes.
Fifty-foot obsidian statues flanked either side of the temple doors, watching me with eyes of pure gold as I passed. Their bodies were designed in the likeness of men, but their heads were replaced with that of two jackals. It was architecture that once belonged to an old pantheon native to the upper Southernlands. The Egyptians, they were called, with Onyxia being the very last of the bloodline, found in those deserted deserts as a child or some such nonsense.
The massive hall to the sandstone temple went on for nearly a coliseum field, before the sound of falling sand whispered in my ears. I passed through a much smaller set of opened doors, into the inner sanctum, and my nose quickly prickled at the smell of dirt.
Before me was a wall of sand, flooding out of the ceiling and disappearing into an abyss in the ground I dared not get too close to. It shifted, however, and watched as the wall parted like a curtain, pulling away to either side. In its wake, it revealed a narrow obsidian walkway. I continued to walk for what seemed like minutes, sand still falling at both my sides, until I reached the end of the temple. The wall of sand ceased here, replaced by two pools fed by more sand from the opened mouths of jackal heads stationed many feet above.
At the end of the pools rose the Throne of Deserts—its surfaces made of glossy obsidian and embroidered with weavings of sparkling gold dragons.
“Greetings, Lord Adalantis,” I said, bowing to the god lounging in his Throne, his legs over one arm.
My eyes narrowed in on the thousands of sand granules that yielded his skin. They stopped, however, on the thick thread woven through his lips. What happened to you, Adalantis? I wondered. What horrible thing had you done to deserve such a punishment as that? Then, I caught the brown of his eyes and retracted my zoomed sight.
He said nothing for a moment, instead just staring at me. Silence—it was amazing how incredibly uncomfortable it could be. He just continued to stare while I continued to squirm. Yet he had lived in silence it for how many years now? Two-hundred? A thousand? Two thousand? No one on Illyria was certain, if you asked. And neither was the reason for his sewn-shut lips. In fact, none could even recall whom he had slighted to earn the punishment. But I bet he could...
He waved his hand, and a gust of sand from the pool on the right swept out onto the walkway, painting it in beautiful golds. The grains wafted about, spreading and clearing and outlining until a phrase had been written on the walkway.
What have you come here for?
I looked back up at Adalantis, his face more solemn than any elf’s I had met. “I was told you have information about a particular subject I have found myself most interested in.”
The sand swept about in front of me to form another sentence.
What is the subject?
I hesitated, my mouth held open for longer than I had preferred. “The Sickness.”
I zoomed in on his clenched jaw, on the lump now struggling in his throat. I heard his heart flutter and suddenly beat faster. Nervous, are you? I thought. And why is that?
The sand whirled about once more.
Who would dare speak of such a thing on this island? spelled the sand.
“With respect, Silent One, I do believe that is beside the point.” I stepped forward daringly. “I am, however, intrigued by how a god such as yourself would suddenly be made nervous by a fourteen-year-old she-elf. Sickness is but a word, yet your heart trembles at its calling.”
He paused, his jaw tightened even harder now. I had to admit, I was afraid about confronting a god of Adalantis’s caliber. He was not a High Illyrian, that was certain, but he was not far off. Unlike the many other minor Illyrians who ruled over abstract powers such as art, wisdom, war, and revelry, he owned an entire domain, much like the Sea Queen. The elven capital of Genossa had long been raucous with stories of how he had once nearly razed its grand walls simply because they had not produced enough offerings on his day of worship.
His temper was as hot as the deserts he could summon, and could rival the Sea Queen’s any day.
The sand twisted about, and in its wake was left: Do you know why my mouth was sewn shut?
I was shocked he had even brought it up. “I-I do not,” I stuttered for the first time in quite a while.
Another gust of wind. That’s because no one does. Lady Lillian, if you trust in your gods at all, you’d cease this inquiry of yours.
“And what would happen if I do not?” I asked, already knowing the answer.
You will end up like me.
My throat dried at the thought. “Might I ask who did that to you, Lord Adalantis?”
His hand balled into a fist on the arm of his Throne. The flames from nearby torches twinkled off his arms of sand as he waved his other hand through the air.
My father, he answered. But it is not always the one who doles out the punishment who is responsible for the birth of its idea. How I wish these days, that I knew of the safety of ignorance back those many years ago. I was curious, and had the same questions you have now. I searched and searched...until I knew too much.
“My apologies, Silent One,” I replied. “But to my race, there is no such thing as knowing too much.”
He considered me with those dark brown eyes of his, those eyes that had seen deserts swallow entire cities, countries, continents.
Just then, my sensitive feet caught the fall of heavy footsteps. Armored ones. And a guard walked past me, approaching Adalantis with a tray, upon which sat a golden goblet. Adalantis grabbed the cup, nodded to the guard, and took a sip. But when the guard turned, and made his way past me to leave the chambers, I realized I’d seen his elven face before.
In Helia
’s prison. He was the nervous one. But if he was Adalantis’s private guard, why was he even in Helia’s chamber?
The sand stirred once more...
The knowledge I have of the Sickness is knowledge I can no longer share, said the sand.
I raised my nose at the last of his words. But then the sands swept around one last time, forming the longest of his responses.
But while I cannot tell you more, there is a place that can. If it is information about the Sickness you desire, than you must travel east, to a place long abandoned and forgotten, with walls that tell tales of the Sickness’s lethal path. Once the home of a great pantheon of the past, it lies at the top of a great mountain.
Olympus, they used to call it.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
THE THUNDER LORD
It had taken Spike all of a day to fortify the many buildings of Sol.
With his fists tight and his arms even tighter, he drew the crumbling structures up from their sad positions, transforming them from beggars into kings. Their bricks of weathered sandstone shifted and tightened until they’d been so compacted they were as solid as onyx and just as strong. They were a deeper red, too, renewed in their bloodied color.
I had to admit: Spike might not have been good at much else, but he knew his rocks. In my walkthrough of the city the next day, there wasn’t a single grain of sand in Sol that wasn’t in its purposeful place, holding up the city in some way or another.
He had done what he was supposed to. And now it was my turn.
I walked down the narrow bridge that grew out the side of the Serpent’s Spine. Its path was just as narrow as the one that linked Illyria to the Temple of the Moon. Lillian’s temple. I thought of her then, those long, elven ears of hers, that pink bald head. I thought of how she’d helped me attempt to thwart the plans of Lady Borea and the information that had led to.
