by L M R Clarke
Up close, Phen could see the fine details of the guard’s face. He had thin planes, wide lips... She recoiled sharply, filled with shock. “You are female!”
The answer that came was simple: “Yes.”
The female cast her guard’s helm aside, the pretense of masculinity now gone. The stranger was transformed. She spoke with a clear voice, tinged with an accent Phen had never heard before. But strangest of all, before Phen’s eyes, the female’s skin and armor changed, now blue and purple, something Phen had never seen before.
“I am no palace guard,” the female said, “but I can save your sons. Or at least, I can try. To do it, I need you.” The female pulled Phen forward. “We need to get to the temple of Nunako.”
The temple. Where Mantos was. Phen’s lips started to form a question, but the female raised one sharp-clawed talon.
“Questions later,” she said. “For now, we run.”
This wasn’t the first time Phen had trusted in a stranger. The priestess from long ago, muttering her spells, talking about a thread for a thread and a life for a life. Now there was this female, who’d already tricked her. How could she trust her? A phantom open-handed slap struck Phen, and Bandim’s face loomed. No. She had to trust her. The only other option was death.
They escaped the compound of the palace over a high wall. Her body weakened from cycles of atrophy and already exhausted from their run, Phen despaired at the idea of scaling the sheer brick. She needn’t have worried. The unknown female had both rope and grapple, and scaled the wall with Phen on her back as easily as taking an evening stroll. Who are you? Phen thought. Why are you doing this? She dared not voice her questions as they fled.
Sticking to back alleys, they hopped over stinking puddles of sewage and the bodies of paupers lying in the filth. As they crept towards the great mound upon which the temple sat, Phen’s eyes brimmed. The shadows were her veil of mourning.
The grand spire of the temple was edged in the silver of the moons. Phen’s throat closed. Mantos’ body was lying within. Braslen’s, too. How can I go on?
The strange female went to Phen’s side. This time, the hand that tugged her along was gentle.
“Do not despair,” she said. “I can bring your son back.” At Phen’s wide-eyed terror, she shook her head. “I am no Moon Rogue, but there is movement among the stars. Shadows are passing over us, and we need the Light. Please, trust me.”
Ignoring the instinct to flee, Phen nodded. What would she return to? Death at her son’s hands, or death on the streets as a beggar? There was no choice to make. She let the female lead her, ducking past the heavy presence of guards.
The temple echoed in its emptiness, but the cavernous interior was filled with light. Candles burned bright on every surface, lined on shelves, swirling in patterns on the floor. It was bright as day inside, and rightly so, for the Light guided souls home.
In the center, directly under the vaulting spiral of the roof, two bodies lay on pyres, awaiting their rebirth in flame. The roof would open, and their spirits would be released with the cleansing smoke.
Without thinking, Phen ran. Her tattered skirts billowed around her stick-thin legs, her strength returning at the sight of her family. Her clothes ripped as she clambered up the funeral pyre, exposed skin mauled by the kindling. When she reached the top, her limbs froze.
Her husband, now an old male she barely recognized, and her son, a mirror of his brother, both lay in state, preserved for viewing.
But dead. Cold.
Phen’s body trembled, threatening to topple her from the pyre. She fell to her knees, sticks groaning under her weight. Splinters bit her legs, but she didn’t care.
“Braslen... Mantos...”
The names were little more than squeaks. The other female mounted the pyre beside her, face set like carved marble. She crossed to Mantos’ prone form. “I will carry your son.”
“And...my husband?” Phen asked.
No change flickered over the female’s face.
“I cannot bring him back,” she said. “There was no sorcery in his death. The goddess has called him, and he must obey.”
She stripped Mantos of his elaborate state dress and unwound the jewelry from his horns. Swiftly, she wrapped the body in a plain cloth.
“There’s a ship waiting for us,” she said. “It’s a little way outside the city, but I can carry Mantos.”
“A ship?” Phen asked. She couldn’t take her eyes from her son’s prone form. “A ship to where?”
“To a friend,” the female said. “I can bring your son back, and perhaps even your other son. I need your help to do it, but it will all be for nothing if we don’t leave now. We must go.”
Phen’s chest constricted with unasked questions. She clambered from the pyre and watched as the female hefted Mantos’ body over her shoulders. Then she leapt to the floor with the grace of silk.
They slipped out of the temple of Light, into the waiting darkness.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Phen
When they reached the boat, Phen could cry no more. Instead her body was racked by dry sobs of desolation. Seeing her son’s limp body slung over a pair of strange shoulders was enough to break her. What she did was for nothing. Phen gave up her life to save Mantos’, and now he was dead anyway. And I’ve lost Bandim, too.
Her feet were sliced to ribbons. Her legs were caked with mud. Her chest was tight. Her heart ached. My sons...
Yet as they clambered onto a disused pier, towards a boat creaking and bobbing on the dark water, there was a drop of hope. The female with the cracked first horn said she could save Mantos, that she might save Bandim, too. Phen had to trust her. She had to take the chance.
But there was still lingering doubt. The last time Phen had trusted someone strange, it came at the cost of her life. The temple novice hadn’t been a blue and purple stranger, but she was still strange, with her incantations and her eyes that spoke of centuries.
As she followed, slipping on slimy boards that threatened to give way beneath her, Phen’s mind reeled. What if it was a trap? What if it was Bandim who awaited her, ready to slit her throat for her betrayal? Her hands trembled as she climbed into the rickety boat, but there was no one waiting in its dark embrace.
After laying Mantos along the length of the boat, the other female plucked up the oars. Phen fell to her knees, the craft bucking beneath her. She pulled her son’s head into her lap, winding her claws through his elaborate death braids. Strangely, he wasn’t stiff, and the rot of death hadn’t permeated him. He felt cold but soft, as if he was simply sleeping.
But he was dead. This was what Phen had tried to stop before. Now she had to try to save him again.
Sticking close to the shadows that clung to the coast, the strange female rowed off. Phen watched as the twinkling lights of the temple and palace dimmed. Then they rowed around a spur of land, and all that remained was rock and ruin.
Still stroking Mantos’ cold head with one hand, her other atop his twined claws, still bedecked with rings, Phen swallowed back tears. She stared at the female. Now there was time for questions, and perhaps she would get answers. “Who are you? What is your name?”
The female gave a rare smile. Her long arms pumped back and forth, a steady cadence that propelled them deeper into the darkness.
“My name is Bomsoi,” she said. “That is who I am. That is all I’ll ever be.”
Phen wound another of Mantos’ braids around her talons. “What does that mean?” she asked.
The reply came with a thin laugh. “Nothing,” Bomsoi said. “Nothing and nothing.”
Phen’s tongue burned with questions, but she kept her mouth shut. Did she mean her name meant nothing, or did it mean “nothing”? There was little point in asking for an explanation. The female was skillful in her evasiveness. So instead, Phen turned her eyes to the stars.
Some winked at her. Most were still. More impressive than any of the diamonds that hung on the dark blanket were the moo
ns: three huge pearls, overlapping.
“The Lunar Awakening,” she whispered. “By Nunako, I can’t believe I’ve lived to see it.”
Then the words swung back at her, a slap to the face. Tears budded again. She was alive and Mantos was not, she thought as she passed the back of her hand over her son’s cold cheek.
“It is a time of great power,” Bomsoi said. “It is a time that comes but once every thousand cycles. That is why I need you. That is why I need you now.”
Terror and fury swirling within her, Phen snapped. “Where are we going? Why do you need me?”
Not flinching at the rage, Bomsoi jerked her head over her shoulder. “We’re going there,” she replied.
Before Phen could ask, she received the answer. Looming tall and proud above them, far enough from the shore that the darkness protected it, was a ship.
“Who—?”
“An old friend of Mantos’,” Bomsoi said, “and of mine. He will protect us.”
The sleek vessel was resplendent in cloth sails that rose like grey ghosts. Salt caught in Phen’s throat. By the goddess, she thought. I’ve never seen a ship so large. One detail was familiar, though: the elaborate carving of a two-headed serpent on the prow, the gods Ethay and Apago, the joining of good and evil. That, combined with the beauty of the ship, meant only one thing.
“Althemerians!”
Bomsoi nodded as she brought them closer. The waves rippled and pulsed, as if the Althemerian ship was the ocean’s heart.
“Yes,” Bomsoi said. “Althemer is one of the few lands untouched by Masvam hands. Your son was—is—or will be again—close to Prince Fonbir.”
That name drew Phen back into her memories like a whiplash. Fonbir, Prince of the Island Queendom of Althemer. “The last time I saw Fonbir, he was just a youngling, only a few cycles older than Mantos and Bandim.”
“He is no youngling now,” Bomsoi replied.
She set the oars back in their notches as ropes rained from the deck above. Securing them to the hoops stem and stern of the little rowboat, she placed two claws in her mouth and whistled loud and clear into the night.
With that, they rose from the water.
Phen clutched the sides of the boat. Her stomach lurched more than it had on the waves. She watched as the silver-edged darkness below drew away. Soon enough, they were hoisted to the deck. A figure waited for them. Phen squinted through the darkness.
“Fonbir? Is...is that you?”
The young male cut a striking figure, gilded in the light of the moons. He stood with a straight back, short but commanding, with dark skin and armor black as night. He wore long embroidered robes, with a thick travelling cloak around his shoulders. Around his waist was a heavy chain, though he stood strong under its burden. His head fronds were red and clipped short. Like all high class and royal Althemerian males, he wore a veil over his face, just under the eyes, to protect him from the vision of others. Most striking of all his features were those eyes. Phen had never seen anything like them. They were deep-set and entirely white, apart from two pinprick pupils. The sight was exceptionally strange.
“Empress?” Fonbir asked, his voice low.
“Not anymore,” Phen replied.
The prince clicked his talons, and an attendant stepped forward to help Phen onto the deck. The stillness shattered when Bomsoi stepped onto the ship, cradling Mantos’ body. At the sight, Phen’s legs turned to water. Only the attendant’s grip stopped her from collapsing to the deck.
“Please, help me bring back my son,” she breathed.
Nodding, Fonbir turned his attention to Mantos’ prone form. Even in the darkness, pearls of tears glittered in his white eyes.
CHAPTER NINE
Bandim
By the time he reached Johrann Maa’s chambers, Bandim’s mind was in turmoil. If she’d sent for him, that meant she must be gravely ill. She knew better than to bother him with silly trifles. And if she was gravely ill, that meant she might die. And if she died, everything Bandim had worked for would fall apart.
He wrenched open the heavily-carved wooden doors of Johrann’s chambers–those that had once belonged to his mother–and sped inside, only to stop short at the sight he beheld. Johrann was sitting at the dressing table that had been gifted to Empress Phen by King Eron of the Metakalans some cycles ago, carefully plaiting her long fronds. She started at his sudden appearance, and let her braids fall. “Your Grace?”
It took a moment for the significance of the scene to sink in. Clearly, there was no illness.
Bandim’s rage erupted like a spurting flame. “Betrayal!”
Johrann sprang from her stool as if he had struck her with lightning.
“Your Grace?” she asked again.
Shoulders heaving as he seethed, Bandim strode forward, reaching out for her. His anger bloomed purple and his claws twitched, but a semblance of sense returned to him. He withdrew his hand as she recoiled. It wasn’t her fault. It wasn’t her scheme.
“I was told you were ill,” Bandim said, clenching his teeth. “And here you are, fully well–and I look like a fool!”
Johrann tentatively leaned towards him. “Who said such a thing?”
“A guard in my mother’s tower,” he replied. As the words escaped him, a horrible possibility reared its head. His mouth went dry. What motivation could there be for such a lie, except...“I need to get back to the tower, now.”
Johrann started to ask for clarification, but Bandim was in no mood to explain. He strode from her chambers, and she followed in his wake. He tried to keep as much decorum as he could as he crossed the palace. It wouldn’t do for his subjects to see their emperor running back to his mother’s tower in a frenzy. Yet inside, he indeed felt frenzied. Inside, he felt sick. How could it be possible? Who would want his mother, someone most undoubtedly thought was dead? Was it someone from inside the palace, or the family? Or was it a plot by his enemies to destabilize his rule right from the beginning? Possibilities raced through his mind like charging animals.
By the time he ascended the many steps to the top of the Widow’s Tower, his hands were trembling so hard they could barely grip the thick carved banister bolted to the curving stone. When he reached the top, his worst fears were confirmed.
Johrann was right on his heels as he stopped at the threshold of the chamber that had been his mother’s prison. Now it was empty save for the echoes of her presence, like the unmade bed and the meager scraps of uneaten food he had allowed her.
“She’s gone,” Bandim said. He balled his trembling hands into fists. “That guard, whoever he was, has done this. I want him found and brought to me. I’ll slit his throat with my own claws!”
Johrann, who’d been hovering at his shoulder, slipped past him and entered the room. She crossed to the bed, tugged the edge of the covers to smooth the wrinkles, and turned back to him. Her expression made Bandim’s blood boil. She was smiling.
His ire rose again like flames and he took one step forward, reaching out to strike the grin from her fine features. Instead of recoiling, she strode to him and grabbed the hand that sought to beat her. The lines around her eyes were tight with fear, but still she smiled. She clutched the hand in both of her own, squeezing tightly.
“Your Grace,” she said, “please don’t despair over this. Yes, your mother is gone. However, it’s of no consequence.”
The desire to strike her reared again, but Johrann still held onto Bandim’s hand. He could have wrenched free from her grip, but something in her face made him stop and listen. It was the look of someone who was about to tell a truth. “Explain.”
His single word evoked his power. Johrann briefly bowed her head and continued to smile.
“I know your mother was a cruel being,” she said. “I know you wanted to give her what she deserved, after all these cycles. She deserves the fear. She deserves the pain. Most of all, you deserve the chance to exact these things upon her. I know you’re angry that she’s gone, and the idea that you’ve bee
n betrayed by one of your own guards cuts deeply. You will find out who has done this, and you will punish them as you see fit. However, please don’t despair beyond this personal loss. Your Grace, your mother was practically dead for many cycles. She is weakened and has no power. Whoever has taken her has simply given themselves the burden of a broken and useless female to bear.”
Bandim thought on her words for a moment, but there was still doubt under the rage. “And what of how my enemies might take advantage of this situation?”
Johrann’s laugh was light, and she reached for his other hand. She brought both to her lips, kissing the backs of his knuckles.
“Your Grace, in order for your mother’s disappearance to have any value for those who seek to hurt and destroy you, she would have to have some value to you beyond the ability to take her life. Do you care for her?”
The stupidity of the question made Bandim’s brows furrow. “Of course I don’t.”
Johrann smiled wider. “Would you go to great lengths to get her back?”
Bandim shook his head. As he answered, he followed Johrann’s thoughts. His insides settled. “No.”
“Do you love her?”
Bandim needed no time to think of his answer. “No. I never have.”
“Then, Your Grace,” Johrann continued, pressing the backs of his claws to her forehead, “what have your enemies achieved? What power have they gained over you? In truth, none. They can ransom her, or threaten to kill her, but will that mean anything to you?”
Squeezing her claws, Bandim brought her hands to his chest. “No.”
Her truth calmed him and the love in her eyes soothed his ire.
“Then they cannot use this to hurt or undermine you,” she said. “If they ask for a ransom, tell them they would have to pay you to take her back. If they threaten to kill her, thank them for saving you the burden of doing it yourself. I know you wanted to give her what she deserves, and to have that taken from you is intolerable. However, please don’t fret, Your Grace. Your enemies can do nothing to you with this. She’s of too little consequence.”
