by L M R Clarke
“Get to your feet, friends!” she called. “Lend me your thoughts and your hearts, and we shall bring the Beloved back to our world!”
Every arm lifted, outstretched claws blooming. Even Bandim rose, raising his hands.
Johrann’s heart pounded. Sweat poured from her brow. It was time.
“Great Goddess Dorai, the Unparalleled, the Beloved, the Great Spirit,” she said, incanting all Dorai’s names, “I give myself to you as the True Believer, on this day when the moons lie equal and the sun is at its closest. In full view of your faithful, I give my body as a sacrifice for your Great Works. I offer myself to you as a conduit, the servant of the vessel and the One of Two, Bandim Tiboli. Please return your beauteous countenance to this world through his body and mine, and finally rid us of the Great Evil as you have promised!” She took a deep breath. “Rise!”
Johrann’s words dissipated, and then there was silence. No one dared to breathe.
A deep clunk emanated from everywhere and nowhere. Lighted torches were snuffed by a sudden whirlwind of heat. The temple shook, showers of dust raining down. The vaulted roof groaned and howled.
Then Johrann screamed.
Knife-sharp pain pierced her skull. Blackness consumed her. She shrieked into the abyss as she rose from her feet, scorching wind twisting like a tornado. This had been written. This was known. Consumed by pain, Johrann screeched but held true. This is the will of the goddess. I will worship her and obey!
Blood wept from her eyes and ears, flowing from the corners of her mouth, dripping from her claws. Thousands of voices echoed, drowning out her thoughts until she could feel nothing but the discordance of terror. Johrann gave one final, forceful yelp, and the chamber plunged into impossible darkness.
Despite it, one figure was clear: Bandim. He stood in the beautiful night, holding her gaze.
Johrann knew what she had to do.
She placed her claws on the emperor’s face. The heat that coursed within her pooled at her fingertips.
In that moment the miracle happened. Something moved from one to the other. The essence, the spirit, the truth of Dorai flowed through Johrann’s talons and deep into Bandim. He jerked back, body racked with apoplexy, but his face was fused to her claws. His skin sizzled. He screamed.
“Do not fear,” Johrann whispered. “All will be well.”
She pressed her mouth to his. His eyes snapped open. He returned the fervent embrace.
And that was it. The deed was done.
Dorai was back in the world.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Phen
Once more, Phen found herself flanked by guards, both female this time, winding through the Althemerian palace. This time the journey was more fraught. Before, Phen had known what awaited her: an audience with the cold ire of the queen. Now, as she gripped the hem of her soft leather tunic, she bit her lower lip. She had no idea what awaited her. All she knew was that Bomsoi needed her to return her son to life. It could have meant anything, and that thought stole the breath from Phen’s chest. Once before, she had sacrificed herself for her son. What was to say it wouldn’t happen again?
Eventually they reached the receiving chamber she’d seen the queen in before. The first guard struck the door twice, then stepped away, waiting for permission. Phen gripped her tunic tighter.
“Enter,” a voice said.
The guard opened the door, and Phen walked in her wake. The chamber was much like before, with a wooden table in its center. But the chairs were gone, and no candles stood on its wide surface. The shutters were still tightly closed, keeping out the moons’ light. Phen had spied the moons earlier that evening, neatly stacked atop one another. The Lunar Awakening. The single day Nunako, Lady of Light, would walk among her folk once more.
There was little light in the chamber. Phen stopped herself from snorting. It was fitting. There was no love in the chamber, either, and the darkness fit that. Queen Valentia stood at the head of the table, her talons stretched against its surface. Once more her offspring stood beside her, Fylica on the right and Fonbir on the left. Bomsoi stood to the side, dressed again in black, her hands clasped in front of her.
Valentia held Phen’s gaze, the intensity of the stare boring into Phen’s skull. She twisted her hem more, but held the queen’s eyes.
“Phen of the Masvams,” Valentia said. Her voice echoed into every stone corner. “Will you do as you are asked? Will you help to save my folk and this world from destruction?”
Valentia’s face was as stern and commanding as a stormy sea. Phen licked her lips, then nodded. “Yes.”
Valentia clicked two of her talons together, and immediately an attendant opened the door and stood in its arch, ready for her orders.
“Bring the body in,” Valentia said.
Hands shaking, Phen kept her eyes on the door. Within a moment, the attendant and a partner entered the chamber, carrying Mantos’ body in a shroud.
Phen’s head spun. It wasn’t like the last time, when the temple novice had pulled the tiny Mantos into her arms. His body had been flaccid, head lolling against the novice’s arm. Blood had still trickled from his nostrils, warm and sticky.
Now Mantos was grown, a tall and imposing figure. Or so Phen chose to believe, for she hadn’t seen him upright. Now she couldn’t even see his face, but she could imagine the cold planes beneath the undyed fabric. The coarseness of his fronds still lingered on her hands. The shine of his eyes was still unseen, for they lingered beneath his papery lids.
The attendants laid the body on the table. They opened the shutters to let in the light, then left without a word. They took the torches with them, but the room was afforded light from the moons. Phen stared at the three moons, settled over each another like stacking cups. The Lunar Awakening, Phen thought. It was finally here.
Her gaze returned to the body on the table. The edges of the shroud were picked out in silver. Underneath was her son, her beloved youngling, for whom she had sacrificed her life once before. Even as they stood in the chamber, wrapped in a coldness that went beyond the chill from the stone walls, Phen didn’t know what they wanted from her. In some way she was needed, but Bomsoi had kept her in the dark. Perhaps, she thought, bunching her talons into fists, it was because of what would happen to her. She’d been robbed of her wits once to save her son. A life for a life, the novice had said. Phen had assumed it meant death, but it was not so. This time, it might be.
I will die for you, Mantos, she thought. You deserve life more than I.
Bomsoi approached the table. Her hands stilled over the body, and her eyes flicked up to Phen. Then she uncovered Mantos’ face.
He looked peaceful, as if simply asleep. Phen’s knees threatened to buckle, but she stayed strong. Whatever magic Bomsoi wielded, it had already kept her son’s body from putrefaction. The next step was bringing him back to the living world.
Bomsoi unlaced the front of the shroud, revealing the body beneath. Mantos was clothed in a simple gown made of the same undyed material. It was simple, humble. It didn’t speak of a male who was to be emperor. But then, Phen knew, in death all were equal. The poorest or the grandest: everyone had to stand in the presence of the Lady of Light and answer the single question: who are you?
Approaching the body, Phen laid a trembling hand on his cool forehead, lacing her talons around his horns. Had Mantos already stood before the goddess and pleaded his case? Was he already enjoying eternal succor at her table? If so, what right did they have to take him away from that? Phen smoothed down his fronds, still wrapped in tight death braids, and shook her head. They had no right to wrench him from the Light, yet Bomsoi, the Stranger, said it must be so. Phen flicked her gaze to her, the creature who’d spirited her away from certain death. Bomsoi gave the tiniest of nods. Phen did the same in reply. It was time.
Thus, they were gathered in a stone chamber, with the light of the moons streaming in. Phen looked around, from Bomsoi to Valentia to her offspring. Princess Fylica’s face was
hewn in an eternal scowl. Prince Fonbir, behind his veil, inclined his head. His white eyes, so strange, shone brightly. There was hope there, the hope of a lover seeking his special one. Phen returned her gaze to Mantos, lying prone, bathed in light.
“Are we ready, Stranger?” Queen Valentia asked.
“We are ready,” Bomsoi replied. “I wait only for your consent.”
At the queen’s nod, Bomsoi stepped forward.
“Today we do the work of the gods,” she said. “Today we right a terrible wrong and put into motion events that will change the world.”
From inside her tunic she drew out a small knife. She looked to Phen and nodded.
Phen swallowed. Hard. This was it.
A life for a life.
“Give me your hand,” Bomsoi said, reaching for her. “His life was bound to yours for many cycles. You wove a bond with the underworld that cannot be undone. His life was sustained by yours, kept from death by you. Now, with the help of the moons, it is time for your life to bring him back again.”
Phen swallowed again. She blinked. A thousand unanswered questions swirled in her mind. Yet when she looked at her son’s pallid face, the need for answers fell away. She stepped forward. She held Bomsoi’s gaze.
“I will do what I must,” she said, placing her hand in Bomsoi’s, “even if it kills me.”
Bomsoi squeezed her talons, then brought them to her mouth. She kissed the backs of Phen’s claws. “The will of the gods be done,” she said. “But if the gods are kind, they will not levy the heaviest of penalties.”
Phen licked her lips, closing her eyes for a moment.
“I am ready,” she said. “A life for a life; that was the price last time. I am willing to pay it again. He is my son. I would tear myself limb from limb if that would save his life.”
In the corner of her eye, she saw Queen Valentia incline her head, and press two of her foreclaws to her lips. It was a sign, something Phen had learned long ago when studying their culture.
It was a gesture of respect.
They were enemies, and Phen was in her custody, but something in her words must have struck a chord within the Althemerian queen. We are both mothers, and that binds us, Phen thought. Were our positions reversed, I believe she would do the same as me.
Bomsoi gave Phen’s hand a final squeeze, then turned it over to expose the fleshy palm. “If we are lucky, the gods will not demand your life. But I do need your blood,” she said, raising the knife.
“More magic,” Phen said, the words catching in her throat. Then reality bit, and she barked a laugh. “I’m already damned for using magic once. Why not again?”
Bomsoi shook her head and reached to take Phen’s hand in her own. “This is not dark magic. This is the will of the gods.” Her face became deadly stern. “I need your blood, or your son will never live again.”
Fear exploded in Phen’s mind, and in that moment she wanted to turn tail and flee. Her heart pounded. Her mouth went dry. She closed her hand tight, the talons digging into her soft palm. Bomsoi wanted blood, but that might not be enough. Reality bit and her stomach lurched. I’m going to die.
But when she looked beyond Bomsoi, to the figure lying prone on the table, she closed her eyes. If her life was demanded, then so be it. Even if it wasn’t wanted by the gods Bomsoi spoke of, there was still the threat of death at the hands of the Althemerians. But none of it mattered. All that was important was her son’s life. It was all she’d ever worked to protect.
“I only ever wanted him to live,” she whispered.
“Let him live now,” Bomsoi replied. “Open your palm to me.”
Phen trembled. The moment stretched into a lifetime. Every memory she had of Mantos came back. The moment she was called to the blessed moment: the eggs were hatching! She remembered kicking off her shoes and bolting into the bedchamber, so unbecoming of an empress, but she hadn’t cared.
She remembered watching as the tiny hatchling poked through the silver leather of his shell, fighting with all his might to join the world.
She remembered her whoop of joy as her first-hatched was placed in her arms. His claws were so sharp and his rumble of hunger so sweet.
She remembered Bandim, escaping not long after, joining his sibling in her arms. She remembered the sweet joy of having two hatchlings, the first time such a thing had occurred since the time when the Goddess Nunako walked among the believers.
Most of all, she remembered the sudden absence of her hatching in her arms. She remembered the sight of him, broken and bloody, all because of her. She remembered the keenness of utter pain and the spark of hope the temple novice gave her.
She remembered the moment her life was bound to his, and then she remembered no more. Not until she woke in a chamber with no windows, haggard and pained, a stranger in the world.
Phen looked to Valentia once more, who returned her gaze with shadowed eyes. Phen looked at Bomsoi, who inclined her head.
“Open your palm to me.”
Slowly, Phen unfurled her talons, exposing the flesh of her palm.
“The will of the gods be done,” Bomsoi said.
Phen’s heart pounded anew. Her whole body trembled as Bomsoi brought the knife down and slid it over Phen’s exposed skin. Blood wept from the straight cut, but Phen withheld her whimper. She gritted her teeth and watched the hot red liquid pool in the cup of her hand and threaten to trickle between her talons.
Bringing her to the body, Bomsoi placed the bleeding palm on Mantos’ forehead, just under his first horn. Then she slid it to each of his cheeks and wiped blood over his lips. Phen’s breath was shallow and her head was light. She pressed her bleeding palm into the fabric of her hose. The pain was nothing at all. All she could feel was the knife-edge of grief, blunted by an ever-growing bud of hope.
Mantos, come back to me.
His face was painted with her blood. Bomsoi reached over his body with both hands, breathed deeply, and started to chant.
Phen stepped back, rapt as the Stranger set to work. Her language was strange and archaic, like nothing Phen had heard before. It was a language of the beforetime, the words twisting and twining around each other. The more Bomsoi spoke, the faster the words came. Her eyes were clenched shut. Her brow shone with sweat. The air cooled, and her breath ghosted.
Phen kept her palm pressed to her thigh. The warm bloodstain spread. Her heart still pumped, her breathing coming in shallow gasps that puffed into the air. The room grew colder and colder, and Phen looked to the queen and her children. Each kept their eyes on Bomsoi and the body. Fonbir’s beaded with tears.
There was a searing crack, and Phen jumped. The whole room shifted as ice penetrated the walls, cracking the stone, climbing in sparkling tendrils. It crawled the length of Mantos’ body, winding like the vines of Bomsoi’s language. The entire room trembled with power. Phen trembled too.
The Stranger drew in a deep breath and finally opened her eyes.
“Rise!” she cried.
Phen scrabbled backwards until her claws met freezing stone. Bomsoi’s eyes, once grey, now glowed bright and blue, shining as if the power of the moons was channeled through them. Phen’s breath stopped and her throat closed as the presence of such power washed over her.
Bomsoi’s chanting grew to fever-pitch, and she raised her hands over the body. Blue light played on Mantos’ face, painting the blood purple. Phen’s blood. The blood that would make him rise from the dead.
Phen prayed, her chest burning from lack of breath. Please, Lady of Light! Bring him back to me!
There was a deep clunk from everywhere and nowhere. Phen’s eyes darted to and fro, looking for the source. Bomsoi was silent now, her gaze fixed on Mantos’ body.
Then it happened.
Phen’s son, her dead son, sat up on the table. His crossed Tiboli lightning strikes glinted at his neck.
“Mantos,” Phen whispered, her breath now coming in ragged gasps. “Mantos!”
He looked at her and, for the
first time since he was a hatchling, their gazes met.
His eyes glowed blue.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Emmy
The air filled with harrowed screams, some of them Emmy’s own. The screeches were punctuated with booming explosions. The stinging taste of panic tainted the air like sulfur as folk clattered along the streets, desperate to escape. The ships vomited wave upon wave of soldiers. Fighting was futile. Running was the only option. Even battle-hardened former Metakalan fighters were gathering their younglings to them and throwing the vital objects of their lives into bags.
Zecha disappeared into Charber’s house and reappeared with a sweeping bow and a quiver of arrows on his waist. Emmy headed towards the surging crowd on the street.
“I need to get to the apothecary,” she said. “Krodge is still there. I...I can’t leave her for the Masvams to kill.”
A voice that rang with justice sounded in her mind. Why not? Perhaps you could finally teach her a lesson. Emmy batted it back. No. I must be better than that.
Charo jerked an elbow at the swirling maw outside. “Emmy,” she said, “we could be killed trying to make our way through the crowd. Who knows how many enemies are out there, whoever they are.”
“We know who they are, Charo,” Emmy said. “It can only be the Masvams. They’ve come at last, and there’s nothing we can do to stop them.”
Charo had no reply.
“Let’s go,” Zecha said. “We’re definitely dead if we stay here. We might survive if we can get out.”
“We can go to the apothecary, gather supplies, and get Krodge,” Emmy said. “Then we’ll run.”
The streets pulsed with panic and fear as the trio wound through the swirling crowds. As they reached the end of Charber’s street, the vista opened into the large space of the Circle, and Emmy’s chest tightened. From there they could see right down to the port. Clear as glass, there were the three towering Masvam ships. Their tall masts stretched upwards like dead trees. They bled soldiers, their curved scimitar blades glinting in the moons’ light.
