by L M R Clarke
Emmy nodded. “Just be glad you’ll have many cycles to be irritated by it.”
“It doesn’t worry me,” Zecha replied as Emmy tugged his shift down again. “I’ll say it’s a war wound when I show it to my younglings.”
War. At that word, Emmy’s heart sank. She tucked Zecha in, pressing his shoulders so he would lie back again.
“What’s wrong?” he asked, drawing his eyeridges together.
During Emmy’s silence, he looked around the tent, as if only realizing where he was. His face pinched as he saw the unusual red heart-in-eye symbol on Emmy’s black tunic. He tried to rise, but Emmy kept him down.
“Where are we?” he asked in a low voice.
“We’re in an Althemerian encampment,” Emmy said. “They were the ones who saved us from the Masvams.”
She snorted at her own words. Saved. Ha.
“Althemerians?” Zecha asked, his eyes narrowing. “Does that mean...”
Emmy sighed. She rubbed her hand in circles on Zecha’s shoulder, trying to find the right words.
“Yes. The Althemerians say we owe them a life-debt,” she said. “It’s a cycle of unpaid service, or joining their army. If you survive, you’re free. If you die, well... I suppose you don’t need to worry about it.”
“That’s barbaric,” Zecha whispered. Despair painted his face. “Not even the Masvams hold life-debts anymore.”
Emmy patted Zecha’s shoulder one final time and shook her head.
“No, but what’s more barbaric is that the Masvams were going to take us as forever-slaves. With the Althemerians, at least we’re in the shallower of two valleys. There’s a chance we’ll get out. With the Masvams, I don’t think we ever would.”
She watched as Zecha mulled the options over. Then a new expression washed over him. His eyes widened, and he tried to sit up once more. “Where’s Charo?”
Emmy gently urged him back down again. “She’s been taken as a soldier-slave,” she said. “I told her to tell them she was my apprentice, and she might have avoided that. But she didn’t, so now she’s training for battle.”
“Is she all right?” Zecha asked.
“She seems to be,” Emmy replied. “I haven’t seen her much. But when I do, she always asks for you.”
Despite the circumstance, Zecha still colored with pleasure. “That’s nice of her.”
A shadow fell over them. Emmy stood, clasping her hands behind her back as the figure stopped beside them.
It was Rel.
“He wakes at last,” the Belfoni said with a chuckle. “I thought you would prove me a bad healer, Zecha.”
Zecha’s brows crumpled with confusion. Emmy offered an explanation. “This is Rel, the senior healer,” she said. “I told her you were my friend from Metakala.”
Zecha let out an “ah” of understanding and looked at Rel.
“Thank you for helping me,” he said. The skin around his eyes tightened, though he still smiled. “I owe you my life.”
Rel chuckled again and shook her head. “You owe me nothing,” she said. “The Althemerians, on the other hand, well, they take a different view on things.”
“Thank you, Rel,” Zecha said. His skin washed out in the dim light of the braziers, waxy with fatigue. “I’d stand to take your arm, but I don’t think I can.”
“Of course you can’t,” Rel said. “You need to rest.”
As she knelt to examine his wound, his eyes fell closed. His face tightened with something more than pain. “What will happen to me now?” he asked. His voice sounded cycles older than it should have.
“You will remain here until you are fit to leave,” Rel said. She shot a sideways glance at Emmy, one corner of her mouth quirking. “After that, we have a little journey to make.”
“A journey?” Zecha asked. He rolled his head to the side so he could catch Emmy’s line of sight. “What does she mean?”
Emmy opened her mouth, closed it, then opened it again. “There’s a lot I need to tell you,” she said, “and Charo too.”
Rel finished her inspection of her charge’s wound, then clapped a hand on Emmy’s shoulder as she stood. Familiar cold bloomed.
“Now is not the time,” she said. “Medicine-Emmy has work to attend to. But all will be explained, Zecha. You won’t remain here long.”
Unsatisfied, Zecha tried to rise once more, though his own fatigue pushed him backwards this time. “Emmy, what’s going on?”
Biting her bottom lip, Emmy dropped her chin for a moment. “I’ll explain everything,” she said. “I promise. But not right now.”
Rel gently tugged her backwards and propelled her away from Zecha. As Emmy walked, she could feel Zecha’s eyes boring into the back of her head. Her heart longed to pour everything out to him, but with their escape from the encampment riding on Rel, she knew it was best to dance to the healer’s tune.
Emmy kept her eyes forward as she moved onto her next patient, hoping Zecha would understand.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
Bandim
The Seat of the Empire was unparalleled in its magnificence. Standing high amid the city of Masvam, generations of emperors had stood on the palace balconies, staring across the turbulent sweep of land where the Empire began. Emperor upon emperor had added to the original castle. A circular keep and high curtain wall sprawled into a complex of buildings, towers, further walls, and a huge barbican, complete with a drawbridge over the moat. This is my palace now, Bandim thought as he sat on his marble throne. It’s my land, just as it was meant to be.
As a youngling, he’d pressed his face to the glass of his window in the High Tower and stared at the warren of towers and walls below him. As the cycles passed, his talons twitched. His tongue grew sour. It was all for Mantos, he thought. Everything for him, and nothing for me. He chuckled, the cold sound echoing through the cavernous throne room. Now, everything is as it was meant to be.
There was no need for him to be in the throne room, except to enjoy the feeling of sitting on his throne. There were no grasping courtiers seeking audiences, or members of his council coming to him with matters of law, life, and death. He was alone apart from two guards.
Reclining on the high-backed marble throne, Bandim grasped the arms. For a moment he was still, imbibing the power that coursed with the beat of his heart. So too did he imbibe the feelings of those around him. Ever since the evening with Yameteth and the fire, Bandim had been honing his curious power of reading others’ emotions. Not thoughts, for he couldn’t hear or read those. But those in close proximity, he could feel the truth of their emotions, deep in their bones.
The presence of his guards was potent. Their thoughts raced, lingering on their younglings and wives, or on their desire to be proved worthy. There were no words, but pictures flashed. Past, present, coveted futures. Bandim could taste their emotions. Love was sweet. Ambition was powerful, harsh and yet desirable. Buried fear was salty, tainting all else.
Bandim wasn’t the same now. He was different. He was more. I am changed, Bandim thought. In some ways, I’m not Bandim at all.
Power surged through him, painting him in ways make-up never could. I have the spirit of Dorai within me. She gives me her power so that she may live again. Bandim chortled. Dorai has returned.
His laugh, the sound of unadulterated joy in his heart, carried through the throne room, dancing among the handful of lanterns. The carved doors opened, and a figure stepped into the scant light. A ripple of fear passed through his guards.
“Your Grace.”
The high voice sounded through the vaulted chamber. Johrann’s footsteps echoed in the alcoves. Bandim rose and beckoned her onto the dais. “My dear Heart,” he said, reaching for her. “Thank you for coming to me.”
Johrann fell into a deep bow, as she always did. She was an anomaly among all those Bandim had encountered since he took Dorai into his heart. He couldn’t clearly decipher her emotions. Johrann was closed, as if encased in thicker walls than the palace. It unsettled
him, for surely nothing should be impossible for the goddess. However, she was still under his control. He had proved that with her punishment for failure, before his powers awoke. For now, she was back in his favor, where she would remain so long as she was useful.
Bandim let her kiss his hands, then pulled her to her feet. Johrann kept her eyes down. Her dark robes floated like gently shifting fog. Bandim tilted her face upward. “You may look at me.”
Johrann met his gaze. “Thank you, Your Grace,” she said. “Any time I’m in your presence, I cannot help but supplicate myself to you.”
Chuckling, Bandim leaned in. Their embrace lingered. “You are beautiful,” he said.
Though he couldn’t read her clearly, the mix of sugared joy and turgid pain that flashed from her made his gut clench. It was gone as fast as it arrived. Bandim wrapped his arms around her. “Why is your happiness tainted with despair?”
She tried to look away, but his gaze was commanding.
“No one has called me beautiful before,” Johrann said. “I’ve been called many things. A monster. A fool. Filthy. Dangerous. But never beautiful.”
Bandim tasted a sharp vulnerability. He pressed a kiss to her temple and wrapped his arms around her, pressing her head to his chest. When she was in disgrace, her suffering had been sweet. Now she was worthy of his sympathy and compassion, even if it was less sincere than it seemed. Bandim would keep Johrann dancing to his tune, just as she’d made him dance to hers before.
“If anyone disrespects you again, dear Heart,” he said, “I’ll rip them limb from limb. I will find their town and burn it down. I will kill their kin just so they can taste the pain they inflict. I would kick the very moons from the sky if it would take your suffering away.”
Round pearls beaded in Johrann’s eyes. “Your Grace is too good to me.”
“I am,” Bandim said. Then his tone shifted. “Don’t ever forget it.”
He caught the look of fear in her eyes, but then in an instant everything flickered.
Bandim’s vision sputtered like a dying candle. His thoughts flashed quickly, interspersed with deep pockets of nothingness. Images of his youth, of endless boring lessons with ever-perfect Mantos, of playful fights that turned vicious as they grew up, of his brother’s yellow eyes, identical to his own, yet filled with nothing but loathing as they looked upon him.
Bandim, Bandim...
His brother’s voice, as clear as if Mantos were standing next to him.
Stumbling backward, Bandim fell onto the throne. His chest tightened, and it was as if hot knives were pushed under his ribs.
“Your Grace!” he heard Johrann cry.
The sound was distant, drowned by his brother repeating his name again and again.
Bandim, Bandim...
Hands were upon him. Johrann screeched for a guard to fetch a healer. Mantos’ presence rose like a great wave, threatening to consume Bandim’s every thought and wish.
Then it was gone.
His eyes snapping open, Bandim pulled himself upright on the throne. His chest heaved as he sucked in desperate breaths, trying to make sense of what had happened.
Why had he lost control of his thoughts? And why had Mantos’ presence felt so real?
“Your Grace?”
Johrann’s words cleared his mind further. He blinked, trying to adjust to reality again.
“Your Grace, have you returned to us?”
She and the one remaining guard hovered over him with fearful faces. Bandim waved off their concerns, though his heart drummed so hard it caused him pain.
A sudden realization caused greater agony. He could see the concern on the guard’s face, but he couldn’t feel it. Bandim could glean no emotion from him, whereas before it had been as easy to read him as a book. Bandim blinked. I cannot feel his thoughts. A coldness passed through him. It was as if Dorai...was gone.
“Your Grace?” Johrann asked. “What ails you?”
“It’s nothing,” Bandim lied, trying in vain to quiet the panic rising in his throat. “Nothing of consequence.”
However, every thought he had was now of consequence. His plans. His actions. His blackest desires. It had seemed so simple just a moment ago. Bandim and Dorai. Dorai and Bandim, together: unstoppable.
But now it seemed so far-off. Unobtainable. It was as though Dorai had forsaken him, leaving him alone, naked, vulnerable.
Bandim tried to bury that fear with words. Strategy. Anything that wasn’t the dank feeling of terror that lurked in the pit of his stomach. He reached for the first thought he could find.
“It’s one thing to take the land,” he said. “It’s something else entirely to keep it. There are no guarantees.”
Johrann drew back, brows drawn together in confusion at the strangeness of his words. They were a sudden divergence, but as soon as Bandim said them, the thoughts became obsessive, clogging his mind like tar. Mantos. Is he dead? Is he alive? Why did his presence feel so real? If he’s not dead, is he coming for my throne?
Johrann’s words sounded as hollow as a rotten tree. “Your Grace, I promise you will succeed.”
Bandim snorted. Then he flinched, memories of sleepless nights jabbing in ragged lines. His brother’s face loomed high and clear, no matter how hard Bandim squeezed his eyes shut. Bandim, Bandim... The voice echoed on and on.
Bandim’s words were sharp with sudden fatigue. “I’ll burn anything that doesn’t move and kill anything that doesn’t obey, if that’s what I need to do.” He pressed his fingertips to his eyes, willing the memories to flee. Mantos’ voice still jangled in his mind. Bandim, Bandim... “Taking the land isn’t what worries me.” His words turned cold. “What worries me is that my brother may not be dead, and if he isn’t, he’ll seek to take everything from me again.”
Johrann laughed like a peal of broken bells. Bandim became very still at the sound. The guard stepped away, descending the steps as if sensing danger.
“Your Grace,” Johrann said, “don’t fear the machinations of your mind. It’s your old life, memories of your old self. Mantos is dead. I delivered him to death myself. He cannot interfere.”
“And how do we know he’s truly dead?” Bandim’s chest compressed, as if anger sought to suffocate him. “I saw his body, I know. But then it disappeared, along with my mother.” Seething, he struggled to his feet again. Johrann stepped closer, reaching for him. Bandim batted her talons away. “How do I know he’s truly dead? I feel him,” he panted. “I see him in my dreams, and when I sleep, I know that he’s alive somewhere.”
Johrann held her hands out, as if to placate a feral animal.
“Someone may have taken his body,” she said, “but I took his life. There’s no way he can come back from that. I made sure of it. Only my folk have the power to manipulate the spirits and break the spell of death, and there are no other Uloni left. Not one. I purged their village in flames.”
Echoes of his dreams kept returning.
Bandim, Bandim... Dear brother, I will find you...
Johrann placed her hands on his arm. He snapped, sudden as unseen rot. “How do you know?” he bellowed. He grabbed her by the fronds, forcing her down the steps. “How—do—you—know?”
He thrust her away and she toppled from the dais, sprawling on the floor in a heap of robes and blood. Her screech bounced against the vaulted ceilings, coming back louder. The guard remained steadfast at his post, keeping his eyes focused on the doors.
As Johrann sobbed, the doors opened, and the second guard returned with a healer in tow. Bandim’s ire flared once more. “Get out!” he screeched.
As quickly as they had entered, the two figures disappeared again.
As anger consumed him, the coldness of Bandim’s despair abated. His head spun as Dorai’s warmth surrounded him once more, like the softest of embraces. He pressed a hand to his head, sucking in deep breaths to cement the Goddess’ presence within him.
His eyes found Johrann, and his heart twisted as she clambered to her feet,
blood trickling from her nostrils. But the feeling didn’t last long. As Dorai returned, the guilt abated too. He had nothing to feel guilty for. He was an emperor and a goddess and could do as he pleased. Though he wasn’t sorry, he reached a hand for her. “I didn’t mean to hurt you.”
Gradually, Johrann climbed the dais, creeping like a beaten animal. However, she accepted his touch. Her voice trembled as she spoke, but her words were full of fearful conviction.
“This is just your old life impinging upon you,” she said. “As you become more powerful and as more time passes, you’ll care less and less for your life as Bandim. You are Dorai, purer and more powerful than any other. You’ll unite us all under your banner.”
The return of the Goddess’ powers steadied him, and Bandim nodded. “Yes. My campaigns move forward. We’re poised to crush the Althemerians, just as we crushed the Metakalans.”
There was a twinge in his chest as he thought of the Althemerian royals, Fonbir and Fylica and Valaria, his friends from long ago. Fonbir had been Mantos’ close friend, but Valaria was all Bandim ever wanted. As headstrong and vibrant as she was, he couldn’t resist her.
Once again, the feeling was fleeting. His thoughts snapped back to the present. To Johrann Maa and her bloodied face. To reality. To his plan to murder all Valaria’s folk, and the fact that he’d cause her death as well. She will die on the battlefield, Bandim thought. She will die leading her folk against a force they cannot fight. Against my force. She rejected me. Me! She deserves to die. They all do.
“This is what the world needs,” Johrann said, grasping his face in both hands. “This is the right thing to do. We waited so long for you to return and purge the lies of the Light. Now you’re here, and nothing can stop you.” She dared to press a gentle kiss to his lips. He tasted her blood. “Your brother is dead. He cannot hurt you. Your old life is gone. Don’t think of it. You will be Dorai. You are Dorai. You are the Beloved, the Unparalleled, and if they don’t embrace the grace of your presence, the greatest gift you can give them is death.” She brought her lips close to his ear. “Even Princess Valaria. Even your mother. If they cannot accept your greatness, they do not deserve to live.”
