by Ken Scholes
And rendezvous with Tybard’s forces. He hoped the lieutenant had sustained fewer losses. They could resupply at Windwir if the weapon was successful and reassess their role in what came next.
Tomorrow their forward scouts should reach the Y’Zirite camp and start gathering information for him. He’d already sent two of his fastest scouts south and west, magicked, to establish communication with Orius and with Tybard. Once he’d rejoined whatever remained of his men they could take the camp—if the pathogen had worked as planned, and if that surgical removal of their elite forces and their leadership had the expected impact on Y’Zirite military effectiveness.
Lysias looked out over the moonlit snow in the clearing beyond their dark, cold camp. It was a quiet night, the only noise the sound of his men breathing as they slept. He’d tried to join them but couldn’t. His mind kept returning to the dream. It had awakened something in him—a curiosity perhaps, or maybe an urge. As if one of those falling seeds had penetrated his heart and taken root there, started to grow.
But growing what? He did not know, but he found himself suddenly thinking of a day when his life might be simpler. Where he might have a house and a garden and spend afternoons at a pub. Put away the uniform and the sword. Unknot his scarf of rank.
It was not something he’d ever considered before. Until the dream, he’d assumed he would serve Rudolfo as a general until the day he was too old to do so. It was familiar to him; he’d been serving since he graduated from the Entrolusian City-States’s famed Academy. But now, for the first time in his life, something unfamiliar whispered to him, kept him from sleep with its insistent tone.
A light buzz reached his ears, and his eyes went to the clearing. He squinted and saw something small flying across the field of snow. It flew low and straight, stopping suddenly to hover. As it turned, he puckered his lips to whistle them to third alarm. The object drew closer, slowing as it approached, and Lysias forced himself to release his held breath.
It’s one of Orius’s birds. The moon swallow beat its silver wings, hovering now just an arm’s length away. Lysias felt the cool breeze of it on his cheek and stretched out his hand.
It hopped lightly into his palm and cocked its head. The beak opened, but the voice he heard leaking out wasn’t Orius. It was Rudolfo. “Lysias, I hope this finds you. Renard insists it will. When you’ve finished your work, rally with Philemus and the Wandering Army at Windwir and bring it into the war.” His voice was different, colder and controlled, and it lowered now. “Harry the foe southward as you will; I will communicate rendezvous details soon. We will drive the Y’Zirites into the sea or cut them to the ground. We will take back our home.”
When the bird finished, it closed its beak, blinked, then opened it again and waited. It took him a moment to realize that it was expecting a reply. Lysias cleared his voice. “Message received.”
A few of the men had stirred awake around him at the sound of Lord Rudolfo’s voice. They gasped now as the moon swallow shot up from Lysias’s hands to flee across the clearing and vanish into the forest.
He looked after it for a time and then sighed, drawing the blanket up to his chin. He’d forsaken the notion of a tent, propping himself instead against a pine for the few hours he thought he might sleep. Most of the others had done the same, and soon their breathing became deep and steady again as they drifted off.
He himself must’ve also nodded a bit, because the gentle whistle to second alarm startled him alert. He pushed the blanket aside as he dragged his short blade from beneath it, rising to a crouch as he did.
He heard commotion from the other side of the camp and set out for it at a jog, mindful of the men he dodged as he made his way to the source of the alarm. He wasn’t sure how much time had passed—hours, though, by the gray in the sky.
Two scouts stood over a man they’d tied and hooded, and in the dim light, Lysias saw the dark Y’Zirite uniform. “What do we have here?”
The first scout straightened and inclined his head. “A deserter, General.”
A deserter. He crouched and lifted the hood to reveal the scarred, white face of a young man. “Is this true? Have you deserted?”
The soldier nodded, his eyes wide. He said something at first in a language that Lysias didn’t comprehend, then paused and spoke in halting Landlish. “Dead.”
“Who’s dead?”
The young man spoke again, the words jumbled together and holding no meaning for Lysias. But he didn’t need to understand the boy’s language to read his terror. And while it stood to reason that he might be scared of having been caught by the Gypsy Scouts, it was more reasonable that he was afraid of whatever had driven him to abandon his post and flee. And Lysias was confident of what that was. He’d seen firsthand what the Androfrancine pathogen could do.
Lysias slowed his own words and lowered his voice. “I need you to focus. Who is dead?”
But it was no use. The man regarded Lysias and then regarded the scout, his face blank. “Dead,” he said again.
“We found him sleeping about ten leagues west. It looks like he came from the north.”
Lysias nodded. “Magick a half-squad and have them trace his steps back. I want to know where he came from.”
And if it’s truly started. Of course, he knew it had. And judging by the terror in the young soldier’s voice, the wideness of his eyes, the way his nostrils flared, the Androfrancine pathogen was having the desired effect on Y’Zirite morale. He would know soon enough, between this and Windwir.
Lysias turned his attention back to the prisoner. “Where are you going?” At the man’s blank look, he pointed south, pantomimed running with his hands.
The soldier nodded, then looked up, squinting at the sky. His brow furrowed, and finally he pointed to the snow and started drawing in it with his finger.
At first Lysias didn’t recognize it, but slowly the image took shape. It’s the tree from the dream.
The man pointed to it and smiled. Lysias nodded and returned the smile. Then the man laughed, and it was like music in the silent forest. There was joy and hope in that laughter, and it unsettled Lysias.
He has lost something and found something. He could see it on the soldier’s face: a balance between the fear that drove him to flee and the beckoning of a new home.
For the first time in his career, Lysias contemplated fleeing himself, taking an almost lascivious pride in the notion of stealing a boat with this young Y’Zirite and sailing for the moon. It was a passing notion that he chuckled away.
It wasn’t as surprising as his next thought, which was to strip the boy of his uniform, dress him in the garb of a Forester, and send him along to Caldus Bay where he might have the hope of a ship. Lysias contemplated that possibility for a full minute.
But in the end, he did what he knew must be done, and that did not surprise him at all. General Lysias pushed his blade into the Y’Zirite soldier’s heart from behind and, after the body fell and kicked its last, he watched the Y’Zirite blood darken the snow-drawn tree until the image melted into nothing recognizable at all.
Petronus
The night wind was warm upon Petronus, and he stifled a yawn as he watched the ships at anchor far below. He’d not slept, staying up to argue with Nadja instead. The young ambassador was more stubborn than the oldest, staunchest arch-scholar, and his level of frustration was unexpected. Still, she’d not budged.
“We avoid involvement,” she said. “A key component of our mission is to be unseen and unknown, to observe and record from a place of anonymity in history.”
Despite the firmness of her jaw, he’d seen the truth in her eyes as she said it. She wants to help us. Once he’d seen that, he’d stopped arguing as fiercely, and as her hackles lowered, Petronus steered the conversation elsewhere before leaving her in the quarters they’d made for her in the temple. Her decision to stay when the others withdrew had surprised him, and now, in hindsight, he could see her conflicted desire to interfere despite the position r
equired of her office.
And something more.
The girl made him feel odd, but he was growing more comfortable with it. Her conflict went beyond wanting to help, and his own conflict regarding the young ambassador surprised him. And though he doubted very much that they would need her help, Petronus liked that the girl was near.
He looked at the ships in the canal. They were only a few hours out from the temple now, and he expected they’d resume course at dawn. Depending upon Neb, of course. He felt the fabric of his robe, pressing it between his thumb and forefinger as he willed the garment to shrink and cling to his skin. Petronus knew he could do his fair share with his command of the blood of the earth, but it was the dragon that gave them the advantage and assured their success.
Even as he thought about it, he felt the wind pick up around him. He turned to watch the kin-dragon drop to the roof of the temple lightly. It stretched, and when it lifted off, Neb crouched in the shadow of its wings.
He was dressed in the familiar woolens of a fisherman that reminded Petronus of home. “Father,” he said with a nod.
“It’s good to see you, Neb.”
He turned back to the southern view and Neb joined him. “There are three more behind them,” the young man said. “They just left the Seaway.”
He looked to Neb. The last time he’d encountered Y’Zirite ships, he’d sunk them. “You let them pass?”
“These flew a different flag,” Neb said. “A white tree. But they were Y’Zirite ships.”
The dream. It had brought out the New Espirans, and now it brought out others, it seemed. “What will you do?”
“I was with Winters,” he said, and then stopped as his cheeks flushed red.
Petronus smiled. “Good. You waited long enough.”
Neb nodded. “She spoke to a crowd. She talked about the dream and even had me talk about what we’ve found here on the moon.”
Petronus felt his eyebrows rise. “Where was this crowd?”
“Caldus Bay,” Neb said. “Even the Y’Zirites were there. Ships’ captains, too.”
What she was doing struck him, and Petronus wondered why it felt like an ambush. He said aloud without realizing it, “She is calling her people home.”
“But not the way I imagined it,” Neb said. “The dreams that brought us here don’t speak to this.”
“Because this is something new being birthed,” Petronus said. And for some unexplainable reason, it felt right to him. The notion of the Marsh Queen calling out those who wished to join her for the great Homecoming. A chance to start anew in a new home. “Maybe the best dreams allow for new dreams to emerge. After all, change is the path life takes.” He’d heard that all his life, and he’d meditated upon it as a most sacred truth for most of his adulthood.
“Yes,” Neb said. “Change is the path. I think we need to change, too. I think Winters is right. This is a new home for any who would seek it.”
The idea was nearly as confounding as Esarov’s nonsense about democracy, and Petronus wanted to argue with Neb, tell him that it was idealistic to believe that such vastly different worldviews—vastly different cultures—could all decide simply to live together in peace. But yet it would be change—and from that change, what new life might spring forth?
Petronus looked at the scarred visage of Lasthome as it filled the sky. After millennia of self-destruction, surely it was time for something different.
Change is the path life takes. He would not be around to see the fruit from whatever tree they planted here upon the moon. But it has to be better than what we’ve done before. “So how do you propose we greet these … guests?”
“I think,” Neb said, “we’ll greet them personally and inquire of their intentions.” Then he laughed. “Let’s run, old man.” He turned away, tugging at the fisherman’s clothes as he made for the temple’s hatch. He was naked by the time he entered the temple, conjuring silver robes at a whisper as Petronus tried to keep up.
They ran the temple’s stairs silently with Neb in the lead. Once they left through its wide gate, they ran side by side on the trail they’d beaten down along the side of the canal. It was a familiar course and Petronus gave his feet to it, rejoicing in the wind upon his face and the air moving in and out of his lungs as his legs pumped to keep up with Neb. The sky was already gray with the light of Lasthome, dimming the stars and casting the jungle in murky twilight a full two hours before dawn.
The birds came to life, a tentative and mixed choir that faded behind them as they raced by. Occasionally a fish jumped in the canal, breaking the calm water’s surface with a splash. Petronus had caught some of the fat bass that swam the canal. He’d cooked them for Nadja; they’d been sweet to the taste, and the memory of it made his stomach growl.
I need to fish more and run less. But still, he pressed on. They ran until the ships squatted before them in the water. Then they stopped and crouched in the shadows of the jungle, taking inventory of the situation.
He could see men on the decks—just the handful needed to stand watch—and no evidence that they’d come ashore here as of yet. This near, the temple loomed up ahead of them, filling the sky. They waited until about an hour before sunrise; then Neb stepped onto the shore across from the first ship and Petronus followed after.
“Hail the ship,” Neb cried out with a raised hand.
There was a sudden flurry of activity as a bell rang. Men poured onto the decks of each vessel, taking up positions. Many were armed with bows or spears.
“Hail the shore,” a voice finally called in reply.
Neb’s voice was clear in the predawn air. “I would hold parley with your commanding officer. I will wait here on shore.”
Petronus watched as a longboat was lowered and men scrambled down into it to row ashore. Sailors scrambled over the side to pull the boat onto the sand. A man and a woman—both in their late forties—stepped out together, steadied by the arms of their escort. The man wore the uniform of a naval commander, and the woman wore the robes of an Y’Zirite priestess.
“I am Sister Agnes of the Daughters of Ahm,” the woman said. “This is Commander Eltara of the Y’Zirite Third Fleet. He commands the military and the vessels; I oversee the mission.”
Neb inclined his head. “I am Nebios Whym. This is Father Petronus.”
Their eyes widened at the mention of his name, and Petronus smiled. They know me. They should. His sacrifice, as the Last Son of P’Andro Whym, was a part of their gospel, enacted by Ria so long ago with one slice of her knife across his throat before she brought him coughing and sputtering back to life with her blood magicks.
“You are the Abomination,” Sister Agnes said as she took Neb in. She said nothing when she looked to Petronus, but he could see her working the cipher of what exactly he had become.
“That,” Neb said, “is a matter of perspective. But I prefer Neb or Lord Whym to Abomination.” He smiled, but Petronus saw it was devoid of humor. “I am the steward of the temple you now approach.”
The woman’s own smile was cold. “We approach the Moon Wizard’s Tower in the name of Lord Ahm Y’Zir. The House of Y’Zir holds claim to these lands, having been the last to vacate them.”
“There is an older claim,” Neb said. “They were deeded by my people to the House of Shadrus to be held in trust.”
Agnes raised her eyebrows. “The House of Shadrus was incorporated into House Y’Zir millennia ago.”
“Not by choice,” Neb said.
“Perhaps,” she said, “our respective experts in lands-right law should meet and examine these claims together?”
Neb looked around. “I think we are the only respective experts to be found in the present moment. If you would like to leave and return when you are more fully prepared, I can grant you escort to the Seaway.”
The woman regarded Neb and said nothing, her tightly drawn mouth saying more than her words could have. The commander glanced at her and spoke. “Our mission is primarily one of peace and expl
oration,” he said.
Petronus wanted to chuckle, but Neb did it first. “A false peace, to be sure,” the young man said. “I’ve been beneath your Y’Zirite blades. They were anything but peaceful. And I spent a long winter burying the bodies at Windwir.” He paused. “Still, if your mission is one of peace, lay down your arms and I will show you the Firsthome Temple.”
The commander pursed his lips, considering the two of them. “Regardless of your claim,” he said, “I’m not certain the two of you are sufficient to persuade us.”
Neb smiled. “Then by all means, return with your law experts and we will convene a proper parley.”
Eltara’s face went red, and Agnes leaned over to whisper something to him. He nodded and she spoke. “We have heard of your exploits in the north, Abomination. The blood of the earth makes you strong, but not invincible.”
The blood of the earth is the least of your problems, Petronus thought. Then he waited for his friend to prove it to them.
Neb
Neb watched the Y’Zirites as they watched him and pondered his words with care. There were moments—too many of them—where he felt more like the boy he had been rather than the man he was becoming. This was one of those moments, standing on the shore of a lunar canal surrounded by a jungle slowly waking to a new day.
Of course, he’d fallen hard into adulthood, reorphaned by the fall of Windwir and then slowly dragged beneath the great machine of dreams and prophecy as he discovered he was not even in the vicinity of who he’d thought he would be. He’d been young when the fire had taken his home, and he’d started down this very different path. But in those days during the War for Windwir, he’d risen to the challenge, commanding an army of gravediggers in Petronus’s absence. Now, to stand beside the old Pope and confront the enemy that had brought down Windwir, he felt young indeed.
