by NS Dolkart
“It’s not like with us,” he said.
“Oh, is that so? You were seventeen too, when we got married.”
“That was different. You hadn’t known me since I was a child.”
“Sure, it’s different. She’s loved him for years.”
Narky winced. He wished he hadn’t begun this conversation. Ptera had never quite forgiven him for his initial reluctance to marry her, nor for that matter had he exactly forgiven her for arranging the marriage without his knowledge. Happy as they had been together these eleven years, it was a sore spot between them. And here he was, treading on it.
“When you met me,” he said carefully, “I was independent. I’d killed two men – no, three. I’d said goodbye to my only friends. I’d loved, sort of, and I was about to be named the Graceful Servant’s successor. But Delika’s only had Criton, since she was young enough to need his help bathing. She loves him because he raised her that way! He’s never given her the chance to love someone else, or to be someone without him. She was his little girl, and now she’s his wife. I think it’s disgusting because it is; don’t make this about us.”
“What do you think he should have done, then? She’s loved him as long as I’ve known them – you think he should have abandoned her once she came of age? Or married her off to some other man against her will? What would you have him do?”
Narky couldn’t even tell if she took her argument seriously, or if she was just defensive and lashing out. “I think if you adopt someone as your daughter,” he said, “it’s your job to treat her like she’s really your daughter. Even if she wanted to marry him, which I don’t know, he shouldn’t have done it. I don’t care how much she loves him. Grace loves you more than anyone, that doesn’t mean you’d marry him if he wanted you to.”
“So, Criton’s taken care of her since she was young – he was young too, and things have changed. She’s not his daughter – he’s not even old enough to have sired her. It’s just not as unreasonable as you think it is.”
“Well, if I can’t convince you, I can’t convince you. But you asked.”
Thankfully, that at least ended the argument. Ptera took a deep breath and said, “You’re protective, and that’s not a bad thing. It makes you a good father.”
Narky smiled at that. He loved being a father, a fact that he could never have guessed at when he was younger. Somehow the cries of his son had never irritated him the way that Goodweather’s cries had, and the older Grace became, the better Narky liked him. Already at eight he had gained Narky’s admiration by doing what neither of his parents ever had: he had learned to read. That junior priest Erebid had taught him, and now they were studying sacred texts together.
Erebid was another of the former priests of Elkinar in Ardis. The Elkinaran priests had been a studious bunch; most of them knew how to read at least a little. But Erebid wasn’t only a good reader, he was an excellent teacher too, and Grace always came back from his lessons excited to show Narky what he had learned. Which, for the most part, Narky was unable to follow. But that was what it was like, he thought, if you did your job well. Your children would surpass you.
Narky had surpassed his own father, without a doubt. His father had been a farmer, and a famously cowardly one at that. He had feared the sea, and wolves, and his neighbors, and even fairy stories. Narky had been ashamed of him as a child and a teen, but time and experience had cured him of that shame. The Gods that Pa had feared had indeed killed him in the end, and having met several fairies, they were every bit as real and terrifying as Pa had believed. Narky had lost an eye to them, and he was lucky not to have lost much more. The longer he lived, the wiser and more reasonable his father seemed.
Fatherhood had taught Narky a lot too. He had seen some horrifying things in his twenty-eight years, and been absolutely terrified of most of them, but in retrospect he had not known fear until he became a father. The night Grace was born, Narky had stayed up until dawn while Ptera screamed and pushed and bled – bled so much more than he had known to expect – and his heart had been so filled with panic that even after the bleeding and screaming had ended and the baby was safely sleeping on its mother’s chest, Narky could not breathe for fear. He had dreamt that fitful morning that he had somehow killed them both by breathing the wrong way, and when he awoke, well past noon, he could not be sure whether he had escaped a dream into blessed reality or escaped horrid reality into a blessed dream.
Narky had thought once that nothing could be worse than being slain by his God. Now he knew better. The fear of losing his wife and child was worse than that – it was so paralyzing that it could strike him dumb in mid-sentence just to think of it. Now that he had a community, he knew men and women who had felt that staggering loss. That they lived still, that their losses had not physically slain them, still surprised and intimidated him. People who had experiences like that without being destroyed must be far stronger than Narky, or else they must be remorseless monsters who could feel no pain. The latter was sometimes a comforting thought to him – it let him pretend that the pain he imagined for them wasn’t real. But he didn’t believe for a moment that it was true.
Even so, Narky was a good father, and there was some comfort in that. Whatever his weaknesses as a human being – and there were many – he had his son’s love and admiration, and he never abused that sacred trust. The very fact of Grace’s admiration was a holy thing to him: Pa had not been a source of pride for Narky growing up, so it was infinitely gratifying that his own son felt no shame about his ancestry. And really, why should he? As far as Grace was concerned, Narky had always been the respected High Priest of Ravennis, and Ptera had always been a senior priestess. What was there to be ashamed of?
Narky was a lucky man. Suspiciously, almost unbearably lucky. His most disturbing conviction was that sooner or later, all this luck would run out.
But oh please, let it be later.
6
Phaedra
Phaedra was in the gardens when the skyquake struck, spreading its terror across the skies and among those beneath it. And though she had never experienced such a thing before, she instantly knew what it meant. It meant that she had failed.
Eleven years. She’d been at this eleven years, Gods help her, traveled west over the mountains and east over the sea, sealed every gate to the elves’ world save the one, and it hadn’t been good enough. The final gate couldn’t be sealed, not with the Yarek holding it open, so what was there left to do? If the skyquakes hadn’t stopped but had in fact grown so strong that they were spreading now to her world too, there must not be much time left. Her sinking heart told her there was nothing she could do – that her best efforts had failed, and the worlds would be ending with or without her approval. Her head said she had to see Psander.
If there was anyone who could devise a final way to avoid this disaster, it would be Phaedra’s mentor. Phaedra had learned much through experience and practice, but Psander was more experienced, easily as intelligent, and almost infinitely better read. The weeks Phaedra had spent learning from her and reading in Psander’s library could hardly make up for the decades the older wizard had spent in study. It was time to go back.
She had to find Kvati and her brother, Tnachti, to give her farewells and beg for a ship to take her back home. They would want to see her anyway – she was the only wizard on the continent, the only wizard left in this world. Essisha, this beautiful continent from which her distant ancestors had sailed, had exterminated its wizards more than a hundred years before the west had followed suit.
So far, that had done her more good than harm. It had rendered her less viscerally threatening to the local powers, who had treated her presence not as dangerous blasphemy but as a curiosity, a throwback. They had passed her from court to court like a prized historical artifact until she had found her way to Ksado, the land of the final gate. Ksado’s prince, Tnachti, had been as indulgent as the rest of them. He had been thrilled to learn that a gateway to the elves’ world lay
in his territory, and when she told him she intended to close it, he had made it a grand affair, inviting courtiers and noblemen from multiple courts to witness the spectacle. It had made her work difficult and awkward – people kept interrupting or getting in her way, and they had been universally disappointed by her lack of showmanship. But the gate was closed now, and that was what mattered.
Tnachti’s sister was different. Kvati was like no one Phaedra had ever known: as formidable as Psander, but with all the warmth of the sun. It was because of Kvati that Phaedra had stayed here so long, nearly two years beyond what it had taken her to seal the gate. The co-reigning duchess had showered her with gifts and attention, but not as the other nobles had. Kvati had sought a genuine connection, and she had found it. It was rare for Phaedra to meet someone so willing to discuss taxation and poetry, philosophy and fashion, and all of it thoughtfully. They had spent many an enlightening evening together after dinner, to the point where Kvati had laughingly proclaimed her husband jealous – and hadn’t changed her habits a whit.
It didn’t matter. Kvati’s husband and teenage children treated her like a Goddess – everyone did. Her belly laugh was contagious, her embraces bone-crushing, and if she disapproved of someone, heavens help them. Her mere expression could have flattened mountains.
The duchess and her brother were in the flowered gazebo when Phaedra found them, deep in conversation with their favorite teacher. Teacher Zakai wore the white garb of his calling, Tnachti his peacock robe, and Kvati blazed in orange. Her magnificent hair, never cut, had been recently made to resemble a tree, its vertical trunk spiraling up to splayed branches. When she looked up and waved Phaedra over, the branches seemed to do the same.
“Oh, there you are,” she said, as if she had sent for Phaedra ages ago. “What do you make of all this?”
Phaedra hesitated. Her Estic was nearly fluent by now, but how could she translate a word like “skyquake?” Should she even try to explain its implications? If yes, how? She had never even learned the Estic word for earthquake.
“I’ve heard of these,” she said, “but I haven’t seen one before. They’ve are – no, sorry, they’ve been – common in the elves’ world for some time. I was hoping you could–”
Tnachti interrupted her. “Teacher Zakai says they are a sign that the Godly Conflict is escalating. He suggests that we cease efforts to convert the worshippers of Karassa and pray to Her and Kgini to make peace before Their struggle causes any further harm.”
Phaedra looked over at Zakai and was glad to see his expression open and curious. There was a reason Kvati liked him best. “Peace between the Gods is a worthy goal,” she said, “but the elves’ world is cut off from Theirs. The… wall… between that world and the heavens is stronger.”
“A storm breaks the stronger trees first,” Teacher Zakai replied. “What else could shake the heavens besides divine conflict?”
Phaedra paused to consider her answer. That was one advantage of being a foreigner here, of occasionally struggling with the Estic language: she could think long and hard about her answers, and nobody found her pauses suspicious.
So far, she had only told people she wanted to seal the elven gates to protect the world from the fairies themselves. She had told no one about the Yarek. After all, she had had a hand in planting it – she did not want the Essishans to know that she, this quaint foreign wizard, had endangered the world.
If she told them of her true mission now, of how Psander had sent her specifically to close gates and prevent further skyquakes, Kvati and her brother would be more than willing to help get her home. They might even give her a war fleet to wipe the pirates off Tarphae and clear her path to the last gateway. On the face of it, that seemed like the easiest solution.
But on second thought, it would be a mistake. A fleet would raise alarms all across the continental coast. Atuna and Parakas would ally against the foreign threat, and then Phaedra would have started a naval war she had no guarantee of winning. The continental fleet might even make common cause with the pirates, if it came to that.
What’s more, Mura had a special connection with the Goddess Karassa, and Her presence was far stronger in the eastern seas than in the west, where Tarphae had been Her furthest outpost. At home, Karassa had the rival Sea God Mayar to contend with, and Atun the heavenly sailor, but out here She was the lone Sea Goddess. It was too dangerous to send an Essishan fleet across Her seas with the stated purpose of defeating Her servants. Better for Phaedra to slip back westward alone, warding herself against Karassa’s notice, and attack the problem from a different direction.
They were still waiting for a response. Phaedra apologized for her delay, and said, “You may be right, Teacher. I do not know. I would like to talk to my own teacher about it, if I can. There are going to be more of these, these, um, shakes? Sky-shakings? But there might be something I can do about them, if you will let me return to my home and consult with my teacher. I will be sorry to leave you.”
Kvati stared at her disapprovingly. She was not the sort to let go of people she liked.
But Tnachti nodded. “Of course.”
“Might I have a ship to take me as far as Antaka? Even passage on a merchant ship…”
“We will arrange it.”
“I am gratified,” Phaedra said. “I’ll leave you with Teacher Zakai.”
She withdrew and went to pack her things, her heart heavy. She had stayed here well beyond any reasonable claim to necessity, having become enamored of the Ksadan culture. She loved Estic with its chained consonants, loved the fried delicacies of the various Essishan courts and the magnificent structured clothing of their courtiers, loved the poetic decadence that a few decades of peace and prosperity had wrought. Gods, she would miss it here.
She scanned her wardrobe, choosing what to keep and what to leave behind. Kvati had gifted her with over a dozen dresses in varying degrees of formality, the least of which might have dazzled the socialites of Phaedra’s youth. Current Ksadan fashion revolved around evoking plants and animals, as Kvati’s hair and Tnachti’s peacock robe had done. There were heavy, bone-fortified dresses with wings that rose from their backs and shoulders, dresses with slithering fishtails that never touched the ground, reptilian dresses layered with flaps of golden-brown cloth that reminded Phaedra of nothing so much as the scaled armor Hunter had worn so long ago. Many were impossible to fold or roll, disqualifying them. Most were poorly suited to travel. But she couldn’t leave that gorgeous blue fish behind, or that lovely headdress, and the butterfly yellow dress with the purple highlights was terribly flattering and not at all impractical…
At last, she was ready. The entirety of her life in Essisha was packed into a single satchel: clothes, a silken coin purse, a bottle of perfumed hair oil, a few combs in varying sizes. The bracelets she could wear, but the rest of her jewelry she left behind. There was too much of it, and it was too heavy. She could not rely on others to carry her things for her.
Lastly, she took up her staff. It was the one item from home that she would never have disposed of, no matter how many substitutes the Essishan courts had presented her with. She had long ago carved a story into its wood, the only written record of Bandu’s journey to the underworld. The most she would let the Essishans do with it was to fill the carved letters with golden lacquer so that they would be easier to read.
When she left the capital, nearly the whole Ksadan court came to wish her farewell. She had become friends with many of them, for all that they had seen her as a historical artifact, and the farewells took longer than she had expected. The one person she did not part with yet was Kvati. It was a two-day journey to the seaport, but Kvati chose to escort her the whole way there.
Phaedra did not object to her friend’s company. It was a touching gesture, and Kvati’s forceful presence and bustling attendants kept the panic at bay. She needed that. Her panic wasn’t even about what had happened, really. Whether or not she and Psander could devise a solution to the skyquakes,
what she dreaded most was seeing Hunter again.
Eleven years ago, Hunter had proposed to marry her. She had turned him down, though not for lack of love. That would have made it all so much easier, but no, it had been the risk of pregnancy that forced her hand. Pregnancy affected magic in unpredictable ways – she had seen as much with Bandu – and at least back then, the world could not afford for her to take a year off from saving it.
Even if it could have, it wouldn’t have mattered: Phaedra didn’t want children. The very thought of giving up magic to raise a family filled her with resentment. Her life belonged to her, not to some future generation; she hadn’t pursued academic magic just to abandon it for the second-hand greatness her parents had aspired to. If that meant she had to wait for her childbearing years to pass before she could pursue a romance, so be it. If Psander had taught her anything, it was that a woman did not need a child to have a legacy.
That wouldn’t make it any easier to see him again.
He would be married by now, with the children she knew he wanted. It would do no good to pretend otherwise. He was a beautiful man, and she had told him she would never marry him – the villagers of Silent Hall would have been sure to match him up with one of their own by now. He may have put them off for a time, nursing the heartache she’d given him – he was the brooding sort, after all – but they’d have gotten to him eventually. It was a fundamental truth about Hunter that he allowed himself to be guided by others.
Whom had he married? That Atella girl?
She felt silly even worrying about such personal troubles. Hunter’s private life was hardly the greatest of her concerns now – or at least it shouldn’t be. And yet, somehow every thought of visiting Psander came back to that. The wife, the family. Even the potential end of the world came back to that. How profoundly ridiculous.
Maybe she should have gone back sooner, instead of drawing her pain out like this. It had taken nine years to seal all the gates, so naturally she had dallied for another two and made it worse. This was how she had always been, she supposed – she used her curiosity as an excuse to put things off. She had learned many fascinating things that way, but apparently not her lesson.
