by Tom Lloyd
‘Did he say anything?’
Doranei turned to face his vampire lover. Zhia frowned under his scrutiny as Doranei appeared to search for something in her face. Her black hair was tied up in a way he’d not seen before, braids woven together and bound by a thin copper band on the top of her head. It wasn’t quite the style many mercenaries used, but it was similar.
‘It was fast, too fast to follow properly. I only heard one scrap.’ He gestured at the Ruby Tower, now just an outline in the evening gloom. ‘What your friend will have to say about it I don’t know.’
Zhia didn’t rise to the bait, knowing he was looking for an excuse to rage, to vent the grief he felt over Sebe’s death. He didn’t want to hurt her, she knew that, and anyway, any confrontation between them would leave Doranei injured, not her, but she suspected he’d prefer a beating to the pain of grief.
‘Ruhen is not my friend; you know that’s not the reason I cannot join your assault.’
Lord Isak’s death had resonated throughout the Land with enough force to turn a dozen men and women in Byora alone into prophets, but it was a death less than an hour before Isak’s that had cast this veil of anguish over the King’s Man. Zhia had seen the destruction of the junction of roads not long after; she could easily picture the wild storm of magic unleashed there by a maddened Demi-God. Buildings had shattered at Aracnan’s touch; the cobbles were torn up as though fifty-foot claws had ripped through the street.
Sebe’s body was buried in the devastation, and the wrecked houses were still burning fiercely when she returned to the city and found Doranei, filthy and soot-stained, tearing his hands on the rubble, alongside dozens of others. Only fifty bodies were recovered in the end; hundreds more, Sebe amongst them, had been lost to the ferocity of the flames.
Zhia had dragged Doranei to safety, all but imprisoning him in the tavern’s cellar to keep him off the streets, but he had barely slept since. He would lie in the bed they shared, his eyes wide; staring at nothing, while she lay powerless to help. At times he looked almost frantic, bewildered, as the tears refused to come, undone by a lifetime of stoicism and detachment.
From his own position three streets away Doranei had heard Aracnan’s crashing response to Sebe’s poisoned arrow, increasing in violence as the seadiamond venom burned ever hotter in the Demi-God’s veins. It was a weak poison compared to most, but Aracnan had made the mistake they had been counting on. When he’d been struck in the shoulder he’d realised the bolt might be poisoned, and had used magic to counter the effects - but this particular venom was magnified by the presence of magic.
Witnesses had reported the stones cracking under Aracnan’s feet as he screamed in agony - the flesh of the nearest bystanders had blackened and burned even before he started lashing out with arcs of fire. The house where Sebe was positioned, most likely levelling a second crossbow at Ilumene, had exploded under the magical assault. Only Aracnan’s collapse into unconsciousness from the mounting pain had saved the district.
Zhia’s voice forced its way into his thoughts. ‘Doranei, what did the prophet say?’
The King’s Man looked down, knuckles white as his hand tightened on the window sill. ‘A great lord falls, a new God rises.’
CHAPTER 1
A whisper of evening breeze off the lake brushed Mihn’s face as he bent over the small boat. He hesitated and looked up over the water. The sun was about to set, its orange rays pushing through the tall pine trees on the far eastern shore. His sharp eyes caught movement at the tree-line: the gentry moving cautiously into the open. They were normally to be found at twilight, watching the sun sink below the horizon from atop great boulders, but today at least two family packs had come to the lake instead.
‘They smell change in the air,’ the witch of Llehden commented from beside him. ‘What we attempt has never been tried before.’
Mihn had noticed that here in Llehden no one called her Ehla, the name she had permitted Lord Isak to use; that she was the witch was good enough for the locals. It was for Mihn too, however much it had confused the Farlan.
Mihn shrugged. ‘We are yet to manage it,’ he pointed out, ‘but if they sense change, perhaps that is a good sign.’
His words provoked a small sound of disapproval from Xeliath, the third person in their group. She stood awkwardly, leaning on the witch for support. Though a white-eye, the stroke that had damaged her left side meant the brown-skinned girl was weaker than normal humans in some ways, and glimpses of the Dark Place hovered at the edges of her sight; a shred of her soul in the place of dark torment because of her link to Isak. Her balance and coordination were further diminished by exhaustion: Xeliath was unable to sleep without enduring dreams terrible enough to destroy the sanity of a weaker mind.
Mihn had been spared that at least; the link between them was weaker, and he lacked a mage’s sensitivity.
Together they helped Xeliath into the boat. The witch got in beside her and Mihn pushed it out onto the water, leaping aboard once it was clear of the shore. He sat facing the two women, who were both wrapped in thick woollen cloaks against the night chill. Mihn, in contrast, wore only a thin leather tunic and trousers, and the bottom of each leg was bound tight with twine, leaving no loose material to snag or tear.
Mihn caught sight of an elderly woman perched on a stool at the lakeside and felt a flicker of annoyance. The woman, another witch, had arrived a few days earlier. She was decades older than Ehla, but she was careful to call herself a witch of Llehden - as though her presence in the shire was on Ehla’s sufferance alone. She had told Mihn to call her Daima - knowledge - should there be a need to differentiate between them. For almost fifty years Daima had laid out the dead and sat with them until dawn, facing down the host of spirits that are attracted by death in all its forms. She had a special affinity for that side of the Land, and had ushered ghosts and other lost souls even to the Halls of Death, going as far within as any living mortal Ehla knew of.
The old woman had reiterated again and again the dangers of what they were about to attempt, particularly marking the solemnity and respect Mihn would need to display. That she was presently puffing away on a pipe as she fished from the lakeshore did not exactly impart the level of gravity she had warned them was imperative to their success.
With swift strokes he rowed to the approximate centre of the lake and dropped a rusty plough-blade over the edge to serve as anchor. Once the oars were stowed the failed Harlequin took a moment to inspect the tattoos on his palms and soles of his feet, but they remained undamaged, the circles of incantation unbroken.
‘Ready?’ the witch asked.
‘As ready as I ever will be.’
‘The coins?’
He could feel the weight of the two silver coins strung on a cord around his neck. Mihn’s extensive knowledge of folklore was serving him in good stead as he prepared for this venture. It was common practice for dying sinners to request a silver coin between their lips, to catch a part of their soul. Whoever sat with them until dawn would afterwards drop the coin in a river, so the cool water could ease any torments that might await them. Daima had provided this service often enough to know where to find two such coins easily enough.
‘They are secure,’ he assured them.
‘Then it is time,’ Xeliath rasped, pushing herself forward so that Mihn was within reach. The young woman squinted at him with her good right eye, her head wavering a moment until she managed to focus. She placed her right hand on his chest. ‘Let my mark guide you,’ she said, stiffly raising her left hand too. That, as always, was half-closed in a fist around the Crystal Skull given to her by the patron Goddess of her tribe. ‘Let my strength be yours to call upon.’
Ehla echoed her gesture before tying a length of rope around his waist. ‘Let my light keep back the shadows of the Dark Place.’
Mihn took two deep breaths, trying to control the fear beginning to churn inside him. ‘And now — ’
Without warning Xeliath lurched forward and
punched Mihn in the face. A sudden flash of white light burst around them as the magic humming through her body added power to the blow. The small man toppled over the edge of the boat, dropping down into the still depths. Ehla grabbed at the coil of rope fast disappearing after Mihn.
‘I’ve been looking forward to that bit,’ Xeliath said, wincing at the effect the punch had had on her twisted body.
The witch didn’t reply. She peered over the edge of the boat for a moment, then looked back towards the shore. The sun was a smear of orange on the horizon but it wasn’t the advancing evening that made her shiver unexpectedly. In the distance she saw Daima set her fishing rod down while barely a dozen yards from the old woman, a pair of gentry crept forward to drink from the lake.
Ehla pulled the hood of her cloak over her head and did the same for Xeliath before helping the girl to sit down in the curved hull of the boat. Above, the sky slowly darkened while they made themselves as comfortable as they could.
‘Now it is up to Mihn,’ she said quietly.
Legana felt the touch of Alterr’s light on her face and drew back a fraction until her face was again shadowed from the moon. With her half-divine senses open to the Land she could feel her surroundings in a way that almost made up for her damaged eyesight. The woman she was stalking was no more than two hundred yards off and coming closer. Like a snake tasting the air Legana breathed in the faint scents carried on the breeze. The spread of trees and the slight camber of ground unfolded in her mind: a complex map of taste, touch and other senses she had no names for. Within it the other woman shone, illuminated by a faint spark within her that tugged at Legana’s weary heart.
She replaced the blindfold and waited for the right moment to step out from the shadows. The blindfold hampered little, and it made her appear less of a threat; it did Legana no harm to remain cautious and look feeble. Her voice had been ruined by the mercenary Aracnan’s assault and normally she would be forced to communicate by means of the piece of slate that hung from a cord around her neck - but the woman had the spark within her, as Legana herself did. It was faint - she had clearly strayed far from the Lady - but Legana hoped it would be enough for her divine side to exploit.
When the woman was only a dozen yards away Legana moved out from behind a tree. The woman gave a yelp of surprise and drew an axe and a shortsword in one smooth movement. In response Legana leaned a little more heavily on her staff and pushed back the hood of her cloak so the woman could see the blindfold clearly.
‘Not a good night to be walking alone,’ Legana said directly into the woman’s mind.
The other glanced behind her, wary of an ambush. As she did so the scarf over her head slipped, showing her head was nearly bald. ‘How did you do that? Who says I’m on my own?’
‘I know you are.’
‘You’re a mage without any fucking eyes, what do you know?’ the stranger snapped. She was shorter than Legana by some way, and more powerfully built. The lack of hair made her look strange and foreign, but as soon as she spoke her accent labelled her as native Farlan.
‘I know more than you might realise,’ Legana replied, taking no offence. A small smile appeared on her face: before Aracnan’s attack she had been just as prickly as this woman. It had taken an incurable injury to teach her the value of calm. The quick temper of her youth would do a blind woman no good, whether or not she was stronger than before.
‘For example,’ Legana continued, ‘I know you strayed from your path a long time ago - and I know I can help you find it again.’
‘Really? That’s what you know, is it?’ The woman shook her head, confused by the fact that someone was talking thought to thought, but anger was her default state, as it had once been for Legana, and it presently overrode her questions. ‘Looks to me like you’re the one who’s lost the path, and being blind I’d say you’re in a lot more trouble than I am out here.’
‘What is your name?’
For a moment she was silent, staring at Legana as though trying to work out what threat she might pose. ‘Why do you want to know?’ she asked eventually.
Legana smiled. ‘We’re sisters, surely you can tell that? Why would I not want to know the name of a sister?’
‘The Lady’s fucking dead,’ the woman spat with sudden anger, ‘and the sisterhood died with her. If you were really one of us you’d have felt it too, mad, blind hermit or not.’
Legana’s head dipped for a moment. What the woman said was true. Legana had been there when the Lady, the Goddess Fate, had been killed. The pain, both of that loss and her own injuries that day, were still fresh in Legana’s mind.
‘She’s dead,’ she said quietly, ‘but sisters we remain, and we need each other more than ever. My name is Legana.’
‘Legana?’ the woman said sharply. ‘I know that name - from the temple in Tirah. But I don’t recognise you.’
‘I’ve changed a little,’ Legana agreed. ‘I couldn’t speak into another sister’s mind before.’
‘You were the scholar?’ the woman asked sceptically. ‘The one they thought would become High Priestess?’
Legana gave a sudden cough of laughter. ‘If that’s what you remember we were at different temples! I was the one she beat for insolence every day for a year-I was the one who excelled only at killing. I was sold off to Chief Steward Lesarl as soon as I was of age.’
The woman let her shoulders relax. Grudgingly she returned her weapons to her belt. ‘Okay, then. You were a few years younger, but we all heard about the trouble you caused. I’m Ardela. What happened to your voice?’
Legana’s hand involuntarily went to her throat. Her skin was paler even than most Farlan - as white as bone, except for Aracnan’s shadowy handprint around her neck. Underneath were some barely perceptible bumps: an emerald necklace had sealed her bargain with Fate when Legana had agreed to be her Mortal-Aspect, but the violence done subsequently had somehow pushed the jewels deep into her flesh.
‘That I will tell you when I tell you my story,’ Legana said. ‘First, I want to ask you, where are you going by yourself in a hostile land? You don’t strike me as the sort to be left behind by the army .’
Ardela scowled. ‘The army wouldn’t have noticed if half the Palace Guard had deserted; they’re in chaos after Lord Isak’s death.’
‘So why are you here?’
‘I think my time with the Farlan is done,’ Ardela said after a long pause. ‘Doubt it would be too safe for me to return to Tirah; a few grudges might come back to haunt me.’
‘Then where are you going?’
‘Where in the Dark Place are you going?’ she snapped back. ‘What’s your story? You’re a sister, but a mage too? You’re crippled, but wandering out in the wilds all by yourself? There are Menin patrols out this far, and Farlan Penitents who’ve deserted, and Fate knows what else lurking — ’
Legana held up a hand to stop Ardela. ‘I’ll tell you everything; I just want to know whether you are looking for renewed purpose, or just a job in some city far away from your “grudges”. I want to know whether you still care for the daughters of Fate.’
Ardela didn’t answer immediately; for a moment her gaze lowered, as though she were ashamed. ‘Whatever I care for, I cannot return to Tirah,’ she said at last.
‘Could you stand to meet a temple-mistress, if it were somewhere other than Tirah?’
‘You asking whether they’d accept me, or I’d accept them?’
‘Their opinion will be my concern, not yours. We must all start afresh if we’re to survive this new age.’
‘Yes, then - but it don’t matter, the Lady’s dead.’ A spark of her former fierceness returned to Ardela’s voice. ‘Whatever you think you can do, the Daughters of Fate are broken.’
‘But perhaps I can remake them,’ Legana said. ‘I don’t know how yet, but I’m the only one who can draw them back together. They’re the only real family I’ve ever had and I won’t just stand back and watch them drift away. Without the Lady we’ve lost th
e anchor in our hearts; we’re bereft. Who knows what our sisters will do if the ache of her loss stops them caring about anything?’
‘I do,’ Ardela said in a small voice. ‘I’ve lived that way for years now.’
‘Then let’s do something more with ourselves,’ Legana suggested, holding a hand out to the woman.
Ardela took it, and allowed herself to be led by a half-blind woman into the darkest part of the wood, where Legana had sited her small camp. On the way Legana told Ardela what had happened to her throat, how she had become the Lady’s Mortal-Aspect, and then witnessed her death a few days later.
When Legana mentioned Aracnan, and the one whose orders he must have been following - the shadow, Azaer - Ardela flinched, and her own story began to pour out of her. She cried, ashamed for her employment by Cardinal Certinse, whose entire family had served a daemon-prince, and sorrowed by the savagery and depravity of her life during those years. In the darkness the women held each other and wept for what they had lost. Long before dawn broke they knew they shared an enemy.
