Teg couldn’t suppress a grin as the dark, lightning-torn sky faded to a rosy haze.
His smile likewise faded as the rose mist flared into an inferno.
“Keth’s ether is burning all the way from low orbit to the core,” Yato cried above the wail of alarms.
Teg heard screams echoing from the habitat pod below. He squinted against the growing brightness, searching the ethereal blaze for some way—any way—to cheat death just one more time.
“Our elemental ward can’t repel the heat,” Yato said. “The hull is close to melting!”
Teg didn’t focus on the steersman’s words, because something even more important commanded his attention. Far below—or above; it was all relative at this point—he saw an anomaly. It was like a sunspot, but instead of darkening the flames, it warped them into whorls and eddies that defied the burning current.
“See that countercurrent?” Teg shouted over the alarms and howling flames as he lurched forward to point out the window.
“More than one,” Yato corrected him. “I’m seeing scores of interdimensional gates.”
“Get as close as you can to those gates and bring us out of the ether.”
“Staying here is a much easier way to commit suicide.”
Teg laid a hand on Yato’s shoulder. “Relax. Only a Guild house has that many gates. If it’s still standing, we’ve got a chance. Bring us out a mile or so above it just to be safe.”
Though he didn’t speak Nesshin, Teg inferred from the grave tone and martial cadence of Yato’s words that the steersman was praying. The desperate litany reminded Teg of another pilot, much younger than Yato when he died, who’d petitioned mysterious powers.
The last of the rose mist vanished. Outside the window there was only fire.
4
It was, of course, a complete waste of time.
Or it would have been if Elena’s perceptions were limited to one temporal frame of reference.
Reclusive by disposition, her apotheosis hadn’t made Elena any more comfortable with large numbers of people—even though she herself now was a large number of people. But her mother insisted that they hold court together each day.
To her rose-colored eyes, the great hall of Seele was a gossamer screen; the crowds mere shadows projected onto it. The light of the Well shining down like an empyrean noonday sun was always present to her, as were the three essential forms that cast every shadow.
The Nexus, soul of Zadok, flanked by two lesser nexuses belonging to Thera and Shaiel. In all the world, they alone were real. They alone existed in and of themselves, relying on nothing else.
Although that’s not quite true. Vaun Mordechai had been host to part of Thera’s soul. Elena had contained, and still possessed, all of it. Both had been walking inter-Strata gates—souldancers—divinized by infusions of primordial forces.
The previous petitioner staggered back into the throng gathered between the double row of slender pillars as the next stationed himself at the foot of the dais where Elena and her mother sat enthroned.
Everyone else would see a proud son of Gen nobility standing to make his plea. Elena saw only a mirage.
The slender ray from the White Well that sustained the supplicant shone through Thera’s Nexus. They shared that in common. Yet the slight pale girl he would see upon the throne, her long waves of ginger-brown hair untamed by a white circlet, wasn’t a mere speck of Thera’s image but the goddess’ whole and perfect shadow.
The shadow-speck wore a forest green suit of clothes that matched the eyes framed by his golden hair. He bowed deeply to Elena and her mother.
“Lady Souldancer. Your Majesty. I am Roen Mentem, heir to my august house, which long held in fief from your Majesty’s predecessor of happy memory…”
White silk robes and night black hair rustled as Nakvin discretely fidgeted. Seated at Elena’s left, the queen of Avalon radiated dignity and vigilance, though her silver eyes betrayed signs of roving thoughts.
Elena continued entertaining Roen’s petition, though the act approximated talking to herself, while simultaneously hearing the prayers offered at that moment by the million shards and half-shards of her Nexus.
Twenty years of experimentation had taught Elena to use extreme caution when answering prayers. She wasn’t omniscient, being limited to what her shadow and shards perceived.
Composites of hers and other nexuses were unreliable, since all three gods could block or modify the perceptions of shared fragments. Worse, the full consequences of her interventions were largely obscured by the restrictions that Zadok’s shadow Szodrin placed on Kairos.
“…gave his life liberating Avalon from the baals before confiding the papers’ location.” Roen’s eyes, which had been fixed on Nakvin, darted briefly to Elena before he continued.
“Were the situation less dire, I would not trouble you with the concerns of my house. Nonetheless, this court has earned renown as a place where mortal wisdom is put to shame, and a worthy appeal may overturn even death.”
A susurrus passed through the crowd of nobles, craftsmen, laborers, and sages.
“Lord Roen,” Nakvin’s musical voice rang out above the chorus of whispers, “what exactly are you asking for?”
The hall fell silent till Roen answered. “I ask that your royal and divine daughter graciously obtain the location of my late uncle’s letters patent. She needn’t raise him from the dead. Merely inquiring of his spirit should suffice.”
Nakvin turned to her daughter. Is that even possible? she asked without words.
Elena recreated a young girl’s cat, dead six days in a Medvia house fire, and revoked the life cord of a Dawn Tribe acolyte condemned for profaning a Mystery. At the same time she thought to her mother, His uncle was a shard of Zadok. Roen will have to ask Szodrin.
One pearly fang emerged to bite the corner of Nakvin’s full lip. Good luck with that!
As her mother gave Roen the verdict, Elena studied the three divine souls whose shadows covered the world. Zadok looked to her originally mortal eyes as a vast obsidian pyramid. Her higher order intellect discerned the myriad layers of pure knowledge, fundamental laws, and universal decrees that comprised the first Nexus—just as she knew the composition of her own black diamond.
The black cube, though; there was a puzzle.
Shaiel shared nothing with her. His Nexus, his mortal shards, the Strata and spheres he ruled—the Lord of the Void guarded all as jealously as Roen’s uncle had guarded his wealth.
Elena had never quite mastered human emotions. As she contemplated the silent monolith from which cords of gold descended alongside those of silver, she felt an unpleasant hollowness in her heart.
Was this envy? The concept of wanting something enough to hate those who had it intrigued her.
A new voice entered Elena’s thoughts; not from her mother, but from the cube, cold and viscous as chilled oil.
I feel your gentle eyes upon me, sister. Is the sight they show you not fair?
Nakvin touched Elena’s silk-clad arm. Are you alright, sweetheart? You’re shivering.
Elena ignored both questions and directed one of her own at Shaiel. What do you want?
I do not forget your betrayal, he said. But I may yet forgive, and restore your rightful seat in the Void.
All for the bargain price of betraying my mother’s kingdom.
It is no treason, Shaiel said. What claim have even kings against gods? However, I require neither regicide nor matricide. Simply withdraw your protection from the realm and regain my favor.
A merchant prayed for a safe journey, and Elena blinded the highwayman who lay in wait for him.
The end result is the same. You butcher my mother. And my son.
Shaiel’s words lost all congeniality and became absolute cold given voice. You speak more rightly than you know! My servants in the Strata march from triumph to triumph while I wear down your defenses by a thousand subtle ways. Already I stand at Avalon’s gate. Grant me passage and gain
leniency. Defy me…
A Nesshin girl, huddled in a sour-smelling place, finally despaired of Zadok’s grace and begged Thera to bring her and her friends painless deaths before they burned alive. Elena would have ignored her, but for the familiar voice carried down through a duct from somewhere above.
Elena continued her verbal joust with Shaiel while searching the doomed girl’s soul. Soon she found the right memory—a man with a lean body like chiseled wood; his scars gone, his sandy head and beard showing signs of grey, but with the same hard dark eyes.
Teg.
The girl was Thera’s shard, and her memories were now Elena’s own. The ship was a jumble of scrap welded into three tapering cylinders connected by two shafts. Desperate survivors crowded aboard the makeshift lifeboat in a last attempt to escape a dead sphere.
Keth was even deader, but Teg Cross hadn’t known that when he’d led the Tharis refugees there. He’d hoped to find a habitable region below the burning stratosphere by flying through the ether but had only sent himself and his shipmates into the fire.
Elena honey, what’s wrong?
My Left Hand will pull down her walls and rip the marrow from her bones.
Elena delegated lesser aspects of herself to deal with her mother’s worry and her brother’s threats while she focused on Teg’s dilemma. He was a shard of Zadok, so she couldn’t reach him directly. The same went for most of his shipmates, though one belonged to her, and another to Shaiel.
That opened up possibilities. Expending enough power to put out the firestorm or even move the ship to safety might weaken Elena’s defense of Avalon. But Shaiel wasn’t so constrained.
She interrupted his blustering. One of your aspects is about to burn up in Keth’s atmosphere. Didn’t you notice, or don’t you care?
I notice much, sister. For instance, I am aware of Teg Cross’ presence aboard that ship. I recall killing him once before. You, on the other hand, risked waking Elathan to raise him.
Elena supposed that helping Teg before had been quite a risk. Intervening now would entail an even bigger one. Her deliberation took hardly long enough for a light wave to traverse the hall, but Shaiel would notice the pause.
And another second could mean Teg’s life. She decided.
Save him.
Shaiel’s laugh held all the humor of orphans dead from exposure. Why not save him yourself?
And spend myself elsewhere so you can force your way in here? I don’t think so.
My view is better out here, Shaiel said. That ramshackle ship’s hull will fail any moment now; though the occupants may broil to death first.
Bring the ship in safely, said Elena, and I’ll give you Temil.
It was Shaiel’s turn to pause. Elena gripped her throne’s armrests while her brother thought and her friend died.
What is one sphere? Shaiel said at last. I can take it as I please.
Elena knew she had him. You haven’t been able to yet.
Wrath froze Shaiel’s grim mirth. And how will you depose the Shadow Caste in all their might when you cannot save a paltry ship?
How did I stop Szodrin’s judgment?
As I recall, the victory you claim belongs to a pair of mortals.
They were under my direction, Elena said, and they’re not mortals anymore.
Shaiel scoffed. I cannot imagine such a boast containing the least mote of truth.
Unsurprising. Your intellect wasn’t always divine.
Elena’s jab had its desired effect when Shaiel answered. You think yourself greater than me? You, who huddle in the cellar with the rats you call kin? Hear me, my arrogant sister—I could not only forsake your swordarm friend, but prolong his dying agony by decades, and you’d be powerless to thwart my will. Yet unlike you, I retain some respect for our ties of kinship.
You’ll save the ship, then? Elena asked.
A sullen silence followed, which Shaiel broke an instant before the ship would have exploded.
I will grant it safe passage to the surface, though I offer the passengers no protection against what awaits them there.
Thank you, Elena said.
Do not thank me. Your pet cutthroat certainly won’t. But remember your pledge. I will hold you to it.
“The court of Seele is adjourned.” The authority in Nakvin’s voice almost hid her concern. “Any petitions we didn’t hear today will go to the top of tomorrow’s docket. Thank you all for attending.”
Elena returned her full attention to the throne room. Lord Roen was stalking away amid a gaggle of richly dressed hangers-on. The other nobles and yeomen crowded into the galleries stared at Elena until the court officers ushered them out.
Even when the outer halls finally swallowed the shuffle of retreating footsteps and the hum of hushed conversation, a company of courtiers, soldiers, and servants remained. Elena and her mother were never truly alone—not here.
Nakvin turned to her daughter, her regal façade broken by the worried frown on her lips.
We need to talk. My chambers. Now.
A squad of royal bodyguards in green and gold uniforms under silver breastplates escorted Elena and her mother along the labyrinth of opulent corridors that wended through the palace of Seele to the royal apartments. Every wine-red silk carpet, every birchwood panel engraved with hunting scenes; every graceful alabaster fixture boasted of a culture at its zenith.
Perhaps this tribe deserved the name of Light Gen. Yet boasting often concealed fear, and even the brightest day inevitably succumbed to night.
The perfumed corridors finally gave on a covered footbridge with arcaded walls of elegantly carved white limestone that offered a sweeping view of forested slopes on both sides.
Having spent her version of childhood confined to sterile labs and ships’ engine rooms, Elena still found live greenery somewhat confusing. It was a pleasant confusion though, fascinating as a difficult equation or the workings of a complex person’s soul.
Elena had met only a handful of truly interesting people. She thought of one such individual and hoped that Shaiel would honor his word.
The ring of the soldiers’ spurs and the clatter of their spear shafts didn’t fully conceal the whisper of the women’s skirts sweeping the white marble tiles or the distant rumble of a waterfall inexorably deepening the tree-lined gorge at its base.
Elena glanced from the guards to her mother. Why are they following us?
They’re here for our protection, answered the queen.
What threat can they stop that you or I couldn’t?
Nakvin sighed. It’s tradition. Protocol annoys me too, but it’s more for the people’s sake than ours.
Tradition doesn’t annoy me. Thoughtless adherence to it might endanger others. Considering the threats we face, couldn’t an elite military squad be put to better use?
Nakvin gave her daughter a bemused look. There’s more to consider than logistics.
Elena spent the rest of the short stroll puzzling over the queen’s words. She had yet to reach a conclusion when they turned at the bridge’s intersection with a wide hallway and stopped at set of double doors clad in golden filigreed ivory.
A man uniformed in the royal household’s archaic livery reached for the near door’s scrimshawed handle. But before the servant could perform his function, the door swung outward to reveal a mousy slip of a girl exiting with a bundle of white linen tucked under one arm.
“Hi, Ydahl,” said Nakvin.
Besides fulfilling Elena’s original purpose of saving her mother from the Cataclysm, Nakvin’s return to hell had ignited a rebellion that saw her ascend the vacant throne of Seele and culminated in Seele’s conquest of the Circles—or rather the first eight.
Misfits, malcontents, and outcasts of all kinds had flocked to Nakvin’s banner. Perhaps the least of these was Ydahl, who now served as the queen’s chambermaid. The dead girl, whose homicidal mania had damned her, froze on the threshold and lowered her plain face rather than look at Elena.
“I put o
n fresh sheets, mum.” Ydahl barely managed more than a whisper.
Nakvin smiled. “Good job. Go ahead and run the old ones down to the laundry.”
The dead girl managed to nod without lifting her eyes from the floor. She slipped past the doorman and the guards and dashed down the hall. Even in the shafts of daylight streaming through the tall arched windows, the pale green velvet of her gown looked as dim as if she stood under a perpetual raincloud.
With the queen’s path made clear, the doorman resumed his duties and opened the door wide for Nakvin and Elena’s entry to the royal apartments. The guards were dismissed, except for two who remained to stand guard outside.
Mother and daughter passed into a corridor of polished cherry wood smelling of cloves and lit by golden lamps. The door closed, shutting out the day and leaving only a soft, warm glow.
“Sorry about Ydahl.” Nakvin made a small sound halfway between a laugh and a sigh. “I think the tension’s getting to her.”
“She’s afraid of me. That’s normal.”
Nakvin laughed. “Who knows what dead people think?”
Elena gave her mother a sidelong glance. “I do.”
“Wait a minute.” Nakvin planted herself in front of her daughter. “The dead don’t have life cords. How can you read their minds?”
“Only shards of the Nexus need silver cords to mediate telepathy with other shards,” Elena said. “My nexus can make direct contact.”
The two of them continued past comparatively simple doors to their left and right on their way to a second set of double doors lavishly carved with stylized floral patterns. The queen herself took hold of the brass handles cast in the shape of falcons’ heads and pushed the doors wide.
“Deim used to say that wisdom meant fearing the gods,” Nakvin said as she stepped onto the intricately woven Thysian rug that carpeted her sitting room. “I just think Ydahl’s being a bit paranoid. It’s not like you’re going to smite her or something.”
Elena entered the queen’s apartments and shut the door behind them. No lights burned in the windowless chamber, though none of its more frequent visitors were hindered by darkness. The ghost of a sweet, spicy scent lingered.
The Secret Kings Page 4
