by Davis Ashura
A terrible suspicion gripped Linder, one he worked to suppress. His daughter needed him. “Are you hurt?” he asked.
“Of course I’m hurt,” Lienna shrieked. “Over and over they cut me!” Her fisted hands slashed at the air. “Over and over with their sharp blades and axes, killing me! Maiming me! Ahh the agony! They kill me over and over again! A thousand times a thousand. Even now, I can feel them stabbing and stabbing! NO! Oh, for the love of mercy! NO! NO! NO!” She clenched her hair in her fists and squeezed her eyes tight, shaking her head back and forth and screaming as if she were tormented by demons only she could see or feel.
Linder stood by, sick with helplessness and unsure what to do.
It seemed Lienna would scream on forever, but with a final shriek, she stopped as suddenly as she began. Her eyes snapped open, wild and deranged while her hands slapped to her sides, tearing out fistfuls of hair in the process. She seemed not to notice as she grinned maniacally.
Linder’s suspicion deepened. He was beginning to understand who it was who had come to his home like a thief in the night and killed all whom he loved. “It was you,” he said softly, horrified that his daughter was the instrument of such evil.
“Yes, it was me,” Lienna admitted in a sibilant whisper. “Someone came here and killed everyone you loved,” she purred. “And she’ll kill you!” Quicker than thought, she threw her knife, burying it in Linder’s gut.
Linder reached for a chair to hold himself upright, but it slipped beneath his hand and clattered to the floor alongside him. He lay on his back and gasped with shock. His whole body was weak, boneless. Breathing was a chore, and he felt his life draining away.
Standing above him, Lienna smirked. “The blade withers you away till there’s nothing left. It steals your Well. Your Jivatma will be mine.” She tittered inanely as she bent and reached for the knife. She paused before taking the hilt and looked into Linder’s eyes. “This will hurt.”
She grasped the knife.
Earlier Linder had learned the meaning of despair. Now, he learned the meaning of pain. His back arched and a silent scream erupted from his lips. He was on fire. His whole body was aflame. Acid roared through his veins, each beat of his heart seeming to spread it further, making it more intense. The pain seemed to last for days, but in reality, it was only a few short seconds before Lienna released the blade’s hilt.
And in the time she held the knife, through the fog of agony, Linder had communion with his daughter, a gross parody of what he and Cienna had once shared. He learned her plans to destroy Humanity, leaving the survivors to live on as nomads, homeless wanderers subsisting on grubs and dirt as they had when Linder was a boy. The reasons were muddled and her thoughts and motivations shifted by the moment, driven by an overpowering anger and hatred. Lienna was insane, but the more fearsome truth was this: she could make real her twisted thoughts and ambitions.
For those with dedication, the Withering Knife could transform the wielder into something else, something never before seen on Arisa, a being like no other. Linder and Cienna had once considered such a transformation for themselves, but had ultimately set it aside. No one should be so powerful.
But Lienna had decided otherwise. She would be the first — and the last.
Linder had to escape. He had to stop her before she made real her hideous vision.
With his strength fading, Linder drew on the last fragment of the WellStone, the smooth, white rock hanging from a strip of leather around his neck. He drew on it for strength and grasped the Withering Knife by its hilt and pulled it from his failing body. He threw it aside, watching as it slid under the table, several feet from his nerveless hands. So much blood on the rug. Cienna would have hated such despoilment.
Lienna gasped and glared at the knife in betrayal. “You said you’d get them all. Especially him,” she accused the lifeless dagger. She bent down to retrieve it.
Linder didn’t have much time left. He had already tried to Heal himself with the WellStone, but the wound soaked up his attempts like a dry desert absorbed the rain. It would be the death of him, but there was still something he could do. He rolled over onto his side and rocked himself unsteadily to his feet. His daughter had finally retrieved the knife. She looked up as Linder stood.
“No!” she shrieked. “That’s impossible! You can’t do that!”
“It is possible,” he said, his voice weak. He drew more from the WellStone. He couldn’t stop his daughter. He lacked the strength, but perhaps he could thwart her will. He knew what she intended, but he knew what might see Humanity safe until others, wiser and stronger then he, found a way to defeat his mad daughter.
Lienna lunged forward, holding the knife before her. She was too late.
Linder Voyaged. He travelled, visiting cities throughout the world and leaving behind something to shelter them from the coming storm. It was a Cohesion of Blend, Shield, and Bow. It was an Oasis.
But there was one final work to be done. Linder Val Maharj, the Son of the Desert poured out all the wisdom he had mastered in his long life as well as his remaining Jivatma. All of it fit into an embarrassingly slim blue volume. He left it upon the doorsteps of the library of his final visitation: a proud, young city named Hammer.
Rukh was lifted upward, away from the shimmering blue disk. The memories of Linder Val Maharj were blurred amongst his own. He couldn’t recall his name. What was it? Was he Linder Val Maharj? Or Rukh Shektan? He wasn’t sure? Was the Sorrow Bringer His daughter, just as the Baels claimed? No. Or maybe yes. His daughter. Lienna. She’d been mortal once, though clearly mad even then. What of the Withering Blade? Could it really be the same weapon now being used by the Sil Lor Kum in Ashoka? His Wife, Cienna. Dead now. Murdered by Their own Daughter. His heart clutched with sorrow.
Someone shook his shoulder, calling urgently to him. A face peered down at him. He didn’t recognize her — he should, but he didn’t. Confusion still gripped his mind and memory, but her hair … it was the same color as His Daughter’s. Her face was shadowed, but the hair. And She was naked, just like the last time He had seen the thief in the night who had murdered everything He loved and tried to murder the world.
“Lienna!” He screamed.
*****
Jessira was content. She finally had a chance to wash away all the dirt and grime she’d collected during their travels. And this wasn’t just a quick pass of a wet towel to wipe away the worst of the filth. No. The pond next to which they had set up camp gave her a chance to take a bath. A real one. She gloried in the simple actions of scrubbing herself clean as she liberally applied soap to skin and nails. She worked until all the grit and grime was scoured away. Her hair also merited special attention, heavy and limp as it was with caked in dirt, sweat, and oil. She sometimes wondered if she should cut it short like how some of her sister warriors wore theirs, but whenever she thought to do so, she would remember why she kept her hair long. Just like her camisole, her hair reminded her of her femininity. And the truth was Jessira liked her hair. She liked the feel of the wind rushing through it, waving it about like a banner. She liked the weight of it on her shoulders. She liked running her fingers through it. Or having Rukh do so.
Which was another reason she was taking extra special care tonight. She wanted everything to be perfect.
She glanced back at him. He sat by the fire, holding The Book of First Movement. He so wanted to read it. Just then, he looked her away, staring at her, not knowing she could see his features. He wore an expression of intense interest as he watched her. She was mostly hidden by a group of tall rushes, and he could only see her head and shoulders. His attention didn’t wane. She smiled turned to the side, arching her back as she pulled her fingers through the long, wet mass of her hair. She made sure Rukh could see a flash of breast before she turned away.
She could almost hear his sigh of disappointment.
She chuckled. It was nice to know she could have such an effect on the man.
When she was finished
with her bath, she dried off and wrapped herself in a towel. She made her way toward the fire and smiled. Just as she’d expected: Rukh had The Book of First Movement cracked open on his lap. He stared down at it. Her smile slipped. His expression was vacant and empty. Drool collected at a corner of his gaping mouth.
She ran to him, and shook him, shouting his name.
He didn’t answer. His head rolled about listlessly. He fell over on his side. She didn’t let fear overwhelm her good sense. She got Rukh back in a sitting position, not caring when her towel slipped off, leaving her naked. Modesty was the least of her concerns. She checked Rukh’s pulse, his breathing, his eyes, and put an ear to his chest to listen to his heart even as she conducted Jivatma, searching him for injury.
Nothing. He was fine as far as she could tell.
Her heart raced. Was he having some sort of seizure? He hadn’t wet himself. Her glance fell upon The Book. It glowed, a dim blue light, easily missed against the fire, but it was there. She snatched it from his hands.
He groaned and fell over onto his back.
She stood over him, shaking his shoulder as she urgently called his name.
His eyes fluttered open, full of confusion before an appalled awareness filled them.
“Lienna!”
In a motion that left her breathless, Rukh grasped her arms, scissored his legs between hers and spun her over. He slammed her on her back. Her breath exploded from her lungs. Rukh stared at her, his face intent and searching. He didn’t recognize her.
Jessira gasped, struggling to get a word out. Rukh had knocked the wind out of her, but it was quickly returning. She bent her leg, meaning to get it in between the two of them, but he jerked aside, blocking her. She twisted, and got both her feet on his hips. She pushed, and he lifted off the ground. But he was on her again before she could get to her knees.
Rukh held her pinned to the ground. Slowly recognition came to him. “Jessira?” he said, still sounding confused. “What did I … ” Memory came to him, and horror came across his face. He scrambled off her. “I’m so sorry,” he said. “I didn’t know what I was doing.”
Jessira cast about, searching desperately for her discarded towel. There. She grabbed it, wrapping it around herself before she turned to face him. Rukh looked anguished. Good. “What in the unholy hells did you think you were doing!” she shouted, not sure whether she was mad because of what he’d done or because of how much he’d scared her.
Rukh looked crestfallen. “I thought you were … I thought I was … ”
“You thought what!”
Rukh shook his head. He hesitated. “I thought I was Linder Val Maharj.”
Jessira waited a moment for Rukh to say something more, but he remained mulishly silent. He wore a distracted look on his face. She threw her hands in the air. “Fine. Who in the unholy hells is Linder Val Maharj?”
“The Son of the Desert,” Rukh said. “We know him as the First Father.”
Jessira blinked and settled back on her heels. Her anger was momentarily quenched. Was Rukh losing his mind? He didn’t look mad, but his actions certainly had been. She sighed. “Why don’t you start at the beginning and just tell me what happened.”
Rukh nodded. “It happened when I opened The Book. It felt like I was falling into a shimmering blue disk, like a perfectly circular lake.” For the next few minutes, he spoke, telling an unbelievable tale, one about the last moments in the lives of the First Father and the First Mother. And of their daughter Lienna who all knew now as Suwraith. “And when you woke me, all I saw was a naked woman with the same color hair as Lienna’s. I wasn’t sure who I was. I thought I was Linder and … ”
“Call him the First Father,” Jessira interrupted. “It sounds disrespectful when you call him by his first name.”
Rukh nodded. “I thought I was the First Father, and you were Lienna, the daughter who killed everyone I … I mean, he loved.”
“And so you attacked me? Because you thought you were the First Father, and I was your daughter, Lienna? The one who murdered your wife and became Suwraith?” Jessira asked.
“No! I mean yes. I mean … ” Rukh trailed off. He glanced up, finally meeting Jessira’s gaze. “You believe me?”
Jessira nodded. A year ago she wouldn’t have. But so much had changed in her life since she’d first met Rukh Shektan. In comparison to what she’d been exposed to thus far, believing Rukh had somehow experienced the last moments of the First Father’s life seemed a paltry stretch to make.
Jessira stood. “Can I trust you not to read The Book while I clean up?” she asked, gesturing to the dirt she was once again covered in.
Rukh nodded, still looking anguished and miserable.
Jessira knew why. She sighed and knelt before him, taking his head in hands and making him look at her. “It wasn’t your fault,” she said. “And I’m fine. You didn’t hurt me.” She kissed his forehead. “We’ll talk more when I’m finished.”
Chapter 27: The Past Never Dies
After Hume opened my eyes and my heart, when I next beheld the Queen, I found myself simultaneously saddened and angered. I pitied Her. How terribly evil and pathetic Mother is.
-From the journal of SarpanKum Li-Charn, AF 1754
“And what of Hume?” Mother asked.
“He is long dead,” Li-Choke said, his voice steady, and carrying no hint of the fear coursing through his body.
On the very day he and Chak-Soon had separated from Rukh Shektan and Jessira Grey, Mother had called to them, telling them to prepare for Her arrival. She had come to them at dusk, a twilight visitation from a brooding, malevolent storm. And though She continued to maintain a firmer grip on reality, She still slipped now and again, such as when She had asked about Craven, the supposed sister city to Ashoka. No such place existed. Craven had been the inspired creation of Li-Dirge, used as a means to distract the Queen from carrying forth Her immediate plans to destroy Ashoka. The SarpanKum’s wild gambit had worked, but perhaps it had worked too well. Though Jessira Grey did not admit it, there was a city in the Privation Mountains, secret and unknown. With Mother’s focus upon Craven, it would be a tragedy if Li-Dirge’s lie somehow allowed the Queen to learn of Jessira Grey’s hidden home.
However, while Mother was confused about Craven, Li-Choke sensed She was not confused about Hume. There had been a probing, questing nature to Her question. She was testing their loyalty.
“And Hammer?” Mother asked.
“Also long gone,” Li-Choke announced.
“Is that so?” Mother said. “Then why do you suppose I sent you so far west to search for a man centuries dead in a city dead for equally as long?”
“Loyalty,” Chak-Soon growled. “We truth tell.”
Li-Choke kept himself from tensing by the barest of margins. Mother would notice his fear.
The Queen turned to the Tigon, who trembled now and then. “You fear Me? You fear your Mother?”
“Yes,” Chak-Soon admitted.
Li-Choke gasped, soft and quickly snuffed. He prayed Mother hadn’t heard his inadvertent sound of shock.
Either She hadn’t or She didn’t care. Instead, Mother laughed, a mad swirl of Her clouds. “Finally. I have honesty. Too often the Baels, and even the Tigons lie to Me. It is good to find two of My children who are willing to speak the truth.” Thunder rumbled. “For your next task, you will return to the Eastern Plague and report to Li-Shard, the SarpanKum recently reassigned from the West. There you will assist him in the assault on Craven. As soon as I locate the city, I will send word.”
Her final words spoke, Mother roared skyward, quickly disappearing.
Chak-Soon stared at the night sky. “Why Mother speak normal?” he asked, once She was long gone.
Li-Choke shrugged. “I don’t know, but it can’t be good. Not for any of us.”
Chak-Soon appeared bewildered. “Why?”
“An insane Mother could be tricked and thwarted. One who is sane — it will be much more difficult.”
“Why trick at all?”
“Mother may seem saner, but She is unchanged in this most important aspect: She still wishes to murder all Humanity. And remember, it was a Human woman who Healed you when by rights she should not have done so given what your kind has done to hers over the centuries. Given all that, is Jessira not worthy of life?”
Chak-Soon nodded. “She should live.”
*****
Lienna soared through the night sky, well pleased with what had just transpired. Li-Choke, of the treacherous Eastern Baels, had held to his word. He had hunted down and slain Hume, just as She had ordered. Or at least had confessed that Hume was long dead. The truth of the matter was irrelevant. The important detail was this: Li-Choke had gone west, discovered a dead Hammer, and he hadn’t lied about it. He had been truthful just as She had hoped he would be. Hammer was extinguished. When it had been killed was of no consequence — years or centuries, Lienna couldn’t recall.
She tended to shy away from Her memories. Her recall of events wasn’t so clear, and if She focused too much on them, Mother and Father sometimes returned, even Mother Arisa. It couldn’t be allowed, not after Her centuries of confusion and lonely toil.
Her newfound clarity was all because Lienna had finally decided to share Her pain with Her children. For millennia, She had sought to spare them, but She could no longer do so. They would have to share Her burden, which only made sense since it was why She had created them in the first place: to help Her with the execution of Her holy task. Even now, two of the Plagues of Continent Catalyst slumbered, resting as they took on a portion of Her illness. Only Her loyal Baels were unaffected, standing guard over their brethren.
Just then, an essence called to Her from many miles away. It was a trace sensation of sight, sound, and smell; a memory from millennia ago. Lienna recognized it. Lightning flashed in response to Her trembling fear. It was impossible. He was dead. She’d seen to it Herself, back when She was mortal. And yet, here was His presence, borne on the air like a pestilential wind. She could taste it. Nor could She ever forget it. Or Mother’s stench. Could They still live? How? Or had the voices in Her head been real all this time?
