Dark Immolation

by Christopher Husberg

  Daval respected Mandiat’s commitment. It was one of the man’s strengths.

  Urstadt was waiting for him near the gatehouse, talking stiffly with a servant. Daval supposed this was as close as he had ever seen Urstadt to flirting; his guard captain was not one to make much of her personal life. That was partly why Daval chose her; it meant he had one of the most dedicated captains in the city.

  Urstadt saw him coming, and quickly ended her conversation. Daval nodded curtly as he passed. He hoped she had not been in the middle of obtaining valuable information. While Urstadt’s mind was keen when it came to politics, and brilliant when it came to battle, her social instincts were unrefined.

  Urstadt stepped in behind Daval as they exited the gatehouse. “Any discoveries to report?” Daval asked, once they were sufficiently distant from Castle Mandiat.

  “Nothing of consequence,” Urstadt said, shaking her head. “Only gossip.”

  “Gossip can always be useful,” Daval said. “What did you hear?”

  Urstadt shrugged. “One of the cooks is sleeping with Girgan’s cousin,” she said.

  Daval chuckled. “I suspect making small talk is more painful for you than any physical fight.”

  Urstadt’s lack of response was answer enough.

  “What else did you learn? Anything?”

  “There are still rumors of a psimancer in House Luce,” Urstadt said, “but no one could tell me who it might be.”

  “There have been rumors of psimancy at Castle Luce for almost a year, now. Nothing to show for it, though. Very well. That’s all?”

  “That is all, my Lord.”

  “And what did you tell them?” Daval asked. Part of hearing gossip was spreading it; Urstadt had learned not to listen without giving a bit of information herself.

  “That you haven’t been sleeping,” she said. “Although they did not seem to find that very interesting.”

  Daval nodded. Without context, it was utterly dull. But it was true; he slept less and less lately, and it had more to do with his relationship with his new master than anything else. His transformation had come with many perks, some of which Daval was still discovering. It was like going through puberty again, but with much more interesting—and useful—results.

  “Whether they latched on to it or not does not matter,” Daval said. “They’ll talk about it eventually. What else?”

  “Rumors of what happened in the throne room when the emperor died. And that’s all, my Lord.”

  Daval considered. Things were moving, but moving slowly. He needed to remember the Fear Lord’s advice: moving cautiously was far better than plunging forward with abandon.

  Back at Castle Amok, Daval went straight up to his daughter’s chambers in the keep. He had business that couldn’t wait. He found Cova in her room, reading a book.

  “Hello, Father,” she said, looking up as he approached.

  “Good evening, my dear,” Daval said. “All is well?”

  “All is well.”

  “What is it you’re reading?” Daval asked, looking around at his youngest daughter’s room. The place was a mess, clothing strewn everywhere, bed unmade. They had servants who could take care of such things for her, but Cova insisted on keeping her room herself. Some job she did of it. Books lay open in the strangest places—on top of the dresser, beneath the bed, on the windowsill.

  “The Romances,” Cova said.

  Daval cleared his throat. His daughter was clever, vastly more intelligent than any of his other children. Why she chose to read such drivel was beyond him.

  “I have some news for you,” Daval said. He lifted an abandoned book from a chair and placed it on Cova’s desk, which was already covered in papers, books, and other odds and ends.

  “News of the impending war?” Cova asked, her nose already back in her book.

  “In a way,” Daval said, taking a deep breath. His daughter wouldn’t be happy with him. But she did not understand what was at stake. Daval sighed. Cova was his favorite. She was unique, intelligent, she thought about things in a very different way than anyone else he had ever known. Which was why what Daval was about to say was very difficult.

  “I’ve found you a husband,” Daval said.

  Cova laughed. Just a short laugh, the brief chuckle made when someone was hardly listening. Then she looked up from her book.

  “You’ve what?”

  “I’ve found you a husband,” Daval repeated.

  “I…”

  “You are officially betrothed to Girgan Mandiat. He is a good man, and will make a good husband.”

  “Father… are you serious?”

  “Regrettably.”

  Cova tossed her book aside. “All my siblings have married for love. You’ve not arranged a betrothal for any of them. Why do so for me?”

  “Because we need it.”

  Cova stared at him, tight-lipped. Thick strands of blond hair had fallen across her reddening face. Hair like her mother’s. This is the moment, Daval thought. This is where I discover whether my daughter has truly grown up or not.

  Cova stared at him for a moment longer. Then, slowly, the anger drained from her face. She sat up straight.

  “Why exactly do we need it?”

  Daval smiled. She truly was unique. “We need to stand strong with House Mandiat,” Daval said. “As two of the most powerful High Lords in Izet, the union of our children would garner the support we need. One marriage could give us the votes.”

  “Votes for what?”

  “For the throne, of course.”

  Cova glared at him and shook her head. “You are the Tokal, now, as well as a High Lord. Why would you possibly want the throne?”

  “Because it is what must be.”

  Cova rolled her eyes. “I don’t like you since you’ve become Tokal, Father. You’re all mysteries and crypticisms. You don’t speak plainly any more.”

  Daval felt a stab of pain. Had his transformation changed him that much? Daval did not feel any different. Not in his mind, anyway. Physically, yes: the burdens of old age no longer weighed him down, and he had strength that men a third his age only dreamed of. His vision was better than it had ever been, he heard things that no human should be able to hear.

  And yet he was the same man he always had been. Wasn’t he?

  “You’re right, Cova. Things have changed. Even I have changed in some ways, but the truth is the world is changing. An emperor lies dead, along with the previous Tokal. Roden is on the verge of collapse, and Khale is poised to attack. We need strong leadership.”

  That wasn’t exactly Daval’s motivation, of course, but it was close enough.

  “And you are this person?” Cova asked. “You are the person with the strength Roden needs?”

  “I may be,” Daval said. “But if I am not, I know who is.”

  Cova stared at him for a moment, until he finally saw the dawn of understanding on her face.

  “Me?”

  Daval said nothing. It was always best to let Cova work things out on her own. Cova laughed nervously, the laugh she exuded when she was on the verge of discovering something.

  “I’m your youngest child,” Cova said, shaking her head. “I can’t rule an empire.”

  Daval remained silent, watching his daughter, the daughter he loved more than anything in the world. His hand twitched at his side; he ignored it.

  “If Girgan and I marry, he will rule. He’s a graduate of the Citadel, after all. But none of that matters, Father. If you don’t rule, it will be Sraven. And if not him, surely Valan. I’m the youngest of your children, the legitimacy lies…”

  Daval smiled as he watched one begin to form on Cova’s face. “The legitimacy lies with the strongest match, and a match is invalid for the throne unless arranged by the parents of the couple.” While it was not uncommon for some noble couples to marry without formal arrangement and still keep their privileges—as all of Daval’s other children had done—the law still dictated that any marriage involving the i
mperial throne be arranged.

  Cova skipped over to Daval, wrapping him in a large embrace. “And that’s what you’ve given me, isn’t it, Father? A valid match, the strongest in our family. And Girgan is the eldest, so we will have full support from his family.”

  Daval breathed in his daughter’s scent. It seemed a long time since she had embraced him like this.

  Cova pulled away. “But this is different, isn’t it?” she said. “What are you not telling me?”

  Daval stepped back. It was so short. The hug, the embrace, the moment of trust, over so quickly. “Nothing that concerns you now, darling,” he said. “You are betrothed to Girgan Mandiat. You and Girgan will ascend to the throne when I’m gone. You will rule this nation. For now, that’s all you need know.”

  And, just like that, the joy was gone from his daughter’s face. She had been so excited a moment before. The thought of her ruling, of his child on the throne, especially this child, made Daval’s chest swell with pride. But of course she was too smart to take such a gift freely. Cova would want to find out what Daval wasn’t telling her. And he couldn’t allow her to do that.

  “You really are not going to tell me,” Cova said, eyeing Daval with a narrowed glance.

  “I know you’re going to want to find out on your own,” Daval said. “Please don’t attempt this, Cova. Take your father’s advice. All will be revealed in time.”

  Cova shook her head. “That’s nonsense, Father.”

  “You will reject the throne, then?”

  Cova hesitated. No, she wouldn’t be so emotional as to reject the throne. Not yet. “I don’t know what I’ll do,” she said. “But I won’t be your pawn. If you want me to be a part of your schemes, then you need to tell me what they are.”

  “And if I know how you’ll respond?” Daval asked. “If I know already what you will think of my schemes?”

  Cova matched his gaze. “Then you know.” She picked up her book and splayed herself out on her bed once more.

  11

  Harmoth estate

  ASTRID CLOSED THE BOOK with a happy sigh. She’d been reading the early work of Cetro Ziravi, the renowned poet from the Age of Revival whose later writings challenged the Essera herself, including a grand epic that spanned the history of the Sfaera and beyond. Astrid didn’t care much for them, though. His earlier writings were far more interesting, more human: poems about life, love, and death, what made people mortal and temporary. What made them good, and what made them monsters. Matters she knew she would never comprehend herself.

  Astrid ran one finger—one claw, rather, razor sharp and half as long as her finger—along the spine of the book, felt the ridges there, the worn leather. Before her eyes, she watched her claw retract, merging once more with her finger. The sun was rising. Astrid had been reading all night. It was time for a walk.

  Outside in the grounds, people were just beginning to stir. Astrid walked among them, her boots slick with dew. It felt good to move about; she had stayed up through the late hours of the night, reading about the Denomination and how it was formed. Cinzia insisted that if they were going to renew Canta’s religion, they needed to do it right. And to do it right, they had to understand history.

  Astrid had scoured through the main philosophers of the Age of Revival first, through Bronstin and Hustenheim. Their writings had not been particularly helpful, though, so Astrid had turned to lesser-known thinkers. Nuria had been particularly interesting. While she said nothing about religion in particular, her treatise on mob mentality was fascinating. Astrid had shared what she’d learned with Cinzia and Jane, both of whom seemed appreciative, neither of whom seemed satisfied. Astrid suspected there would be more research to come.

  She was excited at the prospect, but also uneasy—not because of the research itself, but because by doing it she was choosing to not do other things. Astrid was bound to forces beyond herself, and she had neglected those forces of late.

  Her ears pricked. In the distance, near the pond, someone was speaking loudly. Curious, she moved closer. As she approached the pond, she saw the speaker was an old woman, her thin, gnarled arms protruding from the folds of a large brown cloak. She stood tall, though, unbent by her age, her short gray hair clumped in damp curls.

  “There is a reason we are all here,” the woman was saying. A half-dozen people from the camp had gathered around her. The woman’s voice was low and smooth—Astrid thought she might make a good singer. “We did not come here by chance,” the woman continued. “A higher power guides us! Dark times approach, and powers greater than ourselves direct us toward the end.”

  Astrid rolled her eyes and was about to move on when she was halted by the woman’s next words.

  “The Nine Daemons rise. They rise, and we will fall unless we heed the counsel of the Goddess.”

  Hold on a bloody minute. Astrid approached the crowd and tugged the hem of a young woman’s skirt. “Who is that?” she asked, pointing at the speaker.

  “I don’t know her name,” the woman said. She seemed simultaneously annoyed at and enthralled by the old woman. “I’m not sure if anyone does, but they call her the Beldam. She arrived hardly more than a week ago.”

  The Beldam? Astrid wanted to laugh out loud.

  “They come to destroy,” the Beldam was saying, sweeping her scrawny arm towards her growing audience. “They come to destroy, and to lay waste to the Sfaera. They come to take all we have away from us. They hunger, and they will never stop.”

  “The Nine Daemons are nothin’ but fables!” someone shouted out. “We came here to hear about Canta, not children’s stories.”

  Astrid was glad at least someone was willing to ask what she was wondering herself.

  “When we speak of the Nine Daemons, we speak of Canta,” the Beldam said. “She and they are inseparably connected. Without our Goddess, we are powerless against them. And without them… our Goddess would have no power.” She swept her eyes over the crowd. “I will tell you what I know of the Nine Daemons. But I admonish all of you—don’t let what I’m about to tell you fall upon deaf ears. We are all here to serve a power greater than ourselves.

  “Some say the Nine Daemons are the descendants of the Brother-Gods Emidor, and the Sister-Gods Adimor. Others say they are the lost children of the First Parents, Ellendre and Andara themselves. Others say the Nine Daemons were once men and women, long since corrupted and cursed, banished from our realm. They are shrouded in mystery, but the truth about them is all around us, if we choose to see it.

  “We think what we experience—our emotions, our anger, and our sorrow—are because of our mortal lives. That wouldn’t be wrong, but there are influences beyond ourselves, and the Nine Daemons are the most powerful of them all. Each of the Nine Daemons manifests in one of our darkest, deepest pits of self-loathing. Each of the Nine Daemons feeds on the worst parts of ourselves.

  “Mefiston is the eldest, and his vice is wrath. He was forged in the inferno of war and bloodlust, and his ire is like the Sfaera engulfed in flames. When we are angry, Mefiston is there, and he rejoices. Hade devours our sorrow in death and loss. He is ethereal and ever-present, and feeds on that which we can never truly escape. Luceraf, the fallen, manifests herself in our pride. Enmity, rebellion, arrogance, narcissism, she takes them all and they fuel her power. Iblin, the monstrosity, delights in greed and gluttony. Estille, both man and woman and the most beautiful of both, feeds on lust. Estille perverts the fire of our passion, rendering us powerless to resist. Nadir is unpredictable, and consumes the sanity of others. Bazlamit, her twin sister, enjoys deception and fraud. Samann is the youngest, and takes his strength from envy. And, of course, their master Azael, the Fear Lord, is more powerful than all of them combined. They come to destroy, and they come to consume. Their Rising has begun, and they, too, will soon walk the Sfaera.”

  Astrid stood rooted to the ground. The Beldam put to words what Astrid knew instinctively. There are daemons even daemons fear.

  “But what are we
supposed to do?” someone shouted from the crowd.

  “Look around,” the Beldam said. “You can see evidence of the Daemons everywhere. Some of us were made in Canta’s image, strong, tall, and pure of form. Humans.”

  Oh no.

  “Others descend from daemonic ancestry. And, if we are to truly begin the fight against the Nine Daemons, we must begin the fight against their children.”

  The crowd was murmuring, now. Some looked angry, others fearful. Astrid heard one word whispered more than any other.

  Tiellan.

  “Shit,” Astrid said. Not quietly enough that some of the people around her didn’t hear—she got more than one odd glance. Little girls weren’t supposed to swear, after all.

  She turned and walked quickly back to the house. Knot, Cinzia, and Jane needed to hear about this immediately.

  12

  KNOT PULLED THE ROPE taut, stretching the tent-cover as far as it would go. Cavil, the tiellan man he had met during his “arbitration,” pulled the opposite end, making sure it was tight across the tent below.

  “Good,” Knot said. “You’ll want it tight as can be. A lot less likely for rain to get through, that way.”

  “Thank you for helpin’ us,” Cavil said earnestly. Pale-blond hair protruded in tufts from beneath his araif.

  “Ain’t something to make a big deal about,” Knot muttered, securing the rope to the tree. When he’d stopped by to say hello to Cavil and Ocrestia—Ocrestia had gone into Tinska to buy provisions—Knot had noticed the conditions in which they were living. None of the tiellans had adequate shelter against the recent rain. Their primitive tents were hardly more than sheets strung up between trees. The tiellans were already in the process of moving their tents, anyway—relocating from a spot of land adjacent to Dannel’s group, closest to the pond, to a new location under a large ash tree, some distance away.

  For the past few hours Knot had shown Cavil and a few others how to construct a tent that provided more shelter, and the advantage of hanging up a second layer above the tent. Ader, Cinzia’s youngest brother, had been helping, and Knot was pleased with the lad. Ader took a keen interest in Knot, although Knot suspected it had more to do with the sword Ader must’ve seen in his pack rather than anything Knot himself had to offer. He’d been teaching the lad to play warsquares, and he couldn’t say it was time misspent. But it felt good to get outside and work with his hands. Knot’s muscles itched, wanting to exert themselves.