Dark Immolation

by Christopher Husberg

  “And all of them human,” Ocrestia added. “The Beldam preached hatred, and I say good riddance to those who left with her.”

  “We aren’t going to try to get them back?” Elessa asked.

  Jane breathed deeply. “I don’t know. Our objective needs to be to travel to Triah. That is where more people will flock to our cause.”

  Cinzia hoped that, along the way, they would have the chance to confront the Beldam. What the Beldam taught had no place in the Sfaera, not when the world was already so full of fear and hatred.

  “So what you’re saying,” Ocrestia said, “is that we just have to deal with Nine Daemons, a hate-filled woman who has manipulated our followers, and move hundreds of people across the nation to the capital city of Khale, to the doorstep of a rival religion—one that has tried to assassinate you three times?”

  Jane nodded, her eyes focused in the distance. “And call six more disciples. And organize the rest of the Church of Canta’s ministry.” She met Cinzia’s eyes. “And finish translating the Codex of Elwene. And…”

  Cinzia burst out laughing. The other three woman stared at her until eventually they were all laughing, holding their sides, barely able to breathe.

  “I admit, I ain’t sure why we’re laughing,” Ocrestia said after a few moments, wiping away tears. “Don’t see how we could accomplish all that in a lifetime, let alone the near future.”

  “We can’t,” Jane said, smiling. “Not alone, anyway. But with Canta’s help…”

  “If we learn to trust,” Cinzia added.

  “We might just have a chance,” Jane finished.

  “Well,” Cinzia said, “before we go about saving the Sfaera, what about a cup of tea?”

  “Sounds delightful.”

  “Wonderful.”

  “Guess I could have some tea, if that’s what the rest of you want.”

  The four women smiled at one another, and walked back to the house.

  EPILOGUE

  Imperial palace, Izet

  COVA WATCHED AS THE Ceno order prepared her father’s body, and felt nothing. She stood in the doorway to the imperial palace’s Cantic chapel, watching the green-robed men and women move silently as they cleaned and dressed their former leader. The Ceno order had wanted to do the washing in the emperor’s chambers, but Cova had refused. There was no way she was going to have her father’s body taint that place more than he already had. The order had not been happy about being relocated to the sacred space of their rival religion. And the Denomination had not been happy about it, either. Cova did not have to care. She was the empress now, and both factions were obliged to obey her. She had burdens enough without worrying about two religious groups vying for power.

  Fortunately, her father was no longer one of those burdens. As she stared at his pale corpse, she still felt nothing. It had been much more difficult to watch the Denomination prepare her husband’s body. This did not seem to matter at all. What did matter was that her empire needed her. In her hand, she held a revised edition of the proposal Daval had tasked her with writing, outlining a war against Khale and the rebuilding of the palace. Seeing her father’s body, knowing what his plans had been, Cova wanted to tear out the section that advocated war and burn it. But she knew she could not. There was too much at stake, now. What mattered was rebuilding Roden. Reforming her Ruling Council. Andia Luce was a good candidate. Cova had always been fond of her, and repairing the relationship between their two houses would go a long way towards peace in the empire.

  What mattered was finding out the truth of the Ceno order and the Scorned Gods. Her father had been part of a cover-up, that much was clear. She would find out, and reveal, the truth.

  All of these things mattered to Cova. And yet, as she stood there, looking at her father’s corpse, only one memory occupied her mind. It was a memory of darkness, unfathomable fear, and a harbinger of things to come.

  Imperial docks, Izet

  Urstadt walked along the dock, looking around with curiosity. She had never been much for the water; she was better on dry land.

  “Have you ever been to Khale?”

  Urstadt shook her head. Winter walked beside her, eyeing the ships carefully.

  “I wish I could say you’ll enjoy it, but I can’t. I’m not sure Khale is in any better shape than Roden.”

  They continued walking, the breeze from the Gulf of Nahl chilly on Urstadt’s cheeks.

  “And you’re sure you want to come with me? Cova might need you here. Seems she has a lot on her hands.”

  “Cova can handle herself.”

  “Yes,” Winter said, stepping toward one of the ships. “You’re not wrong about that.”

  “Do you mind if I accompany you, my garice?”

  They turned to see Galce the tailor standing on the docks, bundled in wools and fur, carrying a large knapsack.

  Winter laughed. “Of course not, Galce. You’re welcome in my company any time.”

  “Where in Khale will we go?” Urstadt asked.

  “I wasn’t sure at first,” Winter said. “But I think I know now. I need to go back to where it all began. To the village of Pranna.” Winter patted the wooden side of a ship. “This one will do.”

  Urstadt grunted. They were lucky Empress Cova had allowed them their pick of transportation. As much as Urstadt did not like the idea of being at sea, she liked even less the thought of walking straight up to the Blood Gate of Navone.

  “Very good,” Urstadt said, although she didn’t care where they were going. She had her own reasons for accompanying Winter. Urstadt was learning to love the girl, in her own way. She needed to love her. Just as she had needed to learn to love Daval. The tiellan had power—too much power, as far as Urstadt was concerned. One day, Winter might overstep her bounds, just as Daval had done. And, on that day, Urstadt would be there, ready to destroy that which she loved. Ready for the wild calamity, and ready to stop it if need be.

  Outskirts of Izet

  Kali had made it halfway out of Izet when she stopped and vomited on the side of the road.

  She wiped her brow with the sleeve of her dark-green robe. It was not very warm—spring was reluctant to show itself in Roden—and yet her face was drenched in cold sweat. Of course, that might be one of the side effects of being a man; Kali couldn’t be sure. She’d caught a glimpse of herself, her new body, in a mirror as she left the palace, and had not been pleased. She was ugly. Portly. And a man, of all things.

  That was something she could remedy soon, once she created a better lacuna to house her sift, but for now it would have to do.

  Kali stumbled, her feet unsteady. This body was clumsy, too. Seemed to have no idea how to put one foot in front of the other. But despite the sweat, and the clumsiness, and the overwhelming nausea she couldn’t shake, Kali was happy. She was finally free of the Void. She had not realized how much of a prison that place had become until she escaped it. She was not sure she ever wanted to willingly return, acumen or not.

  She stumbled again, but this time fell to her knees. She grunted in frustration, and a few people walking by looked at her, but no one said anything or stopped to help. That was just as well. Kali hated being helped.

  Her stomach twisted again, and Kali began to dry heave, her abdomen clenching and unclenching painfully. She tried to stand, but could not. Her strength ebbed at an alarming rate. She collapsed to the ground, her cheek against the dust of the road.

  Then, Kali felt herself—her true self, her sift—being pulled backwards. Back and back and back, until she was falling through the twisting tunnel once more, into the Void, black sky full of stars.

  No.

  Absently, Kali reached for the note that would have been in her pocket, if she’d had a body, if she hadn’t lost the note in Navone, if so many things hadn’t happened. Not finding the note, despite being exactly what she expected, brought an unexpectedly powerful wave of sadness. Kali pushed it away. Sadness did not become her. This—her relationship with Winter, her attempt at
inhabiting a body in the real world—had been far more of a success than a failure. She would try tagain. And again, after that. And again, and as many times as it took to get out of this place. Kali had tasted freedom.

  She would taste it again.

  * * *

  Lathe awoke in the Void.

  He had never seen the Void before, but then again… hadn’t he? The black expanse, the countless lights of varying color looked familiar, and at the same time completely alien. He couldn’t be sure. So much of him felt distant, as if he were trying to call out to himself across a wide canyon.

  He tried to discern whether any of the lights in his vicinity looked familiar. Strangely, as he searched, he noticed an entire swathe of blackness completely devoid of any light whatsoever. Lathe moved hesitantly towards the empty space, then stopped. The space had shifted, just slightly.

  Lathe was not alone. A slow, aching laugh echoed through the Void.

  “Welcome back, Lathe Tallon.” The voice was low, but smooth and melodious.

  “Who’s there?” Lathe called out. He tried to recall all he’d learned about the Void, at the Citadel and during his time with the Nazaniin, but… but none of what he’d learned referred to anything like this.

  “I am she who woke you,” the voice said. “I am Bazlamit.”

  Bazlamit. Lathe racked his brain. The name sounded familiar but everything was still so fuzzy he could hardly think straight.

  “You woke me?” Lathe asked.

  “I did,” Bazlamit said. “I woke you because we can help one another. I woke you because you can help me access something we both want.”

  “What is that?” Lathe asked.

  “A body.”

  Two months later

  Astrid dreamt she was on a ship.

  A ship, a boat, she wasn’t exactly sure—she had never known much about seafaring vessels. But this one had sails, anyway, and cut through the water towards a clear, bright sunrise. Astrid knew, instinctively, that she was alone on the boat, but did not mind. It felt good to be on her own. It felt good because Astrid knew she was going to a good place.

  The pink, orange, and purple sun rays streaking across the sky gave way to the sun itself, rising slowly above the water, transforming the ocean into a strange, beautiful sea of liquid gold.

  The sun rose, and Astrid was not afraid. She did not burn. She remained whole with the light. The ship took a turn—Astrid wasn’t sure how, or why, or where, but it turned, towards a massive fjord. Immense cliffs rose up on either side of the water. In that moment, Astrid knew where she was going, and the word rang in her mind like the tolling of a great bell.

  She was going home.

  Turandel

  “Hey. You there?” Trave’s gravelly voice brought Astrid back from her reverie.

  She blinked. She felt as if she’d just woken up from a dream.

  “Where’d you go?”

  Astrid shook her head. Honestly, she didn’t know. She couldn’t remember experiencing anything quite like it.

  “It was… a daydream, I think,” she said. She hated ships. Why had she been on a ship in a daydream?

  Astrid shook herself. She and Trave stood among the remains of Cabral’s tower-house, now ash and rubble. They had sent the last of Cabral’s former slaves far away, telling them never to return if they valued their freedom. They had killed Cabral’s Fangs. Cabral himself was in the east, and wouldn’t return for at least another week. Or so Trave said.

  “It could take him a long time to rebuild,” Trave said.

  “But he will. And then he’ll come after me.” As Jane and her followers had moved south, it had been a simple matter for Astrid to slip away and contact Trave. He had told her that Cabral was gone; it was too good an opportunity to pass up.

  “Aye. That he will.”

  “He’ll have to find me first.”

  “He’ll find you. He has cause, now. You were an amusement to him before. Now you’re a threat.”

  Astrid didn’t reply. She knew Trave was right. Cabral would come after her. He might not even take the time to rebuild first.

  “But I’ll be with him.”

  Astrid looked at Trave, one eyebrow raised. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “I mean I’ll be with him. And I’ll protect you.”

  “Why? Why did you help me do this?” Astrid spread her arms wide, indicating the carnage around them. Chaos, but so much better than what had been here before.

  “Let’s just say I’m looking for redemption as much as you, these days.”

  Astrid stirred some of the ash with her shoe. “Is this redemption, then?” she asked.

  Trave shrugged. “Close enough.”

  “Feels more like revenge.”

  “I’m not sure there’s a difference.”

  Astrid nodded. “I… I’m almost sure there is. I just don’t know what it is yet.”

  “Let me know if you figure it out.”

  They stood in silence for a moment, and Astrid’s thoughts returned to her strange daydream, whatever it was. She could almost feel the wind in her hair, the salt of the ocean on her lips.

  Is this what redemption feels like? she wondered.

  She did not have an answer.

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  IT IS A TRUTH universally acknowledged that sequels are really difficult to write, and this book was no exception. Fortunately, a host of top-notch people came to the rescue and offered their advice, support, and friendship. Let me tell you about just a few.

  First and foremost: Rachel. I spend a lot of time at writing conferences, going to writing retreats, and, yeah, writing, and she supports me in every single one of those efforts. She’s my best critic, and I simply couldn’t do what I’m doing without her. My daughter, Buffy, has been a constant joy and inspiration since the day she was born. She even, on occasion, chills peacefully in her crib after waking up from a nap just to give me an extra few minutes of writing time. I’m grateful and humbled to be her father.

  A HUGE thank you to Camille Johnson for being an incredible nanny and aunt to Buffy so I can write on a consistent basis. I couldn’t imagine my daughter in the hands of a person better suited for the job. A shout out to Liz, Jaime, Chelsea, Buffy’s grandparents, and my sister Deja for contributing on that front as well. I’m so grateful for all of you!

  Speaking of my sister, she happened to marry a particularly awesome guy named Ben, and Ben built a particularly awesome website for me. Go to christopherhusberg.com to see what I’m talking about. (Also, Ben: thanks for always playing support in Dota 2. Seriously, you are the best.)

  D.J. Butler is a great friend and an incredible writer, and I’m not sure Dark Immolation would have survived without the writing retreats he’s so graciously hosted. Those retreats were instrumental in overcoming the many obstacles this novel threw at me. (Plus, we played lots of awesome board games.) Did I mention he’s an incredible writer?

  Writing can be a lonely gig, so a special thanks goes out to my writing group, affectionately and hilariously known as “Accidental Erotica”: Megan Walker, Jenn Johansson, Tara Mayoros, Bree Despain, Heidi Summers, Michelle Argyle, Heather Clark, James Goldberg, Cavan Helps—and especially Janci Patterson, who went above and beyond and gave me an epic critique that was exactly what I needed. I’m grateful for everyone’s friendship, feedback, and the opportunity to talk about writing with other fantastic writers. You guys rock. Additional thanks to Luke Tarzian for hosting an incredible book event at Flintridge Bookstore and Coffeehouse, and for giving me some great feedback on this novel.

  Many thanks to the entire team at Titan Books, and particularly to my brilliant editor, Miranda Jewess. I’m always grateful for her notes and suggestions.

  This book wouldn’t exist without the support of the very fine people who work or have worked at JABberwocky. Joshua, Krystyna, Lisa, Brady, Eddie, Christa, Tae, Rebecca, Ben, and anyone else who may have slipped my mind. I’m grateful for the friendships I’ve developed w
ith everyone at that agency, for all I’ve learned from them, and for the fantastic work they do.

  Finally, my agent, Sam, is one of those agents that somehow knows exactly what to say to motivate and encourage me, no matter the situation. A few long conversations with him helped me hash out some of the major issues I had with this novel, and I’m very happy with the result. He’s the best in the business.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  CHRISTOPHER HUSBERG GREW UP in Eagle River, Alaska. He now lives in Utah, and spends his time writing, reading, hiking, and playing video games, but mostly hanging out with his wife, Rachel, and daughter, Buffy. He received an MFA in creative writing from Brigham Young University, and an honorary PhD in Buffy the Vampire Slayer from himself. The first novel in the Chaos Queen Quintet, Duskfall, was published in 2016. The third installment, Blood Requiem, will be published by Titan Books in June 2018.

  www.christopherhusberg.com

  @usbergo

  ALSO AVAILABLE FROM TITAN BOOKS

  DUSKFALL

  THE CHAOS QUEEN QUINTET

  Christopher Husberg

  Pulled from a frozen sea, pierced by arrows and close to death, Knot has no memory of who he was. But his dreams are dark, filled with violence and unknown faces. Winter, a tiellan woman whose people have long been oppressed by humans, is married to and abandoned by Knot on the same day. In her search for him, she will discover her control of magic, but risk losing herself utterly. And Cinzia, priestess and true believer, returns home to discover her family at the heart of a heretical rebellion. A rebellion that only the Inquisition can crush…

  Their fates and those of others will intertwine, in a land where magic and daemons are believed dead, but dark forces still vie for power.

  “A delicious mix of Jason Bourne, dark fantasy, and horror. The kind of debut that has me thrilled for the future of fantasy.”

  Steve Diamond, author of Residue

  “A fascinating mystery that slowly unfolds, and cultures and religions in conflict. Enjoy.”