Despite the heat, an icy chill washed over her. The nickname only made her think of her father and bolster her resolve. Babrak let her go.
She rubbed at her wrists where his sweaty palms had just been.
“Soon, the battle for Afhem Awn’al al-Tariq’s land and horde of ships will begin. I wonder, with Farhan gone, who will your father have stand? Perhaps that skinny, trader’s son who follows you like a dog.”
“Don’t you dare speak of him,” Mahraveh spat.
“A shame. Whoever it is, they don’t stand a chance.” He nodded to the towering, stack of muscle behind him. A single strand of dreaded hair draped down from the back of his head to below his waist. Boiled zhulong-hide armor covered his torso and one side of his neck, the other remained revealed to proudly display the mark of the Trisps’I Afhemate. “Rajeev has been training all of his life to claim an afhemate. He won’t fail.”
“Will you then turn your back on him like you did my father?” Long before Mahi was born, Muskigo fought under the mark of the Trisps’i before being entered to compete in the Tal’du Dromesh by Babrak himself. The fat afhem couldn’t handle being outshined after his great victory.
“Unlike your father, he knows his place.” He forced a bow and walked away before Mahraveh gathered thoughts enough to respond.
She hadn’t the opportunity in her life to meet many people to loathe, but she did him. She’d encountered him a few times back home, and with her father around, he’d behaved. Now he strutted around Latiapur like a king. The bad taste in her mouth from the throne room which Jumaat helped alleviate returned in full force.
She made her way to the bluffs adjacent to the palace so she could get some fresh air. A path led down to a promontory overlooking the Boiling Waters. To the north, she could see the sands of the Tal’du Dromesh, tiny dots of warriors training upon them. Even so high up, salt sprayed her as the waves crashed into the rocks. She found it refreshing. And even though the waters were violent, the sound was rhythmic. Relaxing.
Gulls cawed overhead, singers in this melody of the sea. She closed her eyes, and for the first time in a while, tried to think of something besides her father and how she couldn’t do anything to help him. If she’d been born a man, maybe the fools in the palace might have listened to her. Perhaps she’d have an army of her own.
But she wasn’t, and she didn’t. Babrak was right: her father had no sons, nor wives to bear them. When Mahi was very young, the mother he’d fought for died at the venomous bite of a sand snake, and Muskigo vowed to take on no other wives, instead, dedicating himself to Mahi and the sword.
Look where that got you, Father, she thought.
She opened her eyes and sighed. Trying to force herself not to think of him only made her do it more. Instead, she sat quietly and let her mind take her where it may, just like how the waves rose and fell. She watched the sun glitter over the foaming crests until the color grew reddish from dusk. A few times, her mind even cleared of worry, but the vision of Farhan careening over the lip of the Sea Door kept returning.
Squeezing her eyes tight, as if forcing the thoughts away, she turned her head, opened them again, and glanced down at the shore where tiny men and women rushed around on floating platforms, loading and unloading things from large ships. She wondered if Jumaat was down there still, but she couldn’t tell from such a distance.
Finally, she stood. Jumaat had said dusk. It was time to meet him and see where the winds would blow. It was clear she couldn’t accomplish anything waiting around in Latiapur. She needed to do something herself.
“I’ll find a way to help, Father,” she said to the sea. “Just keep holding out.”
The rain that had been threatening all afternoon began in true force. She headed down from the bluff, across the bazaar, and found herself staring at the Tal’du Dromesh once more.
If she’d had her own army, she could help her father. If only they’d allowed women to fight. The thought of Jumaat battling within and losing his head to Babrak’s huge hands gave her a shudder. But he wasn’t old enough, regardless.
She turned away from the arched upper level of the arena to the stable where she’d left Honey. As she moved toward the zhulong, the stable master glanced over, no doubt anxious for coin.
“We’ve gotta make this quick,” she whispered to Honey. Keeping an eye on the stable master, she slowly untied the zhulong, patting her on the neck. The stable master looked away for a moment, and she wasted no time hopping on and spurring Honey into a gallop.
“Come back here!” the man screamed, taking up the chase but ducking back inside as the rain poured over him. “Thief!”
“Bill my father!” she cried back. “He’ll be back.” Then she whispered to herself, “I hope.”
IX
THE MYSTIC
Sora felt the sway and rushing wind. She felt the heat of flames and heard the crackling of wood being devoured. She smelled the salty air and acrid smoke. As her corporeal senses began speaking to her again, she listened to the death cries. For a moment, she thought she was back in Troborough on that fateful day when everything she had became lost to her, and she chased after Whitney Fierstown. An act she didn’t regret as much as she knew she should. There was nobody else in Pantego she wanted to see.
But as her vision sharpened, she saw the chaos for what it was. Blood spattered in a wide arc as a blade clenched in her own grip lashed out before her eyes. She heard a laugh that didn’t belong to her but sounded just like her.
“Nesilia! Stop this!” she shouted.
“The fun has just begun!” Nesilia replied.
“I’ve never seen ye this way, Sora,” said a gruff voice next to her. Sora’s head turned, and she found herself staring at Gold Grin, skewering his own Glass soldier with his gilded scimitar. “I like it!”
“Well, I did promise you wealth beyond your wildest dreams, pirate, did I not?”
“Ye did!” Gold Grin chortled as he ripped his sword free and parried the attack of another Glassman. “But that’s only for me men. Only riches I need are under the covers.” He grabbed the attacker’s spear, snapped it at the shaft and drew a long gash across the soldier’s neck.
If Sora could’ve cried, she would have right there, standing aboard the Reba’s deck, surrounded by the chaos and din of battle. Instead, her sword lashed out again, wreathed in magical fire. No matter what Sora did, she couldn’t manage to control her own limbs.
Freydis, the Drav Cra warlock they’d recently taken on board, darted across the ship, her hand raised, face twisted with rage. Large chunks of ice erupted from her palms, slamming hard into armored soldiers. The shards exploded on impact, leaving devastation in their wake.
Sora’s eyes regarded the headless soldier at her feet. She saw her own body, nearly naked, covered only by leaves and vines. They were woven into a beautiful, preternatural pattern, but she noticed, for the first time, how cold it was.
Sora suddenly found herself soaring through the air. Vines extended beneath her body, frigid wind burned against her flesh. In an instant, she stood at the top of the crow’s nest looking down upon the Reba. Two Glass galleons bobbed in the water beside it, both on fire, both half sunk with their bows sticking up. Beyond that was the vast and frozen Drav Cra tundra. Sora had never seen the place before, but she was no fool. There was no mistaking the stark white of the land north of Winter’s Thumb.
Below, Gold Grin stared up at her in disbelief. The distraction nearly caused him to be speared by a Glass longsword.
Sora’s lips curled without her controlling them, and her hand stretched forward. She fought the impulse. Her muscles seared in pain as her arm shook from the internal battle.
“Would you let him die too?” Nesilia asked.
“I…”
The hesitation caused Sora’s focus on blocking Nesilia’s control to break. Her arm swept from side to side, and then a great gust of wind tore through the air, catching the ship’s sails. The Glassmen were flung from the ship. G
old Grin and his crew tumbled safely to the deck, all but one who slipped off his perch and into the icy depths. Freydis flew off over the bow, but turned the spray of waves to ice, allowing her to climb back onto the Reba as if they were stairs.
Nesilia whispered, barely audible but she might as well have been screaming. “You are about to be part of something so much bigger than yourself, my dear Sora.” Sora’s arms spread out, embracing all of the Drav Cra from their perspective. “Welcome to your new world.”
“Why are we here?” Sora asked, desperately trying to ignore the flailing arms of the drowning Glassmen surrounding them. “Nesilia, I won’t give in.”
“How long are we going to keep at this, girl?” the goddess said. “Aren’t you growing weary?”
“Aren’t you? Why don’t you find a new body? Why not the warlock? I’m sure she would enjoy it.”
“Strong as she is, she is but an insect compared to you.”
“Just let me go!” The words exploded from Sora’s physical lips. At the same time, she regained temporary control of her muscles. She jerked left, then plummeted off the crow’s neck. In seconds, freezing water enveloped her, filling her mouth and lungs. It felt like a thousand tiny knives scraping her skin.
As she thrashed involuntarily, she realized that neither her nor Nesilia were in control. It was instinct; her body clawing for survival. She felt fear, not just her own, but an overwhelming, primordial sense of dread in every fiber of her possessed being. Nesilia was scared as well.
She’s bound to my body, Sora discovered.
Sora felt all those years, buried beneath a mound of dirt at the bottom of Mount Lister. She experienced the helplessness of being bound by her very own creation. Anger welled up in her heart when her head popped out of the water.
“Foolish, girl!” Nesilia roared. The water rippled outward, separating itself from them until they floated within an air pocket. Sora had never seen anything like it. Her arms were extended, the magic of Elsewhere holding dark, churning seawater at bay. She could see the shadows of flailing legs from the soldiers within it; some already sinking like frozen stone dragged down by armor.
“You can’t resist me,” Nesilia said. By then, Sora had lost control of her limbs again and slowly, their air-pocket rose through the sea toward the surface.
“And you can’t escape me, can you?” Sora said. Time had grown immaterial to her in the recesses of her own mind. It was neither like Pantego or Elsewhere, but for the first time in however long it had been, she felt a hint of satisfaction when Nesilia didn’t reply to her.
Sora’s body emerged from the waves. Freydis, Gold Grin, and all his crew stared over the edge, terrified.
“Aye, there!” Gold Grin shouted, pointing at Sora.
He ran for a rope, but Freydis shoved him aside. Five skinny vines sprouted from her fingertips, winding into one another as they draped off the ship and found Sora’s hands. Then, without so much as a thought, Nesilia forced Sora to climb up them and over the hull.
The battle, pushing back the sea, fighting Sora, it was apparent now that Sora’s mortal body limited even a goddess.
Gold Grin grabbed her by the shoulders and heaved her up. “Sora, my dear, ye be all right?” He ran his hands through her hair and leaned in to plant a kiss on her.
“Get off me!” Nesilia barked. She threw him against the ship’s mast so hard the wood cracked.
Ignoring everything else around her, she stormed into the ship’s cabin. The darkness enveloped her until she thrust out her hand and a fire erupted in Gold Grin’s hearth. The icy water steamed off her flesh. But as she leaned against the wall to draw a deep breath, her limbs started to shiver from the cold and Sora felt fire burning on the inside of her now.
“I’m buried, but not forgotten,” Sora said to Nesilia within, taking note of how mortal a thing it was to shiver. “Whitney and—”
“Will never see you again!” Nesilia snapped. She banged on the wall, and a chunk of wood cracked off. “Make no mistake, Sora. Fight me as long as you want. Resist if you must. But time forgets everyone.”
Sora tried to respond, but she felt the familiar sense of being pushed back down. Only this time Nesilia worked harder to do it. The color drained from Sora’s surroundings, and it was like hands wrapped her throat as she was buried beneath an avalanche of darkness, struggling to breathe.
X
THE KNIGHT
“Sir Unger, there you are!” Pi exclaimed. Torsten heard tiny feet patter across the floor, then felt the boy’s skinny arms around his waist.
Torsten rustled his hand through Pi’s long hair, feeling the sharp points of the Glass Crown atop his head. He still felt strange every time Pi embraced him, but the young king had taken a liking to him ever since being freed from the Buried Goddess’ influence.
Torsten never knew him as an exuberant child eager to learn, though Sir Uriah always used to describe him that way. The boy Torsten knew was first a hermit whispering wickedness in the dark, then a dour, ruthless soul—Redstar’s puppet. Torsten’s last visual memory of Pi was him levitating in the air under the dark magic’s influence.
It seemed now his rebirth was finally complete, but it would take Torsten longer than these past weeks to trust it. He prayed nightly to Iam that it was true, then wondered if his God even listened any longer. Torsten allowed evil—which led to so much despair—onto their doorstep. He couldn’t help but feel that the church’s inability to agree on a new High Priest was partly his fault.
“I read about my father’s battle at Latiapur today,” Pi said, pulling away. “Is it true; was there truly a cavalry of ten thousand zhulong under the command of the Afhem Babrak there?”
Torsten shook away the raw feelings. “Of course it is, Your Grace. I was there.” He smirked. “Maybe only nine thousand. But your father was smart. He knew we couldn’t charge a force like that, led by one of their more powerful and experienced afhemates. And our ships in the Boiling Waters had been repeatedly repelled by their superior naval experience. But you would be remiss to forget that because of that day, there’s a new Afhem Babrak.”
“But I thought you said they only respect strength?”
“Strength in victory. Not stupidity. Do you know what it takes to feed a herd like that? We retreated, and feinted, spending months cutting away their supplies until the larger of the beasts were too starved to remain obedient. Mounted archers picked away at their forces, our ship’s continued to sting their fleet and keep it distracted, and only once they were weak enough did we charge by land. It was the lengthiest, most expensive campaign Liam ever led, but it earned the respect of the Babrak Afhemate. Their leader accepted his defeat, and his son took over, having borne witness to our abilities.”
“The scrolls said their afhem was executed?” Pi asked.
Torsten nodded. He remembered that day under the beating sun when Uriah parted the man’s head from his shoulders. Many afhems joined him in surrender, including the Ayerabi afhemate, which Muskigo would go on to claim in their Tal’du Dromesh after its leader took his own life in shame.”
“In an arena battle?” Pi said, incredulous.
“That is their way,” Torsten said. “When an afhem fails in such grandeur, their life is forfeit, and their afhemate handed either to a surviving son of proper age and ability or the winner of their sacred tournaments.”
“Like the jousts father used to host?” Pi asked.
“I believe he got the idea from them. Only the Shesaitju prize is more than mere renown—theirs is wealth and the loyalty of an army.”
“An entire army?”
“Depends on the name. They are a strange people, my King. But we must study our enemies if we ever hope to defeat them.”
“I thought only some of them are our enemy?” Pi asked innocently.
“But we must study our allies as well. Seasons change, as do allegiances. Leaders pass on, and sometimes their descendants forget what is best for their people.”
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�I’ll never forget.”
“I hope not,” Torsten said. “Now, come. Enough questions. Let us see what our people want from their Crown.” Torsten extended his cane to find the nearest bundled column bearing the weight of the high, vaulted ceiling and the glass spire. From there, he figured out his position and followed the footsteps of the young king toward the throne.
Liam was often too busy to hold public court, where any soul from the kingdom could stand before the Glass Crown and beseech their monarch. His wars to unite Pantego took up much of everyone’s time. In his later years, as his health declined, he avoided being seen altogether. For a time, Queen Oleander would receive guests, dignitaries, and representatives from all walks of life, but her ruling was harsh as the tundra from whence she came, and soon, it stopped altogether.
Presently, Oleander had surprised Torsten with the idea to have Pi hold court weekly, building his rapport with the people. She’d hated it so—dealing with the “rabble” as she once called them—but the kingdom knew Pi only as the Miracle Prince and then Cursed King, not as the young, capable boy he seemed. Torsten didn’t know him either, and was coming to find that, while he wasn’t Liam, neither was he dull, or ordinary.
“Is mother coming?” Pi asked as he plopped down on the Glass Throne, then slid back on the oversized chair.
“No, she still needs rest,” Torsten said. He found the groove of the dais and stepped up, then made his way around the throne, careful not to stand beside it, but slightly behind. No mere Shieldsman should have been permitted so high, only the Wearer of White, but Pi insisted when he’d named him his newly-created position of Master of Warfare—the chief military advisor. Torsten could do nothing but accept the will of his king.
“Will she ever stop resting?” Pi asked.
“She’s lucky to be alive, Your Grace.”
The doors at their backs creaked open. Torsten heard a few members of the Royal Council shuffle in. Then the clanking of armor as Shieldsmen formed an arc around the rear of the throne, and Glass soldiers lined the hall.
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