“He lost his way without me. And when the other gods abandoned him too, he looked to order for answers. Order, the things the light touches, that can be seen, understood. He forgot everything I taught him about the wild nature of our creations, just as he forgot me!”
Sora could feel condemnation pouring over her like hot oil. If she’d never dabbled in the magics of these people, she wondered if she’d have still been in this situation. Her own people, the Panpingese, dealt with magic through an internal connecting to Elsewhere, not the bloodletting of these savages. Bloodletting she once performed.
The stone circle loomed over them like a mountain—Sora didn’t at first realize how far away the primeval temple was, how large a construct it was—so much larger than Sora could describe, bigger even than any cathedral to Iam she’d seen. It wasn’t as tall as the Red Tower, but what it lacked in height, it made up for with its imposing nature.
Eye’s of Iam were arranged before each pillar, made from wood with men stretched out across them and crucified. Some still wheezed. They all bled from being nailed down through their wrists and ankles, defacing the holy idol of the Drav Cra’s sworn enemies. The blood slowly trickled into bowls, to be used by the savages to paint their faces. Sora knew this because Nesilia knew this.
From each corner of the roof beyond hung bones tied together with rope and vines. Sora saw skulls from various animals and some that definitely looked human. They clattered ominously in the wind, somehow able to be heard even over the driving drums. In the center of a platform, a man stood behind a stone table—or an altar—and a single flame cast light which reflected from silver discs hanging in a smaller circle around him. A dead deer laid before him, its throat cut and the blood running through a trough into another bowl.
The man, heavily robed, hood casting black shadow over his face, had just finished drawing a deep line of red across his forearm. His own blood poured out and mixed with the blood of the slain deer. He lowered his blade as he looked up, and with his other hand, gripped a gnarled, wooden staff, the end of which housed a skull with two glowing green gems set into the eye sockets.
“Freydis of the Ruuhar?” he whispered, hollow and cold as the ice surrounding them. “We thought you were dead.”
“But here I am, Oracle,” Freydis said, drawing her fingers down her lithe form. “In the flesh. And look who I’ve brought with me.”
The man lowered his hood. His head was shriveled and old, almost devoid of hair on his scalp or chin. Liver spots dotted his flesh and his eyes were black as night, but as the light played over him, Sora noticed those same hieroglyphics on the stones carved into every inch of his body. He took a step forward.
“And this is?” he said.
Freydis looked at Nesilia—at Sora. “Do you not feel her power?”
“I told you,” Nesilia said.
“Power? Did you bring us a mystic?” the man asked.
“I… no… I…” Freydis stammered, looking straight into Sora’s eyes. “Oracle Rathgorah, this is the Lady herself.”
Rathgorah tilted his head. “Freydis, what did you suffer at the hands of those warm bodies?”
“Nothing,” Freydis protested. “When Drad Redstar performed the ceremony atop the mount, our Lady entered the world through this vessel, far away. I cannot say how it happened, but it did.”
“Drad Redstar failed us,” Rathgorah spat. “He ignored my advice and has put us in a position where none of us desire to be: needing a new Arch Warlock so soon and questioning the truth of his decade-long endeavors to piece together a story I warned him was the lie of Iam’s acolytes. And now you bring this… knife-ear mystic to our land and call her the Lady?”
Nesilia remained quiet. Sora’s blood boiled upon hearing that insult once more. She’d grown used to at least being accepted in Panping for the way she looked.
“Oracle, surely we do not question…” Freydis turned to her goddess. “My Lady, show him as you did me.”
“If he already believes me to be a mystic, no amount of tricks will change his mind,” Nesilia replied out loud.
“My tongue,” Freydis said. “The southern devils cut it from me, but she healed it.”
“That is enough!” the Oracle boomed and slammed the bottom of his staff, causing the bones and chimes all around them to rattle. “I don’t know what you were thinking, bringing this one here—at the time of Earthmoot nonetheless. Have you led the flower-pickers to us as well?”
The question seemed to catch Freydis off guard. Rathgorah bent over, dipped his fingers in the fresh blood drawn from both his arm and the deer, then pointed with his staff. Freydis flew back against one of the stone pillars.
Nesilia still did nothing. Freydis’ head turned to the side, her jaw clenching. She looked like she was being crushed.
“Redstar proved we cannot align ourselves with them!” Rathgorah said. “Drad Mak roams their grasslands, the head of a slaughtered army, betrayed by cowards.”
“No, Oracle Rathgorah,” Freydis groaned. “I’m here to indwell, by command of our Buried Goddess, buried no more.”
“Indwell?” the man said.
He returned the staff to his side and Freydis crumpled to the ground, panting. Sora had seen her ferocity firsthand, and memory of it through Nesilia as well, but in the face of this Oracle she seemed timid. The answers of who he was came to her from Nesilia’s well of knowledge almost immediately. If the Arch Warlock was the public face of Nesilia’s will, the Oracle was her memory. Stories, old as time, were inscribed in his flesh. He’d lived for an eternity in this temple at the heart of the Buried Hollow, given life by the sacred forest and never to leave. It was he who blessed all warlocks and named the new Arch Warlock—a guide for those to come, and those who came before.
“I’m afraid that is not possible, Freydis,” Rathgorah said.
“I was Drad Redstar’s second and a warlock, embraced by you upon my first bleeding,” she said. “It is custom all warlocks indwell.”
“You were dead. How is it that you survived, yet all the rest with Redstar did not, unless you are a traitor?”
“Our Lady intervened!”
Nesilia strode over to the man, and he watched her eerily. She let Sora’s finger glide over the crest of his ear. Then she whispered, “It is my will she become Arch Warlock of the Drav Cra.”
Oracle Rathgorah cleared his throat. “The will of mystics carries no sway here,” he declared. “Only the earth may choose the Arch Warlock.”
“And it shall choose me,” one of the warlocks said. He stepped forward into the torchlight. His face was painted white with a dripping black handprint in the center and blood over his lips. Unlike many of the other warlocks around, he was a young man, barely older than Sora. Sora imagined without all the trinkets, paint and tattered robes he may have even been handsome.
“Kotlkel of the Dagson Clan,” Freydis said, voice dripping with venom. “Our Lady would sooner choose a tick.”
“Our Lady is wise. She’s learned from the mistake that was Redstar. Who among us spoke against him most? Told that all his dreams would lead us to was death and despair?” Many of the other warlocks within earshot voiced their agreement. “A new age is upon us.”
“And you think you’ll be the one to lead us? With your help, perhaps Redstar would live and the Glass Kingdom would remain ours. But you hid here like a weakling. You turned on your faith.”
“And you have brought this foreign girl to this sacred place. You’re lucky we don’t kill you now.”
“Silence!” Rathgorah banged the end of his staff again. From between the stone pillars, painted faces appeared, black eyes glinting with fire. At least a dozen warlocks raised their hands, fresh blood dripping from their palms.
Thorny vines twisted up Sora’s ankles, then up around her waist to her chest. One found her neck and tightened until even Nesilia struggled to breathe. But she didn’t fight.
Nesilia settled in. Sora could feel the goddess’ power ebbing beneath
the surface. Her lungs began to fill again, and a sensation like fire roiled. That’s when Sora realized it wasn’t just a sensation, like fire. From the basins beyond the confines of the structure, long tendrils of flame curled. Sora could feel Nesilia coaxing them, willing them toward Rathgorah. They licked at low-hanging branches.
Sora’s eyes closed and immediately, the vines released their hold of her body.
“What…” Rathgorah asked.
“You have clearly lost your way,” Nesilia croaked to Rathgorah. Behind her, the warlocks shifted uncomfortably.
“What is the meaning of this?” Kotlkel shouted.
“Someone stop her!” shouted another.
Sora’s whole body spun toward the sound. At the same time, she felt a hand on her shoulder. Her arm batted a painted woman aside. The resulting crack as her body shattered against the stone wall brought quiet to the rest of them. The female warlock groaned, bringing Sora a modicum of relief that she hadn’t just been party to another murder.
Nesilia brought her around and the vines followed. They whipped across the other warlocks, sending many staggering. There were tens of them now and with a raising of Sora’s other hand, the grass grew up around the savages’ feet, then twisted over their whole frames. Some fought against it; others even fell as they tried desperately to break free.
Nesilia returned her focus to the Oracle standing before her. “Go, my children,” she said.
At her words, the fire from the basin roared as it darted toward Oracle Rathgorah. The heat of the flames crackled as they passed over Sora, engulfing her but causing no damage or pain.
Rathgorah cried out in pain, louder and louder as the heat grew around him. Then, so did Sora. “Stop!”
The magically infused fire stopped a finger-length from melting the Oracle’s face.
“How dare you!” Nesilia snarled inwardly.
“You won’t keep using me to do your dirty work,” Sora said. She wasn’t sure if it was out loud or in her head, but she spoke with a confidence she hadn’t had for a while. She refused to watch herself kill someone else, no matter who it was. No matter how perverse this entire scene was.
“My Lady?” Freydis said, answering the question of who now used Sora’s physical mouth.
“Rathgorah,” Sora said. “Go.”
The Oracle looked as confused as anyone would have if they’d been there, watching contradictory behavior coming from the strange Panpingese mystic.
“I don’t…”
“Go!” Sora snapped.
“Stop her,” Rathgorah commanded and the warlocks immediately responded.
“What is happening, my Lady?” Freydis asked.
“My name is Sora.”
“Kill her!” someone shouted.
Sora was more in control than she’d been in days, but that control was quickly fading under the hate-filled glares of the Drav Cra men and women—warlocks all—who now surrounded her.
Hands grasped her as ice crusted around her ankles, spewed from the fingertips of one of the warlocks. Sora snapped her head toward the woman. She thrust her hand out as she’d seen Nesilia do so many times and watched as energy burst forth from it and slammed the warlock in the chest, knocking her back several steps and into a clumping of angry Drav Cra.
She could only imagine what it looked like, a Panpingese woman amidst all these porcelain-skinned blood warriors. But after that outburst, suddenly, she could no longer feel the overwhelming sensation of Nesilia’s essence resisting her.
“Yes…” Nesilia taunted. “Do it. Kill them all. Give in to your rage.”
It was apparent only Sora heard the goddess. Her arm trembled, fire wreathing it, hissing like snakes surrounding their feeble prey. She knew then that she had the power to do it. Nesilia’s essence mixed with her royal mystic blood… she could turn the entire temple into cinder.
“No.” Sora lowered her hand, accepting her fate as the Drav Cra closed over her. For however long she was in control, she refused to keep killing. Even if that meant dying herself. She remembered Nesilia’s fear as they nearly drowned. Perhaps, Sora might take the Buried Goddess with her. What a story that would make to tell Whitney when he inevitably met her back in Elsewhere.
“Stop it!” Freydis demanded. “You are making a mistake. That is the Lady herself. You’ll both burn!”
Sora stayed silent, hoping her actions would bring a swift end to her and the horrible being that dwelled inside of her. Then a thought struck her: what would actually happen to Nesilia if Sora died? What if her spirit could leap into one of the others… Freydis. Then there’d be no stopping her. What if this was what she wanted.
Sora fought to free herself again. “Unhand me… children,” she said, affecting her voice to sound like Nesilia had.
“What are you doing?” Nesilia questioned. Her fear was unmistakable now.
“She tells the truth,” Sora said, ignoring her. “I am Nesilia, Buried but not forgotten!” Sora focused outward, and a surge of energy blasted the Drav Cra off her, allowing her to stand.
XVII
THE DAUGHTER
Muskigo sat, mounted on his zhulong at the front of his men, only Impili, the toothless dog who rarely left Mahraveh’s father’s side, and Farhan directly beside him. Hundreds of men armed with swords and spears stood in ranks behind him, waiting to march. Mahraveh ran, bow in hand, spear strapped to her back.
“Father!” she called out as she ran toward him. Still talking with Impili, Muskigo turned toward the sound.
“Sand mouse,” Muskigo said. “What are you doing here?”
“I’ve come to join you,” she said without pause.
Muskigo hopped down from his mount, but Impili stayed on his zhulong, looking down.
“Mahi, you know you cannot come,” Muskigo said.
“Why, because I am a female?” she spat.
“No,” he said, “because you are too young, just like Jumaat. Stay here with him, help him refine his skills and keep Saujibar safe.”
“Then why does Shavi get to come!”
“She’s patched up more than a few of your scrapes over the years. We need healers. What do I always tell you? An afhemate is more than it’s warriors.”
“I can best nearly every man in this army,” she argued. She looked up at Impili who merely smiled, more gums than teeth, then to Farhan. “Ask Farhan.”
“I was going soft on you,” he said, cheeks going a darker shade of gray.
“That’s zhulong shog, and you know it. I can help!”
Muskigo took her by the shoulders. “Of that, I have no doubt. You are skilled with both bow and spear.”
“I am better with my fists,” she said.
Muskigo smiled and bent down, kissing Mahi on the cheek. “Next year, sand mouse. After I have the Glassmen on the run.”
When dawn came, and Mahi and Jumaat pushed their way from their basement hatch, the air stank of death. Carrion birds pecked at the remains of their friends and loved ones, and the once-beautiful homes of Saujibar were husks of their former selves.
Jumaat ran to the bodies of his family and fell over them, weeping. Mahraveh scoured every corner of the town, searching for Shavi and shouting her name. She was nowhere to be found. Nor were the Glassmen Mahi had killed, probably taken so there’d be no proof they’d done this horrid act. With no survivors, they probably hoped to turn us against each other, pitting afhem against afhem and causing further unrest.
Mahraveh grew faint and had to lean on her father’s house. The Shesaitju may not have been strangers to death, but no one could’ve prepared for this.
“Mahi…” a woman groaned.
“Shavi?” She ran toward the sound and found Branethra beneath a cart. She’d lost so much blood the sand beneath her was purple. Mahraveh pushed the cart off her and cradled her.
“Nobody spoke of you,” Branethra rasped. “We stood brave as your father taught us.”
“How could they do this?”
“Because we ar
e Ayerabi, and we are strong.” She coughed up a gob of blood.
Mahraveh pulled her close. “Did you see Shavi? Is she alive?”
“They believed what she said and took her… Think’s she’s his mother—your grandmother. I heard them say they were going to use her to help break Muskigo. They might have gone after you if she hadn’t… ungh!” She clenched her jaw.
Tears filled Mahraveh’s eyes, but she knew what she had to do. Many women learned the healing arts; what herbs and insects to put in wounds. Mahraveh left that to Shavi while she learned to fight. If only she’d done what she was supposed to, she might have been able to help Branethra.
“Just look at me, Branethra.” Mahraveh laid her head back in the sand and stared into her eyes. With one hand, she brushed her hair. “They will pay for this, I swear it.”
She moaned. “My daughter. Is she?”
“She’ll never have to suffer again.” Mahraveh stabbed an arrow into the woman’s heart. Branethra embraced her and squeezed until all the life fled her arms and she fell slack. A breeze blew a light cloud of sand over her face.
“May the eternal current carry you,” Mahraveh whispered, then closed the woman’s eyes.
She stood and returned to Jumaat, who’d closed the eyes of all his family. He sat beside his mother, head hanging.
“I…” he swallowed back tears. “I should be with them.”
“Then you’d be dead,” Mahraveh said.
“Better than being a coward.” She watched as he rose and crossed the village to his home. After a moment, she followed. Giving him distance, she waited outside but heard him rifling through things, throwing other belongings aside.
“Jumaat,” she said, knowing he wouldn’t hear.
Finally, he returned carrying a scimitar and a suit of leather armor still too large for him.
“What are you doing?” she asked.
“What does it look like? I am going to fight like my father and his father. I am going to kill them all.” He went to walk by, but she grabbed his arm.
“All by yourself?”
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