“These flower pickers were found waiting off the coast. Tell me that is a coincidence?”
All eyes pointed toward Sora now, mouths whispering.
“We mustn’t rush to judgment,” Rathgorah said.
“I am dradinengor of the Dagson clan!” Haral shouted, now spinning to address the entire gathering. “I may not be a warlock or a hand of our Lady, but Drad Mak will die in the south, and our army did not join him to die for Redstar. Only we can keep the Glass from invading again!”
Voices all around echoed their agreement, and many unburied warlocks even drifted toward her in support. More armed warriors accompanying Haral flooded through the darkness. She wasn’t exaggerating the size of her army. They had dire wolves, axes, thick armor… everything those at the ceremony didn’t.
“How dare you bring weapons to this sacred place!” Rathgorah barked.
“You’ve made it necessary,” Haral said. She then plucked the broken crown off Gold Grin’s head and shook it. “Look at this. This man is Glass nobility, traveled here with them to destroy us!”
“Nobility?” Gold Grin laughed. “I be a pirate who raids the Glass same as ye. I be a friend, and that there be my treasure!”
He snatched back the crown, but the dire wolf nipped at Gold Grin’s rear. Haral grabbed Gold Grin and flung him down the hill. He skidded to a stop at the edge of the pit, in a pool where the blood of the bodies above had gathered. The glittering crown bounced, then fell flat at Tihabat’s foot. The girl momentarily lifted her ear from the ground and crawled closer to look at it, but Rathgorah bent down and lifted it. He spun it in his hands, examining it from every angle.
If Whitney could only see where that thing is now, Sora thought.
“What is—” Gold Grin spat and wiped his blood-covered tongue. Then, as his head rose, he noticed Sora for the first time. “Sora?” he said.
“See!” Haral said. “He calls her by her true name. She is no goddess, only another deceiver.”
The whispers of the crowd turned into full-voiced murmurs. Rathgorah turned his attention from Haral and examined the irate mob. Fear rippled across his face. They were drunk, lustful, distracted—all the ingredients necessary for a riot. And Sora didn’t need Nesilia’s memories to recognize that the relationship between warlocks and Drav Cra warriors who provided all the food and supplies for their people by raiding settlements wasn’t always harmonious.
Rathgorah hooked the crown to his belt. “Bring her to me,” he commanded, pointing his staff at Sora.
Once again, Sora was grabbed, unshackled from the tree, and hoisted to her bound feet. Rough hands shoved her toward the Oracle. Nesilia could have freed herself from the bonds and turned them all to ash if she wanted, but like Sora, she waited, watched.
Sora’s thoughts drifted to the orepul—said to have encased part of King Pi’s soul. She felt like that, like her body was nothing more than a doll.
“What do you have to say?” Rathgorah asked.
Nesilia said nothing, and Sora was buried too deep in Nowhere to do anything.
“Answer him, foreigner!” Haral demanded.
“Do you still not understand to whom you speak?” Nesilia said through Sora’s parted lips. “This whole ceremony—is it not meant to honor me? For generations, you people have begged for my spirit to bless you, yet now I am here in physical form, and you scorn me… tie me up like an animal.”
“It is the Buried Goddess!” came a voice from the crowd. It was Wvenweigard.
“Shut up, bareese!” another cursed at him, but Nesilia only looked straight ahead at Rathgorah.
“Some would still believe your very presence here stains this sacred ritual,” Rathgorah said. “A foreigner from a foreign land.”
“And you?” she asked.
Sora couldn’t help wonder why Nesilia didn’t yet fight back. She knew her opinion on non-believers, and she was more than capable. Sora had seen her command the vines, the ocean, the wind. They were surrounded by the Buried Goddess’ own creation. The words she’d spoken to Wvenweigard were true. A snap of her fingers and death would collapse upon them all—Sora didn’t even believe the finger snapping was necessary.
“Sora, what’s goin on?” Gold Grin asked. “I stayed moored and waited just as you asked, then their longboats surrounded us.” The sounds of fists against his huge body met Sora’s ears and silenced him.
“See, he did come with her. Let us end this!” Haral shouted to Oracle Rathgorah. “Dig up the traitor, Freydis, and crucify them both like we should have done from the start. Then Kotlkel and I will protect our world from the foreigners who have so scorned us!”
“We mustn’t taint the indwelled,” Rathgorah protested. “We will know who remains in the end.”
“Already they are tainted, just sharing the earth with her.”
Several cries of agreement rose until a small voice broke through the crowd. “One has died!”
Everyone turned to see Tihabat Dagson pointing to one of the three tangled ropes still with a body on the end. Two large warriors walked over to the corresponding rope and pulled.
“No!” Rathgorah shouted. “They feed the earth. The dead mustn’t rise from the Earthmoot.”
“Move aside!” Haral said, pushing him. Rathgorah reached for his dagger but stopped. Her warriors would easily overwhelm him, and with warlocks scattered throughout the crowd, it was impossible to guess which side they’d take.
The warriors unwound the ropes and pulled the one to which Tihabat gestured. Sora saw a leg burst through. She found herself hoping it wasn’t Freydis and she didn’t understand why. Then she realized her thoughts and feelings were Nesilia’s and not her own. In that moment, she also realized Nesilia wasn’t strong enough to resist. Like when they were drowning in Ice Deep, she felt fear, real fear, not just using it to taunt Sora.
“Stop it, girl,” Nesilia said within. “You don’t understand the powers you trifle with.”
“Oh, I believe I do!” Sora shouted internally, and it came out through her physical lips as her own self broke through momentarily. It stole the attention of everyone present as the dead warlock flopped onto the dirt, lifeless, and no one even noticed. It was not Freydis, but Sahades.
Across the pit, roars of violence coalesced with yowls of anguish, tipping Sora off that Gold Grin had made a move.
Nesilia reclaimed control of her body and spun to watch the battle, but she didn’t move. Sora focused with all her might to try and drive her legs toward the pirate, but they merely shook.
“Do something,” Sora said within. “You owe him for forcing him here.”
“He came of his own volition.”
“That’s a lie.”
Gold Grin stole a blade off one of the Drav Cra, and his men had done the same with similar weapons. One got the jump on the dire wolf and split its skull. They fought with the bravery and skill Sora had come to know.
“Stop this!” Rathgorah shouted. Nesilia turned back, and Sora saw the blood pouring from a newly-opened wound on the Oracle’s arm. Immediately, everyone fighting—Drav Cra and pirate alike—froze just as Sora had in the Webbed Woods so long ago under the influence of Redstar’s magics. “Enough is enough.”
Rathgorah flicked his hand, and all those fighting floated over the pit and to a spot before him. Sora stood amid it all. If the Oracle released his hold on them for even a heartbeat, Sora was sure she’d have been run through by a spear.
“This is Earthmoot, and you have all desecrated it!” Rathgorah roared. His voice was louder, enhanced somehow.
“Oracle Rathgorah, it was she… this knife-ear… this witch.” Haral spoke through a clenched jaw, forced shut by Rathgorah’s magic. “She ruined it, and it was Freydis who brought her here. Let us end Redstar’s foolish influence once and for all.”
“One of the indwellers has died, and you were all so blinded by ambition that you tore her from the Lady’s loving womb. How will we expect the Lady to care of her passing if we cannot even
muster the respect to do so ourselves?”
“Would that it have been her!” Haral exclaimed, clearly referring to Freydis.
“But it was not. Only Kotlkel and Freydis still breathe.” He looked to the children as if seeking confirmation of his words. When none protested, he continued. “And if she wins, she is rightfully our Arch Warlock.”
“Then dig her up now and put her to death, or else she will bring about the death of us all,” Haral pleaded.
“And further mar this holy day?” Rathgorah scolded.
“It is this mystic keeping her alive with her dark magic. Otherwise, our Lady surely would have made Freydis the first to swallow dirt.”
“Do you claim our Lady to be so weak that one of the Panpingese could control the fate of her hand?” Oracle Rathgorah asked.
“Rathgorah, let them go,” said one of the watching warlocks, an older man with knotted gray hair.
After a nod, he lowered his hand, and they were all released of the power. “If any of you moves a muscle toward one another, you will be dead before you can explain,” Rathgorah said.
Sora was relieved to see that Gold Grin and his men obeyed. The stout pirate straightened his beard and cracked his knuckles. “I’d like to see ye try,” he said but made no move.
“The one they call ‘Sora,’” Rathgorah said. “Now that the truth is revealed. Tell us, why are you here, and why are these men accompanying you with a crown of glass?”
“This vessel is Sora,” Nesilia said. Hearing her name spoken allowed made Sora want to cringe and recede fully into the nothingness of Nowhere. “She is the daughter of the Ancient One, Sora Sumati, and the former king of Glass, Liam, the one they call conqueror. I am not she.”
Haral laughed, and her warriors joined her. “If this tiny thing is the daughter of Liam the Conqueror, then I’m a goddess too.”
Rathgorah clamped his fingers in Haral’s direction and her lips sealed. “You still claim to be the Buried Goddess,” Rathgorah said. It was not a question. When she didn’t answer, he raised his bloody hand. With it, Sora felt her feet leave the ground. “Then allow me to kill a god.”
“Chaos it is,” Nesilia said. She stretched her wrists, and the bindings there and on her ankles turned to ash. She fell back to the earth, breaking Rathgorah’s magic. The warriors holding her gasped, but Nesilia raised a fist, and the trees above came to life, snatching them off the ground and crushing them in their boughs.
“Sora!” a voice called suddenly, familiar, but distant. Hearing it caused Nesilia to miss a step and stagger, and a spear thrust forward, gashing her side. Nesilia grabbed it, and the weapon erupted into a flame so hot, it consumed its wielder.
“We are deceived!” Rathgorah yelled. He pointed his staff, and his powerful magic again manipulated the muscles of Sora’s body.
“No, it is you all who have been deceived by your own eyes!” Nesilia shouted. More branches from above extended toward Rathgorah, but they stopped before wrapping him.
Nesilia’s fear returned in full force when the Oracle’s magic wasn’t broken, and she was lifted higher off the ground. Again that familiar voice echoed in Sora’s mind. When she blinked and reopened her eyes, light bloomed all around them. The warlocks were gone, and she thought she saw…
“What mystic power is this?” Nesilia asked, her voice now bound to Nowhere as well. “Stop resisting!” The light dissipated and again the Drav Cra reappeared. The scars in the Oracle’s body seemed to glow, and all the warlocks and warriors were arrayed against her. Gold Grin and his men were on their knees, at their mercy and unable to fight.
“I’m not doing this,” Sora answered.
“The light… it can’t be you…”
Nesilia struggled against Rathgorah’s power, but she couldn’t break it. Sora could feel the Buried Goddess willing her to help, now unable to speak, like Sora had been during her blackouts on their journey from Panping. Like Nesilia was now buried deep in Nowhere.
Gold Grin’s voice warbled through the confusion, calling Sora’s name. Then, in a sudden and jarring shift, Sora found herself in Nowhere once again, pushed out entirely. “No! No! No! No!” she called.
She was alone. Nowhere enveloped her, snuffing out any sense of her surroundings. There was no more sight or sound.
“Gold Grin!” Sora yelled.
“Sora?” that familiar voice came again. Now, with Nesilia’s fear not clouding her own thoughts, Sora realized who it was. “Sora!”
“Whitney!” Sora screamed.
“Sora!” she heard again.
There was a loud slamming sound, followed by a brilliant white light. It was bright, impossibly bright, like she was staring at the sun. She squinted, putting her palm up in a futile attempt to block it out. Then, Sora saw something that conjured up tears.
“Aquira!” Sora breathed, the word barely coming out she was so overwhelmed. She became even more stunned when her eyes shifted down and saw Whitney collapsing to his knees, hands wiping away tears. He started crawling, then got up and ran at her. She watched as he ran but didn’t move, she couldn’t. Rathgorah’s power still overwhelmed her muscles.
“Whit. Oh, Whit,” she said. “Is that really you?”
XLII
THE THIEF
Whitney had a fitful rest, tossing and turning in his bed. It was hot, and his blanket had long since bunched itself at the bottom of the mattress. His mind raced, telling him that if he fell asleep again, he might return to that awful, hopeless dream of Kazimir and Sora.
Still unable to beat the heat or his rampant thoughts, Whitney tore his shirt off, balled it, and threw it against the far wall, then flipped his pillow and punched it a few times before lying back down. After a moment, he groaned and scooted out of bed to open the curtains, hoping a bit of air would drive away the stuffiness of the room. The problem was, it was still daytime. He didn’t understand how the entirety of the refugee party seemed to be fast asleep while he just rolled around in sticky sweat.
It wasn’t even hot out. The constant rains had brought in cool air, but his mind wouldn’t stop turning. Thoughts of Sora coursed through his mind like a theater play. Them together in Yarrington, Winde Port, even memories from Fake Troborough and seeing her playing with his younger self by the river. Then the awful dreams. All these thoughts and more ensured Whitney would remain miserable.
Shutting his eyes tight, he said, “Iam, if you’re real, if you’re listening…” then he groaned again. “Shogging exile, forget about it.” He stood, opened the room’s window even though rain sprinkled in. Then he flipped over and squeezed the pillow around his head.
He must have fallen asleep, because the next thing he knew, the smell of night-blooming jasmine hit his nostrils. He opened his eyes and nearly leaped from his skin when he saw someone standing there, just paces from his bed.
“T-Talwyn?” Whitney stammered.
She wore nothing but a smile, and her smooth, dark skin glowed like polished bronze with Celeste’s light pouring in through the open window. She stepped forward and pushed her long black hair over her shoulder.
“Hi. Um. What are you doing?” he asked.
She continued her stride, hips seeming to draw circles in the air. Whitney blinked, turned away, turned back, blinked again. He didn’t know what to do, what to say. Instead, he merely pushed himself up on his elbows, suddenly aware of his own body. As hot as he was, he pulled the blankets up to cover himself.
“I told you, you deserve a reward for your heroics on the bridge,” she said.
“Most people just give out ribbons, or autlas,” Whitney said, flustered. “This… Talwyn—”
“Shhhhh,” she said, now so close Whitney could feel the heat of her skin. She grabbed his hand and moved it toward her navel, but Whitney forced it to her hip.
“Listen, I’m flattered, really,” he said. “I’m honored. I’m… many things. But, you don’t want this.”
“Trust me, I don’t do anything I don’t want to,” she sa
id, pushing against his hand. Strands of hair tickled his chest as she lowered her face toward his and said, “And I want this.”
Whitney squirmed and slipped around her, coming out the other side. She turned, glanced down at him in naught but his underwear, and then, smiling, said, “Whitney, I know you want this.”
“I—I—Talwyn, just listen to me for a moment…” he said.
But she already had her hand against his chest and pushed him backward. “It’s been a long… hard… journey and we are all ready for some relief. Maybe we could help each other?”
“I don’t…”
“You can make believe I’m her if you need to.”
Whitney’s eyes went wide. “How…”
“I’m Glintish Whitney. This, all of this, life at its rawest. It’s all art.”
“Art.” Whitney chuckled. “Yeah.”
Whitney pushed Talwyn back and onto the bed. She was smiling, but her grin quickly left when she noticed he wasn’t following. Instead, Whitney grabbed his shirt and pants from the floor and threw open the door. He hopped down the hallway on one leg, getting dressed and said, “This is not right,” to no one in particular.
Gentry’s room wasn’t far, and Whitney didn’t bother to knock.
“Huh,” Gentry said, half asleep as Whitney swept in.
Whitney clicked his tongue, and Aquira’s head popped up. “Just going to take Aquira out for some fresh, rainy air. Don’t mind me. Keep sleeping.”
“Mmmmhmmmm,” Gentry said and then rolled over.
Whitney scooped up the wyvern and placed her on his shoulder. She blinked lazily, then draped herself like a warm, reptilian scarf around his neck. With Gentry growing so close to Aquira, Whitney hadn’t spent nearly as much time with her as he’d become used to. Probably because every time he saw her, he thought of Sora.
He also hadn’t realized how heavy she’d gotten. When they’d first met back in the Winde Traders Guild, she’d been barely larger than a house cat. Now, her head hung to Whitney’s chest on one side and her tail even lower on the other. She must have doubled in size.
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