by Giles Carwyn
Shara and Astor had barely survived a fight with fifteen of the weeping ones. And the city was filled with thousands of them, all of them controlled and connected to that one containment stone and the voice locked within it. What could possibly have possessed Issefyn to let loose the voice of the black emmeria?
Had Arefaine recruited Issefyn during her time in Ohndarien? Or had the two been allies all along? How long had Shara been played the fool?
The weeping ones were already swarming over the Windmill Wall, repairing the damage, prepping the locks for the Summer Fleet. By this time tomorrow they would be in the Great Ocean.
Shara heard a sound behind her and turned. Astor hobbled over the rocky terrain. He winced as he crouched next to her, massaging the shoulder he’d hurt in the battle. His face was scratched and battered. His split chin was painfully swollen, and he still looked like Brophy.
“Any more survivors?” Astor asked.
Shara shook her head. “I can’t sense anyone who hasn’t been enslaved,” she admitted. “There’s only Issefyn and a few in the Summer Fleet.”
“All descendants of Efften?”
“Probably.”
Astor’s shoulders slumped. He had dark circles under his bloodshot eyes, and his brown hair was bedraggled, still matted with blood.
“You looked for my father, my sister?”
“Yes. I’m sorry. I couldn’t find them. “The weeping ones all look alike to my magical sight.”
Astor nodded, the exhaustion etched deeply on his face.
She wanted to reach out to him, to enfold him in her arms and tell him it would be all right, but she was spent. He was a man now, and he had to find his own strength.
“You should be resting,” Shara said. “There’s nothing more to see here.”
Astor grunted. “It doesn’t matter. I couldn’t sleep if I wanted to.”
“What about Galliana?”
“She finally drifted off as I left.”
Shara’s niece could barely walk. She had nearly killed herself trying to use power she didn’t have, all in an effort to fight the weeping ones.
Astor stared at Ohndarien. As much as the city’s devastation hurt Shara, she knew it hurt him more.
“I never thought it would end this way,” he murmured. “All those years that Brophy held vigil. I never thought it would end with us losing.”
Shara took his hands and pulled him closer.
“It’s not over,” she said firmly. “We are still alive, and I’m not about to give up. Not yet.”
“But how can we fight something like that? It’s hopeless.”
She squeezed his hands hard, clenching her teeth. “It was hopeless when King Phandir’s army burst through the Sunset Gate. But Brophy found a way.”
“I’m not Brophy!” Astor said, his voice breaking.
She looked at him wearily, and she gave him a sad smile. “No. You’re Astor, Heir of Autumn. A Child of the Seasons. Maybe the last one. And Ohndarien still needs you.”
His fist clenched, and he closed his eyes tight. He had no response to that. She could only hope that he would find it. He was lost, but he was angry, and that was something, at least. He could use anger. She wished she could work with him to mold that anger into resolve, but she couldn’t shepherd the Ohndariens anymore, not if there was to be an end to this nightmare. Shara had run out of time.
“You have to stand strong, Astor,” she said, wishing she weren’t so exhausted. “If all that is left of Ohndarien is those few people in the woods, then you need to protect them. To the bitter end.”
“What do you mean?”
“I have to go,” she said quietly, suddenly. “I have to leave Ohndarien.”
“What?” he cried.
She nodded. “Arefaine must be stopped. Issefyn was just the beginning. That woman has loosed something more powerful than I have ever encountered. All this misery came from a single stone full of black emmeria and Arefaine has fifty times that power. I need to go to Ohohhom, find those stones, and stop them from reaching their destination.”
He nodded, a look of dread overcoming his exhaustion. “Do you want me to—”
“No,” she assured him. “You stay here. You can’t follow me where I’m going.”
“How are you going to get there?”
“All the ships in Ohndarien are either burned or under the control of the Summer Fleet. I suppose I shall simply have to stow away.”
“There are ships at Torbury. Or there ought to be,” Astor suggested. “It’s a Farad village up the coast in the Narrows. It wouldn’t take you more than a day to get there, and you could buy a boat you could sail yourself.”
Shara nodded. That would certainly give her more freedom, and she could spare her strength rather than using it on a constant glamour.
“Good idea,” she said. “That’s what I’ll do.”
“What should I do?”
She ached at the uncertainty in his voice, the supplication, but she hardened her heart. “That is up to you.”
He paused, watching her, waiting for something more. Shara wished she could give it to him, but she had nothing left to say.
He nodded, slowly, and her heart gladdened. She saw the fire in his eyes when he looked back at her. It was surrounded on all sides by doubt and fear, but there was still a spark. “I’ll do what I can,” he said.
She smiled. “Good,” she said. “That’s all any of us can do.” She kissed him on the cheek and wrapped him in a hug. “Perhaps we will meet again after this is all done.”
“Yes,” he murmured into her neck. “You and me and Brophy. And a stolen bottle of wine. We’ll talk about girls.”
She slowly let go of him, looking at him questioningly.
He shook his head, and managed a smile. “Something Brophy said, right before I left him.”
Light and shadow passed over her heart quickly, one after the other. “Did he—” she paused “—say anything else?”
Astor searched her gaze. “You mean about you?”
Taking a deep breath, she said, “Do you know…Do you think…” Her voice died in her throat. She closed her eyes, opened them again. “Have Brophy and Arefaine become lovers?” she asked in a monotone. She felt small as she said it, petty. She wanted to take it back, but the arrow had flown, and there was nothing she could do now. In painful silence, she waited.
“He still loves you, Shara,” Astor said quietly, “He loves you desperately. He told me so.”
The tension left her so suddenly that the tears did come to her eyes. She cleared her throat. “Thank you, Astor.” She hugged him again, burying her face in his shoulder. “Thank you. That’s all I needed to know.”
PART II
Martyrs of Duty and Rage
Prologue
Darius Morgeon!”
Darius winced at the sound of Efflum’s voice. The archmage shouted curses at him, thrashing in the delicate silver chains that held him fast. After all these years, after everything that had just happened, he was still terrified of that man.
Darius slammed the cell door, cutting off Efflum’s screams of rage. Let him howl for eternity, he thought. Let him rot.
His hand, slick with blood, slipped on the door handle, and he stumbled. He sat down hard on the stone floor and breathed for a moment. He didn’t want to turn and see the price of closing that door. He didn’t want to count the cost of an entire nation betraying its own father.
With a sigh, Darius rose to his feet again and turned around.
A dozen bodies lay scattered across the gardens. A few lay contorted as if in agony, blood pouring from their eyes and ears. Others died like soldiers, stabbed by their friends at Efflum’s brutal command. But most of them showed no sign of why they had died. They simply lay motionless on the grass like snuffed candles. Yet somehow the Great Tower’s skygarden was as beautiful as ever. A cool wind blew through the flowers. Birds chased one another around the trees.
A few of those who fought beside h
im had survived. Friends, kinsmen, students. Most of them sat in the grass in a daze. Only Efflum’s youngest son, Lyss, was still on his feet, checking the bodies to see if any might yet live.
Gathering himself, Darius crossed the grass to the stairs in the center of the garden. He reached for the railing, but held himself back. The cut on his forearm was still flowing. He didn’t want to leave any more bloodstains. Cradling his arms to his chest, he headed down the stairs.
Step after step, he moved past the endless alcoves full of containment stones. Each one was a testament to the depths of their corruption. They held the legacy of Efflum’s reign, exuding the wrath and loathing that Darius felt for them in return. “If such is the cost of security,” Efflum had once told him, “it is a price I will gladly pay.”
But Darius refused to protect his children’s lives at the cost of their souls.
He reached the bottom of the stairs and slipped down the last step into the empty great room. A crowd of people gathered beyond the filigreed doors, shouting at him.
With a wave of his hand, he unlocked the doors, and they rushed into the tower.
“Is it over?” a young woman asked. “Is he dead?”
“Aristah?” someone else said. “Where is my sister?”
He turned away, too weak, too sad, to answer.
“Darius!” Another woman took his arm, and he winced as the pain fired into his shoulder. He couldn’t remember her name. “My son. He went with you,” the woman begged. “Please tell me—”
They crowded around him, but Darius pulled away without saying a word. He simply pointed upward. The crowd rushed toward the stairs. Their footsteps echoed in the hollow tower. Let them see for themselves.
Darius shuffled to the center of the room and placed his hands on Oh’s tomb, smearing blood upon it. His fingernails curled against the dull silver.
“Father!” a voice called to him, and Darius breathed a sigh of relief.
He turned to see his willowy seventeen-year-old daughter pushing through the crowd. Jazryth’s brown hair was bound back in a braid with a silver circlet shining on her forehead. She rushed to him and wrapped her arms around him.
“Is it over?” she breathed. “Is Efflum—”
“It’s over.”
“How…How bad was it?”
He drew a shuddering breath. “We lost seventeen. Aristah, Keestor—”
“What about—”
“Lyss is fine.”
She let out a pent-up breath. Jazryth and Lyss had been inseparable since they were fifteen.
“But his brothers were not so lucky,” Darius finished.
“He killed his own sons!” Jazryth said, her voice barely audible.
Darius nodded. “They were the first to fall.”
Her face became stony. “We’re going to kill him, aren’t we?”
Darius sighed, remembering how they had tried, how they had failed. “I don’t know about that. But I can promise you, that man will never again set foot out of this tower. Never.”
“Darius,” a voice shouted over the din of the crowd rushing into the tower.
Darius turned a weary smile upon his wife. Jahriah moved toward him with some difficulty, her arms protecting her swelling belly from the jostling of the crowd. He staggered forward and embraced her.
“Thank the stones,” she breathed in his ear. “You’re all right? You’re safe?” Her honey hair tickled his nose as he nodded into her shoulder. “I should have been there,” she said. “I should have been with you.”
“Hush,” he said, releasing her and pressing a hand to her belly. “Enough of that. It’s done.”
The three of them held one another tightly. Darius closed his eyes and let the mingled grief and joy wash over him. He could hardly believe this day had finally come. There was still a mountain of work to be done. They were beset upon all sides, rotting without and within, but the City of Dreams would finally have a chance to become what she was meant to be. After today, they might actually be able to bleed their own souls clean.
Darius opened his eyes and looked over his daughter’s shoulder at Oh’s coffin. He remembered that day as a child when he had first heard the voice within, the voice that had started it all. Darius’s gaze hardened, and he set his jaw.
I’ve done what you asked me to do, he thought to the coffin. I’ve cleaned up your mess. Now leave me and my family alone.
The box remained silent. And for a few short months, it remained that way.
Chapter 1
Jesheks put his hand on the rose marble wall and looked at the tower looming overhead. It was her tower. She had lived there.
He remembered seeing the school when he first came through Ohndarien on his way to the Summer Cities. At the time he had discounted it, scoffing at the Zelani and their cowardly form of magic. He considered it an idle amusement for the rich and timid. That was before he met Shara, before she showed him that he had been the coward all along.
Jesheks closed his eyes and breathed deeply until he found his center. She isn’t here, he told himself. She’s not in the city. She had almost certainly left with the Summer Fleet. Still, he hesitated, staring at the Zelani school’s open gates.
He could still smell her if he tried. He could feel her skin moving against his, her thighs on either side of his waist, her breasts pressed against his belly, her hand over his heart. Jesheks clenched his jaw and breathed through his teeth. He remembered other things, too. He remembered the slight resistance of his blade against her skin. He remembered her screams, raw in her throat, before she stopped resisting, before she gave herself over to him.
His heart beat faster as he banished the thoughts from his mind. He didn’t even know why he was here. What did he expect to find?
Opening his eyes, he crossed the dusty courtyard and entered the school. The foyer looked as though a herd of cattle had rushed through it. The polished marble floors were filthy. The gardens within the inner courtyard lay withered and dead.
All of Ohndarien looked like this: broken, deserted, haunted by the black-eyed wraiths in their eternal pain. Jesheks had kept himself hidden from the indentured as he entered the city. There were thousands of them, standing listlessly, awaiting orders. It appeared that Issefyn and Arefaine had re-created the glories of Efften sooner than expected.
He started up the stairs. A brief set of claw marks raked the banister halfway up the first flight. There was a pool of dried blood under a broken statue on the first landing. He imagined Shara lying naked, facedown in the blood. Then he imagined himself lying next to her, side by side, their dead bodies not quite touching.
Clenching his fists, he continued on, climbing up another flight before starting up the tower’s spiral stairs. Walking was no longer so painful. The trip through the desert had transformed his body. His skin hung from him in loose folds as the extra pounds had melted away. He was becoming someone else, losing what he once was. He hated the feeling. And he reveled in it. Just like Shara. He hated her. And he wanted her, wanted her more than he could endure.
He’d run away from her that night they both plunged into the Summer Seas, narrowly escaping an inferno of Jesheks’s making. It was a benighted thing to do, the decision of a coward, of a broken and twisted man.
He’d swum ashore and watched the blaze from the shadows. He saw that fool, Vinghelt, playing the hero. He saw seven years of planning unfolding like a flower. The Summer Princes were screaming for blood, and Jesheks didn’t care. His path to Efften was clear. The ancient mysteries were his to reclaim, but he no longer wanted them.
Jesheks wasn’t the only one to flee the Floating Palace that night. One of the Physendrian saboteurs knew how to swim and had escaped to shore. Phanqui still thought Jesheks was a Kherish spy. The two of them returned to Physendria and joined with the rebels hiding in the mountains. The insurgents were emboldened by Phanqui’s “victory,” and talked excitedly of mounting an assault on their defeated oppressors. Jesheks had slipped away from the fools
a day after they came down from the pass. They would soon die for their folly, just as the Ohndariens had.
The trip to Physen had been easier than expected. He had healed his broken toes along the way to improve his walking, and he fed on lizards and birds coaxed to him through magic. Water had been scarce, but there was some to be found in tiny springs between the cracks of the blasted badlands. He had to hide his fair skin from the sun under a heavy cloak, making the heat nearly unbearable, but he used his misery to spur him on. The long walk had given him time to think. The heat burned away his petty little dreams. By the time he reached Physen and hired his own ship and crew, all his plans for the future had been left behind like footprints. Only one thing shone bright in his mind: Shara.
He reached the top of the tower’s stairs, where a swath of brown stains covered the pink marble. A lot of people had died here.
The broken door had been ripped from its hinges and cast aside. He stepped inside and stopped beyond the threshold. The room smelled of old feces and something else he could not place. Shara’s bed sat at an angle, blocking his way. The mattress leaned against the frame, half covering a rug mottled with more dried blood. The instruments of Shara’s craft lay scattered across the worktables as if they’d been torn through and cast aside.
Crouching down, he touched a black stain on the floor. It was still wet, and the moment he touched it, it soaked into his finger like water into sand. Jesheks felt the emmeria swirling in his belly and waited for the sensation to pass. A large number of indentured had been stored here. There was little doubt of that. Issefyn had been busy.
He stood and looked around the empty room, fighting a rising tide of despair. He knew she wouldn’t be here. He knew it, yet he was still disappointed. Had Shara even visited this tower when she returned to Ohndarien? Had she succumbed to Issefyn’s mass enslavement? Was she somewhere nearby, an empty shell panting for breath?
