When the Goddess Wakes

by Howard Andrew Jones

Elenai turned to find him leaning heavily against the doorframe.

  “Do you know anything about this map, or where the realm lies in relation to the others?” N’lahr asked.

  “I’m sorry, Commander. No.”

  “We must talk with Varama, then,” N’lahr said. “As soon as possible. The queen will want to finish her work undisturbed, where no one can reach her. This is the place.”

  “And you think Varama will know where that is?” Kyrkenall asked.

  “You’ve known her longer than I have,” Rylin said. “You know if she saw it in the keystone, she can remember it.”

  “Sure,” Kyrkenall said, “but will she know where this lost land is in relation to anything else? I’ve been nearly everywhere in the realms and have never caught wind of it. Maybe we should talk to Cerai. She actually has the keystone.”

  “You think Cerai’s going to help us?” The challenge in Rylin’s voice startled Elenai. “She’s a traitor,” he continued. “She abandoned Alantris to the Naor. She’s a murderer a thousand times over.”

  “That’s a bit dramatic, isn’t it?” Kyrkenall asked, which under any other circumstance would have struck Elenai as ironically amusing. If there was one alten known for drama, it was he.

  “Dramatic?” Rylin repeated.

  “Enough.” N’lahr’s soft command finished the debate. “Unless there’s been some development I haven’t heard, we don’t have a way to contact Cerai.”

  No one answered.

  “Kyrkenall?” N’lahr prompted.

  “No. I don’t know a way.”

  Thelar volunteered, “We could attempt a hearthstone sending. I’m certain Cerai has some.”

  Elenai had grown familiar with the concept of a sending, but didn’t know how easily it could be done.

  “She’s a long way into the shifts,” M’vai objected. “That would be courting disaster.”

  N’lahr looked to Thelar for confirmation.

  “She’s right,” he said. “The farther apart the sender and receiver are, the greater the danger something will break the sender’s spirit from his body. Or consume it. Hearthstone-enhanced sending is more powerful, and protective of the sender, but would Alten Cerai welcome the connection, or use it to attack?”

  N’lahr decided. “We’ll consult with Varama first. If she has the answers, we won’t risk contacting Cerai.”

  The last Elenai had heard, the greatest intellect of the Altenerai remained days from Darassus, riding back from Alantris.

  “It’ll be a long time before we can talk to Varama,” Kyrkenall said. “Even if we rode out to meet her.”

  “Varama retains a hearthstone and she’s much closer than Cerai,” N’lahr said. “Thelar can attempt a sending to her.” His gaze turned to the exalt. “But in the morning. Rest is needed now.”

  “I should help,” Rylin asserted. “Varama doesn’t know what’s happened here, or that Thelar’s allied with us. If he reaches out to her she may think it’s an attack.”

  “Very well,” N’lahr said. “Rylin, Thelar, that’s your first priority come the dawn. Now everyone get out of here and find your beds. We’ve much to do tomorrow. Elenai, let’s talk in the office.”

  As Elenai nodded, the commander added: “Rylin, take Thelar up to the healers and have them look him over before he turns in.”

  After the others blew out the lanterns in the sitting room and departed, Kyrkenall lingered by the door, Kalandra’s emerald in his hand. “What do you think we should do with this, for now?” he asked.

  “That’s Kalandra’s stone?” N’lahr asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Keep it someplace safe.”

  “I don’t like to keep my lady waiting,” Kyrkenall said, as though to himself, then spoke to them once more: “You need anything?” He hesitated with his hand on the door latch.

  “Tomorrow, yes,” N’lahr answered. “Kyrkenall … I know Cerai sponsored you to the ring. But she’s not one of us anymore.”

  “The hearthstones twisted her,” Elenai said.

  “Probably,” Kyrkenall agreed. “But I think she still holds to the oath, as she sees it. Belahn was altered, but we tried to save him, didn’t we?”

  “Belahn’s actions hadn’t killed thousands,” Elenai interjected.

  “They might have killed hundreds,” Kyrkenall countered. “He trapped everyone in his village in an unbreakable magic suspension, remember?”

  “Their motives are entirely different,” Elenai said. “Belahn was trying to protect people he loved. If you’re going to compare Cerai to anyone, it should be the queen. Or Denaven. Their level of conceit is about the same.”

  “Rialla showed Cerai how to use the transport magics that sent us here,” Kyrkenall said. “Why would she do that unless she knew Cerai was going to help us at some point?”

  Elenai hadn’t thought of that. “Rialla did show Cerai how to open a portal,” she admitted. “But she sure didn’t look happy about it. I bet she knows Cerai’s untrustworthy.”

  “But she’s still a possible ally,” Kyrkenall said. “And we might need every one of them we can get.”

  N’lahr spoke at last. “The point’s moot, Kyrkenall. Cerai is out of play for now.”

  Kyrkenall nodded. “I’ll see you two in the morning.” He left, closing the door after. They heard his footsteps recede.

  N’lahr sat down on the edge of the desk and massaged his forehead.

  “Why is he so attached to Cerai?” Elenai asked. “Is it because she’s beautiful?”

  “I think it’s because he’s beautiful.”

  At her confused look, he continued. “She was the only upper ranker who consistently favored him, even before he’d begun to distinguish himself. Her attention seemed more focused on his superficial attributes than his potential, at least initially, but his admiration of her daring, her lone treks into the wilds, probably furthered her interest. There’s no other alten she ever stood for the ring. Kyrkenall has had few enough supporters. He values them the more.”

  Kyrkenall had told her that Cerai had sponsored him, but until now she hadn’t understood the context. Before Elenai could follow up with more questions, the commander changed the subject. “I want to talk to you about the throne.”

  “You mean this notion of me being queen?”

  “It’s more than a notion. You have an instinct for finding your way to the right course.”

  She laughed. “I’m not sure that’s true. And in any case, my instinct is to run as far as I can from talk of crowns.”

  “That’s wisdom. But then didn’t some playwright say to never trust a woman who longs for the throne?”

  “Several playwrights say something like that,” Elenai said, and as she searched her memory to quote one, N’lahr held up a hand.

  “If I’d wanted a recitation I’d have asked Kyrkenall to stay. The people trust your judgment. So do I.”

  Elenai swallowed hard, hoping her cheeks weren’t reddening. “I’m honored you would say that. But you know as well as I do that a lot of my ‘decisions’ might have been Rialla’s more than mine.”

  Apparently he didn’t know, because he frowned thoughtfully. “What do you mean?”

  “My glimpses of the future didn’t happen until after I started using Rialla’s hearthstone. I don’t think I’m as much of an oddsbreaker as you believe I am.” It pained her to admit she didn’t live up to his appraisal, but better he knew now than think her more capable than she was.

  “Hearthstones awaken and enhance magical gifts.”

  It seemed as though he was being unduly thick. But then, she supposed, he was at least as weary as she was. She tried again. “When Kyrkenall and I met Rialla, at Cerai’s fortress, Rialla made clear she was manipulating events to get the outcome she most desired. I think all along she’s been pushing me to deliver what she needed at key moments.”

  His tired eyes were bright with amusement. “I see. Did she tell you how to open my hearthstone prison?”

 
“I think she might have,” she admitted. “I felt called to do so. And I glimpsed possible outcomes when Denaven and the Altenerai closed on us that time we were riding through The Fragments.”

  “Did she tell you how to guide us through the shifts?”

  “No.”

  “Did she tell you how to marshal the eshlack?” N’lahr asked. “Did she hold up your sword during the battle with Mazakan’s honor guard? Did she negotiate with the ko’aye?”

  “No…” Elenai had picked up on his intent to disprove her fears but didn’t object as he continued.

  “Did she master a dragon and fly it through the air?”

  “Now there I think she may have helped. I saw how to free the dragon from its encasement far more easily than I had any right. But I seemed to have a natural knack for making the dragon move,” she admitted.

  “You’re right to give credit where it’s due. But you don’t give yourself the credit you’re owed. It wasn’t Rialla who defeated Denaven, and it wasn’t Rialla who outfought Chargan and then swayed the Naor to our side.”

  “I understand what you’re saying, but—”

  “Do you?” His voice had taken an edge. “Because it sounds like you’re suggesting you’re not qualified to be a queen or an alten.”

  “I’m definitely not qualified to be a queen.” Elenai hesitated before explaining further. “And I worry Rialla’s hearthstone made you think me worthy of being an alten.”

  “You don’t need a hearthstone to be an alten. Your use of one was always temporary. It had to be. You’ve seen what they do to those who depend on them.”

  “I keep telling myself I’m lucky mine is gone. But I think that severs me from the powers that made me … great.”

  “Your actions saved the city when those powers were gone, not before,” N’lahr said. “You earned the fealty of your foes and the gratitude of your people.”

  “What is it you want of me?” she asked.

  He placed a hand to the smooth wood of the desk and felt it for a time. When he spoke, his usual cool reserve cracked wide open. “Oh, Elenai. I want you content and fulfilled. Finding happiness. You’ve earned it. But I don’t always get what I wish.”

  “You think I should take the throne?”

  “You will serve your people in whatever you decide. But you must be at peace with whatever is lost on the path not taken.”

  Not so long ago, he’d spent a long morning coaxing the governor of Arappa into consideration of the throne. Surely he hadn’t forgotten that. “I thought you were pointing Verena to the crown.”

  “She would make a fair queen, but she’s not here. And you’ll recall I needed her resources at the time. With some, you have to remind them of their desires before they do the right thing. I don’t think I ever need to remind you.”

  She had come to understand, finally, why Kyrkenall both loved and cursed him. “Damnit, N’lahr, you’ve steered me here.”

  “No. I could not have predicted the events that would lead the people of Darassus to shout your name. But I saw what had to happen the moment you won the allegiance of the Naor. You want my opinion? You must take the throne, at least until the crisis is passed, and you surely know why.”

  She let out a slow breath and reasoned it out in the seconds before her answer. “Because we can’t be slowed down by the council. They won’t know how to deal with the Naor. Or the queen’s betrayal. Even if they arrive at the right solutions, they won’t know how to manage things quickly enough.”

  He nodded. “Yes. We can’t afford delay, or lengthy debate.”

  Another course occurred to her. “You could be king. You’re the wisest man I know and a miraculous savior back from the dead.”

  A thin smile ghosted over his features. “Darassus has had no king in generations. And they will not have one now. The people have already chosen you.”

  She sighed. “Assuming we survive, I guess I can always step aside later.”

  “Given that the world we know will cease unless we stop Leonara, we needn’t worry much past the immediate future.”

  “I seem to recall that one of the queen’s worst crimes was taking action without consulting the council. You’re suggesting we fix her mistakes by doing the same.”

  “Tyrants can rise when shortcuts are taken, but you will not be a tyrant, and under your stewardship a better government can rise. New safeguards must be enacted to ensure that the queen’s power will be checked should another madwoman ascend the throne. But for now…”

  “For now I have to be queen,” she finished slowly.

  “Yes.”

  2

  The Missing Mage

  As Vannek advanced into the wide central lane that bifurcated the Naor camp, distant sounds of singing drifted out from their hosts’ damaged city, a quarter mile to his rear. There was sorrow and loss in the melody, and the threnody put him in mind of the man he might have loved.

  Vannek scowled at himself, for such sentimental drivel led to despair, which had utterly neutered him in the preceding days.

  Two nights ago he’d seen his brother was mad, and hadn’t moved against him. The shame of his failure in Alantris and pain at the death of Syrik had so devastated him that he found life too much trouble to engage with. He’d allowed himself to be carried along on currents of others’ design. Only as he plummeted from the sky with a dragon who died beneath him had he realized how fiercely he still wished to live. In the hours since, he’d sworn he would never again permit himself to descend into fatalism.

  Now, alerted by a messenger, he walked toward the first test of his new resolve. Challenges to his authority always differed in the particulars but were broadly, monotonously similar. To beat back a fleeting desire for return to a state beyond care, he reimagined his father’s admonition against weakness: find your steel.

  His brother’s few surviving officers sat in a circle on low stools in front of a tent so stiff and clean and white it must have been unused before today. As Vannek diverted to approach from the left, two looked up, eyes shifting to the lone bodyguard accompanying him, the only one of Chargan’s personal guard left alive and unmaimed. Zinar, the youngest of the three officers, climbed respectfully to his feet, the left side of his bearded face purple and swollen. A moment later, the graybeard next to him rose with an awkward head bob.

  Vannek came to a halt behind the only chieftain in the group. Anzat had to turn on his stool to face him, then apparently decided to stand. He threw back his shoulders and looked down on Vannek from a towering six and a half feet. A massive man in the prime of life, he offered no welcome.

  Vannek wasted no time with greetings as he addressed them bluntly. “A war council should always include the leader.”

  “Chargan is dead,” Anzat growled. “And great Mazakan is dead. We need a new leader.”

  This again. He meant himself, of course. “We already have a leader,” Vannek said.

  A smooth voice cut in from their left, “We certainly do, Lord General Vannek.” A man of middle years garbed in simple traveling clothes had stopped just beyond their little circle. Vannek shifted his footing so he might observe the interloper without losing sight of Anzat.

  It took a moment for Vannek to recognize one of his grandfather’s advisors, Muragan, without the man’s vibrant red robes of office. At first glance he was utterly unremarkable; a man of middle age with a receding hairline, of average height, and average breadth, though he had grown stout. Like many well-to-do older Naor, his beard was neatly trimmed, reddish brown like his hair. Ordinary, except that his blue eyes were bright with intelligence, and he carried himself in the presence of high-ranked officers with profound self-assurance no normal man would have dared.

  All of Mazakan’s advisors were said to have perished with him. Yet here was one of his most valuable mages, strolling into their closely guarded encampment many days journey from where he should have fallen in company with the god-king.

  “Another mage.” Anzat’s voice was heavy wi
th disgust. Apparently the chief recognized Muragan but lacked any curiosity at his unexpected appearance.

  “I served as Mazakan willed.” The man’s voice was not especially loud, but it possessed a vibrant, compelling quality. “And now you will serve the third and wisest son of Mazakan’s favored heir.”

  “Who are you to say whom I serve?” Anzat said with a growl. “Where were you in the battle for Darassus, when it mattered? Why should we heed you now?”

  Muragan’s left hand rose, fingers splayed. On the instant, Anzat sucked in a sharp breath. His face reddened and thin lines of blood trickled from his nostrils. The towering officer put a hand to his hilt and managed two steps forward before sinking to one knee and pulling at his collar with both hands. The other leaders watched with poorly masked horror.

  Vannek had anticipated killing Anzat to prove his rule by arms, but this … Well, trust a mage to misunderstand the wielding of power. He snapped a command. “Stop the spell.”

  Anzat dropped to his belly, his fingers scrabbling in the grass as though a close grip of the slender green blades would help him cling to life. Muragan’s eyes narrowed in concentration.

  “Stop it!” Vannek roared.

  Muragan dropped his arm with reluctance. Blood dripped from his clenched fist. He must have deliberately cut it to use its energy in his spell. On the ground Anzat shuddered convulsively and fumbled at his belt, dragging his knife free.

  Vannek kicked the hand that held the weapon, which went sliding under the folds of a nearby tent.

  “Fool!” Vannek glared at Anzat, then the other officers, then turned to take in a ring of Naor warriors who’d gathered to watch. Many wore bandages and bore obvious injuries. “I’m surrounded by fools,” he growled to them. “There are so few of us left, but still you’d cull our numbers in petty dispute. This is why the Dendressi best us! They stand together instead of snarling over scraps.”

  Anzat glowered as he struggled to his knees, wiping red spittle from his lips.

  Vannek continued: “Only an idiot would let blood when he’s already weak. It’s a time to bind our wounds and hone our blades.” He turned to Anzat: “I give you your life this night.”