Word of Truth

by Rhett C. Bruno

  Her heart throbbed in her chest, her temples. She swallowed hard, and it felt like daggers scraping against her dry throat. Darkness surrounded her. She forced her eyes open, fearing what she might see. Things were fuzzy, and she felt something warm against her.

  “Aquira?” she asked.

  But no response came.

  It soon became apparent that it wasn’t something warm against her, but she was against something warm. The ground. Air, thick with humidity, weighed her down, and her head rested in something wet.

  Her face, her eyes were coated in something…

  Blood? she thought, mortified. But no, it wasn’t blood. It was mud. Just mud.

  She pushed herself into a seated position and dragged her hand across her hair, caked in the stuff. Groaning, she stood and stumbled a bit.

  “Hello?” she asked no one in particular. When no response came again, she raked at her eyes, finally clearing them for good.

  The sky was like wine, and it cast a dour picture before her. Smoke rose from chimney stacks in a small farming town. But again, her eyes had momentarily deceived her. Those were not pillars rising from chimneys, but great swaths of the dark gray stuff from burned remains just like she expected to be rising from Yaolin City. But it wasn’t Panping.

  “Troborough?” she said aloud, standing.

  A feeling of dread battered against her heart. She’d seen this place before, though it wasn’t the Troborough of her youth, nor even the one she’d left when the Black Sandsmen attacked. The last time she was here, she’d been on the run with Whitney. She could almost smell the death. She felt the hot breath of those demons at her heels, biting, clawing, growling.

  She sucked in a steadying breath, but no sense of calm even flirted with her.

  “It’s not real,” she said, over and over.

  Presently, her feet sloshed at the edge of the Shellnak River as she took a few tentative steps forward. To her right, just ahead, should have been Wetzel’s shack, her childhood home, but instead, there was only a charred hole in the ground and scraps of crisp wood.

  “Wetzel!” Sora screamed. Her voice didn’t echo.

  She pushed forward, getting as close to the hole as she dared. There was no bottom, at least, not one she could see.

  “What happened here?” Sora whispered.

  The forest loomed behind the shack, so familiar, yet completely different. She’d never really been afraid of those woods. They’d always held something of a comfort to her. She believed she could still navigate her way to the treehouse she and Whitney had built—although ‘built’ was a generous term.

  But now, with scarlet-tinted fog hovering at its base, the thicket terrified her.

  She shook herself out, willing her mind to settle, her body to find peace.

  Continuing north, past all the farmhouses and barns, she took it all in until she stood in the middle of the town square, staring at what used to be the Twilight Manor. It, too, was nothing but dirt and detritus. She thought she could see the slight rise of the wood floor where the stage used to be, but the inn was wrecked.

  She thought of Hamm and Alless, and her nights there watching and listening from her hiding place as the bards performed. She knew this wasn’t truly Troborough, but it seemed a fair evaluation of things to come at the hands of the Buried Goddess.

  So sad, considering what they’d already been through with the Black Sandsmen.

  Turning, she looked beyond the blacksmith’s shop to a pile of stones. At one time, in the real world, it had been the town’s Church of Iam where Father Hullquist would have delivered about a million sermons. It was also where, in Elsewhere, she and Whitney hid from the wianu, and where she’d first told Whitney she loved him.

  Cautiously, Sora approached the building. She looked everywhere for the bronze Eye of Iam, but it was nowhere to be found. Parchment was strewn about like a windstorm tore through, but Sora knew it had been more than mere wind.

  “Can I help you, young lady?” said a gruff voice behind her. It sounded like wagon wheels on gravel, and it startled her, but it wasn’t the first time she’d heard it, either.

  “Torsten?” she said before she’d even spun toward him.

  “Father Drimmond,” the man who looked and sounded just like Torsten Unger, Wearer of White of the Glass Kingdom corrected.

  She tried to hide her shock but barely managed. “I—uh… okay.” Her eyes drank in a man with skin the color of tree bark, eyes missing, wearing a stained and yellowing robe. Just as Whitney said Torsten was, this man was blind, dirty cloth covering his, no doubt, burned-out eyes.

  “Can I help you,” he repeated.

  “No… thanks. I was just… I was seeking the safety of Iam,” she lied.

  “There is no Iam in this place,” Father Drimmond snapped. “Who are you?”

  “No one important. Just a passer—“

  “It doesn’t matter,” Father Drimmond said softly. “It’s not safe here for someone like you.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” Sora said, absentmindedly touching her ears. It was silly to think even a blind priest would know of her heritage and hate her for it.

  Father Drimmond leaned in and whispered, “Alive.” Then, without another word, he turned and walked away.

  Alive? she thought. What does that mean?

  Had she died right there in Whitney’s arms?

  She thought about calling out to him, but instead, turned back to the place where she and Whitney had huddled together in Elsewhere, watching the real Torsten battle all kinds of evil.

  This time, there was no Whitney charging across the town, nor a pale-skinned upyr. There were no flying beasts or raging infernos. It was just… empty. Now, not even the priest could be seen.

  She stood alone.

  Away from the river, the hot, stagnant air was even worse. Sora felt like she was swimming in it. She gasped for breath and realized the smell of shog that was so common in all farm towns was absent.

  Sora tried to call upon her magic, determined to be prepared if anything unforeseen sprang up from the dirt, but only a dark puff of smoke swelled from her open palm. Cracking her knuckles, she tried again, but still, there was nothing.

  With a sigh, she continued down the familiar path leading to the daub and wattle farmhouse Whitney and his parents had lived in. Unlike the rest of the town, it was still standing. So many of her days had been spent there. She’d never felt welcome, but that was true of anywhere in Troborough. Despite having lived there her whole life, she’d never been a Troboroughite, not really. She’d always been the Panpingese orphan who lived with crazy, batty, old Wetzel on the outskirts of town. She wasn’t dumb, and she wasn’t deaf. She’d heard the whispers, the rumors that Wetzel abused her, mistreated her.

  But none of those were true.

  As kooky as Wetzel had been, he’d never laid a hand on her outside of her training. In light of what she’d learned in the Red Tower—that Wetzel had been exiled for abusing magic before being tasked with watching over her—she sort of felt sorry for him.

  Taking another step toward the Fierstown residence, Sora didn’t know what she expected—Mrs. Fierstown to come rushing out, blueberry and ginger pie in hand? Or maybe mean, rotten Rocco, face purple from yelling at Whitney to “stop playing with that stupid knife-ear.”

  Her finger traced the grain of the rotting wooden fence, finding a deep chasm where she and Whitney had placed their initials. Back then, it had nothing to do with romance. They were just friends. But seeing it now…

  “Whitney!” she cried out, wondering if he’d burst through the front door, or tear through the barley fields, sickle in hand.

  Instead, she found silence.

  The gate hung askew, only one hinge still attached. She pushed it, careful not to tear it off completely.

  Then something caught her attention out of the corner of her eye. When she looked, she saw nothing. It troubled her, but she gathered her wits and took a step. She felt something agains
t her foot and looked down. A bright red apple. It was odd enough to be so far from the apple orchard on the other side of town, but stranger still in such a dead and barren place. The thought of picking it up entered her mind, but she decided she wasn’t hungry and gave it a gentle kick. It rolled, revealing gray, paste-like flesh mottled with black spots and squirming little maggots.

  Something stirred again, behind her this time, and she turned. Still, there was nothing.

  Then, she yelped as long, pale fingers draped over her shoulder, and a hand closed over her mouth. It was like the Drav Cra tundra, it was so cold. A shiver bounded through her, drawing out goosebumps.

  “Do not cry out,” the voice said with a guttural Breklian accent.

  Sora attempted to agree, but it passed through as a muffled mutter.

  The hand slipped off, and Sora turned to see Kazimir.

  The memory of being shackled to a bell tower high above Winde Port slammed into her like a zhulong. She could almost feel the color leave her face.

  “What are you doing in this place?” he asked. His eyes were cold and dark as lifeless coals.

  “You’re not real,” she said. “I watched you… I saw you. You died.”

  “And where do you believe dead things go?” he asked.

  “But you were eaten. The Wianu…”

  His hand slid over to her throat, his fingers closing around her neck. She felt the warmth as his fingernails drew blood.

  “Stop this,” she said, trying to pull away.

  “But we’ve both waited for so long.”

  The look in his eye was feral, reminding her of a galler circling above a battlefield.

  “This isn’t real!”

  “Was Nowhere real?” he asked.

  That was all she needed to hear to break the illusion. She’d never called that place ‘Nowhere’ in front of Kazimir. She’d barely even spoken before Gold Grin killed the upyr.

  With the blood dribbling down her neck, she closed her eyes and focused. Flames seemed to burst out of her very pores, exploding outward. When she opened her eyes, the vision of Kazimir turned to ash.

  A crackling beneath her feet drew her attention down to the frost forming in the dirt. Snow flurries stirred along with the ash, and a light wind picked up, bringing with it an unbearable cold. Ice-covered tendrils shot out from the soil, frozen vines. They grasped Sora’s ankles, rooting her into place.

  She tugged, but the vines were too strong. She bent, grabbing hold of them with both hands, pulling and tearing, but still, nothing happened.

  Then, the roof exploded in a shower of dust, sending her backward onto her rear. From the wreckage of Whitney’s old home, rose a figure covered in moss and flora. Her long hair fell to the middle of her back, framing that perfect face.

  “Nesilia!” Sora shouted. She thought that if she ever saw the Buried Goddess again, it would be accompanied by sheer terror, but instead, anger rose up within her like a sword.

  “Sora, darling,” the Buried Goddess spoke. It was a teasing, manipulative sound.

  Sora’s skin crawled like maggots. Where there had been one festering apple, there were now hundreds of them, larvae dancing upon each other in a macabre feast. She slapped and kicked, but her feet were solidly frozen in the ice, and soon her hands were, too.

  “Don’t look at me like that, child,” Nesilia said. “What did you think—you’d leave me, and I’d just shrug?”

  “You’re not real, either.”

  “I am more real than the breath in your lungs,” Nesilia said. Her voice was like thunder rolling across the farmlands. She took a step. “I’m more real than the skin on your bones. You let your guard down, Sora, and let me peek in. You and your little friends are in way over your heads.”

  “You’re scared. You’re scared because you thought you had me forever. But you learned that you’re just as weak as the day Iam buried you beneath that mountain.”

  “How dare you speak to me like that!” Nesilia snapped. “And to think, I let you live. I could have snuffed you out and used your body—“

  “You’re a liar. A child, fearful of being alone.” Sora was the one to advance this time. “You couldn’t control me. Not when I know what I really am. With my blood, I’m more powerful—“

  “You are nothing without me,” Nesilia interrupted, voice making the earth quake. “You had your chance at greatness. It’s sad—a pity, really. Now, you’ll just die like all the rest.”

  “And you had your chance at atonement!” Sora’s hands became balls of burning flame, and the ice melted away in an instant. She stood. “In case you forgot, I killed your ugly sister. Now, I’m going to kill you.”

  A smirk played at the corners of Nesilia’s mouth. As she spoke, she strode toward Sora.

  Sora didn’t back down. Not one bit.

  “Oh, you haven’t heard, then?” Nesilia said.

  “Heard what?” Sora said. “More of your lies?”

  “You didn’t kill her…”

  The door of Whitney’s old house remained one of the last standing pieces. It split open, and another woman came forth, floating like a specter.

  “Madam Aihara?” Sora said, unable to hide the astonishment.

  A ghostly laugh echoed. The old mystic’s eyes were vibrant and purple. They carried a threat that needed no words.

  “I am not that weak woman you called Ancient One,” the mystic replied. “She’s no more Ancient than the Webbed Woods—which we created.” The being looked to Nesilia, who was now only an arm span from Sora, and the already cold air became like death.

  “You remember my sister Bliss, don’t you, Sora?” Nesilia said. “We’ve reconciled; come to a new understanding now that she’s felt my pain, thanks to you. She now sees the true enemy.”

  “You lie!” Sora thrust her hand forward, and her fire was snuffed out before it had the chance.

  “Hardly,” Nesilia said. “Iam was always the one to twist words. I believe in honesty, sharp as a blade.”

  “It’s this place.,” Sora said, looking around. “It’s Elsewhere. None of you live. You’re all dead, and damned to this place forever.”

  “Then what does that make you?” Nesilia taunted.

  The body of Aihara Na reached out her arm, and her fingertips grazed Sora’s cheek. Sora shrank back, slapping at the hand.

  “So many people, all claiming to have killed me,” it said. “It’s… hurtful.” She affected a frown but it didnt’ reach her smiling eyes.

  “You’re not real,” Sora reiterated.

  “Perhaps you know this form?” The image of Aihara Na shifted into a beautiful woman with skin the color of rich chocolate, like Torsten or Lucindur. “No… of course not, no one knows my true form, just the hideous beast.”

  The visage faded away, and in its place stood the horrifyingly hideous Queen Bliss in all her arachnid splendor.

  “I killed you…” Sora whispered.

  “When you swat at a spider, but you do not kill it, you only succeed in earning its scorn. Now, your world will burn.”

  “This isn’t real,” Sora whispered again. “I don’t believe you.”

  “Why don’t you come to see for yourself?” Nesilia taunted.

  “Where?” Sora screamed. She tried again to conjure up a ball of flames but couldn’t. “No!”

  The ground rumbled again, sending Sora stumbling. She grabbed onto the fence post, but it broke off under her grip. Everything shook with such violent force, Sora felt like she was going to vibrate right out of her skin.

  She stood there, looking down at the post with hers and Whitney’s initials barely visible through years of dirt. She dropped the wood and buried her face in her hands as the world rattled around her. Falling to her knees, she shouted, “Go where!”

  Her eyes shot open, and she found herself standing high above Yaolin City, looking down upon the place like a goddess upon her throne.

  The streets were a mess, piles of dead strewn haphazardly, buildings burning, blood
staining the waters of Lake Yaolin. The death wails of thousands rose up all around her like a blanket. Above, smoke and ash mixed with dark storm clouds. They swirled all around her, like the eye of a hurricane.

  Sora tried to turn, but couldn’t. She had to strain to see with her peripherals that she was surrounded by red stone parapets. The top of the Red Tower.

  She took solace in the fact that this felt nothing like it had when she’d been possessed. She was seeing through Nesilia’s eyes—that she was sure of—but she had no fear of Nowhere. However, she didn’t know the why of it all. Was this what it meant to have a soul tie? And why now?

  Nesilia’s gaze tracked toward a mass of Panpingese and Glass soldiers, civilians, marching west down Xiahou Boulevard. Grimaurs lined the rooftops along their paths. Goblins wrestled over spilled supplies, unable to contain their excitement as they scavenged.

  Then, all in unison, the thousands of humans glanced back at the top of the tower, grinning, their eyes black as pitch. It sent a bolt of lightning up Sora’s spine.

  “Governor Nantby is dead,” Nesilia said. “Panping will fall within days.”

  Considering nobody was up there, Sora had to imagine she was addressing her. Was she letting her in?

  “Sora,” Nesilia said.

  Hearing her own name startled her, but she didn’t respond.

  “Come now. Watch,” Nesilia added.

  Nesilia turned to look across the lake toward the wide cavern, which allowed entry from the ocean. In it, dark shadows swam. Massive things moving just below the surface, filled with tendrils. Wianu.

  “Don’t blink,” Nesilia teased, as if Sora had any control over that.

  “Where are they going?” Sora asked shakily.

  “That doesn’t concern you.”

  “Nesilia, it’s not too late to stop this,” Sora said. “I know what you felt. Alone. Betrayed. I’ve felt it, too. But you created this world as much as Iam did. Face him for leaving you, and leave the rest out of it.”

  Nesilia cackled. “I saw so much potential in you, but you really are pathetic. Soon, you will know what happens when you cross me,” Nesilia warned.

  Sora’s chest felt like it was rent in two. One second, she was inside of Sigrid, the next, she was facing the upyr, cold hands around her throat.