Word of Truth

by Rhett C. Bruno

  Before he was crushed in the giant’s embrace, Torsten stuck out his hand. Uhlvark slid to a stop, regarded the gesture curiously, then gently squeezed Torsten’s palm with two thick digits.

  “It’s good to see you again, Uhlvark,” Torsten said. He shook, and immediately regretted it as the giant shook back and nearly ripped Torsten’s arm out of the socket.

  “I ran into an old friend,” Dellbar said. He stopped in front of Torsten and traced his eyes.

  Torsten did the same. “I hope you found what we were looking for.”

  “I hope so, too. If nothing else, I brought a pack of angry priests.” He laughed solemnly, nodding toward the group of white-robed men following the path the giant had cleared for them. Sisters and monks helped guide them along, while others pulled carts filled with tomes.

  “Good.”

  “We’ll see,” Dellbar said. “What of Lord Jolly?”

  “He’s fine. He relayed your message and is busy taking stock of our naval forces.” Torsten took a deep breath. “But the King—“

  “I heard,” Dellbar interrupted. “I only hope his betrothed-to-be is still with us.”

  Torsten nodded once. “She’s helping Lord Jolly. And she knows that the ceremony was worthless without consummation.”

  “She is wiser than her years dictate.”

  “That, she is.”

  Dellbar took a deep breath. “And so, here we children of Iam stand, kingless. I must say, even poets couldn’t have written a more fitting end.”

  “Your Holiness, don’t speak like that. At least, don’t let anyone hear it. We have to believe that Pi’s death won’t be in vain.”

  “Spoken like a true man of faith,” Dellbar said, wearing a withering grin.

  “The city will hold,” Torsten added.

  “It has to,” Dellbar agreed.

  A brief period of silence passed between them until Torsten said, “You look exhausted. The Cathedral has been prepared with bedding for all of you. Get some rest. We have a battle to prepare for.”

  “Rest.” Dellbar chuckled and laid his hand upon Torsten’s shoulder. “Wouldn’t that be nice?”

  Torsten snorted in agreement, and then Dellbar whistled Uhlvark along. The giant followed like a stray dog while the rest of the priests and men and women of Iam joined them. Torsten’s attention was caught by a familiar face amidst the white-clothed. Bartholomew Darkings’ daughter offered him a coy smile.

  “Torsty Cakes!” Whitney exclaimed, catching Torsten off guard. The thief threw his arms around him from the side.

  Torsten clenched his fists and prepared to push Whitney away. He held back. Instead, he returned a light embrace, and when they parted, Whitney was left beaming ear to ear. Any other time Torsten would have desired to slap the look right off the thief’s face, but not now. He couldn’t remember his last time seeing a smile like that.

  What did he expect? Whitney was an enigma, an eternal optimist who also found a way to complain about everything. The man could grin like a child on Dawning morning when the entire world was at risk of ending.

  “Whitney Fierstown, it’s been a long time,” Torsten said.

  “Even longer for me,” Whitney replied, making no sense as usual. “Are you a priest now?”

  “What? Oh, this.” He tugged on his blindfold. “It allows me to see.”

  “It does, doesn’t it?” a Glintish woman said, emerging from behind the thief.

  Torsten’s next words caught in his throat. She was gorgeous, a true beauty amongst ugly things. Oversized, gold pendant earrings hung from her ears while a colorful dress clung to her like hope in the midst of a storm. And strapped across her back, something Torsten had not seen in many years: a genuine Glintish salfio. She was nothing like the Glintish immigrants Torsten knew from Dockside. And her skin... It was smooth and shiny like melted dark chocolate, flawless.

  Even more than Whitney’s embrace, his Glintish companion caught him by surprise. Then, without regard for having just met him, she leaned in and studied Torsten’s blindfold. He fought the urge to back up. An expression twisted her delicate features as if to her, it looked like more than a bloodstained, white cloth.

  “I can almost feel the magic radiating from it,” she said, reaching out to touch it. “It has its own melody.”

  “Not magic,” Torsten said quickly, his throat tight.

  “Right,” the woman said.

  “And you are?” Torsten finally found the words to ask.

  The woman pulled her hand back. “So sorry, I’m—“

  “This is Lucy,” Whitney said. “She’s a friend. And that short fellow is Tum Tum. He’s a dwarf.”

  “Me Lord,” the dwarf said, nodding.

  “And oh, I’m sure you remember Sora.” Whitney stepped to the side, revealing the blood mage, Sora.

  “Sir Unger,” she said, performing a perfect bow. “It’s good to see you again.”

  Like Whitney and the Glintish woman, she caught Torsten by surprise. Though, not in the same way. He’d seen her at the gates, knew she was there.

  But, something was different about her. She seemed older, more mature. Not in appearance, but in the way she carried herself. Her eyes even. The young blood mage he’d known so shortly seemed to care about every little thing, eyes darting around as if hiding something. She always had her arms tight to her side, obscuring the scars on her hands and forearms. Her stance had been slouched, protective.

  Not this Sora. She stood tall and proud, unveiling a figure that could have given Oleander healthy competition. She wore what appeared to be an authentic Panpingese kimono, and her eyes were focused with intense purpose. Her arms… Torsten’s blessed vision sometimes made it difficult to see details, but to him, it seemed like there were no scars on them at all. Just smooth amber-toned skin.

  She looked not like a raged blood mage prone to losing control but like a true mystic.

  “I’m not so sure it is,” Torsten admitted.

  “Oh, don’t be like that, Torsten,” Whitney said. “She’s come a long way since the Webbed Woods! You should see her in action. No cutting herself.” He stuck out his tongue in disgust. “Just pure, mystic power.”

  “That is exactly what I mean,” Torsten said, then turned to Sora. “You aren’t the first mystic I’ve seen lately. The last killed far too many of my brothers in Latiapur.”

  “Then it’s a good thing Sora’s here.”

  She stepped in front of Whitney and stared at Torsten straight on. She seemed taller now, too.

  “You wanted to tell me something?” Torsten said. “Get on with it.”

  “That mystic must have been Aihara Na,” Sora said. “You may have fought her a long time ago. In secret, she carried the Order after Liam destroyed it. She even trained me… but that was before she fell to Nesilia’s promises.”

  Torsten didn’t even try to hide his distaste for the subject.

  “There’s more,” Sora said.

  Torsten grunted for her to continue.

  “Aihara Na isn’t Aihara Na anymore. She’s been possessed by Bliss—the One Who Remained.”

  “Bliss is dead,” Torsten said, words truncated.

  “So was Nesilia.”

  He grunted again but bobbed his head. She made a good point. Everything she’d just told him should have surprised him, from the Mystic Order enduring to another goddess returned, but nothing did, not anymore. And maybe that was what had changed about Sora. Not her so much as him. He no longer saw her powers as the root of evil. Not now that he’d seen evil in its purest form. Sora couldn’t choose the curse she happened to be born with.

  “They’re working together now,” Sora went on. “And they’re coming to destroy Yarrington and everything in Iam’s Kingdom. Though, it seems you already know that.”

  “She’s made it pretty clear,” Torsten said.

  “Well, we can stop her,” Whitney proclaimed. “We came close once already.”

  “I’m sure you did.” Torsten let out
a sigh, but as his gaze passed across the strange group of adventurers, he witnessed absolute sincerity in each of their expressions. The Glintish musician’s eyes had an especially honest quality to them. If she were supporting a lie, she was the best actress Torsten had ever seen. Even the dwarf nodded enthusiastically, foregoing the grumpiness typical to their kind.

  For once in his filthy life, Whitney wasn’t just boasting. Torsten wondered how many times in these many months since White Bridge he’d begged Iam to present a miracle, begged Him for a sign that He was still with them.

  Were they it? Was Whitney Fierstown Torsten’s answer to prayer? Torsten shuddered at the thought.

  “We have a lot to catch up on,” Torsten said.

  “Oh, Torsten, my old friend.” Whitney patted him on the back. “You have no idea.”

  XXXV

  The Traitor

  Rand strode through the portal of White Bridge, the gates left wide open. He didn’t look behind him at the pillars of smoke, dotting the horizon from all the settlements they’d passed through. He had to keep moving straight ahead. It was the only way.

  At least, metaphorically. For, the grand bridge where, just months ago, Rand had lost so much, no longer stood. He didn’t think it possible, but the white stone had been completely destroyed. Chunks of it filled ledges all the way down the ravine, shining in the moonlight. A few large pieces even poked through the gushing water of the river far below.

  All Rand could picture as he stared down was Caleef Sidar Rakun, whom he’d been tasked to protect, plummeting. Another failure on his long list, growing ever longer. Not failing his sister—whatever she was—was all he had left.

  “Clever girl,” Nesilia said, the hint of Sigrid’s accent just one ripple of her ethereal voice. She stepped up beside Rand. “The Glassmen have always been so attached to their antiquities. I never thought they’d allow one to be so utterly ruined.”

  “I’ll destroy her,” the mystic inhabited by the goddess Bliss spat as she soared out over the gap. A chilly breeze that had no business in summer accompanied her.

  Rand’s muscles tightened as, first, he heard the giant spiders following her, then saw them. They clambered over the broken stone, between his legs, and up the demolished towers flanking them.

  “Now, now, sister, there is no need for dismay,” Nesilia said.

  Rand recoiled further from hearing the word ‘sister,’ as he had every time since they all began their march west together. Sigrid was his family. Not this witch, to whom darkness clung like a fungus.

  At least they were rid of the insufferable leader of the Shesaitju sect, which had thrown its allegiance behind Nesilia. Babrak seemed to be everything Nesilia spoke about wanting to rid this land of—entitled, traitorous, unworthy. But she’d promised he had a role to play when she dispatched him and a fleet of Shesaitju and Panpingese ships to hit Yarrington from the sea… from Autlas’ Inlet… that place where he and Sigrid had grown up, spent so much time together.

  “My pets cannot fly,” Bliss said, fuming. She glared at Nesilia. “You said that when you visited the Caleef here, the bridge remained intact.”

  “So, we go around,” Rand proposed. “Through the mountains. You told me yourself, the dwarves will stay out of things. They know now this isn’t their war.”

  “And yet they harbored the rogue mystic,” Bliss said.

  “They were being hunted by that weakling Lorgit when they used the Lightmancer,” Nesilia said. “Meungor’s little vermin are no concern.”

  “And where is she now?”

  Nesilia moved to the edge without answering. She stopped, the moons painting the side of her face a soft amber. She inhaled deeply.

  “I do not know,” she said, a smile touching the corners of her lips.

  Bliss whooshed in front of her. “And you smile? They nearly destroyed you last time, and you smile? Who knows what they’re plotting?”

  Nesilia closed her eyes, her simper deepening. “Sora fights our connection. Oh, she fights it with every ounce of her being. Her friends don’t know. Perhaps she doesn’t even know. That’s why they used the Lightmancer and nearly got themselves killed. Fear will be her end. If only she would let go, she’d be more powerful even than that creature whose form you now occupy. Ancient One.” Those words were said with mockery wet upon her tongue.

  “Then I’ll take her next,” Bliss sneered.

  “You won’t touch her,” Nesilia said, terse. “Sora belongs to me, as will all of Yarrington, soon enough.”

  “Then now much longer must our vengeance be delayed!”

  Nesilia sighed. “You never did have patience, my loathsome sister. It remains your greatest flaw.”

  “And you care too much about what others think.” Bliss circled her. “Sora. Caliphar. Mahraveh… Iam. Here I am, the sister you never wanted, the one Iam turned you against, working with you, side by side. Who gives a damn what they think? We are all Pantego needs.”

  “You’ve spent too long living alone amongst the spiders.”

  “And whose fault is that?”

  “Whose fault was it that I was buried beneath that cursed mountain?”

  Bliss sank back, chin jutting out. Rand watched them argue and tried to keep up, but it was difficult. He knew legends of the God Feud, of Bliss and Iam and Nesilia, and so many others. But the versions changed slightly depending on which church you lived near. And when these two spoke, it was with layers of context. Millennia worth. It made him feel impossibly small.

  “Exactly,” Nesilia said. “We cannot show this world how it has been lied to if they’re all corpses.” She turned to face Rand, making him twitch. “Like Rand here. He sees that we are freeing this realm, as does his sister.”

  Rand swallowed the bile forming in his throat. More and more, the dark eyes worn by Sigrid’s body were beginning to seem entirely unfamiliar.

  “The mountain pass should only add about a week to our journey,” he said.

  “Maybe if we could move during the day,” Bliss remarked. She soared back through the open gates and onto the plains. Instantly, Rand felt warmer.

  “No creativity, that one,” Nesilia said. She extended her long fingers across Rand’s cheek, and the chill returned. Still, he closed his eyes and nestled into them, picturing all those days back in Dockside. “Where Bliss sees a dead end, I see opportunity. And it’s all thanks to where she buried me.”

  Rand opened his eyes, and now, Sigrid’s face was right in front of him.

  “Like I said,” she went on. “I am inevitable. Now, go and rest, Rand Langley.”

  “But it’s nightfall,” he whispered, voice faltering, so close to the monster who looked so much like his sister. “We have to keep moving while it’s safe for you.”

  “You’ll see.”

  She gave his cheek a gentle push toward the exit. He backed up slowly, watching as she knelt by the edge of the fractured bridge, wind slinging her hair like a thousand tiny whips. She pressed her palms upon the stone, and Rand thought he felt the ground beneath him rumble.

  One long stride at a time, he left her as instructed. Rand supposed he could use the rest. For so long, they’d moved during nighttime, resting during the day. That’s how it’d been. The possessed people had no problem sleeping with the sun up. Apparently, they, too, needed to rest the bodies they controlled. Though, they wouldn’t even lie down. Just stand, eyes closed, still as timeless statues.

  Her army awaited at the gate like loyal hounds. The dark-eyed, possessed humans each glared at him as if through a single eye. Even the hundreds of former cultists in the red robes and porcelain masks, who’d willingly given their bodies to Elsewhere, just stared.

  Dire-wolves-turned-demonic-hounds snarled and slobbered. Spiders burrowed. Goblins piled up loot from the towns they’d passed through, clicking in their strange language. Grimaurs screeched and picked at each other overhead, fighting over meat scraps.

  Rand averted his gaze. He knew that Nesilia needed an army to carr
y out her vision, he only wished it wasn’t this one. Nobody talked. Everything ate wild meat, uncooked, raw. And he couldn’t help but think back to his Shieldsmen training, the camaraderie with the other trainees, whispering secrets while Torsten or some other senior member of the Order gave a lesson. The private jokes between them.

  He’d joined the Shield to make his home a better place, and instead, found the brotherhood was what kept him. Until it all fell apart, and they forsook him.

  Maybe this is where I belong, he thought to himself.

  There was no Torsten here to be his mentor, his hero. To be everything Rand ever wanted to be, only to ultimately deceive him and use him as a tool. At least Nesilia was honest. She hadn’t looked straight into his eyes and lied that his sister was dead like Torsten had. No, she told him the truth, had even shown her to him.

  Everyone else… they were all helping the plague of greed, false faith, and decadence, which had driven Pantego into countless wars. This army was her tool to wage the last war Pantego ever needed to see. And on the other side of the darkness would be the light that Iam had lied to the world about.

  It had to be.

  “Is she coming?” Bliss asked, materializing in front of him. He was too busy with his own thoughts to even be startled this time.

  “She says to wait,” Rand replied.

  “Wait? All her scheming and plotting, it never changes. I swear, if I was in charge, Yarrington would already be soot.”

  “But you’re not,” Rand dared say.

  “All because Iam chose her. Like Iam even matters anymore.”

  “Then go, face her. You’re Bliss, the One Who Remained. I know the stories, how you buried Nesilia after all the other warring gods were cast out by Iam. Then, he punished you by damning you to the Webbed Woods to live as a beast.”

  “And you’re not as dumb as you look,” Bliss muttered.

  He glared up at her, stepping forward into the cold of her form. He whispered, “So, you can do it again. Take control. Or, did you really just stab her in the back like a coward while Iam was away?”