Word of Truth

by Rhett C. Bruno

  And then, all the awful things. Sir Uriah, his mentor, going missing. King Liam’s last breath upon this very seat. A possessed Pi causing war with the Shesaitju that killed so many. Cutting Valin Tehr’s head from his shoulders.

  Emotion crashed over him like a wave. His lips started to tremble; his chest constricted. He could barely breathe. The hand keeping him upright unconsciously clenched around Salvation’s grip, and he squeezed tight as he could.

  And as he did, he saw something he hadn’t expected. No longer was he in the Throne Room, but far away, in a chamber with walls of red stone and thin windows. He saw Liam standing in front of a bed when a Panpingese woman dressed in the red robes of a mystic arrived at the door.

  Torsten didn’t need to ask himself who she was. When he saw her, he knew. She didn’t only have Sora’s ears, but her cheeks and her nose, her lips—this was the ancient one, Sora Sumati. She clutched her stomach, and Liam’s eyes welled with tears.

  “You’re with child?” he asked as he slowly approached her. His voice cracked in a way unlike Torsten had ever heard from him.

  Smiling, she said, “I am.” Then, she took his shaking hand and pressed it against her belly.

  “Our child?”

  She nodded, and he threw his arms around her, and she, him. He squeezed her, letting his face be lost within her long, black hair. Torsten couldn’t remember even seeing Liam hug Oleander, let alone hold her like that. Like there was nobody else in the entire world. Like how Whitney held Sora before they joined a war he wouldn’t return from.

  They were in love. Truly, and purely, in love.

  “Torsten!” Lucindur yelped.

  He heard her salfio drop, and then she ran to him. She pulled his enchanted blindfold down over his eyes, and he searched the room, totally confused about how he wound up on the floor. She grasped his hand, and it stung, and when he looked down, he saw that his palm was cut, Salvation just an arm’s length away, a droplet of fresh blood on the broken edge.

  “I told you I shouldn’t play that song around so much pain and loss,” she said, quickly tearing off a piece of her sleeve and wrapping his hand. She pressed, and the blood seeped through. All Torsten could picture was Sora the blood mage after she’d cut her hand to throw fire.

  “I saw…” he stammered. “I saw… Liam?”

  “King Liam, that’s—“ Lucindur glanced down at Salvation. “That was his sword, wasn’t it? I’m so sorry, Torsten. Sometimes, if I play... unfocused, people around me feel the memories of those who’ve touched what they’re wearing or holding. It’s why I shouldn’t—“

  Torsten grasped her forearm, cutting her short. “She wasn’t like the others,” he said. “They were in love.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Sora’s parents. Liam. He loved her. A mystic, a foreigner, an enemy—he loved her.”

  Lucindur’s eyes went wide. “Wait, you know?”

  He nodded. “Sora isn’t a bastard at all. She was his.” He couldn’t believe the words coming out of his mouth, but all became so clear. He was wrong. Iam had purposefully put Sora in his path all those moons ago. And all this time, he’d thought her powers a curse, even as they saved him and Pantego time and time again. This was precisely where he was meant to be.

  Here, beside the throne, with a chance to right Liam’s wrong, just as Iam had given everything to right His. Liam had fought countless wars against the evil mystics, only to fall for one and realize she was human after all. And he took that secret to his grave. That awful, horrible secret which would have undermined everything he’d ever done in the name of Iam—that there could be peace with those who weren’t Iam’s children.

  It wasn’t illness that killed Liam, or a lifetime of poison from the Queen he didn’t love, like so many gossiped. It was that truth that broke him, that caused him to stop fighting until his body gave out. He’d lost the only person he’d ever loved and had hidden the miracle they’d created together. All because of his own pride.

  Torsten scrambled to his feet, accidentally knocking Lucindur back. He stopped, frantically turning to steady her, then continued across the throne room.

  “Torsten, what are you doing?” she asked, face wracked with concern.

  “I…” He stopped over her salfio, picked it up. “Thank you, Lucindur, for showing me what I must do. Never… ever stop playing this.” He returned the instrument to her before finally exiting the Throne Room, leaving her wearing a baffled expression and stumbling over words.

  LII

  The Mystic

  Sora sat at the edge of the docks, one of the few spots left intact. The whole of South Corner and Dockside looked like Winde Port all over again—far worse if she were honest. Ash blew on the air like snow, enough to make her throat sore. The Shesaitju were focused on cleaning out the inlet. Without many zhulong left to help, it was proving a grand undertaking.

  However, this time, at least, the locals helped them. A bond forged by the heat of battle helped them work together without fighting. Sure, she overheard bickering and a derogatory term thrown here and there between races, but it never escalated beyond that. Maybe they were all just too tired.

  Sora focused on the small fishing boats, finally dragging the wreckage of Babrak’s ship ashore. It’d taken a week just for the cleaning efforts to reach the middle of the inlet. The rowers moved slowly, timidly, as if disturbing the body of the wianu chained to its prow might, somehow, invite Nesilia back.

  It wouldn’t. The moment Whitney gave his life to send her to Nowhere, Sora felt it in her blood—that ever-looming, dark connection to the Goddess was gone. The nightmares, gone. She should’ve been relieved, and yet, the absence of that feeling chilled her more than its presence ever had. Because she also knew that Whitney was gone with her. Not banished to Elsewhere where she could pluck him out—gone… really gone, forever.

  She didn’t even have a chance to say goodbye. Just a distant view of his patented smirk through her tangled hair before he carried the Brike Stone into the wianu’s dreaded maw. If she’d only been stronger, maybe she could’ve reached him and helped him pry the stone loose to toss it in. Every moment she was awake, she replayed all the events of the battle in her mind, wondering where she could’ve slowed down and conserved her energy.

  Killing Freydis could’ve been simple, but instead, she absolutely destroyed her. Like the mystics of old, she allowed vengeance to rule her.

  Never again.

  She could’ve let others die in the Throne Room instead of shielding them all. Instead, she drained herself until all she could offer was a bridge for Whitney that he’d take straight to his doom.

  But she was no murderer, and to let those brave men die when she could have saved them…

  Her fists squeezed as the wreckage, and the monster along with it, slid up onto the narrow beach near the western jetty. Before she knew it, she found herself storming toward it.

  “Why!” she screamed, unleashing a fiery torrent upon all of it. People had to dive out of the way to escape her rage. The fire grew and grew, the heat stinging her cheeks. Parts of the ship were incinerated in an instant. She moved closer, every scream fueling the mystic blaze. The wianu’s thick flesh flaked away to black dust, as if it were made of darkness. It didn’t even have bones. It didn’t even stink like burning, rotten flesh should, which only made her angrier.

  “You promised to never leave me!”

  The fire grew and swirled into a whirlwind, enveloping her, but unable to harm her because it was part of her now. Nearby water flash-evaporated. Men throughout the district shouted, fearful that battle had come for them again. Sora didn’t relent.

  Then, a hand fell upon her shoulder. A hand that should’ve been melted in an instant.

  “A promise nobody could ever keep,” Mahraveh whispered in her ear.

  Hearing a familiar voice caused Sora to relent. The fire wisped away into embers, and she collapsed, exhausted from employing so much energy. Her knees banged o
n a hard surface where there used to be sand, and as the smoke settled, Sora realized that the entire coast had been turned to glass by the heat of her flames. A part of her still hoped that maybe Whitney’s body might appear once the wianu was gone, but the monster was nothing but a scorch mark now.

  “They want to keep the promise,” Mahraveh went on, moving in front of her and crouching to look Sora in the eye. “With all their heart, they do. But men cannot control the world, and neither can we.”

  “I wish I could,” Sora whimpered.

  “No, you don’t. Because then you would be exactly like Nesilia, and you are far from her.”

  “Am I?”

  Mahraveh held Sora by the shoulders, unfazed by the heat radiating off her, protected by her Caleef skin. “You are still here, aren’t you?”

  Sora sniveled, then wiped her nose with her wrist. Mahraveh helped her stand, her feet cracking the newly formed glass down to a layer of untouched sand.

  “I just don’t know who to be angry at anymore,” Sora said. “I didn’t even get to say goodbye.”

  “I know,” Mahraveh said, firmly. She had a way about her, not just consoling or desperate to make Sora feel better. She talked plainly, honestly. It was strangely comforting.

  “My father died across a desert,” she continued. “My oldest friend—a man I think I loved—died right in front of me by the hands of my own god. Saying goodbye would not have changed a thing. But the man you know you loved… the people here will call him a hero. They’ll form statues of him, name things for him—buildings, children, cities even. All you need to know is that he did it for you.”

  Mahraveh’s gaze swept across the battered harbor. She regarded the people helping, all of different types, her eyes freezing momentarily upon her second in command. Bit’rudam was busy herding zhulong to drag a bundle of rubble. He wore an eyepatch now, having lost his in the battle. The tiniest hint of a smile touched Mahraveh’s lips. Sora had no idea she even had the capacity for such an emotion.

  “Dying for each other, it’s what separates us,” Mahraveh said. “It was the strength of an afhem, and it will be the strength of all the Black Sands soon. I hold all the memories of the Caleef, and if just one of them were capable of what your Whitney was, we would have never lost our Kingdom to fear-mongers like Babrak.”

  “I hope you get it back,” Sora said.

  “From the mouth of a woman whose home village my father burned to the ground.” She patted Sora’s arm. “That is progress, no?”

  “Progress…” Sora laughed quietly. Mahraveh apparently saw that as the end to their conversation and went to walk by, but Sora clutched her wrist.

  “You were nearest to him at the end,” she said. “Did you hear what he said?”

  Mahraveh shook her head.

  Sora bit her lip, then nodded. “I almost wish you would have lied.” She’d tried to imagine it. How he’d said it was for her or something loving, but she knew Whitney. He probably looked Nesilia straight on and told her to go shog herself.

  “No, you don’t,” Mahraveh said. “My apologies, Sora, but I must go. There is much to be done before we return home, and there are many hundreds of Shesaitju prisoners we must decide what to do with, including their leader.”

  Mahi glanced down, and Sora followed her gaze before realizing she was still squeezing the Caleef’s wrist. Embers floated around her hand as her emotions fueled her power, but again, Mahraveh couldn’t feel the heat.

  “Oh, I’m so sorry.” Sora quickly let go.

  “Don’t be. But if you’d like to unleash some more anger, there is plenty of rubble that’d take up less room as glass or ash.” She tapped the glossy, flat surface beneath them with her toe, then hopped up to the docks.

  “Lady Mahraveh!” Sora called up to her. The Caleef looked back. “Enough people died here today. Show them mercy… if you can.”

  Mahi pursed her lips, then offered only a soft grunt before she continued. As she went, Sora couldn’t help but wonder what that beautiful young lady had been like before becoming Caleef. Would she be as unrecognizable as Sora would have been before the things Nesilia made her do?

  Sora sighed and turned, looking down at the glass she’d made incidentally. In the reflection, she looked the same as she always had, though she knew she wasn’t. Without Whitney now, she had no idea who the woman staring back up at her was.

  Talons poked along her back, then dug into her shoulder. Aquira looked at the charred mark where the wianu had been, then made a few soft chirps.

  “I know, Girl,” Sora said, scratching the wyvern under the chin. “I miss him, too.”

  That feeling was multiplied as she looked into her reptilian friend’s golden eyes. It hadn’t been long after her reunion with Whitney that she’d met Aquira. They’d been through so much, the three of them…

  Aquira purred and rubbed against the side of Sora’s head.

  “How is your wing feeling?” Sora extended the wyvern’s left wing, sewn together with stitches. She’d attempted to fix it but still couldn’t manage to summon forth the power of healing, like her anger bottled up that part of her.

  Aquira stretched out and flapped both wings twice, then squealed in pain, curling the injured one in.

  “I’m sorry, Girl,” Sora said. “But it’ll get better.”

  She thought, at that moment, she might be talking to herself. But would it? Would things ever truly get better?

  She looked up and across Dockside. She didn’t know the place. In fact, this had been her first time there. However, she knew it’d never look the same. The stacks and rows of wood shanties huddled between grand churches, it reminded her of the Panpingese District in Winde Port. Maybe it was better it would all change, just as her life would.

  “C’mon, Girl,” she said. “I can’t be here anymore.

  Every corner of Yarrington reminded her of Whitney, even though it was in shambles, and she’d only been there with him once. She stopped on the Royal Avenue, outside of a place that used to be a bar. She and Whitney had shared a drink there shortly after returning from the Webbed Woods. Now, she couldn’t even remember its name.

  If only she’d been stronger that day. She’d put the idea in his head of them going to Yaolin and learning who Sora really was. If they hadn’t, maybe she wouldn’t know the truth of her parentage, but she might still have him. They’d probably be in Westvale or somewhere Whitney loved, living like kings and queens, figuratively.

  She was so young and foolish then, with no idea that the only home she’d ever need was with him. Getting into trouble. Following his ridiculous, often contradictory code of conduct. Whitney was an enigma to himself and everyone around him, but she loved him for it.

  Stopping outside the tavern, she ran her hand along a charred railing. The place was unrecognizable but lucky enough to still have a ceiling. The Glass army now used it as a place to house wounded, with surgeons, monks, and sisters of Iam flowing in and out with water and medical equipment. There was barely enough to spare.

  All throughout Yarrington, she’d passed places like this. It couldn’t be hidden in the back of a war camp, or in a ghetto. Everyone, every survivor, had to bear witness to the horrors of war. And as the memories of Whitney drew her inside, so did she.

  That bar, the one where Sora and Whitney once shared that drink, was now lined with injured soldiers. Some groaned. Others were fast asleep. They were bandaged, missing limbs, everything.

  Aquira made a sad-sounding whistle.

  “I know,” she whispered as she continued in deeper. The floor was wet from blood, and the water used to wash it off. She kept going until she found a man she recognized. Sir Austun Mulliner, lay alone on a bedroll, shaking in his sleep. He had a deep gash through his gut, which was filled with herbs. The skin around it was angry red, irritated, and covered in pus. Sweat poured down his forehead and drenched his blood-stained clothing.

  “Sir Mulliner,” Sora whispered, kneeling beside him. She took his clammy hand.
He groaned and turned the other way as if he had no idea she was there.

  “Infection set in a few days ago,” a sister passing by, carrying a bucket of water, said. “I’m afraid it’s only a matter of time before he’s with Iam.”

  The sister continued on her way before Sora could turn and ask any more. From behind, she thought it looked like Bartholomew Darkings’ daughter, hard at work being a better person than her father could’ve ever dreamed of being.

  Sora looked back down, ran her hand across Sir Mulliner’s forehead. He was on fire. She moved her palm down to cover his wound, then closed her eyes and looked within. Her powers ignored her, and she knew why. The ability to heal couldn’t fight through rage, and that was all she felt.

  She opened her eyes. Aquira crawled down from her shoulder and stood across from Sir Mulliner’s broken body. The wyvern nuzzled against his neck.

  Drawing a deep breath, Sora tried again. She remembered how, just like Whitney… just like all of them, this man had given all he had to spare the realm from Nesilia. She recalled Whitney purposely forgetting the Shieldsman’s name, like he always used to.

  A small but genuine chuckle slipped through her lips, and with it, she felt a surge. Her fingertips crackled with energy as bluish smoke expanded over Sir Mulliner’s wound. First, the irritation became healthy skin, then the wound itself stitched over, layers of sinew and skin reforming one over the other.

  Sora held her breath as she drew on the power in her blood, and only when the wound closed did she breathe. She staggered back, her legs weak. Tears streamed down her cheeks. Of all her powers, healing had always taken the most out of her. It was as if she were bestowing her life-force into another.