The Sunderlands

by Anastasia King

  “Keres,” She tugs on my shirt. “Do not anger them.”

  “I do not fear the Gods!” I throw my fist at the nothingness. “What more can they take from me when they already own my soul?” My pulse is bounding, and my hands sweat as adrenaline tightens up my voice and makes it airier. “Talk to me!”

  “Osira is our child as much as you are,” A disembodied voice storms all my senses and tinkles against my skin like rain drops.

  “Mrithyn,” I lose my breath and fall to my knees. “Father,” the Death Spirit purrs.

  Osira bows beside me.

  “Yes,” He replies. I know his voice from my own dreams. This feeling is all too familiar.

  “Their fear?” Osira asks.

  She pauses a moment, listening and nodding.

  “Yes, I will.”

  “Who are you talking to Osira? I can’t hear them?”

  “I will drink the bones,” She cries.

  “Osi, who is it? What are they saying?” I turn on my knees. Her eyes are normal. Big beautiful brown eyes like Katrielle’s were. Not scaled with blindness. Not here. She looks straight into mine, but her expression is wild.

  “I must drink the bones,” Osira says.

  “What do you hear? What kind of voice?”

  "Melodic and humbling.” She shivers. “I must drink the bones of what the people fear most. She commands it.”

  “How do you drink the bones?” I reach for her shoulders, but my hands stop. They’re different. Bone-white with long black claws. They fade as I stare and then disappear. I retract and try to clasp my hands together, but they’re gone. Talons and all.

  “What’s happening to me?!” I gasp and watch as darkness eats up my arms.

  “Go, Keres,” Mrithyn’s voice drips into my ear. “If you want to help Osira, you must kill the beast and bring its bones to her.”

  “I must drink the bones,” Osira mutters to herself. “Their fear. Drink it.”

  Osira fades from my Vision and I sense a presence looming over my shoulder. One final glance into her eyes and I see a reflection in them of a cloaked figure behind me with heavy black wings. The last thing I see is the reflection of my eyes in hers, glowing white as fire.

  I open my eyes. I’m back in the temple. Osira still writhes on the altar and my hand disconnects from the tree. Darius stands at my back as if he was prepared to catch me from falling.

  “She won’t wake up.” Dorian searches Osria’s face. “Her visions never persist this long. You were gone for almost an hour!”

  “Something is holding her inside.”

  “What did you see?” He whips his head around to me.

  “I heard Mrithyn. Osira heard another— maybe all of them. I don’t know, I only heard Mrithyn.”

  “What did Osira say? Who is holding her in the Other realm?” Dorian asks. “Was it Mrithyn?”

  “Not Mrithyn. A Goddess. She said she has to drink the bones of what the people fear most.”

  “How do you drink bones?” Darius asks.

  “I don’t know. Mrithyn told me that if I want to help her, I must kill the beast and bring its bones to her. She said she needed to drink them. What beast did he mean?”

  “He didn’t tell you? Why are the Gods always so fucking vague?” Darius shakes his head.

  Dorian’s jaw drops. “Wait here.” He leaves Osira’s side and Cesarus walks up to sniff at her as she twitches on the altar. She’s still muttering in the Divine tongue. He returns with a thick, dusty volume and opens it on the floor. He turns the weathered pages, scouring the scrawl.

  “What is that book?” I ask.

  “It is the Tome of Transcendants,” He licks his finger and turns the page, “I’ve read about Oracles in the past. Some many, many years ago, there was an Oracle who required a strange feeding to interpret visions and convey prophecies. Ah,” He points to a paragraph. “Here. The Oracle, Delphina, once requested ‘the sorrow of the trees for chewing.’ None knew how to acquire this for some time, until by the bravery and intuition of Ser Percival…” He hums over the text, “She required willow-tree leaves and bark that she would chew at the time of her visions. This seemed to aid in interpreting Enithura’s voice and prophecies. The Goddess of Life commanded her to eat and she ate, therefore, she knew…” He scans the rest of the page before looking up. “Drink bones of what the people fear most.”

  “The beast,” I add.

  “Queen Hero?” Darius asks.

  Both Dorian and I look at him and then at each other.

  “I hope not.” I think back to all the courtiers dressed as beasts of prey. Queen Hero, the lone huntress.

  “Queen Hero may be a mad woman, but her cruelty does not rigorously reach beyond her palace walls. She is neglectful of the realm and province. She plays with her pets at court. The people do not fear her in their homes where she does not see them, and they do not see her. They only grumble.” He stands and strokes his chin. “No, they fear something else.”

  “The Dalis?” Darius asks.

  “The Grizzly King Berlium!” I add.

  Dorian turns but doesn’t meet my eye as he rubs a callused hand over his face. The gesture makes me think of the masks the courtiers wear to the Pleasure Gardens.

  “Monsters,” I say. “People always fear monsters, whether they are Men or beast.”

  “Monsters.” Dorian looks up at me. “Monsters!” He claps his hands. “There is a monster! A true beast!”

  “I don’t know how that’s good news,” Darius stuffs his hands in his pockets.

  “Come with me.” Dorian runs from the temple. I cast a worried glance back at Osira and see she’s stilled. She is now pointing to the ceiling and talking to no one in this world. Darius and I follow Dorian down the aisle, through the heavy doors, and out to the temple steps. Dorian lifts his robe just past his ankles as he skips down the stairs and into the crowded road.

  “Hello! Good afternoon!” He tries to attract the attention of passersby.

  “Good morrow, Father.” A stout, hefty Elf inclines his head toward Dorian as he passes.

  “Wait!” Dorian reaches for his shoulder. “Trethermor! Have you any news of Trethermor?”

  Where have I heard that name before? The stout Elf stops and rubs his prickly chin, perusing his memory.

  “Trethermor? Ah! The glade,” He snaps his fingers. “Do you need a decoction? I highly recommend Mormont—”

  “No, no. I do not need Mormont’s brews, I need to know about Trethermor.”

  My mind snaps back to the Pleasure Gardens and the two masked courtiers discussing the “chamomile tea” Rydel told me was Faery Wine. They mentioned something about the glade too. And a beast.

  “Trethermor is lost. The beast in the parts has torn it up proper. Pity to see. And the Apostates are nowhere to be found. Gone missin’ which ain’t like them. Haven’t had the gall to turn my feet toward the glade for nigh on a week since the last full moon. But hey, don’t you go gettin’ no ideas, Old man— I mean Holy Father.” He holds up a handkerchief and dabs at the beads of sweat that have broken out across his brow. “It’s dangerous is all I mean. You best not be going into them parts alone is all I wanted to tell ye’.”

  “Yes, yes. Thank you, Child.” Dorian waves him away. “May the Gods go with you.”

  “And also with ye’!”

  Dorian rejoins Darius and I on the steps. “Trethermor is about seven miles east of here. It’s a large glade in the woods that mingle with the kingdom’s domain. Past the seven orchards. They say a beast has changed the face of the land there. You look like a warrior,” Dorian looks Darius up and down, ignoring my hunting leathers and weapons. “Slay the beast and bring back its bones.”

  “And the Apostates?” I ask.

  “If they’re still alive, they’re most likely not cohabiting with the monster. Forget them.”

  “And if they’re dead, Dorian?” I ask.

  “Then perform the rites, Coroner.”

  23. TWO ARROWS
<
br />   My hands have been itching for the bowstring. Thank the Gods I came to the temple dressed ready to prove what being the Coroner means: being a weapon. I’ll prove it in Trethermor Glade with Darius. It’s a small blessing to be alone with him. My hands have been itching for him as well.

  “The seven orchards. Each a mile across in every direction,” Darius extends his hand to my right. “We are going East.”

  “How do you know the distance?” I ask.

  “I’ve been reading this map of the kingdom since I last saw you.” He unfolds it and passes it to me. “This is where we will meet with Paragon Kade. Tonight.”

  I look up at him. The sunlight breaks through the clouds and glances off his great sword. A storm brews in his eyes and in the sky.

  “Together,” I say.

  He nods.

  “So, you’ve met Paragon Kade? Did he tell you anything?”

  “He refused to speak with me unless it was by appointment and in this place. I scouted it out after I met him. It’s a brothel.” At my raised eyebrow, he throws up his hands, “I left right away.”

  I roll my eyes. “Sets the right tone, doesn’t it? Is it not disrespectful to bring me, an heiress of the Mirrored Throne of Ro’Hale, into such a place?”

  “He’s the commander and I thought you hated being called a princess.”

  I smirk, “I do. How did he seem?”

  “Austere. Definitely someone we don’t want to piss off. What exactly do you plan on saying to him?”

  “Don’t know. Guess we can figure that out when we’re done here.”

  He nods again and looks at my weapons. “And how do you suggest we approach a monster we know nothing about?”

  “I suggest we approach quietly and gather as much information as we can about it first. Track where it lives, what it eats, how it moves. Just like any other beast.”

  “Well, I’ve never hunted animals.” He shrugs.

  My eyes bounce back to his. “How have you never hunted before? I mean, I know we don’t eat them so not everyone hunts, but where do you get hide or pelts for your clothing and armor?”

  “I inherited my armor from my father. Never had another piece crafted. Probably should. They fit fine, but they’re wearing.”

  I look at his leather breastplate, gauntlets, and greaves.

  “Fine quality, despite the wear. You must tell me more about your father sometime.” I give him the side eye. He knows I still want to know about his real name, Penance.

  “Will you use your bow or scythe?” He switches the topic.

  I hold up the bow.

  “Good. I don’t like little scythe.”

  “Why not?” I cover the blade with my free hand.

  “It’s not as sexy as you are.”

  I laugh. “And a bow is?”

  “A bow has curves.” He leans in and whispers in my ear. “It takes a skillful hand.”

  Alarms go off under my skin, up and down my arms and legs. I walk ahead, avoiding his nip at my ear.

  “True. But a scythe takes strength too.”

  He stalks me, watching my stride with hungry eyes.

  “Do you have any idea how strong you have to be to swipe a man’s head clean off his shoulders?” I ask.

  “Do you have any idea how strongly you’ve made me feel about you?” I don’t hear his footsteps anymore.

  I stop dead in my tracks.

  “Darius,” I say, not bothering to look back at him. “Can we just focus on the mission?” This can’t be how the conversation goes. Not like this, not here, not now.

  “If that’s what you want, Princess.”

  He picks up the pace and gets ahead of me. I catch up and grab his arm.

  “Don’t call me that.”

  “How about I call you, Mrs. Prycell? Do you take on your husband’s family name or do you keep your own because of your royal heritage?”

  I feel my blood starting to boil.

  “My name is Keres. You don’t get to call me by anything other than Keres!” I stomp my foot and yank his arm, so he stops. “My identity is not my royalty, family traditions, or marriage. Not my power. Not my God. Not anyone’s sick claim on me. I’m no one’s princess. I’m Keres!”

  He tilts his head and watches me fume.

  “Okay, killer.” He pulls free of my grip. I set my jaw and glare at him. That will have to be enough. It’s more honest than ‘princess.’

  We make headway through the orchards quickly with very few words between us, and we reach the edge of the glade as the sun sets. The apple trees look as if they’ve been set on fire, with dramatic orange and red leaves that have started to decorate the long, wild grass. The air smells of sugar. Sweet and heady like Lilacs or honey or wine. Oddly enough, not like apples. I remember the apple pies Lysandra would bake. Katrielle and I would dig our fingers into them and eat them with our hands. Absolute slobs.

  When we reach the glade, he takes a deep breath through his nose and looks around. “Smell that? What a horrible stench.”

  “What? I smell something sugar-sweet… and the air thicker here,” I wipe a finger across my forearm and feel the moist sheen building on my skin.

  He covers his mouth and nose with his hand. “Rotting corpses. That’s what I was leaning toward.”

  I scan the territory. I don’t sense anything.

  Trees have been uprooted and drained of life. They’re withered; their roots matted and jutting out of the soil. They lean back with their arms up as if in surrender to whatever the creature’s done to them. Their leaves all fell with the change of season. But there’re no piles of rich auburn flakes around. They’re gone. Only the skeletons of the trees remain.

  There’s a dilapidated house; its wood and stone are blackened and eroded. Its thatched roof is collapsed and frays over the stone walls. Broken stairs cling to the walls, reaching for the front door. Toppled wooden chairs litter the front yard. It’s past redemption.

  “The Apostates?” Darius asks. I shrug.

  The soil itself is dusty and lacks moisture. A gray haze has settled on the glade, turning the sunshine ashen. The beast has sapped all color and sign of life from Trethermor. I imagine it was once an enchanting place.

  A faint gnawing or digging sound reaches my ears. The ground is vibrating, churning with movement deep below our bare feet.

  “Do you feel that?”

  “Yes.”

  The thrumming beneath the earth grows louder and more frantic with every step I take into the wasteland. As I walk further into the glade, the smell of honeyed wine mingles with a noxious odor that seeps into the edges of my senses. My head starts to hurt, and I feel the need to cough. “Oh, is that what you smelled?” I cover my nose too.

  “Keres,” Darius coughs into his elbow.

  He just called me Keres. I find him bent over, leaning on his knees and hyperventilating. The odorous fog hangs on his shoulders, blurring him from my view.

  “The air!” I shout, starting to feel dizzy. My breathing is still easy even though I’m farther in than him. I run back and pick him up by the shoulders. His lips are blue. Katrielle, suffocating as her lungs filled with blood, flashes into my head.

  “Move!” I push him back toward the orchards. He coughs violently and stumbles backward as I push him.

  “I can’t carry you, Darius. You have to get out of here.”

  He opens his mouth to speak but coughs up blood instead.

  I rip my shawl from my shoulders and throw it over his head.

  “I’ve got you— follow!” I grab his arm and run, half-dragging him as he struggles for breath. His lack of air is weakening him. How am I still breathing fine if it’s hurting him?

  We break through the mist and launch straight into the orchards. He keels over on his hands and knees and hacks up phlegm and blood. I rub his back, kneeling next to him. The fresh air is a stark difference to the haze oppressing the glade.

  “Just breathe,” I whisper as my hands tremble on his back. I don’t know what
to do.

  He wipes his mouth and shifts to sit, wiping a drop of blood from his mouth. His coughing subsides and I offer him water from my calfskin canteen. He sips, swishes the water, and spits out the last of the blood in his mouth.

  “Well, this will be harder than I thought,” He says.

  “I still hear it.” I turn and squint my eyes at the fog, listening for that unrest beneath the ruined soil. It’s moving toward us.

  I leave Darius on the ground and run back into the hazy glade. “Stay here.”

  “Hear what? Keres, don’t!”

  The sound is closer to the surface now. And angrier. It can only be the monster. It’s underground. I can feel it. I can hear hearts beating. There are either seven monsters or it has seven hearts. I feel every pulse. I hear its joints clicking and bending as it crawls beneath me. Planting my feet in the dirt, I dig my toes into the ashy soil and close my eyes. I can hear it’s every crackling breath. Its many legs drum into the earth, digging, moving pounds of earth with every step. I feel the ground crumbling open for it. I hear it boring tunnels in zig-zag patterns.

  I stomp my foot. It stops. Whatever this thing is, it needs to die. If this thing reached the villages or moved on to my clans…. Gooseflesh breaks out over my arms and every hair on my body rises.

  I stomp my foot twice. As if I’m knocking on its door. Come out to play. Stomp. Stomp. Stomp. It’s listening too. What curious little snack has wandered into its lair?

  Me. Death incarnate.

  I crouch down to listen. It scurries through the dirt; heart rates quickening. It’s wild with curiosity at my taunt. I start stomping around in circles as I nock an arrow to my bow and ready myself for it to come breaking through the ground.

  I dance my monster-summoning dance, pounding my feet into the earth. “Here, beasty, beasty!”

  I’ve never hunted a monster that wasn’t Human before. I’m sweating with anticipation. It heightens all my predator senses. It’s coming to make me its prey. The Death Spirit isn’t roiling within me, begging for control. It’s quiet and that perturbs me. Does it fear the beast?

  I don’t want to hand the reins over to my Other half in a fight like this. I wouldn’t want to miss out; numb to the wonder and terror of risking my life in a battle unlike any other I’ve faced.