Realm of Ashes

by J. D. L. Rosell

  Though most of what I read discomforted me and gave me pause, one revelation comforted me. Again and again, Vusu spoke of being haunted by Famine — by his hunger, by his promises of power, by his thirst for violence and blood. I’d felt none of these things since my own attunement. It could mean only one thing.

  I wasn’t a Seed of Famine.

  The earlier suspicion I’d held loosened and relaxed inside me. Despite the heaviness of the rest of the words and the sleepless night, I almost felt light as closed the book’s fraying cover and sat up. Another Quintyr must have opened me to the Pyrthae. No matter who was responsible, it couldn’t be worse than the God of Hunger.

  As for the rest… I had to think over what I’d read and pick apart the words. Almost I could understand Vusu’s motivations, his purpose. What was written here, in a century-old book, both corroborated and undermined what I knew of Vusu.

  I pitied him.

  I shook my head of the strange feeling. There wasn’t a man in Telae less worthy of my pity. I rose from bed, a nervous vigor coursing through me. Sleep was impossible now, and I had a full day ahead of me. Despite all I’d learned, there were too many gaps in my understanding. The meeting with the Master Librarian might fill those in.

  Yet I could face anything now that I knew I was uncorrupted.

  Tucking the book protectively under my arm, I donned my cloak and, still in my clothes from the night before, quickly left the Aviary. I drifted along, nearly dizzy with the lack of sleep and food, but I didn’t stop take the time to stop. Answers were the sustenance I needed now.

  When I reached the Yorandu wing, I approached Komo’s door, where a different pair of guards now stood guard. At my request, one inquired within, then ushered me inside.

  Komo rose from a chair to stand with his hands clasped behind his back, a boy trying to appear a man. Heavy-lidded eyes and slumped shoulders told me he’d had as little sleep as myself. His advisor was nowhere to be seen.

  I bowed briefly and produced the book from beneath my cloak. “I read it last night.”

  “Then you have done more than I.” The boy tried on a smile that failed to reach his eyes. “I know the stories of the Unnamed, of course. But I’ve not received close instruction.”

  “Perhaps you’d like to.” I held out the book.

  The Heir hesitated before stepping forward to receive it. “Nkosi might want you to keep it,” he said dubiously.

  It struck me then how much of a child he still was. The pity that filled me cut with its sharp edges. Too closely it mirrored the guilt I felt for not being able to protect Linos.

  “You take it for now,” I said gently. “It’s safer here with you. If I want to read it again or Nkosi wants me to have it, I can always return.”

  Komo nodded wearily and turned to set it on the shelf in the corner. “Nkosi has already gone to the Conclave this morning, or so I have been told. I only just rose. If you wish to speak to him, perhaps you should seek him there.”

  I contemplated it briefly. “I’ll visit later. I don’t wish to be caught in the web of politics at the moment.”

  “A bit late for that.”

  “Far too late.”

  We shared a fleeting smile.

  “I’d better be on my way.” I bowed again. “But I’ll return this evening if you’re available.”

  “They have a walk planned for me in your Laurel Groves with the Despoina.” Komo tried to keep his voice composed, but dread seeped between his words. “But perhaps after.”

  “Just as long as it isn’t as late as last night’s meeting. I must sleep sometime.”

  His brow knit together. “Of course. Forgive me — you must sleep then.”

  I smiled. “Only teasing, Heir Komo. I doubt any of us will sleep much anymore.”

  The sun had crept into the sky by the time I left the Wreath grounds, its low angle casting the alleys in shadow. Despite my thoughts conspiring to distract my weary mind, I tried to keep watch. In daylight, I was safer out on the main streets, but nowhere was safe in Oedija these days.

  I made it to the Acadium without incident and went first to the Ward. Linos was much the same as when I’d visited the day before, still staring up at the ceiling. I didn’t venture close but sat in the corner of the room, watching him. Now more than ever I wished him to rise and flash me his mischievous grin, to give some sign I hadn’t completely failed him. I’d glimpsed the depth of Vusu’s madness and had some inkling of what he was capable. Fear for my brother grew further still as I wondered what he’d gone through.

  And why. Despite all I’d read, I still had no answer as to why both of my brothers had been targeted by Vusu. I wondered if I ever would.

  Leaving without disturbing him, I found my way to Tomes. My appointment with the Master Librarian wasn’t until that afternoon, but I knew I was getting close to finishing The Seeds of Famine, and was eager to be done with it, even if deciphering the ancient words sounded interminably tedious. Platon had learned to leave me to my studies as he wandered the great library, humming to himself and playing small games that he dashed aside at the slightest sound, fearing his master was coming down to chastise him.

  But if I’d feared the words would be dull, I was wrong. I hadn’t squinted long in the yellow light of the pyr lamps before my heart began to thump hard in my chest. A girl, Aika of the Green, had appeared before Agmon Brandheart, and proclaimed to be the Seed of Harvest he’d been looking for. Despite his doubts, Agmon sent her to the front lines to prove her worth against Famine.

  Then Clepsammia once again appeared before the First of Firsts, and made yet another revelation: that the First Wardens were all Seeds of Famine as well as of Tyurn Sky-Sea, Tyurn’s Gift corrupted even as it was given. But it was her next words that made my breath catch:

  The Hero of Man sank to his knees. ‘He will turn us to his cause. That is why he has not destroyed us.’

  Clepsammia did not hide her smile. ‘Perhaps. But this flaw cuts both ways. Famine does not stay away only to make you an ally. He cannot deny one born of his seed. Within your heart, Agmon Brandheart, lies the power to restrain a god.

  ‘But to restrain Famine, you must offer him something in kind. A sacrifice of spirit, or an offering of blood…’

  Blood pounded in my ears as I read the lines again. He cannot deny one born of his blood. Within your heart lies the power to restrain a god. They were true; I’d seen they were true. I’d wondered how Vusu was able to hold Famine to his will, and now I had the barest shadow of an answer. Being a Seed of Famine, it gave him the power to restrain the God of Hunger. Why and how that could be, I didn’t yet know. Eltris clearly thought she knew, believing Famine stayed of his own will, seeking to break into Telae. But now, I wondered if there wasn’t more to it.

  And Clepsammia’s last words — “But to restrain Famine, you must offer him something in kind. A sacrifice of spirit, or an offering of blood.” I had seen that, too, was true. At the Despoina’s trial, Vusu had cut Linos’ arm and spilled his blood and declared it a sacrifice for Famine. Then Famine had come, opening a path into the Pyrthae, and I’d followed.

  I leaned back and rubbed my eyes. If these things written in the ancient text were true, what else that it declared might be true? Had Tyurn Sky-Sea existed, and died to attune the First Wardens? And Clepsammia — did she exist as well? Had it truly been her I’d seen in the Pyrthae, who had protected me from Famine? Was it her who hounded the Despoina into madness? The Smile of Fate, Clepsammia’s smile was called. And so it had felt when I’d looked upon it, even when I’d not believed her to be more than a dream.

  And Harvest, and the Seeds of Harvest — this book said they could complete Famine. Could they be what we needed? But if that were true, if Aika of the Green were a Seed of Harvest, then why had Famine returned?

  My appointment drawing close, I bent back to the book and kept reading, hoping the answers would be in the text.

  The battle came, and Aika rode at the front of the army. S
he encountered Famine, and her called words to him burned into my mind:

  ‘Daemon! I offer you a chance to sate your ravenous desire! I will tame the hunger that commands you, if you but dare to come near!’

  Famine dove at the girl like a hawk at a mouse, his jaws opening wide. Agmon, staring inside his gaping maw, saw the end of all times within. He quailed and waited for the girl to be consumed.

  But Aika of the Green stood her ground. ‘Famine!’ she called again. ‘I offer myself as Sacrifice! My blood and my spirit are yours!’ And upon these words, she raised a knife white as bone, then plunged it through her own chest.

  Breathless, I continued on, seeking what her sacrifice would bring:

  But as Famine swooped down to accept the girl’s body, the ground suddenly trembled. A tree, as shining and brilliant as the sun, grew where none had stood before. As all stared in awe, they saw the God of Hunger plunge onto its branches.

  Famine screamed, and raged, and lashed his great serpentine body back and forth, but he could not break free of the white limbs thrust through him. Slowly, his movements grew sluggish; then he ceased to move at all.

  I scanned the words after, but little else was written. The Hunger War ended there. The land fell into ruin from the battles, and the people were forced into exile. They began a journey across the sea, led by their remaining gods, Clepsammia among them. And so my ancestors embarked on the Lighted Passage and came to found Oedija.

  I returned to Famine’s defeat, mulling over the words. Now that I’d reached the conclusion, instead of the elation of discovery, I found myself filled with vague disappointment. Perhaps these passages held clues to defeating Famine once more, but the answers it offered were riddled with holes. What was this “knife white as bone” with which Aika sacrificed herself? Why did a white tree grow in her place, and why did Famine die on its branches? And if Famine did die, if the Seed of Harvest did complete him, why had he returned?

  Scooting back my chair with a screech, I stood and began to pace. One question after another filtered through my mind, and one by one, they unfolded into fear. I didn’t push them away, but let each blossomed inside me. My chest felt full of them; my gut ached. My palms sweated with the effort of holding them in.

  Realization suddenly dawned on me. My locus — it ached in my gut, the Pyrthae’s energy filling me. Once again, I’d managed to channel when I least meant to.

  In a fit of abandon, I let it suffuse me, unable to release the soothing warmth. Radiance, I recognized it, as my head began to grow light, and the aches and pains of reaching faded to buzzing numbness.

  But as the energy urged me to draw more, begged it, the comfort drained away. I couldn’t channel; not radiance, not here. A thousand years or more of literature was housed in this library. All it would take was a stray ray of radiance for it to all go up in flames.

  Remember my training, I unclenched my fists and sat back in my chair, forcing myself to relax. My limbs went slack and heavy, and the muscles of my abdomen released. For a moment, nothing changed. Then slowly, ever so slowly, the warmth of radiance drained away, until at last my locus sealed itself shut again.

  A weary smile crept onto my face. I’d stopped myself from channeling.

  “First Finch Airene?”

  I startled, then relaxed as I saw the library’s boy coming cautiously down the hall. “You don’t have to use a title, Platon. Especially not one you made up.”

  The boy grinned. He knew me well enough to know I wouldn’t press my authority on him. I was glad for the familiarity, though it made me remember how ornery Linos had been at his age. My chest began to ache.

  “Sorry.” The unrepentant boy bowed mockingly and grinned even wider. “I thought maybe you’d want to go up. I think it’s time for the appointment.”

  I rubbed at my sore neck. “Has it been that long?”

  “Has to be! You were napping for a while.”

  “I wasn’t napping.”

  “Uh huh.” The boy rolled his eyes. “Anyway, it’s my job to get you there on time, or Master Hagne will be mad.”

  We ascended back to the main floor of the library. In the wake of the near accident, my questions upon finishing The Seeds of Famine had fled me, but as Platon prattled on and my weary legs mounted stair after endless stair, they found me again. At least I might soon have someone to discuss them with.

  Platon led me to the Master Librarian’s solar, a tiny room that seemed built from the wall as an afterthought. Entering within, I found the space crammed full of books. There was barely room for me to stand. A single pyr lamp hung above us, leaving the corners of the small solar in shadow. Master Hagne herself sat amidst the stacks, a hood pulled over her face. When it slipped back, I saw what Xaron had mercilessly poked fun at. Her skin was pocked with what looked like scales, and her eyes glittered yellow from the shadows like a sick animal. I kept my distance, hoping whatever ailment had struck her as a child was gone.

  As we began to haltingly converse, I quickly realized my hopes for the meeting were unfounded. Master Hagne dismissed my interest in legends and, speaking rapidly, tried to divert my interest to areas that held her concern more, particularly Qao Fu poetry of the eighth century, which, if she was to be believed, was the premiere art of any civilization that had existed. I nodded and agreed until I could work her back around to my own area of interest, each time in vain. If the woman knew anything of Famine, Harvest, and the rest of the story, she wasn’t likely to turn to the topic soon.

  But the meeting wasn’t entirely in vain. After the fifth time I turned back to the topic, the Master Librarian irritably suggested I go speak with the Master Historian, or as she put it, “that hack who pretends to know history.” I sensed a rivalry between the two, and hoped it was one-sided. If the Master Historian was as petty as this Acadian, a whole afternoon would be wasted.

  Thanking her, I beat a hasty retreat, only to be intercepted by Platon. “Well?” he asked eagerly. “Did she get you the answers you needed?”

  “Closer,” I hedged, not wanting to hurt the boy’s feelings. I gathered ascertaining a meeting with Master Hagne was no mean feat. “Thank you for all your help.”

  The pupil beamed. “I’ll see you tomorrow!”

  After I extracted directions from the boy, I made straight for the Master Historian. Acadian Helene — she allegedly didn’t like to use the title “master” — lived near the front of the Acadium in a square limestone house. Glancing up at the second-story windows, I glimpsed a head bent to work, and dared to hope she’d pause to admit a visitor.

  I wasn’t disappointed. After one of her apprentices had inquired upstairs, Acadian Helene came down to greet me. She was just past middle-aged, her black hair streaked with gray, a round face with plain features, and a smile that warmed me immediately.

  “First Verifier Airene, I understand?” she said with a respectful bow. “It’s a pleasure to welcome you.”

  “Thank you.” I bowed in return. “I was told you prefer to be called Acadian Helene?”

  “Just Helene is fine. Come. From what I’ve heard, you have some questions that may take long to answer.”

  Mystified, I followed her upstairs. Her solar was nearly as small as Master Hagne’s, but lacked the same cramped feeling. Where the librarian’s room had been dank and dark, Helene’s was light and airy, with open windows admitting a cool breeze. Books were neatly aligned on shelves except for two open on her desk. A pen and ink sat ready to be used, and a leaf of parchment was written halfway down.

  Helene requested tea from her apprentice, then sat us down in a corner opposite her desk. “Now. I’ll let you ask what it is you need.”

  “Thank you for your time, Helene.”

  “Not at all! My hand was just beginning to cramp, and I always smear the ink when I don’t let it rest.”

  I nodded, smiling in spite of my heavy thoughts. “You may have heard already, but I’m looking into legends surrounding Famine from before the Lighted Passage.” />
  “Yes, I did hear.” The Acadian studied me, a shrewd look in her eyes. “But why you’re pursuing it, I’m not yet certain.”

  Something stayed the admittance on my tongue. The historian seemed an open-minded woman, but I wasn’t sure if she’d take me seriously if I told her the truth. “A persistent curiosity, let’s say.”

  “An odd time for an odd curiosity.” Helene lightened her words with a smile. “Particularly for a First Verifier.”

  “Perhaps. Is it the wrong time to ask?”

  “Not at all. I wouldn’t discourage interest in history at any time. Please, ask your questions, and I’ll do my best to answer them.”

  I considered where to start. What would be the least likely to rouse derision? What did I most need to know? “How was Famine defeated before the Lighted Passage?”

  She tilted her head to the side, like a finch considering seed spread before it. “Defeated is not the word I would use — repressed is more like it. According to the writings we have — The Seeds of Famine being the foremost — the phenomenon our forebears labeled as ‘Famine’ was suppressed through the ritual of Sacrifice.”

  “Sacrifice?” I imagined Aika of the Green plunging the dagger into her chest. “What does it mean, to offer oneself as Sacrifice?”

  Helene smiled. “You speak as one familiar with the text. You’ve read The Seeds of Famine?”

  “I just finished it, actually.”

  “A persistent curiosity to carry you through all that cramped script! But to answer your question, no one truly knows what it means to be a Sacrifice. But as those who acted as Sacrifices were written thereafter as if dead, I believe it must involve suicide.”

  “It seemed that way with Aika of the Green.”

  “Ah, yes, the girl from the hills. It is a common motif in Oedijan stories, the ordinary child coming from nowhere and nothing to save the kingdom. I doubt The Seeds of Famine was the first to use it.”