by James Derry
And so soon the lands north of the Silent Sea were infested with the children of Nyfinein, and her offspring were often as unstable and as sinister as their mother. The witch had introduced a new sort of plague onto the land.
Many years later, a very wise man, an envoy for the Hinterland king, journeyed to the witch to ask a favor for his foolish master. Nyfinein had grown jaded with motherhood, although even at that time her belly was quite heavy with the weight of her latest pregnancy.
Again the witch asked her suppliant, “Do you know a way that I may gain power?”
“I do not,” the envoy said truthfully. “The world is a very large place. There must be many sources of power hidden in its farthest corners—many new wisdoms and distant secrets that are being kept from our provincial domain. Across the Silent Sea, I have heard that mighty, bejeweled cities flourish. The wizards there are learning new ways to make magic. New gods. New mysteries. There must be many great powers forming there, on the other side of the sea.”
“The other side of the sea?” The witch was curious.
The envoy inhaled deeply; then more words rushed from his mouth. “A wise man once told me that a person can learn very many things by traveling. That a journey can be its own reward. I think you should gain power by ranging far and wide.”
Nyfinein considered this in silence, and the envoy held his breath. At any moment the witch might decide to turn him into a pillar of salt, or a puddle of frog slime.
But after a while Nyfinein smiled at the man. “I like what you say. I have grown bored with this land, full of mist and moss. I would see what else the world has to offer.”
And just a few days later, the pregnant witch left the Hinterlands. The people were so pleased that they immediately overthrew their foolish king and placed the envoy on to the throne, where he ruled for many years in peace and prosperity. Nyfinein had finally left the Hinterlands.
Now she was the rest of the world’s problem.
***
The center of Albatherra was fairly compact. No other city-state had as many three-story buildings, and the high edifices (designed and constructed by the best architects in the world) had help to cut down on the sprawl that shaped other cities. After her long walk through the Reach, it seemed to take no time at all for Sygne to reach the outer perimeter of the Academy. She took a deep breath, and focused on clearing her mind. This time she assumed she would be recognized at the gate, and she was right.
A scholar’s assistant named Umar threw opened the portal and wrapped Sygne in a tight hug. The other attendee at the gate was a quiet scholar named Shen Qu. Umar and Qu we’re both about three years younger than Sygne; she had known both of them her entire life.
“I’m so glad to see you!” Umar cried.
Shen Qu was more terse. “What are you doing here?”
Sygne felt her face settle into a quiet, comfortable smile. She wasn’t immediately troubled by Qu’s tone. But she did catch a warning glance that Umar darted her way.
Shen Qu frowned. “I thought you were going off to save the world? Or have you already completed your mission?"
Sygne chuckled at herself. “I suppose the mission is still underway. That’s why I am here.” Unbidden, Sygne’s hand patted the pocketbook at her side and then rested there, both calling attention to it and creating a barrier of protection from further scrutiny.
At the sight of Sygne’s smile, Shen Qu seemed to grow angrier. “What does that even mean?”
Umar took Sygne’s arm. “Why don’t you come with me? There’s so much to talk about. Let’s go speak in private.”
The scholar’s assistant led her briskly toward the center of the campus, but Sygne leaned back and craned her neck to ask Shen Qu, “How is your mother?”
Umar winced and sucked in a sharp breath.
Shen Qu snarled. “Shen Yong is dead, Sygne. She died six months ago.”
“Dead? How?”
“She was old, for one thing,” Qu said. “Nearly sixty years old. And she had been on a steady decline… starting about two years ago.”
Sygne bit her lip. It had been two years ago that she had left the Academy on her mission to better the world. Shen Qu had told Sygne then that her sudden, rebellious departure would break her mother‘s heart. Sygne didn’t truly believe in such things. (She knew that the Shens didn’t believe in those things either.) But Shen Qu’s comment was meant to cut her, so its intent was more hurtful than its actual substance.
Shen Qu continued, “It may have been the chemicals she was experimenting with. All those esoteric dusts and vapors she inhaled over the years? I’m sure that those played a role as well. After she died, I sent out word to the borderlands to see if the news could reach you. I even postponed her funeral by three weeks—against my better judgment. I knew that Shen Yong would have wanted to be buried with her favorite daughter present. Unfortunately you were nowhere to be found.”
“Qu, I was not her favorite…”
“Okay! Let’s go!” Umar interrupted in an anxious sing-song. “I said there’s much to discuss. In private. Mentor Shen Qu? Would you monitor the gate while we are gone?”
Shen Qu nodded sourly. Sygne followed Umar in a slow-motion, timid stagger. When they were past the first row of dormitory apartments, she asked, “Shen Yong is dead?”
“I’m sorry you had to find out that way.” Umar shook his head.
“And Shen Qu is a Mentor now?”
“Well, an associate-mentor, actually. But I didn’t think that was the time to get hung up on semantics. Also I figured a little flattery couldn’t hurt. Qu’s head has swollen quite a bit, but not enough to nudge off the metaphorical chip on her shoulder.”
Sygne ran a hand over her face. “Oh, Umar. I can’t believe I wasn’t here when she passed.”
“Sygne, you don’t know… Shen Yong might have been grateful that you weren’t here. Many things have changed in the Academy in the last two years.” Umar’s eyes darted about, as if he thought someone was spying on them.
“What do you mean?”
“Let’s just say that the Academy has taken a new course. They’ve become more proactive.”
“Proactive?” Sygne asked. Objectively, this did not sound like a bad thing to her, but Umar’s tone told her that there was something sinister afoot.
They walked in awkward silence, and Sygne used the time to examine her old campus. Along the main avenue, the facades were all marble, with shallow, wide stairs and tall columns.
The two- and three-story buildings looked smaller than she remembered, the avenues between them more cramped. Then they were stepping out into the wide open space of the Academy’s Forum.
Despite the troubles of the day, Sygne couldn’t help but smile. The Forum—this recessed circle of raked sand—still seemed as venerable and as steadfast as Sygne had always remembered it. There was no shade here, no respite from the blazing illumination of the sun. The air seemed thicker within the bounds of the circle, and a thin, shin-high pall of dust hung over the sand. All of this created an ambiance of philosophical magic. Growing up in the Academy, it seemed that anything was possible with in the circumference of the Forum. The most iconoclastic ideas, the most revolutionary discoveries. Also the building of consensus and the setting of foundations on which a thousand years worth of civilization might be raised. The Forum was the closest thing Sygne had to a sacred place.
A portico stood on the far side of the circular space; two men waited there. Umar clutched Sygne’s arm. “Be careful, Sygne Eugenia. Remember what I said…”
He let go of her, and Sygne stepped into the circle alone. The other two men walked toward her. One was Mentor Abb Xyn. The other man wore an outrider’s hood. He swept it off his head as he swaggered across the sand.
It was Pawn.
The Demigod King stopped to nod magnanimously at Sygne. Her eyes drifted down to the gilded sword on his hip. Pawn had commissioned it after he’d become king. W
hat did he call the weapon? Something hideously bellicose. ‘Endbringer.’ That was it.
Umar’s words echoed in her head. ‘Be careful, Sygne Eugenia.’
She cleared her throat. “Your Majesty. I didn’t expect to see you here.”
“Why is that?” the sovereign asked.
Mentor Abb Xyn cleared his throat. He was a tall, bald man with a glossy black beard that flowed down his chest like a waterfall. “The Demigod King keeps a dormitory in the Academy. In fact he is now—”
Pawn raised his hand to silence the bearded sage. “I have not stopped learning, just because I am grown. I seem to remember a certain tutor who told me that would be a mistake.” He smiled at Sygne.
“That’s good,” Sygne said softly. Her eyes darted to the Mentor. Sygne now knew that Shen Yong was dead. Mentor Jabira had been out of sorts, living half-conscious in his sick bed for years, and Aristagra had died three years ago. That meant that Mentor Abb Xyn was one of the most senior, most esteemed Mentors left. Surely, he had to be a member of the Academy’s new Illuminated Triumvirate. As a Triumvir, Abb Xyn should have been standing shoulder to shoulder with the King; the leaders of the Academy were not supposed to defer to royalty, at least not within the bounds of the Academy walls. And yet, the bearded Mentor stood several paces behind the Demigod King.
“That young tutor… She also taught me to use what I learn to try and change the world.” Pawn nodded with theatrical coyness to Sygne. Abb Xyn turned his head, trying his best to not notice. The Demigod King’s adoration for Sygne—their relationship—was the most poorly kept secret in all of the Academy.
“Change the world?” Sygne asked. “I don’t think I said that… Not exactly.”
The Demigod King took another step forward and cupped Sygne’s cheek. “Sygne. What’s wrong? You’ve been acting strangely…”
Sygne started to shrug out of his hold. But he loomed in close and held her with both hands. She was tall, but he had always been a good bit taller. He leaned down to kiss her full on the lips. The shuffling of sand came from Abb Xyn’s direction; Sygne assumed he was backing away, head down.
Pawn was grinning when he released her. “I feel like we haven’t had a proper welcome, Sygne. There is so much I want to show you. So much that has changed. Come and let me show you what we’ve done in the Academy while you’ve been away.”
9 – Entreaties to the Demigod King
As they walked, King Pawn asked Jamal questions about his recent adventures with Sygne. Jamal felt both awkward and invigorated to have an alpha-protagonist show interest in his exploits, so Jamal babbled on about his adventures with Sygne in Tallasmanak.
As they reached the walls of the city proper, Pawn stopped and slapped Jamal heartily on the shoulder. The sovereign exclaimed, “To have found Tallasmanak out there in the shifting sands… and to have survived it! What are the odds of that? Very slim.”
“I suppose so, but with Sygne at my side…” Jamal felt himself going wistful. “…I feel like I can do anything. We are a good team. A great team. If there is a slim chance of getting something done, we can turn it into a fat chance.”
“Fat chance,” Pawn said. “Very good. She is a special woman. Isn’t she?”
“She is…” Jamal said. He realized this was a good opportunity to ask Pawn about Sygne’s mother, Nyfinein. But before he could ask, the Demigod King drew his sword, planted it in the dirt, and kneeled. “Do you mind if I meditate?”
“Uh. Of course.” For a moment, Jamal was dazzled by the beautiful weapon. He remembered, on just the previous night, he had assumed Pawn had stolen the sword. Now Jamal felt chastened by that thought. The sword was probably his divine birthright—some kind of gift from his goddess mother, or from some other ethereal benefactor.
Pawn rested his forehead on the gem in the sword’s pommel. Jamal had never seen anything to match its milky luster, but there was something familiar about its particular shade of blue. As the sovereign closed his eyes and concentrated, Jamal thought he saw the mineral gleam with silver and turquoise energies.
Two of the king’s men emerged from the gate, heavily armored and carrying spears. They waited for the Demigod King to open his eyes and stand. Finally, Pawn rose and sheathed his fine sword, and the two spearmen snapped into an even more rigid standing position.
Pawn nodded thoughtfully. “Did Sygne tell you that she and I were… lovers?”
Jamal merely shook his head. His throat was bone-dry, as if he were experiencing a drought of words.
“You seem surprised.”
“Not that surprised,” Jamal muttered to himself. “But apparently there was a lot she never told me.”
“I’m sure you understand, don’t you? Sygne is so uniquely… seductive. Wouldn’t you agree?”
“Um… She’s very special.”
“She is extraordinary,” Pawn said, “and brave.”
Jamal thought back to what he had seen of Sygne in the Academy, in his visions that he had stupidly decided to keep a secret. She had been diligent and dedicated to her studies, but he wasn’t sure that added up to being brave. But then again, he’d only had visions of Sygne up to the age of fifteen or so. Pawn had met her when she was seventeen.
The Demigod King continued, “Haven’t you heard her talk about wanting to change the world?”
“I have,” Jamal admitted. Both in real life and in his dreams.
Pawn’s eyes blazed, and he thumped his chest. “She was very inspiring to me. I thought, ‘If this young scholar, armed with nothing but her brain, is so determined to change the world, then how can I not try as well?’ After all, I have the blood of a deity running through my veins. And the might of an army at my back. Of course, I didn’t have the army back then—not right away—but I was already bending the wills of men to my cause.”
“You and Sygne… You were really lovers?”
“Are you asking if we consummated our love?” The Demigod King slanted his unibrow. “If we engaged in sexual congress? Made the beast with two backs?”
“Oh… Okay. Okay,” Jamal held up his hands in supplication. “Please stop.”
“The answer is yes. Often and vigorously.”
Jamal was painfully aware that the sovereign’s two sentries were standing close-by, hearing everything. Pawn saw that Jamal was studying them through the corner of his eye, and he waved the two spearmen away.
“Stand at ease,” Pawn said. “I will enter the city on my own. My friend will come with me.”
They left the guards behind and walked through the gates into the core of the city. Within moments, the streets flooded with Pawn’s admirers. The Demigod King was deluged with pleading calls for his attention.
Jamal was jostled side to side. The Demigod King stood head-and-shoulders taller than anyone else, and still Jamal lost sight of him among the crowd. Arms raised and waving. Children hoisted onto shoulders. Fine fabrics and rose petals and soft spikes of grain—all tossed into the air like confetti. Also women’s undergarments. It was mind-blowing to see a royal walk in such an exposed state among the rabble. But then again, this was the Demigod King. He was like a wolf sauntering through a flock of adoring sheep.
Jamal forced his way through the crush of bodies as they shouted out marriage proposals—or pleaded for favors, or for his ruling on minor grievances.
With the crowd piled up around him, King Pawn made his way to a massive stone statue of a manticore (probably a creature that Pawn had slain on one of his many excursions). Pawn hauled himself up onto the lion-monster’s broad back and shouted over the heads of the Albatherrans. “Jamal! Where did you get to?”
Jamal made his way to the statue. He jumped to grab the manticore’s segmented tail. He lifted himself with a chin-up, but still he couldn’t make himself look as graceful or as powerful as the Demigod King. Jamal swung and kicked one leg until he had hooked his heel onto the manticore’s hindquarters. With a grunt, he dragged himself upward. He could
feel the eyes of the crowd on him—envious, yet also unimpressed.
“Who’s that?” someone muttered.
“This is my fearless companion,” Pawn said.
“He’s not wearing a red shirt.” A withered hag in the crowd pointed spitefully at Jamal’s dusty traveling clothes. A flutter of alternating dread and macabre excitement passed through the crowd. If Pawn hadn’t figured out what it meant to be a redshirt, then his subjects certainly had.
The Demigod King held out his palm. “He is Jamal. The Singing Swordsman! The…” Pawn coughed and asked through the side of his mouth. “What were your other titles?”
Jamal stood straight and put a hand to the hilt of his sword—which was what Pawn was doing. “The… I…” Jamal cleared his throat and projected his voice. “I helped discover Tawr’s city of the dead. Call me the Groundbreaker of Tallasmanak!”
The crowd gasped. Then most of them cheered. Jamal felt his heart swell at the sound; he had no choice but to puff out his chest. Some in the audience did not cheer. They stared up at Jamal with their arms crossed, but the pure unadulterated envy simmering on their faces was honestly more thrilling than the background noise of exaltation. Jamal realized that this was why kings and emperors built balconies and podiums. The feeling of so many gazes trained upward—it was nearly intoxicating. Jamal glanced to the Demigod King, and Pawn nodded back. It was probably one of the top-five proudest moments of his life.
Suddenly the crowd twisted around two tussling men. The fighters’ growls and curses could be heard as the crowd fell silent.
“What is that?” Pawn called. The men stopped fighting immediately. They stood straight and dusted off the fronts of their tunics.
Jamal saw now that the two fighters were barely older than teenagers. One man took off his cap and clutched it to his chest in a display of reverence to the King. He pointed to the other man and exclaimed, “That man is a liar!”
