Blood Requiem

by Christopher Husberg

  Jaila smiled half-heartedly at the joke, and Barain forced a laugh. Some people didn’t know real humor when it slapped them across the face.

  “Wastrider is a minor house,” Gainil said, waving his hand. “Is that the only report you’ve received?”

  “No, Your Majesty, there have been a few others, more or less the same.”

  Alain cleared his throat, an irritating tic the lad had developed. Gainil ignored his son. He had no tolerance for silly insecurities.

  He was definitely sweating now. If he’d been alone he would have shed his fur cloak. Why was it so hot? “And none of you have any idea what in Oblivion is happening? What might be causing these incidents?”

  Barain shrugged. “I still stand with the mass hallucination theory,” he said. “No other reasonable explanation.”

  Alain cleared his throat again.

  “Your Grace,” Captain Fedrick said, stepping forward.

  “Yes, Fedrick?”

  “We have all heard tell of the troubles surrounding the Rodenese throne. But there are… darker, mystical rumors abounding from the same quarters. Rumors about daemons.”

  “Fedrick, Fedrick. If you’re about to suggest these recent incidents are part of some daemonic curse, I might have to find a new captain.”

  “Of course not, Your Grace. I just wanted to… to make sure you were aware of the situation.”

  Gainil rolled his eyes. Was there no one in his entire kingdom that could tell him something useful?

  He looked over his shoulder. “Would someone put out that bloody fire? It’s like a furnace in here.” The fire did not look nearly large enough to be causing this much heat.

  “Father.”

  Gainil’s eyebrows rose as Alain stepped forward. “Yes, boy? You have something to say?”

  “I… I…”

  Of course the lad couldn’t get it out, whatever it was. “We haven’t got all day. Either say your piece or shut up and let the grown-ups talk.”

  Alain cleared his throat. “I suppose I’m trying to say that it might be worth listening to some of these anecdotes. To entertain the idea that they might be true.”

  Gainil slammed his fist onto the map table. He was pushing the boy, but at this point he didn’t care. If he had one of his supposed anxiety attacks again, so be it. “Alain, my boy, I give you opportunity after opportunity to show your quality, and you throw it away every time. Do you really think these rumors about people manipulating rivers and creeks to change their course, or causing miniature sand tornados, are true? Do you really believe that people have that capacity? We live in the real world, boy, not a fable.”

  “Father, I just—”

  “That’s the last I hear about it from you, boy. The next time you speak, it had better be something useful or insightful.” Alain’s eyes had stopped darting around the room, looking from person to person as they often did when he was nervous, and now the lad simply looked straight down at the ground.

  “Yes—”

  “Alain!” Gainil slammed his fist on the table again, and this time Alain looked up at him, met his eyes with a flash of anger. Good, Gainil thought. It’s about bloody—

  Gainil blinked. “Are those sparks in the air?” he asked. All around the Decision Room, orange and yellow flecks smoldered and crackled in the air.

  Then, Alain began to groan.

  “Boy, what in Oblivion is wrong with—”

  His son’s groan became a shout, and then a scream, and Gainil dove behind the table instinctively. Just as he did, a deafening shockwave of fire exploded through the room. The table shook, threatening to tear away from its bolted legs. Fire roared in the room, in tandem with Alain’s scream.

  Then, all was quiet.

  But only for a moment. Slowly, Gainil peeked out from behind the table, and saw his son lying on the ground, not moving. To one side of him, both Barain and Jaila were on fire, screaming, trying to beat the flames from their bodies. Their daughter, too, was alight and screaming, but Fedrick—more or less unscathed, comparatively—smothered the flames with his cloak.

  Goddess rising, Gainil thought to himself. Perhaps those rumors were true, after all.

  * * *

  In a time within time, and a place without form, two entities shone in silence. One emitted a deep, burning crimson, the color of fire and the color of blood entwined together. The other’s light glowed green, the green of a pine forest in winter and the green of an emerald jewel, multifaceted and shifting. Shadows darker than a moonless, starless sky danced within each of them.

  Samann stared at the deep red flame that had once been his eldest brother. He could not think of the last time he had seen Mefiston’s face. Millennia, at least. His brother’s hair had once been black, his features hard and angular, but Samann could recall nothing beyond that. Not that it mattered. It was a face Samann would never see again, just as he would never again see his own.

  “The others are late,” Samann said, his voice reverberating through a time within time.

  Mefiston said nothing.

  The two siblings had never gotten along, but Mefiston could have at least done something more than wait silently, burning. Mefiston already had one of the greatest powers of the Nine; fueled by rage, anger, and warfare, he was physically the most formidable of them all. Samann would gladly take on such powers instead of his own, were he given the chance. He certainly wouldn’t be so rude to his brothers, if that were the case.

  As Samann and Mefiston waited, their fiery lights slowly took distinct shape. Even in this form, Mefiston stood tall, his frame wide and imposing, contrasting sharply against Samann’s wiry build. Around them was nothing, and yet everything at once. Samann had learned to tune out the cacophonous blur, instead focusing on the space immediately around him. A space in which a new, yellow light began to take shape, marred by the same shadows that twisted within Mefiston and Samann himself.

  “Iblin,” Samann said, greeting his brother. “It’s about time.”

  The yellow light grew larger and larger. Mefiston was huge, but even he was not as massive as Iblin. Of course, while Mefiston was made of muscle, Iblin’s size was all in his girth.

  “Azael is not yet here?” Iblin asked.

  “He’ll make us wait. As he always does,” Mefiston replied.

  Another light appeared, blue this time. Luceraf.

  Before they could greet the new arrival, blackness engulfed them. Samann took a deep breath. As much as he hated being around Mefiston, he hated being around Azael even more. He was immune to his siblings’ influence, with the exception of Azael’s. Whenever Azael was around, Samann could not help but be afraid.

  “What’s the matter, little brother?” Mefiston laughed, the sound strained.

  Samann took satisfaction in the waver of Mefiston’s voice. Even the eldest of them could not fully withstand Azael’s influence.

  “Took you long enough,” Iblin whined, his voice high and reedy.

  Samann heard Iblin scream, but could see nothing through the darkness. Samann shivered. What had possessed Iblin to speak to Azael in such a way, he could not guess.

  Slowly, the blackness faded, and then Azael stood before them. Azael did not emit light like the rest of them, but swallowed it into himself, and the very shadows that writhed and twisted in Samann’s green form extended slowly out towards Azael, drawn by his presence.

  “Where are our other sisters?” Mefiston asked. “And where is our brother Hade?”

  “Hade made his move too early,” Azael said. “His avatar was defeated in Alizia.”

  Mefiston growled. “I told the fool he needed to wait.”

  You’d think the embodiment of death would have more patience, Samann thought. He said nothing, of course. His brothers would never tolerate him criticizing Hade, even if he was right.

  “You are sure it was just his avatar that was defeated?” Luceraf asked slowly.

  “I am sure,” Azael said, his voice hard. “Hade survived. But at least some
of the creatures that walk the Sfaera now know our avatars are vulnerable. We need to be careful. We must time our incarnations perfectly going forward.”

  Azael, not Hade, had been the first of them to lose an avatar. But Samann held his tongue, as he knew his other siblings would. Azael claimed the defeat had been part of his plan, but had yet to share exactly how it benefited them.

  “We should act quickly,” Mefiston said. “Nadir, too, has claimed an avatar. It cannot be long until she is discovered.”

  “You know the rules, Mefiston,” Azael said. “Hade cannot claim a new avatar until he has regenerated. That will take some time. And in order for us all to take our true forms in the Sfaera, we must first all have avatars.”

  After that, they would each enter the Sfaera through their respective avatars. The only thing that could stop them at that point was one of their avatars dying.

  “But Nadir—”

  “Nadir can handle herself. She has always been more subtle than Hade, and far more capable.”

  “Enough,” Luceraf said, her blue light burning brighter. “We did not come here to argue. What of Bazlamit and Estille?”

  Luceraf hadn’t secured an avatar yet, either, but Samann was not about to point that out. Iblin he could handle. Luceraf was another matter.

  “Estille continues her work in Triah,” Azael said. “Her avatar is actually affecting her populace. I will not distract her from that. And Bazlamit is close to securing her avatar. She has targeted someone of great importance, and could not be called away.”

  “And the Betrayer?” Mefiston asked.

  Silence reigned in a time within time. Only Mefiston would have the courage—or the stupidity—to broach this subject with Azael himself.

  “The Betrayer remains bound, though she still has influence. Bazlamit, if she is successful, will have some influence there. Luceraf, you are working in that area as well, are you not?”

  “I am,” Luceraf said. “I believe I am close.”

  “Good. Mefiston, you’re already infiltrating the Legion. If all goes according to plan, they will be deployed soon. Iblin, you are working in Cornasa?”

  “Yes,” the huge man said. His light had shaped itself into the monstrously fat figure that Samann had grown accustomed to seeing. While he had vague memories of Mefiston’s appearance, he could not recall how Iblin looked before the Betrayal, try as he might.

  “And I am moving south. I will soon have an avatar of my own once more.”

  “How long will it take for Hade to regain his strength?” Luceraf asked. “We each need to have an avatar claimed in order to physically enter the Sfaera.”

  “Focus on your own work,” Azael said. “Hade’s regeneration will be complete soon enough. That is why we have this place. In the meantime, it is time we awakened the Outsiders.”

  Samann perked up at that.

  “We can’t control them,” Iblin warned.

  “They’ll destroy,” Mefiston replied. “That’s all we need.”

  “You have enough of a following?” Samann asked. To bring in Outsiders to the Sfaera, they needed acolytes. You could not have one without the other.

  “I have enough to begin,” Azael said.

  Samann breathed a sigh of relief. At least Azael had answered him. As the youngest, Samann found himself ignored all too often.

  He could not doubt Azael, however. The Fear Lord had been the only one of the Nine to have any influence over the Sfaera over the past few millennia. All of the other siblings, Samann included, had been completely cut off after the Betrayal, until now.

  “I shall inform my acolytes,” Azael said. “I know just where to begin.”

  Samann could not see Azael’s face, only his dark outline, but he could swear his brother was smiling.

  PART I

  NEVER A RIGHT CHOICE

  1

  Pranna, northern Khale

  AS THE SUN ROSE on the port side, Winter could finally see Pranna’s Big Hill rising up from the gulf, familiar tiny outlines of buildings framed against the brightening sky. The hill was green—the snowmelt and rain had been kind this year—and reminded Winter of the many summers she’d spent sailing, returning to this same scene.

  With help from her telenic powers, the ship tacked to starboard. The Empress Radiant had been close-hauled all night, but Winter had gotten them through it, and seeing the familiar horizon of her home was worth the exhaustion in her limbs. Winter stood at the ship’s wheel while her invisible tendra stabilized the boom, took in the sails, and held lines as necessary. The simultaneous burn and chill of faltira flowed through her veins. The drug, more commonly known as frostfire, allowed Winter access to her telenic tendra—invisible extensions of herself that she could use to interact with any non-living object within range. In this case, almost every part of the Empress Radiant. Her traveling companions, Urstadt and Galce, helped when they could, but Winter found she could pilot the ship by herself quite easily, even through difficult maneuvers. She wished she could show her father the adeptness with which she controlled the ship.

  Truth be told, it felt good to use psimancy for something other than violence.

  Footsteps creaked on the deck behind her.

  “That is your home?” Urstadt asked as she walked up beside Winter.

  At the bow of the ship, Galce ran to the port rail just in time to empty his stomach into the waves. The tailor had not taken well to the sea, but it had been his choice to accompany her on the voyage from Izet. He had proven a passable sailor, with some training. And frequent breaks.

  If Galce struggled on the water, Urstadt took to it like someone born and raised there. The only conflict had been Urstadt’s armor; Winter had practically shouted the chainmail and plate off the former captain of the Izet emperor’s guard. Urstadt had finally given in to reason, but Winter had been shocked at how naked Urstadt looked in plain breeches and a long, loose tunic. Urstadt’s brown hair whipped around her face in the wind, her skin far more tanned than Winter would have thought beneath all the armor she had worn in Roden.

  “That was my home,” Winter responded, looking at Pranna. She was not sure she could call it home any longer. But it was the last place she had felt like a person rather than a weapon. She had returned to feel that again, if it was still possible. She hoped, once she saw The Swordsmith’s Daughter tied at the docks, once she saw Gord and Darrin and Eranda, that she would feel at home once more.

  * * *

  Her father’s boat was not at the docks. Perhaps Gord and the others had taken it out, although if that were the case she’d have hoped to have seen it on her way in. In fact, she’d purposefully navigated directly through The Swordsmith’s Daughter’s morning route.

  She, Urstadt, and Galce walked along the wooden docks towards the path that led up the Big Hill and into the town. Urstadt had changed back into her armor immediately after disembarking, her rose-gold barbut hanging from a strap at her waist. Galce had changed into a sharp, well-fitting suit— Winter was amazed at the amount of clothing he pulled out of his knapsack—while Winter wore her black, tight-fitting leather. She did not have a siara. She had not worn one for almost a year. She thought she had grown used to life without the large wrap of fabric nestled around her neck, but as she approached her old home she began to feel very exposed.

  An uneasy feeling grew within her. The excitement she’d felt in returning home shifted into a cold, dark fear.

  There was something else, too. Something she’d been putting off thinking about, but could no longer avoid.

  She would have to tell Lian’s parents what happened to him.

  While Igriss and Huro had always been kind enough, Winter had never felt the closeness with them that she felt with Darrin and Eranda, and Gord, and Lian himself for that matter. They spoke little, mostly keeping to themselves even among tiellans, and Lian was their only child.

  Winter had no idea what she would say to them now.

  “Reminds me of a place I once knew,” Gal
ce said. “In Andrinar.”

  “What village was that?” Winter asked. She had no knowledge of Andrinar, and Galce had been largely silent throughout their journey.

  A silence Galce was apparently intent on continuing. Winter did not push the issue.

  They crested the Big Hill together, Galce and Urstadt walking on either side of Winter. The town she saw did not look at all like the Pranna she remembered.

  It was larger, for one. Pranna had always clustered around one main road for as long as Winter remembered, but now two new roads ran parallel to the old one. Two new roads, and new buildings surrounding them both, along with the Cantic chapel where it had once stood alone on the western edge of Pranna.

  Winter reached into the pouch on her belt and pulled out a faltira crystal. Cova—Empress Cova, now—had granted her the remaining stash of the dead Emperor Daval’s faltira, almost two hundred crystals. A fortune. She tried to take them sparingly, every other day or so, but now she could not help herself, even though the high from the ship had only just faded. She swallowed a frost crystal as they turned east, toward the tiellan quarter. Fortunately, the tiellan quarter looked the same as ever—a narrow dirt path leading to a cluster of huts. Winter could see her own home, the hut she had shared with her father her entire life. She wondered who occupied it now.

  “Come on,” she said, nodding towards the huts. She shivered. Faltira’s fire already burned within her. “We’re going that way.”

  * * *

  Winter recognized a few faces as she walked through the town, but nobody acknowledged her, though there were plenty of people about. There never had been many tiellans in Pranna, and she couldn’t see any now. Grind the smith looked away as she passed his workshop. The man had once been a friend to her father, but had severed all contact years ago. A few merchants looked familiar, but they huddled together, engrossed in conversation. She even recognized a Cantic disciple as the very woman who had run away from the chaos at her wedding. The attack at the wedding had forced her new husband, Knot, to flee, and had sparked Winter’s own quest to find him. It seemed so long ago now. Winter yearned for the people in Pranna to recognize her, say hello, but she felt differently about the disciple. Winter was glad when the woman turned away, apparently engaged in business with the tanner.