An Elegy of Heroes

by K. S. Villoso

  He looked up at the sky.

  Sume extracted herself from Enosh’s arms and sat up on the bed. Despite the promised warmth of such an arrangement, she felt empty. Enosh’s words had done nothing to calm the restlessness she had been feeling for years.

  She placed her fingers on his face. It was easier to think about him when he slept. She didn’t get so distracted then, not with verbal sparring or trying to decipher the true meaning behind his words.

  Sapphire had asked her to compare—as if love was a choice for someone like her. Perhaps others—people like Enosh, who were surer of themselves and so full of conviction, could will their hearts to go where they wanted them to. Not her. She fell into love like a girl slipping from a riverbank. Her emotions raged around her like a surge of water, threatening to drown her.

  She struggled to gain perspective over everything.

  With Enosh’s help, Rosha could gain access to education that would help her control her connection to the agan. If she asked him, he would probably consider living as a family with them. That would make things easier for both her and her daughter. He was her father. She had learned over the years the things she was and wasn’t capable of.

  Was this what she wanted?

  Would it make her happy?

  When did these things ever matter?

  The empty feeling gnawed at her. She realized what it was. Carefully, she got up to get dressed. She left Enosh, still asleep, and went up to Rosha’s room to tell her the truth about her father. She turned the handle, pushing the door open.

  Her bed was empty.

  Interlude

  Rosha sees the boy wandering along the side garden and stops to observe him. In the dark, his skin glows a faint blue. He is playing with a leather ball. It hovers over his palms in a manner that seems to amuse him.

  “Hold on,” Rosha says, walking up to him. She wonders if the child is old enough to understand her. He is so little that the top of his head doesn’t reach past her chest. She taps the child on the shoulder. “You shouldn’t do that,” she says. “Using the agan like that is dangerous.”

  He looks at her, saying something in Gasparian. He turns around and continues manipulating the ball. This time, he lets it move along his arms before allowing it to rise, higher, into the air. A moment later, the glow disappears, and the ball drops back to the ground. The boy’s face tightens in a moment of concentration, but nothing happen.

  He starts to cry.

  Rosha stands there and stares at him. She has never dealt with younger children before and the outburst startles her. “Well, that’s nothing to cry about,” she says, in the midst of the boy’s wailing. “You’re not able to establish a proper channel yet, but that will come with time. Even so, you shouldn’t…”

  Big tears stream down the boy’s face. Rosha feels like leaving him behind, but part of her says she will probably feel bad about that. She looks around for an adult to take him off her hands. “Where’s your room?” she asks. “I’m supposed to get back to mine. Maybe I can help you out.”

  When the boy doesn’t respond, she tries to take a step sideways. The boy reaches out, grabbing her dress, his chubby hands digging into the fabric. He barks out a single, Gasparian word that she cannot understand. She tries to pry his fingers off her, but this only makes him more upset.

  “Look, we should find someone who’s supposed to be taking care of you. Where’s your mother? Maybe your father? A maidservant?” She tries to walk off. The boy clings to her.

  “There you are, Meiran,” a woman calls from the distance. She walks towards them. Rosha swings the boy towards her and is relieved when the woman picks him up.

  She looks at Rosha. She doesn’t smile. Rosha starts to walk away, but she clears her throat. “You’re that whore’s daughter, aren’t you?”

  Rosha doesn’t know how to respond to words like that. She stares at the woman. She is tall, dark-skinned, darker even than her father. Her black hair curls around her shoulders and she is wearing four small, golden earrings. Rosha thinks she is beautiful, except the scowl on her face taints it a little.

  She draws closer, still carrying the boy. He has now fallen surprisingly—almost eerily—quiet.

  “What was your father thinking, taking you and that peasant up here, where he can be considered nobility? I didn’t think he had K’an Mhagaza’s affinity for Jins. And to pick up the late k’an’s bed slave for his own…”

  She grabs Rosha’s shoulder with her free hand. Rosha slaps it away. The woman’s face tightens even further—a feat, in itself—and she reaches out to cup Rosha’s chin with her fingers instead.

  “Such a charming little girl,” the woman says. “Were you born out of wedlock or did your fool of a father marry your mother? I need to know how much stands in the way of my son’s inheritance.”

  “I don’t know what you’re saying,” Rosha replies, finding her voice. “My father’s in Cael. The man I’m with—”

  “They lied to you?” The woman’s face contorts in an expression that seems like amusement, although Rosha isn’t sure. “I wasn’t expecting that! But as far as I was told, your father is the man you came in here with. You even look like him, child.”

  “That’s not true.”

  She pushes Rosha away. Rosha feels blood and scratches on her jaw, but she is too frightened to check. “It’s not my business to convince you,” the woman says with a huff. “You’re a gnat, a pest. Your existence will be a complication for my son.”

  “I’ll stay out of his way,” Rosha says. She starts to flee. The woman grabs her again.

  Rosha throws a ball of fire at her. Not wanting to hurt the woman, she does it to frighten her, letting it fly past her head. The woman grabs her by the throat. “Oh, little child,” the woman says, her voice like a thousand pinpricks. “You merely had the misfortune of being Enosh Tar’elian’s firstborn. A pity.”

  Rosha, struggling to breathe, barely hears her words. She slides into blackness.

  Rosha looks at the girl, both younger and older than her. They are sitting on the deck of the stern of a ship, watching the waves of a sea of agan in the distance.

  The girl points in the distance. “Maybe you’ll know what to do,” she says.

  Rosha blinks, not realizing they are in the middle of a conversation. “Do what?” she asks.

  “About all of this.” She places a hand on Rosha’s head and then, very gently, touches her neck. The pulse of agan flowing from her feels like a blow to Rosha’s senses, although it doesn’t frighten her. It is almost refreshing. “It becomes too easy to get lost the longer you stay in the other side. You get caught up in all their petty ways. Look at what that woman did to you, and why.”

  Rosha cocks her head. “And maybe you’ve been here too long. When was the last time you crossed the fabric? Not everything there is petty. Going through it again—that’s the point, isn’t it? To set things aright? Start all over?”

  The girl sighs. “I can’t.”

  “Why can’t you?”

  “He’ll be alone.”

  Rosha feels the wind tugging at her. She places her hand against it. A thousand whispers rush by her. “They tell me that it’s his decision,” she says.

  The girl cracks a smile. “Of course it is. It changes nothing.”

  “What he’s done is…unnatural. It defies the natural order of things.”

  “Things defy the natural order of things all the time. You know how the fabric is in Herey, don’t you?”

  “Yes. How it’s choked around everything, so that if you die there, you never get out. I know. It’s awful. No matter what they say about their white sand beaches, never go there.”

  The girl smiles at her. “I can’t, anyway.”

  Rosha looks at her. “Why did you come to me?”

  “I met the wolf-woman on her way out. She tells me you are aware. More aware than anyone she has ever met.” The girl takes both of her hands. The agan spills from her and over Rosha’s palms. “You’re
with them right now. You can put a stop to this madness.”

  “How?”

  “You can put a stop to this madness.”

  She feels the words ringing. It is followed by pain that starts from the tip of her toes and all the way up to her head. Gasping, she reaches out, ignoring the sharp sensation running over her skin, and uses the wall to drag herself up.

  She is in a narrow room, not the same one she shared with her mother. She is not even sure it is meant to be a room—there is no window, which makes her think she was shoved into a closet. There is nothing but dirty rags and a bucket of water in the corner.

  Fear runs through her as the dream fades and the now sets in. The woman meant to kill her. She probably meant to hide her body, thinking she succeeded. She will return to dispose of her later. If she learns Rosha is still alive…

  Rosha resists the temptation to bang against the door. This will only attract attention, and the woman would not have hidden her where her mother or…or the others would hear. Stubbornly, she tries to put aside the woman’s words. They were spoken in scorn. Clearly, the boy is that man’s son, and she is acting out of envy. It happens all the time.

  She looks at the bucket. A thought occurs to her. It is a long shot, but…

  She draws on the agan and contacts Jarche. She tried with Arn the last time, but the boy took too long to respond and that man Enosh caught her before she could succeed. This time, there are no interruptions. Jarche’s weary face appeared on the surface.

  “Oh, my dear,” Jarche tells her. “We’ve been looking all over for you. You’ve been moving too much.”

  “Help me, Jarche,” she says. “Someone here wants to kill me.”

  “Who?”

  “I don’t know her. I’m trapped in a closet. She’s going to come back and learn I’m not dead yet. Please, Jarche—”

  There is a brief pause, and a flicker in the connection as Jarche reaches out for her. And then she feels warmth flooding her. The contrast of it overlaps her memories of the woman’s cruelty. You’re wrong, she thinks, remembering the girl across the fabric. It’s not all petty, and I think you know it.

  “I think I know where you are. I will be there, child,” Jarche whispers. The connection disappears.

  Rosha presses herself in the corner and waits.

  The woman’s assault left her weak. Rosha slips in and out of sleep easily, falling back into the fabric a second time. This time, the girl is again, and she wanders an empty field that seems to expand with her every step. A part of her desires to go further, but another part reminds her of what she is leaving behind.

  She hears someone calling to her. She opens her eyes in time to see the wall in front of her begin to quake. She hears a roar from the other side before a section of it crumbles.

  Rosha crawls through the hole, finding herself in another part of the garden. A large creature stands a few paces away. It is not-quite a dragon, with an enormous eye blinking above its massive jaws. It roars at her again, refusing to come nearer.

  A childhood memory flares. This thing…was a thing from her dreams. It chased her through fabric after fabric once. It killed Narani.

  “You’re Naijwa’s beast, aren’t you?” she asks. The thing whips it tail.

  She sees Jarche struggling on its back. Jarche kicks at it before scrambling down. She is holding a massive rope, agan-wrought, in her hands. The other end of it is attached to the creature.

  Jarche stumbles towards her. “I’m glad you’re safe,” she murmurs. “Come. Let’s go home. Arn is right behind me.”

  “What happened to you?” Rosha asks.

  Jarche places a hand on her face. It is streaked with dried blood, and she looks thin, as if she hasn’t eaten in days. She seems surprised that Rosha would notice. “I don’t know,” she says, smiling. “I’ve been…fighting it for days. I have little defense against it, save for the agan.”

  “After all you’ve taught me, Jarche, you should know better. Couldn’t Arn have done this? He’s a descendant of Farg, isn’t he? The Master told me.”

  Jarche gives her the sort of smile she likes to give when she thinks Rosha is talking too much. “Let’s go home,” she says.

  “Wait,” Rosha replies. Behind her, the creature shuffles, its single eye trailing her. She feels something tickle in the back of her mind, but she brushes it off. “You have to tell me something, Jarche. And you have to promise not to lie to me.”

  “Now?”

  “Yes, Jarche. I need to know.” She swallows. “Someone told me that my father isn’t Kefier. That this man, Enosh…”

  She doesn’t need to finish the words. She sees Jarche’s eyes widen and her mouth twitch. “I’m sorry,” Jarche whispers. “We did not mean for you to find out this way.” She takes a step towards Rosha.

  Rosha shakes her head, backing away. “Why did you all lie to me?”

  “It just never came up, Rosha. Kefier raised you since you were little. He’s Enosh’s—your real father’s—brother. It was at his insistence that we all wait for the right time to tell you.”

  “Is that supposed to make me feel better? That we’re at least related?” Her voice cracks. She is normally not given to such shows of emotion, but right now, she cannot help it.

  “We are not in the best position to discuss this, child. Let us go home first.”

  “Where is he? The man who claimed he was my father? Where’s Kefier?”

  “He’s at war, child. Up at Fort Oras. We’ve talked about this. He needs our help.”

  She knew that before all these. Suddenly, what she has to do becomes clear. She reaches for the rope, surprising Jarche with the swiftness of her movement. Before Jarche can react, she swings onto the creature’s back.

  “Rosha, no!”

  She envelopes herself with a cloak of agan. The creature, rebelling against her presence, takes to the air, attempting to throw her off. She pulls the agan-rope around it. Take me to my father, she blasts into its mind.

  The reply is low and sneering. Didn’t you hear? Your father’s right here.

  She tightens the rope. She tightens her grasp on the creature’s mind even further. Don’t test me. Take me to him now!

  There is a moment of protest. She feels the sharp blast of the wind as the creature smashes into a cloud, testing her resolve. She hangs on. The creature turns.

  Where to? it asks. The venom remains thick in its voice.

  She looks up. Somewhere, she feels a tug. She tries to recall everything her mother ever taught her about reading the stars and points to the west.

  The creature rushes forward in a blur of grey clouds and cold wind.

  Chapter Seventeen

  “Fuck this,” Kefier said, looking at the waiting Dageians.

  “Say it a little louder,” Caiso said. “Maybe they care about your opinion. Be all, ‘We’re so sorry, Commander, we’ll be out of your way in a moment.’”

  Kefier ignored him. “I won’t stand here and wait for them to kill us. I’ll at least take a few with me.”

  “Look around you. Everyone’s thinking the same thing and waiting for you to give the order. I don’t know how much longer we’ll last at this state, but it’s better than nothing.”

  Aden crossed his arms. “I wouldn’t mind that myself.”

  Kefier glanced at the men. They were all looking at him expectantly. Even Robaz, at the other end of the group, seemed harassed and unwilling to give his own opinion. If he told them to charge now, he would send them to their deaths.

  If I tell them to wait, we will die anyway.

  He looked at the wall.

  “Pull back,” he said.

  “Where the fuck to?” Caiso grabbed his collar.

  Kefier pushed him away, turning to the men. “As close to the wall as you can. It’s harder to shoot at us from that angle.”

  “And then what? Have you finally gone daft? Kefier, you—”

  Kefier twisted Caiso’s arm before he could hit him and pointed at the wa
ll. “Look at that, Caiso.”

  “It’s too dark to fucking see.”

  “Try harder.”

  Caiso blinked. “It’s a crack.”

  “The trebuchets made it. See how it’s big enough to fit a man?”

  “It’s all the way up there, Kefier. Are you suggesting we scamper up the rock, like monkeys? The last time I climbed a tree, I fell off! Aden, you have my permission to stick a knife into the Commander. I think he’s useless now.”

  “I’m not suggesting you climb it,” Kefier said. “I’m saying I will.”

  Caiso stared at him, shocked into silence by the absurdity of his suggestion. Kefier scratched his head and turned to Aden for help.

  “He is good at climbing,” Aden said. “I’ve seen him.”

  “We created enough cracks in that thing that I might be able to find handholds,” Kefier said.

  Caiso shook his head. “This is madness.”

  “It’s not my first choice for a plan either, but we don’t have much of a choice, do we? We can attack their foot soldiers in those trees, where we don’t have a lot of room to fight and they’ll just pick us off with their revolvers, or we can stay out here in the open. They don’t want to engage us—they know we’ve got the advantage in hand-to-hand combat. They’ll wait for the arrows to finish us off, but if we’re close to the wall, it will take a little longer. I’ll go in and unlock the gate. With any luck, it will be easier to do in the dark.”

  Kefier noticed the approving glances of the surrounding men. “Don’t bother trying to explain to him, Commander,” one of them said. “We’ll buy you time.”

  “Didn’t you hear his plan?” Caiso snarled. “Some of us will get shot.”

  “Screw you, Hafed. It’s your countrymen that did this,” the man snorted. “You got any better ideas?”

  “Go with our blessings, Commander,” Aden said, saluting. Kefier grabbed his arm, shaking it.