by Sarah Hawke
“I apologize I was not able to introduce myself earlier,” the druid said. “My name is Selvhara, and I am always pleased to meet one of my Vaetharri cousins.”
Varassa’s lip twitched ever so slightly. “We abandoned that name long ago.”
“Ah…forgive me,” Selvhara said. “I did not mean to—”
“We are drow, and you are the outsider here, darthiir.” Varassa paused for a moment, her eyes and voice dripping with barely-concealed contempt, before she mustered an incredibly fraudulent smile. “The rivvil have always exhausted their short lives in petty squabbles for land or power, yet the mighty Sarodihm have not involved themselves in the struggles of the New World for a very long time. Has something changed?”
“The Shattering has drawn the eye of organizations across Varellon,” Selvhara said, trying her best to ignore the other woman’s seething animus. “The Sarodihm sent me to ensure that the power of the Fount is not misused.”
“I see. And to that end, you have allied yourself with the rivvil sorcerer.”
“Jorem and I share many goals, yes.”
“Yet you have not joined his harem,” Varassa said, her dark smile returning. “Or perhaps your skills were simply not up to the task. He is enjoying the companionship of his other females right now…”
Selvhara tried her best not to react. Varassa’s obvious racial animus seemed eerily out of place in an otherwise diverse settlement. Perhaps she was trying to goad Selvhara into revealing something…or perhaps Varassa was just a cunt. Either way, escaping this conversation seemed like the only reasonable plan.
“Jorem and the others fought bravely in the defense of Riverbend, and they deserve a chance to relax,” Selvhara said noncommittally. “Now, if you’ll excuse me…”
The dark elf reached out and snatched the druid’s wrist before she could turn. “This land holds many secrets that the rivvin will never understand,” Varassa said. “But you are Sarodihm, a keeper of the Old Ways.”
The druid paused and frowned. “I do not understand.”
Varassa slowly relaxed her grip. “Trueborn elves are rare in these lands, and knowledge often passes through the rivvin like grain through a sieve. If you are here to learn, then you should know that a great nexus of wisdom lurks beneath our feet.”
“What do you mean?”
“Our grand city of Vel’shannar was one of the first settlements on these shores a millennium ago. Its libraries contained an unparalleled archive of knowledge, both sorcerous and divine—something your order has always sought to collect and preserve, yes?”
“Yes, of course.”
“Then you will understand the current danger more than most,” Varassa said, her voice grave. “Vel’shannar was sealed several years ago when the Matron Mother and her daughters were struck down by an interloper. However, my new mistress recently discovered a means of reentering the city. If her reclamation efforts are not opposed, she will have access to an arsenal far beyond anything possessed by the meager rivvin kingdoms of the surface.”
Selvhara blinked in confusion. “Why are you telling me this?”
“Because you are Sarodihm. Because you carry trueborn blood.” Varassa glanced back at the spire. “And because not all shackles are worn upon the wrists.”
The druid frowned again. What was this woman trying to communicate, exactly? That she didn’t trust her own mistress? That she was closer to a slave than a handmaiden?
“The path into the city is clear enough, and there is a detailed map of the nearby tunnels within an abandoned cottage near the northeastern passage.” Varassa reached into her cleavage and withdrew a small silver pendant shaped like a spider. “Present this to any of my people, and they will aid you however they can.”
Selvhara shook her head. “I don’t—”
“We have already spoken too long,” Varassa said, pushing the druid’s fingers until they curled around the pendant. “Just remember that nothing here is as it seems. Gre’as wun oloth, abbil.”
With that, the dark elf woman vanished back into the shadows from whence she came. Selvhara stood there in place for a long moment, her hand still clasped around the pendant and her face still creased in confusion. She couldn’t deny that her interest had been piqued, however. Perhaps Jorem would understand the situation better. He had said many times that the Black Mistress was not to be trusted…
Taking a deep breath, Selvhara tucked the pendant into the folds of her robe and then slipped into one of the many long, shadow passages along the outskirts of the settlement. Whether she liked it or not, the One God needed to be apprised of her progress since Riverbend, and she found a small reservoir the drow had built to harness river water from the surface. The pool was clear and cool, and she could sense the faint Aetheric enchantment keeping the water pure.
She gently placed her fingertips atop the surface and reached out to the Aether. The water began rippling even as she remained still, and a moment later the visage of a golden-eyed man appeared before her.
“The sorcerer’s training continues, my lord,” Selvhara said. “The dragon’s blood already stirs within him. He may be even more powerful than we thought.”
“Good,” the One God said, his voice thundering in her ears. “You have done well to awaken him so quickly.”
“Unfortunately, the Conduit’s forces are already threatening the city. I do not know how long the defenders will be able to hold.”
“The outcome of the battle is irrelevant. The sorcerer will become strong enough to defeat her regardless.” The reflection’s golden eyes flickered as they studied her. “How will you proceed from here?”
“I…I am not entirely certain, my lord,” Selvhara admitted. “I fear the next step will be the most difficult. My understanding of the initial transformation is quite limited, and the people of these lands are thoroughly ignorant about their own history.”
“You assured me that your blood was the key,” the One God reminded her, his voice so cold she couldn’t help but shiver.
Selvhara nodded hastily. “I’ve no doubt it will help, my lord, but another opportunity has just presented itself.”
His golden eyes narrowed. “Explain.”
“There is an abandoned dark elven city here in the tunnels beneath Highwind, one whose magical arsenal may still be intact. It might be worth investigating to see if—”
“I care nothing for the Vaetharri savages or their magic,” the One God interrupted. “Sometimes I wonder if you have forgotten that you are no longer Sarodihm…”
“I-I have not forgotten, my lord,” Selvhara stammered as she gripped the edge of the pool to conceal her trembling fingers, “but this city was one of the first ever built by the original refugees from Varellon. Their archive—their library—may very well contain records from the late Avethian Empire. It is conceivable that we could discover information about draconic ascension and—”
“You have no guarantee that such information exists, and even if it does you could waste weeks or months searching for it,” the One God said. “I will not tolerate any more delays.”
“You won’t have to, my lord,” she assured him. “I will continue training the sorcerer, and he will be ready soon, I promise.”
His golden eyes flickered again as he reached through the Aether and into her mind. She had been able to hide things from him before, and she tried her best to wall off her true feelings and motives…
“I sense a kernel of doubt within you, my servant,” the One God said. “Perhaps you still do not understand what is at stake.”
“I understand, my lord,” Selvhara insisted. “Your return is all that stands between order and chaos. Your rebirth is the only thing that can save this world from total destruction.”
The pressure in Selvhara’s head began to build as he continued rummaging through her thoughts, and she had to brace herself against a boulder to keep from falling into the pool. She swore she could actually feel his fingers pressing through her temples and into her sk
ull…
“You speak the words, yet the conflict inside you remains,” he said. “Do you plan to betray me?”
“I would never betray you, my lord,” she pleaded. “You are the One God, the True God, the Only God…without your grace, I am nothing.”
“Yes, but perhaps it has been too long since you faced this broken world alone. Perhaps you need a reminder of what you truly are.”
“My lord, I don’t—argh!”
Selvhara collapsed onto her side as the Aether was brutally, violently ripped away from her. Her lungs froze, her muscles seized, and her blood…
Her blood burned.
“No,” she wheezed. “No, please!”
She glanced down at her hand just in time to watch her fingernails stretch into bestial claws. The moon-curse, freed from the bonds of her magic, flared to life inside her. Her heart thundered in her chest, and her mind slipped further away with each passing moment. Soon even the pain of the Wasting Echo became a distant memory. Unlike other Bound channelers, she could survive being severed from her Conduit.
It was everyone else who would be in danger.
“When you came to me, you were little more than a savage beast,” the One God said. “Do you remember how you begged me to save you? Do you remember how you begged me to grant you the smallest measure of control?”
“Y-yes, my lord,” Selvhara rasped, wincing as her muscles began snapping and twisting beneath her flesh. The hunger was already gnawing at her; in another minute, she wouldn’t be able to stop herself from rampaging through this settlement and butchering anything and everyone in her path…
“I gave you the power to save your people,” the One God said. “I gave you the power to save the world. And all I have ever asked in return is your obedience.”
“You have it, my lord,” Selvhara pleaded. “From now through eternity.”
When he didn’t reply, she feared that he might have actually left her. He had threatened to do so many times over the years, even when she had done everything he had asked. Perhaps he felt the need to reassert his power in his weakened state…or perhaps he simply enjoyed reminding her of the pact she had made. Regardless, she lived in constant fear that one day he might finally abandon her for real.
But mercifully, today was not that day.
“Submission is your salvation,” the One God’s voice said. “Never forget your place. Never forget your purpose.”
The Aether crashed over her again, and with its waves came the control she so desperately craved. Her mind settled, her heartbeat slowed, and she gradually stepped back from the savage abyss. The moon-curse seared through her blood, but it was no match for the power of the last true god.
“Thank you, my lord,” Selvhara breathed. “I will not fail you.”
“We shall see,” the One God said. “The sorcerer is not yet convinced of his own power, nor is he convinced of your importance. Both must change.”
It was a statement, not a question. He had seen into her mind, after all, and he knew what needed to be done.
“You will show him that you alone can give him the power to save his people,” the One God said. “Appeal to his vanity, stoke his pride, sate his lust…I don’t care if you have to spend every waking moment on your back or on your knees. You will give him anything and everything he needs. Do I make myself clear?”
Selvhara nodded at the reflection in the water. “Yes, my lord.”
“Good. Then do what must be done, my servant, and your debt to me will finally be repaid.”
“All hail the true god, the one god, the only god,” Selvhara said. “My lord Dathiel.”
The reflection faded, and she was once again alone. She had no idea how long she sat there staring at her willowy elven fingers, but all she could see were the bestial claws concealed beneath the skin. The dragon and his harem were right to fear her. Not just because she was a werewolf, but because she was a traitor.
She had betrayed her people, she had betrayed her friends, and soon enough she would betray Jorem as well. It was as much a part of her nature as her pointed ears or cursed blood. She had always done whatever it took to survive, even if it meant that everyone else had to die.
“Le’thos,” Selvhara hissed, smacking the water’s surface. As her own reflection melted into ripples, she stood and strode back into Darkwind. Destiny called, and as always she had no choice but to obey.
2
Divisions
“By the end of the month, there could be ten thousand Vorsalosian soldiers camped outside the city’s walls. By the end of this week, there could be a dozen more wyvern riders terrorizing the villages that are ostensibly under our protection. We are out of time and out of options.”
Constable Gerrard Mannick’s grizzled, baritone voice echoed through the council chambers. If this meeting had been open to the public like he had wanted, the crowd would have almost certainly howled their approval. Instead, the only response was the pounding of a heavy gauntlet on the table.
“There are always options,” Knight-Commander Crowe replied bitterly. “Call up your reserves and begin conscriptions first thing in the morning!”
“I have already called up everyone who has ever served in the Guard, including plenty of old men who barely have enough strength left to lift their rusty swords,” Mannick said. “And you already know there’s no point in conscripting the farmers in the streets. We don’t have the means to equip them…unless you want to crack open your vaults and finally share all the arms and armor the Silver Fist has been hoarding.”
Crowe scoffed. “We’re barely able to equip our own. In case you’ve forgotten, my men are out there on the front lines right now.”
“Your men are rotting in ditches or lying around the alleys trembling like lotus addicts,” Mannick said contemptuously. “The Silver Fist has failed in its sacred charge, and now all of Highwind is paying the price.”
“Enough!” Ranger-General Serrane Starwind growled. “We are all on the same side here. It’s time to start acting like it.”
Mannick and Crowe both glared at her, and Serrane was yet again reminded of just how much of an outsider she really was here. She was an elf among humans, a transplant among natives, and a sorcerer among those who had never touched the Aether—or who had just had their power stripped away from them.
She also wasn’t a particularly good politician and had never pretended otherwise. Most of the other councilors were far more interested in attending dinner parties and licking the boots of the nobility than actually doing their jobs. The only one she had ever truly respected was Highlord Kastrius, but now that he was gone…
“We have already heard and rejected your plan, General,” Mannick said. “Unless you have a new idea on how we can bolster our numbers, there’s nothing you can—”
“We don’t need a new idea, Constable,” Serrane protested. “What we need is time—time to plan, time to recruit, time to rebuild our defenses. The Inquisitrix knows this, and that’s precisely why she is pressing her attack so swiftly. We need to slow her advance, and the only way to do that is to take the offensive.”
“Are you barking mad?” Mannick asked. “We’re outnumbered at least five to one!”
“Which is precisely why sitting back and waiting here is suicide,” Serrane told him. “We faced the exact same choice back at Icewatch a month ago. The Roskarim badly outnumbered us, so we took the offensive and scattered their ranks before they could consolidate their forces. There’s no reason why we can’t employ the same tactics here.”
“Except that we’re not dealing with mindless barbarian savages anymore. Vorsalos has a well-trained, well-organized army. We can’t just—”
“Let her speak,” Commander Crowe said, lifting his gauntlet.
Mannick turned and glared at the other man. “What?”
“General Serrane and Knight-Captain Cassel almost single-handedly held off the Roskarim invasion,” Crowe said. “Without them, the northern plains would be completely overr
un. Vorsalos wouldn’t have even needed to send an army to conquer us. The least we can do is hear her out.”
Serrane offered the man a small, thankful nod. Crowe, like the rest of the knights, was suffering from the so-called “Wasting Echo,” a disease afflicting everyone who had once been tethered to the Aether. His skin was two shades paler than normal, and he grimaced every time he thought no one was looking. But he was still holding up better than most of his men, and at least he seemed to be taking his interim position on the Council seriously.
“We obviously can’t attack the Inquisitrix’s armies outright,” Serrane said. “All I’m suggesting is that we do what we can to slow them down. Their wyvern riders are the most pressing concern. If we can figure out where they are being bred—or where they are landing to resupply and recuperate—we could conceivably take away their biggest advantage.”
“My guardsmen aren’t trained or equipped for that kind of combat,” Mannick said.
“No, but my rangers are.”
“Your rangers have been completely stripped of their magic!”
“Not all of them,” Serrane said. “Many of my best fighters weren’t channelers. I could still assemble a small squad and—”
“If your best fighters leave our walls, it will be even easier for our enemy to attack,” Mannick said. “This is foolish. We cannot afford to send a single soldier beyond the gates.”
Serrane squeezed the edge of the table until her knuckles turned white. The obnoxious truth of the matter was that Mannick was one of the most popular men in the city these days despite—or rather, because of—his brutal curfews and draconian crackdowns. Under his watch the once beleaguered Highwind Guard had become the city’s first and last line of defense, and terror had driven the peasants and nobles alike into his corner.
A few weeks ago, Highlord Kastrius could have stood up to Mannick’s insidious demagoguery, but Crowe and the other surviving Silver Fist officers simply didn’t have the same clout. The people were convinced that the gods had abandoned them, and so far they seemed to be right.