The Nesilia's War Trilogy: (Buried Goddess Saga Box Set: Books 4-6)

by Rhett C. Bruno

  Aquira made a clicking noise and slowly shook her head. Her double set of eyelids blinked closed, and she hung her head.

  Whitney’s chin sank to his chest as well. “We’ll find her, girl,” he said. “I promise we will. She has to be there still. It’s all she wanted.”

  A moment later, Gentry returned grasping a large bucket with both hands, staggering with every step. Water cascaded over the sides as it swung between his wide-spread legs.

  “Put it down over there,” Whitney directed, voice cracking. Thinking about Sora took him to dark places.

  Still wearing gloves, Whitney carried a squirming Aquira to the bucket. She nipped at his hand but didn’t bite down.

  “You’ve gotta cool down, Aquira,” he said. “If we’re going to carry you, you… can’t… be… so…” He fought with her and then finally, a sizzle of steam lifted from the bucket as she splashed in.. “There you are.”

  She flopped around until the bucket overturned, and she crawled out, still using only one front leg. Gentry bent and scooped her up, and they set off toward the Five Round Trousers.

  “Why don’t you take Aquira upstairs and get some rest,” Whitney told Gentry when they stood before the inn. “I’m going to help square things away out here for a bit so we can get moving.” That had been the last thing on Whitney’s mind. Everyone needed a rest. But Aquira reminded him of the only reason he was traveling in the first place: to reach Panping and find Sora. There’d been enough distractions and playing hero.

  “Whitney!” Lucindur called, walking toward him. “They found her.”

  Whitney bit his lip in frustration and thought, Another distraction. Out loud he said, “She okay?” wondering why he cared about a woman so vile in the first place.

  “Let’s just say the Drav Cra are no respecters of persons.”

  “What does that mean?” Whitney asked.

  “She was ravaged and left for dead. She’s still alive. Barely.”

  “Where is she?”

  Lucindur led Whitney to a house with high grass where a garden once was. They passed one of the fortunate townsmen on the way through the front door. “She’s upstairs,” he said.

  “Thanks, Jahn,” she said, and the man waved and gave a solemn smile. The whole scene reminded Whitney of his time in Elsewhere when his father, Rocco, was gravely injured.

  Upstairs, Modera laid in a bed with blankets up to her neck, shivering. Her eyes were barely open, but she said, “Whitney Fierstown.”

  “Modera Pompare,” he said, not knowing what else to. He and Lucindur started walking into her room, but Modera stopped them.

  “Not her,” she said. “Just you.”

  Whitney turned to Lucindur, ready to argue for her, but Lucindur put up a hand and turned back into the hall.

  “You’re going to be fine,” Whitney said to Modera after closing the door.

  “Don’t be such an idiot,” she replied. “I am dying.”

  Whitney was taken aback by the honesty.

  “I need you to do something for me…” she went on.

  Whitney leaned in. “What?”

  “Care for Gentry,” she said. Then she pointed at the door behind which Lucindur would’ve been. “Not her. Not Franny. No one but you. Do you understand?”

  “I…”

  “Are you stupid? It’s simple,” Modera said with such vigor Whitney questioned how injured the woman even was.

  “Fine. Yes. I’ll care for the boy. Why?”

  “Because he’s a fly-in-the-clouds fool and needs to learn how the world works, but he’s our youngest, and a troupe is only as strong as its weakest member. Even if our illustrious Pompare Troupe is dead.”

  “He’s not weak.”

  Modera blew a raspberry. “Teach him all that you know. The boy is quick, just blind to the realities of the world in which we live. Whatever you are, Whitney Fierstown, one thing you aren’t is naive.”

  “I suppose… Yeah,” Whitney said, puffing out his chest. “I suppose that’s true.”

  Whitney thought about the life Gentry could have. Free of this troupe and the money-hungry control freaks who ran it, he could really soar.

  “He deserves better,” Whitney whispered.

  “No need to insult,” Modera said. “Besides, not everyone is made for greatness, Fierstown. Just give the kid the tools he needs to survive. It’s not like he’s going to be one of the swinlars of Glinthaven. He likes you. Gods know why. He likes you.”

  Whitney reached for Modera’s hand. The woman shoved it away.

  “Just because I’m dying doesn’t mean I like you any better,” she said. “Now, get the yig out of here and let me die in peace.”

  Whitney backed away a few steps before turning toward the door.

  “Fierstown,” Modera said.

  Whitney turned back.

  “Give my husband a proper burial?”

  “Both of you,” Whitney said, then returned to the hallway with Lucindur.

  As the door shut behind him, he heard a sound downstairs like glasses clinking.

  “Lucindur?” Whitney called.

  “Come here,” she replied.

  Whitney raced downstairs, expecting trouble. Instead, he found her in the kitchen going through the cabinets. “Have a drink with me?” she asked.

  “Do we have time for that?” Whitney said.

  “The caravans are still being prepared. What can we do? There’s some fine Breklian brandy here, and it shouldn’t go to waste. Come. Sit.”

  Whitney glanced through the window at the busy members of the troupe passing by. He sighed. “A drink sounds perfect, but if anyone asks, you used your magical wiles to trick me.”

  Lucindur slid a short glass over and sat down opposite him.

  “She told you to take Gentry with you, didn’t she?” Lucindur asked.

  Whitney was stunned. “How did you…”

  “It wasn’t magic if that’s what you’re thinking.” She laughed. “Truth is, before you showed up, Gentry was different. He rarely spoke. Hardly ever came out of his tent. Then you and that wyvern showed up, and it was like new life blossomed in his chest. None of us speaks of it for fear of bringing attention to it and him reverting. She’s right, they may have taken him in, tried to treat him as a son, but Gentry should be with you. Perhaps it’s you who has the magic.”

  Whitney took a sip of the brandy. “Iam’s shog, this is good.”

  “Nothing in the world like Breklian brandy,” Lucindur agreed. She cleared her throat. “So, you’ll do it? Take him with you to Panping, and wherever your quest for Sora leads you next?”

  “I don’t know,” Whitney said. “He’s a kid. I don’t know what I’m doing with a kid.”

  “You don’t know what you’re doing with a wyvern either. Think of it as having a caretaker for your little reptilian friend.”

  “I can barely keep myself alive.” He took another sip. “Panping… I don’t even know if Sora is there. This could be a giant waste of time.”

  “If I have learned anything in this troupe, it is that we are all stronger together. No matter who we are.”

  “Only when you have a silver-tongued hero like me to save your skins,” Whitney said, smirking.

  Lucindur chuckled. “Do you remember what we discussed the other night?” she asked.

  Whitney squinted, thinking. Then a light went on in his brain, but it died just as quickly. “But you said you couldn’t locate Sora in the… what did you call it… the Red Tower?”

  “I said it would be difficult, but not impossible. And while I wish you could remain with us as we try to revive this troupe, I owe you all the help I can offer in your quest.” Lucindur downed her drink, winced from the taste, then slammed the glass down. Whitney couldn’t help but be impressed by her style. “Now, do you have anything that belongs to Sora?”

  It wasn’t the first time Whitney had been asked that, and it saddened him knowing he had nothing. “No.”

  “Nothing? Are you sure?
Nothing she touched or carried?”

  “Shog and spit. Aquira!” Whitney said, standing from the table.

  “There you go,” Lucindur said. “With Aquira, we might be able to find her.”

  “I’ll go get her now,” Whitney threw back the glass of brandy and started toward the door until Lucindur stopped him.

  “No, not now,” she said. “Later. After everyone is asleep, bring her to the cemetery.”

  “What, will we be communing with the dead? Ghosts. I don’t like ghosts.”

  Lucindur smiled warmly. “No, we just need somewhere wide open where we can be alone. Under the stars.”

  “If I didn’t know any better, I’d think I’d figured out where Talwyn got her aggressive nature.”

  “What’s the saying? ‘The apple doesn’t fall far…’ But no, don’t flatter yourself, Fierstown. I prefer my men dark and brooding.”

  “I think I know just the man for you,” Whitney said. “We should get back. I’ll bet Franny’s cooked up something nice. Maybe you could play a little bit for everyone. Get their spirits up?”

  “No, I’ll need to save my strength for this evening if I’m going to have any chance of finding your friend,” she said. “It’s been a long time since I attempted a lightmancing this complicated. Perhaps too long. We should both get some rest. Come see me when Celeste reaches her zenith.”

  “I don’t know how to repay you,” Whitney said.

  “We’ll think of something.”

  XXXIX

  THE DAUGHTER

  Mahi’s face was cold stone as she stared across the Boiling Waters. Little droplets of rain pinged against her bare arms. She was cold but refused to shiver, refused to show any emotion at all. A drop hit her cheek, just below the eye, but she didn’t even blink.

  Upon her finger, she wore a ring made of polished gold, signifying her position as one of the seventy-nine afhems. A new tattoo, stark white against her gray skin, was added to her neck. They’d shaved half her head and added the ink that was customary for afhems. Where the reed of her father’s house rose up behind her ear, a crashing wave branched out and onto her skull—the mark of the al’Tariq afhemate.

  Her afhemate.

  No longer was she Mahraveh Ayerabi, daughter of Muskigo Ayerabi. Sure, she would always be his daughter, but now she was his equal as well. Mahraveh al’Tariq, conqueror of Tal’du Dromesh. She clenched her fist as she heard Yuri Darkings pass by on her right. She remembered the day, not so long ago, after Babrak had thrown Farhan through the Sea Door, when she’d stepped out into the courtyard of the Boiling Keep and cringed under his stare. Now, he and his mass of wealth answered to her.

  With the Caleef still missing, Mahi was forced to endure Babrak’s passive ridicule of Muskigo as he presented her with the ring and stood nearby, as was custom, while the eunuch marked for the al’Tariq placed it upon her finger.

  Babrak couldn’t say much. No one could. Mahi had won the afhemate fairly to become the first female afhem in history. She knew it was going to take a miracle for her to keep it—jealous men throughout the Black Sands would continuously take shots at her—but she would fight each battle as it came.

  “Can I get you anything, Afhem Mahraveh?” The voice was distant and hollow, same as every other had been since she’d watched her best friend sift through her fingers like sand.

  “Huh?”

  “Any way I could serve you?” the voice asked again.

  “Nothing,” she managed to squeeze out. Footsteps retreated. “Wait.”

  “Yes, Afhem.”

  “What is your name?” she asked.

  “Bit’rudam.” The man was young, good-looking. He reminded her of Jumaat with his skinny but firm frame. But unlike Jumaat, he looked as if his brain barely functioned beyond merely following the commands of his superiors. Unlike Jumaat, he was alive.

  Bit’rudam was assigned to her along with all the warriors sailing this ship. Warriors of the al’Tariq afhemate, who’d watched the tournament but weren’t brave enough to risk their lives in it. She’d have them risking their lives soon enough.

  And it wasn’t only them. Three Serpent Guards had abandoned their posts at the Latiapur Palace in the dead of night to join her, intent on helping her save her father and find the Caleef rather than passively waiting for his return. They stood directly behind her, without her asking. Their ragged breaths made her skin crawl, and the glare of the beady eyes behind their nightmarish masks was even more terrifying. She was glad to have them, though she wished she’d have been able to see Babrak’s face when he found them missing while he made himself comfortable in a palace not meant for him.

  “Bit’rudam,” she addressed her new follower. “How many ships do I have again?”

  “Enough.”

  Mahi turned to him. His expression was blank, and she couldn’t tell if there was a hint of disdain or respect. “Am I not your afhem?” she asked.

  “You are.”

  “Then when I ask a specific question,” she said, “I expect a detailed answer.”

  “I would give one if I could, ma’am. The storm which took your predecessor damaged many of our ships. I have been in Latiapur since. However, repairs are ongoing. We will be the blight of the Boiling Waters again soon.”

  “I have no plans on staying here.”

  “Mahi!” Yuri Darkings called from down on the main deck, screaming over a gust of wind which had just caught the ship’s ruffled sails.

  “It’s Afhem Mahraveh,” she replied.

  “Whatever it is, we are approaching.”

  He gestured ahead, and Mahraveh’s gaze followed the sweep of his arm toward a break in the mist. Sunlight broke through, shining bright atop a cashew-shaped island. Homes made of hardened mud coated the cliffs on the southern side. Others were carved into the very rock itself. Hanging, wooden walkways with impossibly long fishing lines plunging through them and into the sea zigzagged up the rock face.

  The other half of the island wore a sheet of black palms and green leaves. An oasis lay in their center, with a massive, stone temple to the God of Sea and Sand erected upon it, half within the water.

  Mahi had never seen a paradise so beautiful. It was a place far superior to the dead black sands and the beasts and armies which roamed there. But none of that was what stole her attention. For moored within the islands central inlet were at least two dozen warships of varying sizes, each with uniquely carved and painted bows. The fleet of the al’Tariq afhemate which had guarded the western reaches of the Boiling Waters against pirates and invaders for decades, now it all belonged to her.

  “Portside approach!” a warrior shouted as he swung down from the top of the sails.

  Before Mahi knew what was happening, Bit’rudam grabbed her and led her down the stairs toward the captain’s quarters. She shook him off of her when she reached the main deck. Her hand reached for the spear latched to her back.

  “What are you doing?” she asked.

  “A ship approaches.” Bit’rudam pointed. Without an eye for the sea, as these men had, Mahi didn’t notice the shadow of a ship off their left side, heading straight for them. She hadn’t even needed to give the order. Every warrior aboard the ship arraigned themselves along the port-side and aimed their bows toward the unidentified vessel. More held ropes up on the masts, scimitars in their mouths as they prepared to swing across.

  “We must get you to safety,” Bit’rudam said.

  “Yes, Afhem, he’s correct,” Yuri Darkings said. He lay his hand upon Mahraveh’s shoulder this time and tried to lead her to the secured cabin, but she stood firm.

  “I stand with my people,” she said. Then, drawing her blackwood spear, she slammed the butt of it against the deck. A few of the warriors glanced back at her but dared not stare long with enemies approaching. Yuri slunk back into the shadow of the captain’s quarters and peered around the corner.

  “They fly white!” a warrior hanging from the mast shouted down.

  Mahi peered thro
ugh the wall of warriors as the approaching sail came into view. She recognized the symbol painted upon it: a sea-snake wrapping a trident belonging to the Jalurahbak afhemate.

  Mahi hurried forward, shoved through the ranks and propped herself up on the rail. A few warriors begged her to step down, but she ignored them.

  “Afhem al’Tariq!” a basso voice echoed across the water. “Afhem al’Tariq, please lower your bows. We mean no harm!”

  The ship abandoned its course to ram them and instead, turned its side to them. Mahi’s men still didn’t lower their weapons, and she didn’t blame them. But as the Jalurahbak ship’s deck came into view, she saw no warriors lined up to face them, only a single man waving a white scarf.

  She recognized Afhem Tingur of the Jalurahbak afhemate from the crowd in Latiapur, and the few times he met with her father when she was young. He’d been Afhem for longer than Mahi was alive, rare for those in their position. Surprising, since he was the least intimidating Afhem she’d ever seen.

  Babrak may have been fat, but he was massive like a zhulong. Tingur wasn’t fat, but he wasn’t fit, just soft like he hadn’t exercised in ages. His bald head was lumpy and his beard too wispy even to be braided. Mahi had never heard a legend of one of his victories or exploits in all her life, yet still, he ruled his small, nomadic afhemate. Smart enough never to be wiped out or seen as cowardly enough to be usurped.

  “Afhem Mahraveh, I am Afhem Tingur!” he called out. “I watched you on the sands.” A wave rocked the man’s ship and caused him to lose balance. His afhemate roamed the northern Black Sands where the grass was plentiful and life was easier. “Khonayn was my second for years. You fought him with honor.”

  “What do you want, Afhem?” Mahi said. They had lowered their sails to half to keep pace with Tingur, and every minute of wasted time was the longer her father suffered under the Glass’s siege, and by now, their food stores had to be running low.

  “I… I should have supported your father from the start. He saved my life long ago in the war with the Glass. I know it’s probably too late, and we don’t have much to offer, but the Jalurahbak afhemate stands with you.”