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

by Rhett C. Bruno

  But his heart wouldn’t.

  “Where is her body?” Muskigo asked.

  Like the changing of the tides, so went his will to fight. Mahraveh’s braid lay at his feet. It took all his willpower not to stare at it. And he knew it belonged to her, that couldn’t be faked. His darling impulsive daughter was dead.

  “Given over to the Current,” Babrak replied from his seat on a barrel, just beyond spitting distance. Muskigo knew because he’d tried. A circle of Shieldsmen surrounded them, ready to kill Muskigo if only he gave them a reason.

  “That wasn’t your right,” Muskigo said.

  “Well, you couldn’t be reached, now, could you?” Babrak taunted.

  Muskigo bit back a flurry of curses. “It was you, wasn’t it? You told them where she was? Where I lived?”

  Babrak sighed. His voice went soft, like a friend breaking bad news. “I didn’t even have the chance, Muskigo. There are plenty in the northern sands who’ve suffered, thanks to your unsanctioned war. We’re just… cleaning up the mess.”

  “Pis’truda!” Muskigo spat. “By negotiating with them? What did they offer—to make you the next Caleef?”

  “Do you really think so lowly of me? There is only one Caleef until the God of Sand and Sea chooses the next. They offered peace.”

  “Yes, peace has been so kind to you,” Muskigo said, eyes lowering to regard the rival afhem’s rotund belly.

  “It has been kind to us all.”

  “Tell that to my daughter!”

  Babrak stomped closer until their noses were only a centimeter away. “Your daughter died because when the Glassmen came to bring her here as leverage, she fought back. Gave them no other choice. She died for the same reason your wife did—because she had you in her life.”

  “Why don’t you unchain me and say that again.” He knew Babrak was just trying to get under his skin. He’d never forgiven Muskigo’s wife, Pazradi, for loving Muskigo instead of him. And none of the ever-growing harem of women Babrak kept around since seemed to satiate him.

  “Please.” Babrak slapped him lightly on the side of the face a few times with his giant hands. Then he smiled. “You’re scrawnier than ever. I’d snap you like a twig.”

  Taking advantage of Babrak’s closeness, Muskigo spat at him again. This time, it landed squarely in the man’s eye. Babrak didn’t budge, not even as he wiped it away. He just kept smiling.

  “No wonder none of the others came to my aid,” Muskigo said. “Don’t you understand what I’m after? We have the men. Years of peace helped our numbers grow, and so now, we can rectify the errors of our past. We can stop fighting each other and instead, drive the pink pigs out. Even the Drav Cra united under a single leader.”

  “And now the Drav Cra are destroyed. You’ve always had vision, Muskigo, but that’s all you are, a dreamer. Eventually, the Glass will tear themselves apart under their boy-king, and you’ll get your dream. Why should so many of our people die for nothing?”

  “To prove we are worthy of something.”

  “Something?” Babrak chuckled. “Ever since Liam buried our fathers, have our lands not flourished?”

  “While they indoctrinate us with stories of their false god.”

  “So, we suffer a few churches in our cities, and we nod as their missionaries try to enlighten us. A tribute every season. It is what Caleef Sidar Rakun agreed to long ago. It was not your place to forsake our God for your own vengeance.”

  “I forsake nothing!”

  “It’s fitting though,” Babrak continued, “that the great Muskigo Ayerabi, undefeated in battle, would be undone by none other than himself. Isn’t it clear by the lack of support that you stand alone? The Current doesn’t flow at your back, Muskigo. It piles sand in your path.”

  “Or perhaps you and your army are just eager to grow fatter sitting in your halls while the Caleef remains lost out there, thanks to them.” Muskigo nodded toward the Glass soldiers.

  Babrak threw his hands up in frustration and turned away. “You’re exhausting. But I’m done arguing. It’s time you take credit for all those who have died on your behalf. And not only our people, but theirs. We held an alliance—”

  “Alliance,” Muskigo scoffed. “As I recall, payment only went one way. We are their whores.”

  “Whatever you call it, it was law, signed between the Nothhelm Dynasty and our Caleef. How many have died on all sides? What you did to Winde Port will take years to repay. It was your own pride that caused this, Muskigo. And now it’s over. We have bad history between us, but we are both Shesaitju. I have come to present an offer.”

  “You mean they sent you to me like a good, loyal zhulong?”

  “The new king wants peace more than anything,” Babrak said. “This offer comes only once. Their Wearer of White has already agreed to it. If you reject this offer, then the man you are, so much as I already despise him, is worthless. You are to present yourself before your followers and commit the mortal sin. You will claim responsibility for this rebellion, and you alone. You will take your own life, outside of battle or tribute.”

  “And?”

  “And all of your followers will be spared. You sought to shoulder a burden our people never asked for. Our Caleef is missing because of it. Countless are dead. At the least, use this opportunity to spare the people inside Nahanab who were blinded by your greed.”

  “They’d rather die,” Muskigo said.

  “Then show them there is a better way.” Babrak knelt, his zhulong skin armor squeezed tight against his oversized body. He scooped up a handful of black sand and let it trickle through his fingers. “Look, it is dry. It sifts like salt through my fingers. Must it be soaked in blood for you to come to your senses? For centuries, we have sacrificed our own upon these sands. For strength. For honor. To be as powerful as the sea and remembered in every grain of shifting sand. But there is strength in a long, fruitful life. There is truth in their light.”

  “Will you wear their white robes and burn out your eyes, too?” Muskigo snapped. “You are many things, but I never figured a coward to be among them. You’re as soft as you look.”

  “It is true, I have sat in their churches. Listened to their priests. And have I been pulled beneath the sand? Have I been drowned? The light touches even the furthest sea. Pantego is changing. The old ways are just that… old.”

  “If your father—”

  “My father is dead. As is yours.” Babrak stood and brushed the sand off his knees as if he were allergic to it. The sight made Muskigo feel ill.

  “Now.” Babrak clapped his hands. “This offer won’t last forever. Deny it, and the city will starve until the Glass can retake it. And they will… with ease. The foundations for new peace will be erected upon your followers’ corpses. Or, they can be the ones laying the stones.”

  “You really think the pink-skins can be trusted?” Muskigo scoffed. “They’ll kill them all.”

  “The marks of their afhemate will be burned off, but they will live. They will help construct a proper cathedral to Iam in Latiapur and re-establish the trade that has left our great city the jewel of the South. It’s all agreed upon.”

  “They are warriors. They’ll never accept being markless!”

  “Make them, or send them to the Current with your daughter. The choice is yours.” Babrak turned and left the circle of guards. The men parted for him like he was one of their own.

  “Babrak!” Muskigo screamed. “Babrak!”

  He pulled at his shackles until his wrists bled and his muscles burned. Then his body collapsed, and he found himself staring straight at Mahraveh’s braid.

  He’d never been drowning before, but he imagined this was what it felt like when Caleefs passed and tributes threw themselves into the Boiling Waters, water filling their lungs unless they were the one to return blessed with the essence of the God of Sand and Sea. It was like Muskigo’s heart and mouth were at war with each other.

  “I should have brought you with me, my little sand mo
use…” he whispered. “Why did you fight? Why didn’t you stay quiet and return to me?”

  But he knew—his daughter had always been like him. It wasn’t her fault she was conceived in the wrong tide and born a girl. She had a warrior’s spirit and would have happily fought at his side, if only he’d asked.

  His only solace was in knowing that she’d died as the fighter she’d always dreamed of being; that the Eternal Current would let her strong soul feed the waves that carve the earth, and not damn her to the ocean floor with the bottom-feeders.

  But he also knew that time on Pantego was precious. The souls of the sea may have built the land, but the living shape its destiny. Her time was cut short because of him. Now, his afhemate would join her.

  A sense of dread stole over him like never before. He wondered if this was what it meant to lose. He’d won the heart of his wife, Pazradi, from Babrak. He’d won his afhemate on the sands of Tal’du Dromesh. He’d grown his following and legend enough to launch a rebellion against those pis’trudas in Yarrington when so many others refused. He’d made the Glassmen tremble at Winde Port, destroyed the heart of their greatest warrior, Torsten Unger.

  For what? he wondered.

  A tear rolled down Muskigo’s cheek and splashed down in the sand beside Mahraveh’s hair. It stung against the countless cuts on his cheeks. He’d learned the ancient art of the black fist from the monks in the Eastern Ridge—turned his body into stone like the rocks in which they called home. Now, he may as well have been made from it.

  He hadn’t cried since the day his wife passed. He recalled the way young Mahraveh looked at him that awful day, like he was pathetic, and from then on, had vowed never to shed a tear. Yet now, she couldn’t see. The sand was for the living, and she was beyond it.

  Muskigo Ayerabi, the Scythe of Saujibar, had failed. Lost in battle for the first time. And the shame was unbearable.

  IX

  The Thief

  “Just draw a little blood,” Lucindur said, handing Whitney a small belt knife. It reminded him of Wetzel’s blade that Sora carried around with her.

  “What? Cut myself? Why?”

  “When we found Sora, you’d needed something that belonged to her,” she said. “That was Aquira. Unless you’ve got a lock of his white hair in your pocket, the only thing you have is a shared blood pact, correct?”

  “I suppose,” Whitney grumbled.

  “Okay, so draw a little blood. Right there, on your arm.” She pointed.

  Whitney set the tip of the knife against his skin and took a shuddering breath.

  “Would you like me to do it for you?” Lucindur asked.

  “I’ve got it. I’ve got it.”

  Whitney winced as blood trickled from the wound on his arm.

  “That’s enough.”

  I suppose this is how Sora feels, he thought.

  "The bond is so strong through Elsewhere, I can feel him even without the blood,” she said.

  “Then why did you make me cut myself?” Whitney complained.

  “Take no chances when it comes to Lightmancery. You wouldn’t want to be lost within forever, would you? Okay, now, just as before, close your eyes,” Lucindur said.

  They sat together, just she and Whitney, in the middle of the lower level of Gold Grin’s Grotto surrounded by boxes and crates. Not ten yards away stood the now patched-up hole where Whitney and Gentry had encountered the grimaurs.

  Whitney had to chase away a few more when he and the others gathered the bodies. Better that they be used to help the troupe than rot in a cave, driving away Tum Tum’s patrons with their stink.

  Could they really have anything to do with Nesilia? he wondered.

  Tum Tum had mentioned it. And Whitney had spoken with the goddess, felt her evil enveloping him and Sora. Torsten thought he’d put a stop to whatever it was a goddess might’ve been up to atop Mount Lister, but more and more, Whitney encountered evidence to the contrary.

  “You’ve got to clear your mind,” Lucindur said. “We will not be successful if you are preoccupied.”

  “My mind is clear,” Whitney said.

  She smacked him on the hand.

  “Lying won’t help either,” she scolded. “Think about the one called Kazimir and no one else, and let us hope he is truly in Brekliodad.”

  Whitney had no clue where the upyr would actually be. The last time he’d seen him was in Elsewhere, and there was every bit the chance he’d be there still. Would Lucindur’s song drive Whitney straight back to that damnable plane? If it did, he might never escape. Or, he might have to relive all those awful moments over and over…

  “You’re not listening, Whitney Fierstown,” she said. “Clear. Your. Mind. Think of nothing but the goal.”

  “I am trying.” Whitney rolled his neck. “Okay. Kazimir. Kazimir, you white-haired freak. Where are you?”

  “Ready?” Lucindur didn’t wait for a response before she started plucking the strings of her newly repaired salfio. It took her an entire day to get them and cost all but a single gold autla at the bottom of Tum Tum’s pouch. Whitney had stressed he go with her, keep her from getting fleeced, but she insisted that the Glintish trader wouldn’t bring out the good stuff if a southerner were present. Instead, he had the awesome pleasure of cleaning out grimaur corpses.

  The gentle tones of her instrument echoed throughout the ship, bouncing off the wood, creating an almost choral effect. She started slow, gaining confidence in the new strings. The melody picked up, and so did her willingness to pull at them with all the strength they required.

  Finally, she started singing and focus flooded over Whitney.

  Let your mind be opened,

  eyes be opened.

  Let the winds of eternity

  bring upon them clarity.

  Your eyes can’t see

  but your mind is free

  to travel Pantego

  wherever he may be.

  Light upon stars

  dancing afar.

  Demon of Elsewhere

  Pale of skin and hair

  Upon song and light

  give us sight.

  Just as it had been in the graveyard when she’d played, magical embers began to swirl around them, and even with his eyes closed, he could see the light in the room seemed to drain away as if the portholes were being covered by drapes. There was only them. Their light.

  See what you came to see.

  See with your soul, not with your eyes.

  Whitney felt himself falling, careening through dark space. Emptiness and nothing. The pit in his stomach rose to his throat, and his next breath smelled familiar. Dirt, stale water, horse shog. He opened his eyes, feeling hard earth beneath him. Bleary eyes opened to a wattle and daub home surrounded by a wooden fence. His parents’ old house looked the same as it always had. Fear choked him. The thought of spending another six years in this place nearly drove him to the edge of insanity.

  Then, Whitney spotted him: a sallow-faced demon, looking very confused.

  Kazimir started screaming and kicking at the ground. That was when Whitney understood. Kazimir had been summoned here, just as he’d been.

  “Who are you yelling at?” Whitney asked.

  Kazimir spun and pulled a knife. “You.”

  “Me,” Whitney said with a smile. “Not very nice getting snuck up on like that, is it?”

  Kazimir lowered his blade slowly, then confirmed Whitney’s thoughts. “Well, if you’re here, at least it isn’t Elsewhere again.”

  “Or did we never leave?”

  Kazimir pursed his lips, scoffed, and turned away. “I don’t have time for your games.”

  “No, wait. Please.” Whitney rushed to meet him, hands palm out and pushing at the air.

  “I haven’t felt magic like this in a long time, thief,” he said. “How are you doing this?”

  “I need your help,” Whitney said.

  “Not interested,” Kazimir answered.

  “Kazzy, old friend,” Whitn
ey said, flanking Kazimir, trying to keep him from wandering away. “You know I wouldn’t do this if it wasn’t important. Please.”

  The upyr seemed to mull over the statement for a minute before saying, “You have thirty seconds. You robbed me of a grand feast. Who knows what my apprentice has gotten herself into.”

  “It’s about Sora.”

  “I promised you I wouldn’t touch the mystic, and I did not. The Sanguine Lords taught me my lesson for pushing beyond their will. Whatever happened to her, it was not me.”

  “No, no. Look… do you know where we are?” Whitney asked, changing tacks.

  “I know where I was before you brought me to this trash-heap you call home.”

  “I didn’t do it. Not really. A Lightmancer connected our minds.”

  That seemed to pique Kazimir’s interest. A light twinkled in his soulless eyes and was gone the next instant.

  “You believe me?” Whitney asked.

  “A Lightmancer? Are you insane? You mortals won’t be happy until all magic is snuffed out, but they were wiped out by the mystics for a reason.

  Whitney tried not to show his surprise at Kazimir knowing about them. Of course, he knows, Whitney thought. He knows everything about magic. That’s why I came to him.

  “Well, this Lightmancer did the same for me and Sora after you and I returned from Elsewhere. I spoke with Sora, but I couldn’t find her.”

  “Fooling with Lightmancery twice?” Kazimir stalked forward. Whitney had forgotten how terrifying the upyr could be when he tried. “Do you realize what other beings might overhear us?”

  “None of that matters. The Lightmancer she… she showed me where Sora is, trapped in her own mind, caught between Pantego and Elsewhere, she said. Nesilia was there. The Buried Goddess. Controlling her body.”

  Kazimir’s expression rarely shifted, but for a fleeting moment, Whitney could see it. Fear flashed across his features. It happened the moment he’d brought up Nesilia, as if he, too, knew her plans for returning weren’t through. And if that was true, and she had Sora under some spell… Whitney couldn’t even imagine.