by Sean Hinn
Jaila nodded. The Mother returned the nod silently and took the earrings from the table, hooking them into her ears with as much ceremony as tying one’s shoes.
“The Unordained can clean this mess. We must hurry to the altar room.”
“Now?” demanded Clarien, youngest of the four.
The Mother glared. “Yes, now. Or are you too weary, poor dear?”
“It’s not that Mother,” said Jaila, hesitant, “ it’s only, we thought we would begin tomorrow—”
“We do not have until tomorrow. While you four have been… busy… I have been listening for Kal’s voice.”
“He spoke to you?” asked Teena, the oldest, dubious.
The Mother scowled at Teena. “No, Teena, he did not speak to me. But I heard what was there to hear. Your sister Nia has been a busy girl today. It must be tonight. Take a few turns to wash yourselves. Heal what injuries you must. We begin in a quarter of an hour.”
“Mother,” said Dinah, the least vocal of all her Daughters.
“Yes?”
“Your earrings are stunning.”
The Mother curled a lip in appreciation of the callous observation. Seldom did Dinah speak, but when she did, what fell from her lips was invariably twisted. Ah, dear Dinah, you I will miss most. The Mother slid from the dining hall and walked the fifty paces to the altar room, stopping to light fresh incense along the way. She recalled her annoyance at the task when she was yet but an Unordained Daughter. Now, she completed the duty with reverence and no small amount of nostalgia. She reached the door of the chamber and turned, glancing back down the dimly lit hall, taking in the ever-unquiet ambience of the Temple. The Mother did not believe ghosts a common thing, for in all her many years she had only ever seen one, but it was known that when a person passed between worlds, something more than a lifeless body was left behind. When such transitions were brought about through violence, the essences that remained might vary in power, but they were always restless. The Temple of Kal had collected far more than its share of these essences over the course of centuries; the very spirit of the place thrummed with angst and agitation. Most found the Temple terribly unsettling, but the Mother recalled the day she had first walked its halls. It had felt like coming home.
She removed her shoes, feeling the cold, familiar stone on her bare feet. With a long sigh, she entered the altar room and pulled her gilded dagger, placing it on the altar. She knelt slowly. Age brought a degree of pain to the act of obeisance, the Mother considered just then, but also a profundity which no young Daughter could appreciate. Looking back, she supposed she had not truly begun to see Kal’s greatness and gain his wisdom until her joints began to creak. Perhaps that is the trick of it, she mused. Wisdom must be stored in the knees. The Mother shifted position. And perhaps the hips.
It was not wisdom she would need in the coming moments; what she needed was strength, courage, and a great deal of attention to detail.
“Sharpen my blade, sharpen my wits,” she whispered. “Let not this circle fail, lest thy will go undone.”
She repeated the prayer, again and again, her pace deliberate, the cadence of the words falling into a rhythm to match her slowing breath. The Mother felt her mind begin to settle. The pain in her knees and hips began to fade. Her spine gradually untightened; her shoulders slumped. In time she fell wholly into a trance, aware only of her own intent and the words of her whispered prayer.
Something like a bell sounded within her mind, telling the Mother it was time.
I am ready.
The Mother stood and turned. There behind her stood the four surviving Daughters of her coterie: Clarien, young and fair, but extraordinarily cunning, and a brilliant wizard. Jaila: strong-willed, occasionally disobedient, never anything but cruel. Teena: irascible and shrewd; a true master of Kalian magic. And, of course, Dinah: ever silent, ever dangerous, ravenous and devastating as a matron spider.
The mother reached for the dagger with her right hand. She extended her left hand, palm facing inward. Dinah knelt before her, bowl at the ready. Clarien began to cast, sealing off the altar room from all outside sounds and interruptions. Jaila approached with a quiver of five brushes, these carved from bone and fletched with human hair. Dinah reached into the quiver and selected the first, the widest of the five. She knelt to Dinah’s right; Jaila to her left.
“Our lord Kal gives to those who ask, but never without recompense, and he will extract his price. We do your will, Kal. The time is at hand for you to lay claim to this world. Send us your great servant, he who has always been yours, he who has been transformed.”
The Mother sliced deeply into her palm. Her prayer had indeed been heard; the knife was quite sharp, far keener than what any whetstone could accomplish, though this only delayed the onset of pain. Veins and nerves soon realized they had been severed, and when they cried out, the Mother’s tears flowed—not, however, as freely as her blood.
The bowl began to fill. Clarien dipped her brush. Jaila withdrew another.
The Mother lifted her head and cried out, her voice a trembling blend of agony and fanaticism. “Guide your Daughters’ hands, oh Kal! Make your circle perfect, and on this day, great debts shall be repaid!”
XXXII: THE NORTHERN ROAD
PHEONARIS CAST THE spell, filling over the grave with cold, snowy dirt.
Barris kneeled to lay a hand upon the mound. “We could have taken him home, Mister Longstock.” The knight found his burial unfitting, ignoble. “His sacrifice—”
“His sacrifice was to earn your faith, Sir Barris. And your trust, so maybe you’d want to unite our people. You want to honor him? Dragging his corpse back to Mor won’t do that. Time is short. Vincent knew that.” Gerald wiped a tear from his eye.
Barris shook his head. “He deserved better than this.”
“You think I don’t know that?” shot Gerald. “But he wouldn’t want it. If you knew him… the thought of his friends sobbing over a dead body when there are things that need doing… ah, you stubborn bastard. I will miss you.”
Gerald choked back a sob and stood. Barris put a hand on his shoulder in sympathy. Gerald nodded sadly at the gesture.
“What do you need of us, Mister Longstock?” asked Pheonaris.
“Gerald. Just Gerald is fine. What I need—what Vincent wanted—is for our people to unite. We face the same storm. I assume your people are hungry these days, as mine are?”
Pheonaris nodded. “Many are without homes. I have not been to Thornwood in some time, but I know they will be struggling, if not now, then soon.”
“That we can solve. But I am going to need all the magic of the elves to do it.”
“How?” asked Barris.
“Farming by magic. No need to get into the details of it here and now, but it can be done, and I know how to do it. What we need first is an alliance, and a strong one. A new treaty, maybe.”
“But with whom?” asked Barris. “Halsen is dead, not that Thornwood could ally with that glutton in any case, no matter our heart on the matter.”
“With our people. Doesn’t matter who signs the parchment or sits on the throne. Doesn’t matter if there is a throne. There are those of us who hold a bit of sway in Mor, and if Thornwood would offer a hand in friendship, maybe we could extend one to Belgorne as well. Even G’naath, even Eyreloch, if they’ll join us. As for formalizing an agreement, we have a general, Slater—”
“I know this man,” said Barris. He glanced to Pheonaris. “He is honorable.” He turned back to Gerald. “But he does not command the armies of Mor.”
“He does now. More than half went south under Fallon. Slater commands those who stayed behind.”
Barris nodded. “The better portion.”
“Exactly. Good riddance to Fallon and the rest. Cowards to a one.”
“What of the Sapphire?” asked Pheonaris. “I have heard no report—”
“Fallon will sack every village he marches over. There will be war in the south, and nothing you or I can
do will stop it. But we can deal with that later. Listen…” Gerald glanced at the mound of dirt. “Can you give me a turn, here, and we can continue this on the road?”
Pheonaris nodded. She and Barris withdrew a few dozen paces away, giving Gerald some time alone.
“What exactly did this man do for you, Barris?” asked Pheonaris. “For Phantom?”
Barris looked into Pheonaris’ eyes, his gaze direct, his words plain.
“He gave his life that Phantom may live.”
“A spell?”
Barris nodded. He explained in brief detail.
“That is a dark magic, Barris.”
Barris shook his head. “I thought so as well. But you must understand, I was desperate. Forgive me, but after losing Mikallis, and Trellia—”
Pheonaris pulled Barris near and held him. “I know.”
“It was not as you might think. It was not dark. There was love in it.”
“But he did not know Phantom. Nor you.”
Barris released Pheonaris. “A love for his people. I sensed it. And… not only for his own people. Ah, it is such a loss. He would have made a great king.”
“A king?”
Barris nodded. “Gerald and I spoke of it. His friends, they have long been an underground sect of… of protectors, I think you might say. A power beneath the notice of the throne.”
“What sort of power?”
“The sort that offers justice when none can be otherwise found.”
Pheonaris considered Barris’ words. “Justice has long been dead in Mor.”
“Not dead. Hidden.”
“Ah. I see. Kept alive by this sect.”
Barris nodded. “Led by Vincent Thomison. He is… was… a powerful man. If Gerald speaks the truth, and I cannot doubt him, he was also a good man, and a fair man. They all wanted him to lead. Even Slater might have followed him.”
Pheonaris sighed. “And he is gone. And Mor is adrift.”
“Worse than adrift. There is a vacuum there, and I fear who might fill it.”
“Who is left to?”
Barris shrugged. “I cannot tell. But in dark times are born dark kings.”
“As in the Strife.”
Barris nodded, thinking of Neral and Halsen the First. “Just so.”
“You know we cannot promise what Gerald asks without speaking to Terrias.”
“I know no such thing,” said Barris. “He asks for my promise to try. I cannot withhold it.”
“A promise is no small thing.”
“It is not. I have made few and asked for fewer.”
Pheonaris reached up to touch Barris’ face.
“Would that you had made me a promise.”
Barris took her hand. “Would that I had. There is none other with whom I would have wished to share this life, none save—”
“None save her.”
Barris sighed. Pheonaris brought his hand to her lips, placing a delicate kiss between his knuckles before letting go.
“All will be as it must be. Time is a playful thing, Barris. Like love.”
“But a promise is not. I will give this man my promise, and forgive me for saying so, but—”
“You need not ask. I will share this honor with you.”
Gerald approached. Barris and Pheonaris exchanged a look. Barris nodded.
“Gerald. I vow to you that I will do what I can to unite the people of Tahr, in the name of your Vincent Thomison. I cannot speak for my queen, nor for any other, but I will honor the sacrifice you and your friend have made for Thornwood this day.”
Gerald nodded and looked to Pheonaris.
“I, too,” she began, “will join this cause—”
The Mistress’ eyes widened at the sound of her queen’s voice.
~Mistress Pheonaris. Forgive my delay. I have been searching day and night for the texts of Ya Di beneath the Citadel. They are lost! Burned! Tell Barris, if you can. Convey this order to Nishali and Marchion: we must avoid war, at all costs!~
Pheonaris listened intently. Nothing followed.
“Did you hear?”
Barris nodded. “If the texts are lost…”
Pheonaris finished the thought. “We cannot delay,” said Pheonaris.
“Texts?” asked Gerald. “What are you two babbling about?”
Barris led his friend to his horse. “It is a most terrible day, my friend. Most terrible. I will tell you on the road to the Grove.”
“Tell me what?”
Barris helped Gerald atop his saddle. “On the road. Please, we must hurry.”
“Why? What happened? What’s the rush?”
“Ya Di is the rush, friend,” said Pheonaris, mounting Gale. “We have committed a great sin, perhaps the greatest ever committed, and now Ya Di is upon us.”
“Ya Di?”
“The Day,” said Barris.
A most terrible day.
XXXIII: THE MAW
WHAT I DON’T UNDERSTAND,” Hatchet said to Oort, stroking his scraggly grey beard, “is how ye became king o’ G’naath. I don’t mean to say I disbelieve ye, mind—”
“The Wolfslayer didn’t wanna be king,” said Rak before Oort could answer. “But the Elders were gone, and everyone was fearful, then Argl told everyone ’bout Oort and Mama and then they all started tellin’ each other and then next thing, they’re all bowin’ an’ scrapin’ and such. Was Argl here suggested it. Didn’t one of us disagree.”
“I been huntin’ the Maw all my life,” Argl said. “We gnomes don’t have much trouble in the mountains. We see better than you folk at night, we’re too small an’ quiet for much to take notice of us, and we know the ground. But Mama…” Argl shivered visibly. “She’ll just walk up on yeh, all sneaky-like, and then yer screamin’, and then yer dead.”
“Aye, ye ain’t just singin’ hymns, there,” agreed Captain Flint. “We Scouts ain’t been afraid o’ nothin’ for long as we been Scouts. ’Cept Mama.”
“’Cept Mama,” said Rak.
Oort remained silent, sitting beside Thinsel. They had unwrapped her and set her beside the fire. She still could not speak but could now sit. She listened intently, sipping what remained of the elves Spring tea, watching her husband with adoration and pride as Rak and Argl went on. After a time, however, he had enough.
“So they named me Wolfslayer, Argl named me king, a bunch o’ the rest nodded and ain’t no one said otherwise, so I s’pose I’m king. And I had the idea to let Belgorne shelter in G’naath for the winter, ’cause I know it was the Elders done this terrible thing to everyone, and G’naath owes a debt. Then your putrid bastard of a king did what he done to Thinny, then all the rest to the elf folk, and now I’m a mind to drop the tunnels and leave yeh all to freeze, truth be told.”
Hatchet eyed Oort. “Bold thing to say, sittin’ here smack in the middle o’ the Belgorne army.”
“Bold my arse,” said Flint. “Ye can’t blame him and ye know it, Hatchet. If King Greykin here says he’s of a mind to drop the tunnels, then ye best stand down an’ let ’im, ’cause wont a one o’ my Scouts let a dwarf raise a hand to stop ’im.”
Colonel Onyx had been listening quietly. “Damn ye Flint, Brandaxe is the general here. S’posed to be him sayin’ such things.”
“Hmph. Was takin’ too long.”
Not even Oort could suppress a chuckle at Flint. He turned to Thinsel, her grey eyes alive in the firelight. He saw her heart there. She would have him act with mercy.
He addressed Hacthet. “Yeh gotta put yer king down, General. Won’t be no talk o’ me changing my mind ’bout the tunnels long as he lives.”
“Well,” said Hatchet, “I can see why ye’d say so, but I ain’t no kingkiller. He’s the brother o’ the true king, who may yet live, and it ain’t for me to end ’im. We’ll bring ’im to justice, though, on that ye have me oath. There’ll be a trial.”
“What’s to try?” demanded Oort. “Ain’t no question what he’s done.”
Flint stood and walked around the
fire, taking a seat beside Oort.
“I know ye be a king, now. Maybe I got no right to tell ye how to be one. I ain’t a general, as Onyx here keeps remindin’ me. I ain’t but a captain. But I’m old, an’ I’ve led people all me long years, an’ that’s worth somethin’. I’ll ask ye let an’ old dwarf say a few things.”
Oort took a breath and nodded.
“A king is just. A king follows the law. We got a treaty, all of us. Thornwood, Mor, Belgorne, an’ G’naath. Law says we try a person for such things. If ye wish to let us all freeze here in the Maw, that be a decision ye’ll have to make, and ye be free to. But ye ain’t free to break treaties, not if ye ever want the world to be put right again. Oh, sure, ye can do as ye like. But we got where we are ’cause Dohr ain’t got the wisdom to tell his arse from an anthill. Don’t ye make the same mistake. The acts of a few, no matter how awful, can’t condemn the heart of a people.”
Oort held his tongue for a long while, staring at his feet. A squeeze of his fingers lifted his gaze to Thinsel. She gazed back at him. Her expression said she would stand by him, no matter his decision.
Oort turned to Hatchet. “Are your dwarves of a mind on this, then? Takin’ Dohr to trial? Do all yer men and women see it such?”
Hatchet nodded. “Those that understand what he’s done? By and large, aye. Word broke quick around camp when Lux here showed up, and all the whispers come back to me are all o’ the same mind. I won’t lie to ye, though. Might be a few in my army’ll take a bit to come around. I set out to take G’naath by force. These dwarves set out with me, set out without any food but what we could carry in our own sacks, and that’ll be about gone. Wasn’t ever any question if we’d take G’naath—can’t be done, and we all know it. We left partway so the rest could go on to seek refuge with the Shorefolk, so maybe they’d have enough food that at least some’d make the journey. But we left partway to die a fightin’ death, and fight we woulda, to the last dwarf, least til those tunnels came down on our brainbuckets. These dwarves… they’ve lost everything, Wolfslayer. Everything. But, truth be as it is, a few days out here settled us down. Now, most’d just as soon lay down an’ die out here in the Maw. Most don’t give a damn no more about kings and wars an’ all the rest. But here be what matters: Garne Silverstone made me general. The way we do it in my army, every dwarf chooses to serve or not, every day they wake up. They show up to work, they be mine for the day, body and soul. I’m their conscience. They act on my orders, whatever they do falls on me. But I can’t tell ye what tomorrow will bring, ’cause tomorrow they all gotta make that choice again. All I can tell ye is that these dwarves chose to follow me when they woke up this mornin’, and so what we do about G’naath an’ Dohr an’ all the rest today be my decision. As this be yours.”