The Blackened Yonder: Planar Lost: Book One (Planar Lost (Standard Edition) 1)

by J. Gibson

Amun smiled. “That’s good to hear.”

  Silence filled the air like smoke. The woman lay back down, evidently no longer of the strength to keep herself propped up. She closed her eyes and rested her arm on her forehead, which shone with a glossy layer of perspiration. Her hair looked damp. She appeared worse than she had when they approached, as if the blood had drained from her face. Garron feared their exchange had been too much for her.

  “We ought to depart.” He hoped Amun would concur.

  Amun bowed her head. “Indeed, of course.” She pressed her lips to the back of the woman’s hand. “Mys Katya, it has been a pleasure speaking with you. Thank you kindly for your time.”

  The woman grinned. “Will ye return, Sister?”

  “One day.”

  “She still has much to learn,” Garron added.

  Amun’s cheeks dimpled. “Indeed, I do.”

  “If I live so long, see ye, then.”

  Garron considered the experience instructive enough and did not wish to burden the woman further, despite her willingness to converse. They left and took another stroll about the city.

  Houses and other buildings watched them pass, as did those settled within. In neat rows, block after block, the glassy eyes were endless. He felt over-present, as though they witnessed his naked thoughts.

  “Amun,” he said after a silence. He could not look at her as he pondered this. “I must speak to you of something while I still have the time to do so.”

  He sensed her focus on him, evaluating. “What troubles you?”

  “There was a woman—” His voice trailed off. He sighed. “There is a woman beyond the walls. I have written the address.” Removing a slip of paper from his robes, he extended it to her. “She has suffered a great deal. I wish for someone to attend to her and take stock of her well-being.” He gathered the courage to return Amun’s gaze.

  Her pale red eyes, well-defined by long black lashes on top and bottom, danced across his features with a drawing of the brow. “I understand.” She looked ahead again, and he did the same.

  They had made it to the entrance of the Priory, the gate of the long hedges, outlined by rows of trees. “If you would remain here,” he said. “I’ve personal work to see to.”

  “Certainly.” She stared toward the square, her face reflective. “Be well.” With that, she walked through the gate, between the rows, and into the Priory.

  All right.

  I must be off.

  He felt compelled to go.

  The city sprawled, empty to the horizon, as if the citizenry had moved aside for him. This day, the tired clomp of his boots against the cobbles echoed, reverberating across the faces of the surrounding edifices and vacant nothingness. When he started his trek, the vision in parts coalesced. That famous, living landscape. The Imperial City, Aros. Mighty capital of the prime nation of Gohheia on Earth. Ancient, magnificent, powerful.

  A girl skipped by, likely no older than eight. She wore a teal and white dress from nape to knee. Her dark cheeks dimpled and her brown eyes squinted as she went.

  He returned an amiable half-smile.

  After a duration, the world enraptured him at every angle, as though he had become one with each stone and sign and the drab, beclouded sky. Every step, identical to those he had traversed previously on this path. Each misshapen and misaligned stone, irregular and rough underneath his feet, almost regular to him now.

  The trip he had made in the opposite way once flew to him. That day’s dejection, half as potent, reawakened. How many times had he gone this direction? The ventures melded like molten steel. His worries of the past, the present, and the future ran together like fluid, until nothing but the moment and the sentiment persisted. That instant, the walk, each aged inhalation, every conscious blink, each weighted step. He felt it once more, a pressure in his palms; a latent, hostile tingle, bubbling to the exterior, the phantom of a surface long untouched, but forever sullying his hands. His warded contentment had eased away.

  There had been a time when he felt happier, when he thought only about the service of Gohheia. He had resided with, loved, and consoled the high and the low, wherever they came from, whomever they were, no matter their worship or their crimes, misdeeds, or deviations. He had fed and washed the feet of the wicked and the good. Why did it have to be him?

  Why?

  A torment he could not understand.

  Why?

  The thought had become banal.

  Must it have taken from another, as well?

  Afternoon crept into evening and the sun made its gentle descent, the rings and stars growing brighter. He plodded, step after step, to the house, outside the walls of the city, shy of the deep country; the home of the woman, as much a feature of his terrors and dreams as the Beast or the horrors of Erlan. He had come alone to this place a number of times since the Ennead permitted him leave of the Priory’s grounds.

  As he stood across the road from her simple abode, a dull light flickered within. He felt as overwhelmed as he had on that initial day, when he’d witnessed it for the first time. In quiet instances, he forgot he had been there, but never her face. It repeated in him, a perennial wheel of recollection in which every rolling inch contained her. He did not hold all of the blame for what had happened, yet there could be no one else on Earth responsible. What befell him, and her, stretched beyond the aching, arching fingers of justice and truth and fairness.

  The weather had altered from the Priory to that isolated road off the larger thoroughfare. With each beat of his heart, a grave oppression coursed through him, like that of the sky and air this evening, now cloaked in soupy black and grey thunderheads, tears of the Mother showering down from on high to the Earth. He heard Her voice, the voice of his one true Creator. Her song about that which lived inside him intoned, hummed hymns of that which could have saved him, and which had kept him from destruction for as long as it could.

  He came upon the name of the gods in his mind: Gohheia, Epaphael, Asdamos, Vekshia, Lahrael, Isanot, Sitix, Vysyn, Korvaras. The First Gods. The Celestial Nine. The stewards of so many aspects of existence; creation, destruction, being; time, destiny, damnation; dimensions, space; hope, despair; reason, wisdom, greed; love, hate, passion; nature, calamity, matter; energy, fire, winter; death and life. He appreciated at last that these existed in union, that all contained each. They were within every person, and beyond them, as more than they could know. Forever, these truths, above mortal ken, condemned them to long for apprehension.

  The enemy and the friend were one, as part of a cycle, as he had been his own ally and adversary in life, from childhood to that present. He had discovered hope in misery and misery in hope in these last few weeks, too fully lived. Beyond his reach, he had sought a kingdom of Gohheia during this life in which to love and rejoice. He felt it deep. For the torment and suffering, for the wrongs and cruelties, for the sacrifice, this place, the underrealm, would be the nearest thing to Her kingdom that he would ever know.

  An odd sensation sparked through him, and soon another.

  His light faded.

  The world went black.

  CHAPTER XVII: LOSS

  Athenne

  Under the failing light of that day, the woodlands stretched without edge, in barren hues of grey and brown. There were rocks ten times their size and thin, gurgling streams. Though Athenne loved the Father Earth and appreciated his beauty, she longed to be free of endless wilderness. They had already crossed the Black Canal, and were west of the village of Soignan and the Grove, as best she knew. Between forests, fields rose and fell, harvested and cleared.

  There had been a number of frosts these last weeks, the occasional flurry of snow or rain, but no cold as fearsome as in Ghora or their initial endeavor. With Aitrix at their side, the forebodings of the world had receded, shying into the shadows.

  Beside the path, there were lesser creatures again, more so the further north they went, and more plant life. The air smelled cleaner, no longer reeking of sulfur or
hinting of death from far off. Birds chirped, lower critters skittered, climbed, and grazed. The livelier ambiance brought her a shade of joy, in contrast to her earlier tones and moods. It had been so long without these facets of nature that she had forgotten how full the world could be. Well behind them, beyond the Canal to the south, there existed nothing but desolation, save Arkala and Abela a few miles from the river, which had looked untouched from a distance. To be rid of that gloom made her glad.

  “Yield,” called Aitrix from the head of the party. They halted. Aitrix dismounted and pulled her horse to the side of the road beneath an oak tree whose base dwarfed the half-elf.

  “Why are we stopped?” Bhathric asked.

  “If we are to find this priest once we arrive in Aros, I’ll need to see your memories. The visions. You, and Athenne. Any further north and the source ward may be too powerful.” Aitrix removed her riding gloves, crafted of brown leather and lined with animal fur. “Come.”

  Athenne and Bhathric descended from their horses and approached. Aitrix held out her hands, palms up, and placed them against their faces on opposite sides. Her skin felt warm and soft.

  “Close your eyes.”

  Aitrix shut her eyes and so did they.

  A painless prickling spread from where the hand touched Athenne’s cheek through her face, similar to the sensation of a sleeping limb. The tingle dispersed until it ran across her entire skull. She did not want to think too much, else she may render the task more arduous for Aitrix. Mental spells were difficult and delicate, particularly when the wards of the Church already hampered the caster, and when the art represented the shallowest part of the mage’s well, as mentalism did in the case of Aitrix.

  “Clear your minds,” Aitrix said.

  Athenne felt Aitrix had been talking to her, but she imagined Bhathric also clouded with thoughts. This thinking about thinking likely made the problem worse. She worked to push all reflections from her mind.

  Minutes went by in gripping hiatus, and at last, Aitrix retracted her arms. The prickling subsided.

  “Eclih.” Aitrix gestured toward him, then knelt and drew a caster circle in the soil. “I had hoped that I could save us the trouble and do it alone, but it appears not.” Insight spells were among the most difficult incantations to perform in mentalism, surpassed only by compelled hallucinations and psychic driving.

  After she finished outlining the symbol, Aitrix pressed her palms to it and whispered a low vocalization. Her marks in the soil filled with a white glow like hot metal poured into a foundry. The radiance continued as she withdrew and stood, and Eclih took his place in the circle, channeling a share of Aitrix’s essence. He began the same procedure that Aitrix had attempted, with his palms on both their faces.

  The prickling returned, stronger this time. An ugly, unpleasant sensation, as though someone tickled her skull from the inside. The longer it went on, the more she wanted it to end.

  After a few moments of discomfort, Eclih’s hands dropped to his sides and the sensation abated.

  Athenne ruffled her hair and massaged her scalp.

  “I’ve identified the man’s signature,” he said.

  Aitrix approached him. “Show me.”

  The two of them clasped hands and shut their eyes.

  “Is he marked?” Bhathric rubbed the side of her head.

  “It would appear,” Aitrix replied as she and Eclih released their hold. She walked over to her horse and ran a hand along its mane. “Something has marked him, but it doesn’t matter, not to us. All we require are his lunar tears.” Her gaze flickered to Athenne. “You’re prepared?”

  Athenne’s ears rumbled. “I am.” She had little choice. No further discussion of the matter would change that. Her objective, recited to her again and again, shone with blinding clarity.

  Aitrix handed her a folded piece of paper. Athenne opened it to find a detailed map of the Priory. “We created this over a long period through scrying,” Aitrix said, as if still in Athenne’s mind. “You are to place the bombs and flee. If you are not able to flee—” She paused. “We will make well of your sacrifice.”

  She expected Athenne to be willing to die for their cause.

  Athenne knew this already. She had claimed that she would be eager, that her life belonged to them. With Uldyr, to Aitrix that night in the church, to Bhathric and Eclih on the road, she had said it. She had told everyone, all the while remaining conflicted in her heart. What a fool, I am. She resigned herself to her fate. As her world mother had said in her girlhood: we must live our choices.

  Portions of this scheme seemed hobbled together at the last minute, but considering the obstacles they faced, no other way made itself apparent. Deacons from which to take beads were difficult to access, either in the Priory or beyond. The Knights of Faith believed this priest to be their best chance, and they directly communed with a god.

  Undoubtedly, too many people frequented the Priory for more than one or two people to attempt to make their way to the underlevels, so she understood why she must skulk alone. Save an army to march against the capital and defeat the chevaliers, they had no choice but to operate covertly. If any measure existed by which to reason the Ennead into a non-violent compromise, she wished that they had found it. But there had been none. The day to act had arrived, their first and last chance to succeed.

  “We understand our roles?” Aitrix asked of everyone.

  They returned unanimous agreement.

  Uldyr would accompany Aitrix in her share of the mission, whatever that may be. She had not informed them of their part, and they would not ask. Athenne trusted Uldyr above all the others. She must.

  “I’ll protect you as best I can.” Bhathric placed her hand on Athenne’s cheek. “Make it out.”

  Eclih scried. This proximal to the source, even one with his gift would strain for farsight. They watched and waited, each dressed in a hooded cloak, billowing behind them as the wind rose and fell. The world held motionless for a time, as if the things beyond them had ceased to exist in a fleeting instant.

  Eclih’s voice dragged Athenne back to reality. “The priest is northwest of the Grand Priory, somewhere near a road off a major thoroughfare. Black Pass, I believe.”

  “To our fortune,” Aitrix said as she received the vision from Eclih. She charmed a small mechanical compass, one used for seafaring or woodland excursions, and handed it to Bhathric. “North shall guide the way.”

  Aitrix enchanted another for Athenne and extended it. “To lead you to the source.”

  Their leader was a woman of wonders. Without her, this mission, in its entirety, would not be possible. Only Aitrix could imbue a caster circle with enough essence to amplify someone else’s powers this near to the capital. The rest of them could hardly manage anything above minor magic within Imperial territory. Even Eclih, with his psychic gifts, required her aid to read their memories and to scry.

  What would Aitrix be like, in all her might, if they prevailed?

  “That guidance spell has a life of four hours,” Aitrix said. “Let us not linger in waste.”

  What will she do once she has her power back?

  Athenne had scarcely considered what might become of the Saints when they had completed this venture. What would be their mission if they undid the wards or toppled the Church? Would they replace the government of the Empire and establish their own? She and Uldyr had not discussed this beyond vague abstractions. Every conversation, plan, action, foreseen deed, and outcome had centered on the liberation of the Aether.

  The depths Athenne treaded consumed her. Knowledgeable as she was, she had never found a passion for fighting. Her mind spun in circles with fear and uncertainty. I must do this if I wish to survive. She had spent so long with these people. They were her friends, except Aitrix, and glaring their deed in the face, fanatics.

  Athenne had become strange, alien to herself. Her part in this purpose, this design, had stolen her agency. She had allowed it, offered her wrists for shackling, eve
n when her mind resisted.

  She felt pathetic, ashamed, that she had gone so far and maintained misgivings. No matter the consistency with which she worked to subdue and eschew them, her reservations stayed. In most cases, they were in the back of her mind, but when it came time for action, they rose to the surface like oil on water.

  Not long after their stop, the party had remounted their steeds and pressed ahead.

  The city walls rose in the distance, crowned by overhanging parapets with visible embrasures below. Many ages ago, these walls, houses, and towers of stone were forest and field, a place where hunter-gatherer tribes lived and roamed. Then Ankhev the White, the great dragon and Incarnation of Gohheia, came to the Earth to aid humanity in building the All-Mother’s sacred kingdom in the underrealm, through Her want and will.

  So it was that the Imperial Palace, Iron Court, Grand Priory, and the other architectural wonders of the capital ascended, facets of the greatest civilization to ever exist. In the wake of the Century’s War, which brought about the independence of the kingdom of Abbisad, and the revolutions, which gave life to the sovereignty of Beihan, Reneris, and Xarakas, the Sacred Empire remained the pinnacle state. The richest, the grandest, the most powerful, the largest, both in actual claimed and staked territory and in population by count.

  The Imperial Palace, home of the Emperor, protected the city. Athenne recognized it from drawings she had seen in books as a child. It stood before Aros’s main gate, for the Imperial Sovereign was not merely a ruler in name, but a guardian; the representative of humankind’s protector, Gohheia. Silvery stone and smooth marble comprised the structure, akin to other prime constructions within the city’s walls, she had read.

  Caravans came in and out of the central gate, transporting supplies to and from, past the Palace and down the main road, which split around it on both sides. Travelers moved in either direction on single-rider mounts, on aetherlight-fueled and horse-drawn carriages and wagons, and on foot, some dragging carts and others pushing barrows. She observed an airship floating outside the city walls to the east, nearly scraping the peaks of the trees. They would enter with the throngs, undetected in the traffic, their hoods pulled over their heads and tied at the fronts. Aitrix, in particular, needed concealment.