Mother of All

by Jenna Glass

  Draios had taken the old man aside and assured him he’d had no idea that Delnamal would kill the king, but the lord chamberlain blamed him for the death anyway.

  “You must unite your council behind you,” Delnamal had advised when Draios spoke of the resistance, as if dispensing a pearl of wisdom that Draios himself never would have considered.

  Draios had been so irritated at the “advice” that he had put off what needed to be done for two whole weeks. He needed Delnamal to be clear that he was a weapon the Creator had delivered into Draios’s hands, for Draios to use—or not use—at his discretion. It was Draios who would make all the important decisions, and Delnamal would do as he was told.

  In this particular instance, doing what he was told involved accompanying Draios to the day’s royal council meeting and standing over his shoulder, a cloud of menace shrouded in his habitual black cloak and hood. Although a steady diet of Rhokai had made Delnamal strong and able-bodied once more, he was still hideous to look at. Hideous enough that he could prove a distraction, so Draios had ordered him to remain cloaked and hooded when in public. His presence then became ominous and unsettling while not so…disruptive.

  Draios took his place at the head of the table, well aware of the nervous glances his council members were casting toward the looming shadow behind him. Even his staunchest supporters found Delnamal’s presence disturbing, and if Draios was being perfectly honest, he had to admit it made the space between his shoulder blades twitch to have the man standing behind him. There was something so very unnatural to the former King of Aaltah, something that chewed at Draios’s nerves, leaving them raw and tender. But he was growing used to the sensation, and he was certainly better at hiding it than most of his council members.

  Draios laid a sheet of parchment on the table, smoothing out its edges. There was some small part of him that balked at what he was about to do, that insisted it was wrong, but he had prayed on the matter night after night, and he was currently performing a voluntary fast that left him light-headed and weak. The Creator, in His great wisdom, was well aware that sometimes it was necessary to do wrong things for the right reason, and He had made His wishes clear. The fast would help salve Draios’s conscience and strengthen his bond with the Creator, and he felt secure in the righteousness of his decision.

  Certain members of his council, he was certain, would not be.

  “I have here a writ of attainder,” he announced to the council, “against my brother, Parlommir Rah-Khalvin.”

  The room filled with the sounds of gasps and cries of dismay. Even the lord commander paled just a little bit, although he and the lord high priest both recovered their composure quickly.

  “His refusal to return to the capital and assume his duties at this crucial moment is a sign that he is unworthy of the title of king,” Draios continued. “It is an act of treason to abandon his throne and his kingdom, and it is an act of heresy to refuse to do the Creator’s will.”

  The gasps turned into a low murmur, its volume slowly rising as some members of the council nearly shook with outrage while their fellows tried to calm them.

  “I have refrained from adding a charge of heresy or treason against Parlommir out of brotherly affection,” Draios said, though those words stuck a little in his throat. He held his elder brother in some grudging respect—or at least had done so until the coward had fled his duties—but there was nothing resembling affection in his heart. He hoped, however, that the threat of even worse charges being filed might still some of the dissent. “But I will be forced to eschew such considerations should he ever attempt to set foot in Khalpar again.”

  The warning in his voice was, he thought, quite clear, but that did not stop the lord chancellor from slowly rising to his feet, his fists clenched and his eyes flashing fire.

  “Let me get this straight,” the man snarled, and he shook off the calming hand the grand magus tried to lay on his arm. “You are basically declaring yourself the King of Khalpar after murdering your father and accusing your brother of being a traitor. Do I have the right of it?”

  There was another audible gasp in the council room, and several members of the council—including the grand magus, who abandoned his attempt to calm his fellow—recoiled at the virulence of the lord chancellor’s words. Draios was not entirely surprised at the sentiment, though he had thought such an experienced courtier might at least try to be careful and diplomatic before so openly declaring himself the enemy.

  “Your king is on a holy mission,” Delnamal said before Draios could respond, and the very sound of his voice sent a shiver down Draios’s spine such that he did not even think to scold his friend for speaking out of turn. “He is carrying out the will of the Creator, and anyone who fails to aid this righteous cause is a traitor to the Kingdom of Khalpar.”

  The lord chancellor sneered at him. “You have no voice in this council chamber! You are not even a citizen of Khalpar!” He turned to the other council members, gesticulating at Delnamal as he said, “I’m not sure this thing even counts as human anymore.”

  Most of the council members looked between Delnamal and the lord chancellor with expressions ranging from disgust to terror, and even his closest ally, the lord chamberlain, had as yet failed to stand with him.

  Delnamal started to say something, but Draios silenced him with an upraised hand. “Enough,” he said with what he believed was quiet dignity. “We are at a crossroads, and we must decide now if we are to be faithful followers of the Creator or whether we are to show ourselves no more holy than the heretics my father consigned to the flames.” He pointed at the lord chancellor. “You have already shown your true colors and proven yourself incorrigible. Faced with all the evidence Delnamal and I have provided, you still refuse to bow to the Creator’s will, and that is not something I can tolerate.”

  He made a small gesture, and two palace guards stepped forward to seize the lord chancellor’s arms. Having guessed that at least one or two of his council members would balk at officially handing the crown over to him, Draios had fully prepared the guardsmen who had accompanied him. The lord chancellor shrieked in fury as he was clapped in irons, then seemed to belatedly realize how very deep was the hole he had dug for himself. The outrage turned to terror, and he began to stammer out excuses.

  “You are a traitor to the realm,” Draios said, speaking loudly enough to be heard over the man’s shouts and protests. “You will be tried for your crimes, and when you are found guilty, you will aid our holy mission by giving your Rhokai to my cousin and fellow holy man, King Delnamal of Aaltah.” He swept the rest of the room with a regal gaze. “And all you who would spit on the Creator by gainsaying your king’s orders will meet a similar fate. One way or another, you will help us set the world to rights.”

  With a howl that sounded more animal than human, the lord chamberlain suddenly bolted from his chair, which was two seats to Draios’s right. The howl was so unexpected and shocking that Draios was momentarily paralyzed and unable to think. A small part of his brain registered the flash of metal in the old man’s hand, but the part of his mind that saw the danger couldn’t seem to communicate it to his limbs. He stood there frozen with his mouth hanging open as the blade winked in the light, heading straight for his heart.

  A sun-devouring shadow suddenly stepped between Draios and the lunging lord chamberlain, heedless of the danger. The blade sank to the hilt in Delnamal’s chest. Draios would not have believed the frail old man could have had the strength for such a brutal thrust, but it was amazing what rage could do.

  Delnamal let out a soft grunt that sounded more like annoyance than pain. Then he grabbed the old man’s wrist in a grip far stronger than someone who looked like a walking skeleton should have been capable of.

  The guardsmen who weren’t currently in the middle of dragging the lord chancellor to the dungeons now converged on the lord chamberlain, wrestling him to
the ground with such force that Draios heard the distinctive snap of breaking bones. The lord chamberlain went still, and when the guardsmen grabbed him to drag him out of the room, his head lolled limply on his neck.

  The remaining members of the royal council had all pushed back their chairs and jumped to their feet, yelling and exclaiming and waving their hands about ineffectively.

  Delnamal’s hood had slid down, revealing his cadaverous face. Seeing that face—and the unholy calm with which the former King of Aaltah frowned, reached down, and plucked the knife from his chest—Draios couldn’t help hearing the lord chancellor’s words echoing through his mind: I’m not sure this thing even counts as human anymore.

  The knife Delnamal removed had been buried to the hilt and was easily long enough to have pierced the heart. By all rights the man should be dead by now; instead, he stood there frowning at the bloody knife, as if being stabbed through the heart were nothing but an annoying inconvenience. There was a blood-rimmed tear in his doublet where the blade had pierced it, but it was about as much blood as one might expect to see if he’d been dealt a grazing wound rather than a death blow.

  “I have been chosen by the Creator to fulfill His holy mission,” Delnamal said as he tossed the knife onto the council table. “Until I have completed that mission and reversed the abominable Curse that weighs so heavily on us all, He will not allow me to die.”

  Draios shivered and swallowed hard. Half of him was terrified by the power Delnamal had just demonstrated; the other half wasn’t sure what to feel, for Delnamal had also just saved his life by taking a knife strike meant for him. He stood rooted to the floor still, his tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth and his throat trying to close up with panic. Delnamal put a solicitous hand on his shoulder, and it was all Draios could do not to cringe away from the touch.

  “Are you well, Your Majesty?” Delnamal asked.

  You are the King of Khalpar, Draios scolded himself. You are on a mission to restore the world to rights in the name of the Creator. You must rise above your superstitious fears.

  Draios took a deep breath through his nose, subtly throwing back his shoulders and raising his head, assuming a posture of full command. “I am well, thanks to your noble actions,” he said, and Delnamal waved the praise away.

  “I knew the thrust would not kill me,” he demurred. “What is a little bit of pain in service to my king and my god?”

  “You are too modest,” Draios said, looking around the room. Not a man on the council had yet resumed his seat, and all stood staring at the two of them in fraught silence. Draios wondered how many of them wished the lord chamberlain’s blade had struck true.

  “My council is now down two very important men,” Draios said. “It seems to me only fitting that I name you to the position of lord chancellor, at least until our mission is accomplished. Your counsel will be most appreciated as we plan our conquest of Aaltah and Women’s Well.”

  More than one member of the council looked scandalized by the very suggestion, and yet there was no protest whatsoever.

  “It is only fitting,” said the lord high priest, and though moments ago he had looked as frightened as anyone else in the room, there was now a very different light in his eyes. The eyes, Draios knew, of an emerging fanatic. “If any of us doubted before that we are being guided by the Creator’s hand, today’s events must chase that doubt away.” He looked sternly around at the other councilors. “You must believe either that Delnamal is a tool of the Creator, or that the Creator has allowed an abomination to walk freely upon the land of Seven Wells. As men of faith, there is only one conclusion you should draw.”

  “B-but,” stammered the trade minister, who paused to clear his throat and collect himself. He stared at the lord high priest with an expression Draios could only describe as beseeching. A man who had lost his way and was desperate for someone to take his hand and lead him to safety. “But then how must we look upon the casting of the Curse? Might we not be forced to believe that that, too—”

  “The Creator is testing us,” the lord high priest interrupted. “He allowed the Curse to be cast knowing that He would also send us the tools we needed to reverse it. The Curse has been the cause of much suffering, but as an iron must be heated and hammered before it can become a sword, so must we men suffer the blows of the Creator’s hammer to become worthy of Him.”

  Draios nodded his approval, some of the pent-up anxiety leaving him. Draios had chosen the right man to fill the vacant position of lord high priest. A wise and holy man who could see clearly when others were inclined to panic. Even Draios himself had felt his faith waver for just an instant, and he would have to add another fast day as penance for his weakness. He inclined his head toward the lord high priest, reminding everyone in the room that although he himself held the greatest power in the worldly realm, even the king must take guidance from the Creator’s worldly instrument.

  “Is there anyone who wishes to dispute the naming of King Delnamal to the temporary position of lord chancellor?” Draios asked.

  Silence descended on the room. Draios smiled.

  “Then so be it.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  Leethan cursed when she opened her eyes to find herself standing alone on a windswept cliff overlooking a rocky beach.

  “Not this again,” she groaned, then shook her fist at the heavily overcast sky. “I need to sleep!” she shouted at it, but the sky was unmoved.

  Usually she went years between dreams, and yet this was now the third time in less than six months. She did not like the uncomfortable suspicion that this felt portentous, and she knew from far too much experience that when she woke from it, her head would be throbbing and she would feel as if she hadn’t slept for a week.

  “Not now,” she whined, rubbing at her eyes as if that would somehow make the dream go away. “Please!”

  After all the suffering and terror she had faced while fleeing Nandel—and after her clandestine meeting with Queen Ellinsoltah and Prince Zarsha in the wee hours—her body ached for rest, and her mind felt strangely fuzzy around the edges. Gritting her teeth and screwing her eyes shut as tight as possible, she tried to will herself awake, hoping that she could then drift back into a blissfully dreamless sleep. She knew it wouldn’t work—it never had—yet nonetheless she couldn’t stop herself from trying every time the dream descended upon her.

  Not caring a jot for Leethan’s passionate wish for more sleep, the dream continued its unrelenting course until Leethan’s ears were full with the screams of the dying men who fought in the phantom armies. The screams horrified her every time she heard them, carrying as they did untold depths of pain and terror. Ostensibly, they were the most upsetting component, and yet as usual, Leethan’s nerves grew more taut, rather than less so, when they ended.

  The armies faded from view, replaced by the trio of men with their indistinct faces. Leethan had long ago grown accustomed to the sight of them, to the point that she could conjure their images easily in her mind.

  As always, Leethan’s eyes were first drawn to the Nandelite man, for there was something about him she had always found compelling. Even before she’d known she was to marry a man of Nandel.

  Leethan let out a soft gasp when she noticed the hilt of the Nandelite’s blade, which bore a distinctive hematite cabochon on the pommel.

  Leethan shook her head in denial and confusion. How had she never noticed that pommel before? She had memorized every aspect of this dream, could have described each character to the smallest detail—or so she had thought. It wasn’t possible she had not noticed the hilt before, not given how many times she had had this dream!

  She knew that sword, had seen its hilt poking up from the scabbard at Prince Waldmir’s side more times than she could count. Her heart gave an uneasy thump. There was no denying that the Nandelite man was Prince Waldmir.

  But now that she
had realized the Nandelite was Waldmir, she couldn’t help noticing the wrinkled hands of the woman who stood facing him. Hands that looked very much like her own—including the slightly crooked pinky finger she had broken in a childhood fall. She’d been afraid of the cantankerous healer her family habitually employed, so she’d kept the injury to herself. By the time anyone noticed, the bone had already started to heal.

  Leethan’s heart raced with panic as the rest of the dream unfolded just as it always had, fifty times more terrifying now that she realized the first woman to slash her wrists was herself.

  “Nooo,” she moaned, shaking her head in frantic denial as one by one each woman performed her gruesome sacrifice and the men fell.

  Moments later, Leethan bolted upright in her bed, her heart pounding, her breaths coming in short pants, and her bedclothes soaked in sweat. Shivering violently, she hugged her knees to her chest, trying desperately to convince herself that she had somehow made a mistake, that she wasn’t the old woman in the dream.

  Teeth chattering with nerves, Leethan slipped out of bed and changed into dry nightclothes, stoking the fire and sitting directly in front of it as if its warmth could somehow dispel the chill that had settled deep into her bones.

  * * *

  —

  “Rusha is doing excellent work,” Chanlix assured her as Alys pored over the results of her grand magus’s latest research. She hardly ever set foot in the Academy these days, and yet Rusha had continued Chanlix’s practice of leaving a worktable open and available to her at all times. A fact for which she was now grateful, as she sat at that table well after the Academy’s working hours were done, reading Rusha’s notes by the light of a luminant.

  “I’m sure she is,” Alys murmured absently as she perused the list of formulae Rusha was considering for the Kai-fueled purgative spell they hoped would return Delnamal’s Rhokai to the Well. The grand magus had come up with a half-dozen promising possibilities, but it was hard to know which version to choose when they could not perform relevant tests.