He drew His sword and gestured violently with the weapon. Again, His movement had no effect.
“Master?” Grouge whimpered.
The Master was silent for a time. When He spoke, His words were barely audible: “I cannot wield Valerion’s magic.”
Shädar’s black eyes went round with panic. “What? Why?”
“If a soul is not complete, it cannot be wielded.” The Master’s expression contorted. The image of the almighty, invincible wielder crumbled before Grouge, revealing a broken human.
“That conniving, evil little monster. Valerion split his soul before coming to me . . . and she let him.” The Master’s lips curled in a snarl. “Shivnath,” he hissed with the vehemence of a curse.
Grouge never had a chance to ask who Shivnath was. A tingling sensation seeped into his body. He turned to find a tongue of purple flame had snuck up on him. The fire didn’t burn or melt him. It tightened around his middle and lifted him off the ground.
“Master! Help!” Grouge shrieked. But another fiery arm grabbed the Master, and though He struggled and wielded, His power was nothing compared to that of the unearthly energy.
Grouge and the Master were pulled toward the hole in the sky alongside thousands of unfortunate others. Grouge’s vision narrowed and dimmed as he approached the gaping fracture in reality. The world around him dissolved. Sound and touch faded.
Then everything was nothing. It was gone.
He was gone.
And after a moment, an eternity of waiting, suspended, neither conscious nor unconscious, neither living nor dead . . .
The rift in the sky reopened, and Grouge dropped down with the familiar inky blackness of necromagic, which was so unlike the cruel black void that had held him prisoner.
CHAPTER ONE
“Heroes are not born; they are made.”
~ Nyela Veridicae, Sixth Age
Twelfth Age, Year 607
Keriya Nameless took a deep breath to calm her nerves. She’d been disobedient plenty of times before, but what she was doing now was especially bad. She swept her flyaway bangs from her brow and put an eye to the crack between the ill-fitting storage room door and its frame.
The hall beyond was dimly lit. Diluted light drifted through thin windows onto a wooden platform where stood Holden Sanvire, Head Elder of Aeria. The immense stone tablet next to him bore the names of all the children eligible for the Ceremony of Choice.
A bubbling sensation, not altogether unpleasant, filled Keriya’s stomach as Elder Sanvire cleared his throat. This meeting would decide her future.
“First to be considered is Sven Aablum,” said Sanvire, his words echoing in the vast chamber. “I shall speak for Sven. His magic is strong. He’s expressed interest in being a Harvester, and we are in great need of Harvesters.”
None of the Elders objected, so Sanvire picked up a piece of chalk and made a mark next to Sven’s name, indicating he’d been deemed worthy. “Keep that in mind when you interpret Sven’s sign, Erasmus.”
Keriya craned her neck to catch a glimpse of Erasmus, the village Healer and—for lack of a better word—her father. He sat in a small alcove near the back of the hall, watching the proceedings. His silver beard, which stood out stark against his dark skin, glinted as he nodded.
“I shall, Head Elder.”
His serene voice reminded Keriya why her mission today was so important. She wanted to make Erasmus proud. He had taken her in after her mother had died during childbirth, teaching her his trade. He had never been affectionate, but that suited Keriya just fine. She liked that Erasmus wasn’t sentimental. He didn’t coddle her. More importantly, he didn’t pity her.
Sanvire offered Erasmus a curt nod in return. “Next on the list is Selina Abersae. A hard worker, but she struggles with creation magic. Who will speak for her?”
Selina Abersae was eventually found worthy, as were many others; but when the Elders reached Fletcher Earengale’s name, nobody was willing to vouch for him.
Keriya anxiously twisted her fingers through her long hair, which she kept tied back on either side of her head. She prayed someone would speak for her best—and only—friend. In some ways, Fletcher needed this acceptance more than she did.
“The goddess Shivnath, blessed be her name, gave Fletcher’s father a vivid sign during his ceremony,” one Elder offered halfheartedly. “Fletcher may have the same—”
“Tomas Earengale was killed by the dark forest spirits on a salting expedition,” Sanvire interrupted. “He was unworthy, which means his son is unworthy. Besides,” he added snidely, “Fletcher’s magic is as weak as we’ve ever seen.”
It didn’t take much arguing before Fletcher’s name was stricken from the list.
Keriya’s spirits sank. Poor Fletcher. He would be so upset to hear he hadn’t made the cut. He might be given a second chance next cycle if his magic abilities improved, but from all Keriya knew of the subject, it didn’t work like that. Magical prowess was something you were born with—or not. Intentionally trying to increase your power would be as useful as intentionally trying to grow taller.
The Elders slogged through the rest of the names. The sun had long set behind Shivnath’s Mountains by the time they determined Brock Zyvlan was worthy.
“That,” said Sanvire, making his last checkmark, “concludes our work. We are dismissed.”
With the creaking of old bones, the Elders rose from their wooden benches.
Keriya’s heart thundered in her chest. She had known it might come to this, that she might be omitted from the list. She had to act. It was now or never. She stood and pushed through the storage room door.
“Wait! I’d like permission to speak.”
Outraged gasps filled the air as she ran onto the platform. Gazing at the field of livid faces, she was reminded again of everything that made her different. Compared to the earthy coloration of the Aerians, she looked like a ghost with her pale skin, gray eyes, and waxen hair, which was white and wispy as snowflakes.
“Permission denied,” Sanvire roared. “And you will be punished for this!”
Though she was shorter than average for a girl of fourteen, Keriya lifted her chin and stood her ground before Sanvire’s imposing bulk as he stalked toward her.
“I’ve never been allowed in any of your ceremonies,” she said, prepared to accept a hundred punishments if it meant getting on that list, “and you judged me unworthy to attend school, but I learned everything I need to know from Erasmus. I don’t always do as I’m told, but I shouldn’t be condemned for—”
“Of course you should,” boomed a grumpy Elder. “And you ought to have been condemned many times before now. Head Elder Sanvire, I move to whip her into penitence and lock her in the stocks until the ceremony is over—with a gag in her mouth.”
“That won’t be necessary,” said Erasmus. “Keriya will accept your decision in peace.” He swept toward the podium to collect her, face set in a scowl, robes billowing behind him.
“The Ceremony of Choice is a time of new beginnings,” Keriya persisted. “You decide if someone is worthy based not on their past, but on their potential.”
“Your potential is zero,” growled Sanvire. “All of our professions require the use of magic, even the basest, tiniest grasp of magic. You are a cripple. You have nothing.”
Her jaw clenched and her cheeks flushed. She’d known they would bring this up. She’d promised herself she wouldn’t let it hurt.
It hurt anyway.
“I could still do something useful,” she said. “I know you need more Harvesters. I could help with that. Or I could work with Erasmus. I know how to make medicines and—”
“And nothing, Nameless,” Sanvire snapped.
Keriya cringed away from the hated epithet. Nameless. That was all she’d ever be to them: a useless, crippled bastard child.
“
You are the only person ever to be born without magic, and that alone makes you unworthy to hold a position in our society,” the Head Elder continued. “We hardly need to mention your inability to follow even the simplest of rules, or go into the shameful details about your parents.”
Keriya’s stomach was writhing in misery. Why had she thought this was a good idea? Her mother had been unwed and her father was unknown. She’d been born without a family name, and she lacked the one thing that mattered above all else.
Her fate had been decided long ago.
Still, she forced herself to hold Sanvire’s gaze. If she didn’t do this, she would regret it forever.
“Please,” she whispered. “All I need is one chance.”
“If you participate and Shivnath finds you unworthy, you will die in the forest by her divine will. Or you will return without a sign, in which case you will be named a Lower,” said Sanvire. “You’ll be made to live and work as a slave. Is that a risk you’re willing to take?”
“I’m willing to take it if you are,” she countered. “Even if I die, that wouldn’t be so bad, right?”
She was trying to be lighthearted, but her statement seemed to appeal to the Elders. They nodded to one another and conferred amongst themselves.
“I see you’re not in a joking mood,” she mumbled, fiddling with the loose, fraying sleeves of her brown wool dress.
Sanvire spoke privately with Elders Remaine and Fleuridae. That sent Keriya’s chest feel uncomfortably tight. Fleuridae hated her more than Sanvire did—if that was possible—and Remaine hated everyone.
“We have reached a verdict,” Sanvire announced at length, turning to address the room. “Keriya Nameless will participate in the Ceremony of Choice.”
Keriya’s mouth fell open. She’d hoped and wished and prayed this would happen, but never had she fully believed it would come to pass. The tightness in her chest burst, releasing floods of warmth through her.
“Remember, Shivnath does not make mistakes,” said Sanvire. “Your destiny is in her claws.”
Given his tone and his unpleasant smirk, Keriya figured the Elders were betting she wouldn’t survive the ceremony. That didn’t bother her. If anything, it made her all the more determined to succeed.
Brimming with jubilation, she jumped down the steps of the platform and ran to Erasmus, garnering affronted glances for her flagrant and inappropriate display of emotion. “Erasmus, I can participate!”
“I heard. Now it’s time for us to leave, Keriya. We’ve kept the Elders long enough.”
The Healer escorted her to the heavy oak doors at the end of the hall. Venomous whispers followed her down the aisle, but Keriya was impervious to the Elders’ scorn. Nothing could ruin this moment. She had taken the first step to becoming one of the Aerians.
For the first time in her life, she had been deemed worthy.
CHAPTER TWO
“The beginning is far ahead of us, but we will reach it in the end.”
~ Uhs Broadvayn, Twelfth Age
The rosy glow of morning was stretching across the sky and Keriya hadn’t slept a wink. She’d given up trying long ago and was reading to keep herself from worrying about the ceremony.
The dragon-god Shivnath is the ruler of all that is good and just, and the evil god Helkryvt is her worst enemy. The two have been locked in conflict since the time before time, Shivnath fighting for balance, Helkryvt for power.
In the beginning, Shivnath created Aeria by raising land out of the sea. She took stone and made it fertile; she took saltwater and made it fresh; when she was done, she appeared to her people and gave each of them a portion of her earthmagic. She allowed them to cross over from the wasteland beyond, and they built their village at the foot of her mountains.
Keriya drank up the words from her favorite book, though she’d read them countless times before. At the bottom of the age-softened page was an illustration of Shivnath, gleaming under the light of the beeswax candle that flickered on the table. She traced the dragon’s outline, wincing when she bent her fingers.
“Careful,” Erasmus said as he set a shallow clay dish before her. “You’ll make it worse.”
Keriya dipped her hands in the dish, sighing as aloefern medicine seeped into her wounds. Last night, the Elders had announced the names of those who were worthy to participate in the Ceremony of Choice, and her name was included. They’d also seen fit to whip her hands with a pine branch.
They’d claimed this was punishment for her intrusion on their meeting, but Keriya knew it had been to mollify the furious parents who didn’t want her participating with their children. She was used to the poorly disguised abuse; her arms and back were peppered with little white scars, all marks of disciplinary beatings past. Occasionally she did something to deserve it, like the time she’d filled Elder Sanvire’s rain bucket with worms. But mostly the beatings were for things like ‘not speaking with a respectful tone,’ ‘laughing too loudly in a public space,’ or ‘skipping.’
“You mustn’t cause trouble during the send-off,” Erasmus was saying. “Don’t speak to anyone. Don’t even look at Elder Sanvire. You don’t want to draw attention to yourself.”
“No problem,” she said dryly, knowing she stood out amongst the Aerians like a sunflower in a barren field.
Her eyes flickered again to the illustration in her book. “Do you think I’ll receive a good sign from Shivnath?”
She glanced up to see Erasmus pressing his lips into a thin line. After a crushing pause, he said, “You should be less concerned with Shivnath, and more with the Elders. If you return from the ceremony, you will have them to contend with.”
Keriya wilted in the face of the disheartening sentiment. “What do the Elders know?” she said in a low voice. “Bunch of wrinkled old trolls.”
“Watch your words. They’d banish you if they heard you speak that way.”
“Sorry,” she lied. She refrained from pointing out that if she were banished, she wouldn’t have bloodied hands and bruised forearms all the time.
“The sun is rising,” he said. “It’s time to go.”
Keriya snuffed the candle flame between her fingertips, but lingered over her book before closing it. She admired the delicate inked lines of the dragon god.
“I’ll show them all, Shivnath,” she whispered.
Keriya and Erasmus were the last to arrive at the ceremonial hilltop. The other participants awaited in shivering silence, huddled together against the morning chill. At their backs, the first rays of light broke on the crests of Shivnath’s Mountains, promising bright sun—a rarity for the gray and stormy Aerian climate. Before them, the evergreens of the Felwood loomed like an army of giants glaring at their next victims.
“Pst! Keriya!”
Keriya glanced over her shoulder and her face split in a grin. A skinny boy with light brown skin and scruffy dark hair was making his way through the crowd of onlookers, waving at her.
Fletcher Earengale ducked around a group of adults who shot him sour glares and joined Keriya. Public physical contact was forbidden, but Keriya leaned close and bumped her shoulder against his. It was part of their code, a secret sign of affection.
“You made it,” she whispered, taking her place at the back of the two-hundred-odd clumped participants.
“I wouldn’t have missed it.” Fletcher’s infectious smile overpowered his too-thin face, but Keriya noticed the tightness in his chestnut eyes.
“It isn’t fair. We should be participating together,” she murmured. “I told you, you should have come with me to speak for yourself.”
Fletcher lifted one shoulder in a halfhearted shrug. “My words wouldn’t have made a difference to the Elders. Besides, there’s always next cycle.”
“When I’m accepted into the village, I’m going to change things,” Keriya promised, watching as Erasmus walked to the head of
the forest path to begin officiating the ceremony.
“Any idea what you want to be Named?” asked Fletcher. “Weaver? Baker? Crafter?”
Keriya snorted. “You’re the artist, not me. I can’t craft to save my life.”
By this time, Erasmus had reached his place. He stopped and turned to address his audience. “Congratulations, young Aerians. You have been deemed worthy to become part of our society.”
“You should go before we get in trouble,” Keriya whispered. Fletcher nodded and slowly backed away.
“Before you are accepted among us,” said Erasmus, “you must first receive a sign. You have seven suns to wander on your own, during which time Shivnath will send you a vision that will show what you are to become in life. You know of the darkness in the Felwood—many who have entered have never returned.”
“Keriya,” Fletcher said in a worried undertone, “promise me you’ll stay safe.”
“Of course I will.” Children were forbidden from entering the Felwood outside the Ceremony of Choice, but that had never stopped Keriya. She’d dragged Fletcher along on plenty of adventures in the supposedly deadly forest, and they’d always been fine. “I wouldn’t leave you to fend for yourself against the Elders, would I?”
Fletcher’s throat bobbed and he nodded. “Good luck.” With one last wave, he slipped away and vanished into the crowd.
“Shivnath is the master of life and death, and she may claim some of you as sacrifices,” Erasmus concluded in the background. “Your death will serve to appease her, and your survival will mark your transition into adulthood.”
“I know who won’t be coming back this time,” someone whispered from nearby.
Keriya’s spirits, which had lightened upon seeing Fletcher, sank like a stone through water.
Ignore it, she told herself, gritting her teeth.
“Hey, Ghost-Girl!” the whisperer continued. “It’s too bad you’re gonna die in the forest. We haven’t named a Lower in two cycles.”
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