The Light That Binds

by Nathan Garrison

  I can claim ignorance no longer. Time to start owning my choices, no matter how hard that might be.

  Nudging Quake with his knees, Mevon drifted nearer his father and laid a hand on his shoulder.

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “I shouldn’t have left without saying anything. I shouldn’t have made you think I was dead.”

  Yandumar stiffened. “That’s not what I . . . You don’t have to . . .” He turned his head away.

  Mevon felt the aging muscles beneath his hand begin to shudder.

  “It was selfish of me,” Mevon said. “And beyond inconsiderate. I don’t expect forgiveness—”

  “But you have it!” Yandumar croaked. He turned his head, allowing Mevon to see red-rimmed and brimming eyes. “Don’t you see? You’re my son. No matter what you do, you’ll never not have my forgiveness. Even for this. Especially for this. After what I did . . .”

  Mevon lifted an eyebrow. What did you do?

  Then, he remembered.

  After realizing the similarity of their sins, he couldn’t help but laugh.

  “What is it?” Yandumar asked.

  “Nothing. I just guess you can say, we’ve both had our turn coming back from the dead.”

  His father’s eyes widened, then he too began to laugh.

  They were both still in the throes of mirth when Mevon noticed the grasses cut sharply away and a sudden intensity to the wind in their faces.

  They’d finally reached the Shelf.

  Yandumar pointed down. “This, son, is what I wanted you to see.”

  Wooden stairs traveled down the cliff upon switchbacks carved out of its side. They hadn’t been there before. A league down they traveled, connecting at the distant surface with a maze of wharfs and piers and jetties sticking out into the glittering sea. Between them sailed ships by the hundreds.

  “You’ve built a fleet,” Mevon said, unable to withhold the wonder from his voice.

  “Not just a fleet,” Yandumar said. “An armada. Some old friends of ours are going to need all the help they can get. Once more, the Veiled Empire is going to war.”

  Chapter 3

  Dread welled within Tassariel as another patient began to stir from their already fitful slumber.

  I hate this part.

  Padding softly on slippered feet to avoid waking any others, she glided up to his bedside. Cracked lips parted, mumbling. She placed the jug’s stem between them and dribbled as much water as she dared. His eyes still fluttering in an effort to let in light, he lifted his nearer arm towards her hands, likely trying to tilt the jug up even farther.

  He failed to reach, of course.

  Another effort, almost a lunge this time, which elicited a groan too high-pitched to match the bulky frame it came from. Something now clumsily brushed the backs of her fingers, but it wasn’t a hand.

  Just the tender nub of his arm ending four finger-widths below his elbow.

  The man’s eyes and lips burst open, the latter sending a fresh runnel of watery-blood down his chin while the former fixed her with a frantic stare. Breaths once steady now became a harsh, rapid wheeze. Shaking, he lifted both arms before his face, examining the horror, the dichotomy that hadn’t been there the last time he’d been conscious.

  Tassariel took a long step back.

  The man clenched his teeth and his one remaining fist. His face turned red.

  “Where . . . is . . . my . . . arm!”

  Not all of them responded with anger, but even when they did, Tasserial didn’t mind it so much. She understood that reaction. And unlike most of the other caretakers, she knew how to protect herself against a flailing, raging patient, and could do so without causing them further harm.

  She set the jug on the bedside table, then stretched out her fingers in case she had to restrain him.

  The preparation proved unnecessary.

  Both arms flopped onto his belly, then slid to the sides as his whole body went limp. Blood and tension drained from his face. Leaking out from the corner of each eye, a pair of tears marked trails toward his ears. He sobbed, once.

  Why couldn’t you have just stayed angry?

  “Where is my arm?” he repeated, softer this time. It took Tassariel a moment to realize he actually expected an answer.

  “It was lost on the battlefield,” she said.

  “But you can heal me, right? I thought . . . I thought magic could cure anything.”

  She shook her head regretfully. Most times I wish it could. “Magic can mend most sorts of broken flesh, but it can’t regrow something wholly lost.”

  “I’ve heard stories, though. Soldiers losing limbs only to be made whole again. I even talked to a lad once who had it done to him!”

  “We can reattach one if it’s recovered. But we were retreating when your shield was struck by an enemy chaos bolt. There was . . . no time to go searching for it.”

  “What about Derolan? Trask? My squadmates. They were right beside me. I’m sure one of them would have picked it up. Did you ask them?”

  Tassariel felt her eyes drift to the side, as if against her will. Two beds, empty. A human attendant was replacing the sheets.

  She said nothing.

  Nothing needed to be said.

  “No,” the one-armed patient whispered. “No.”

  He began shuddering, a reaction that bore no relationship to his injuries. Tassariel remained frozen in place. There was nothing to do for him now. Nothing she could do, anyway. She’d taken care of his physical needs, but the wounds now assailing him—wounds he would carry the rest of his life—were beyond her power to heal. Beyond, even, her power to soothe, if only temporarily.

  All valynkar children learned the basics of healing magic before the age of fifty. Tassariel had taken emergency service among the healers simply because she had nothing else to do. And despite her calling, she didn’t think she’d be much use in a fight. Her heart wasn’t in it. Or in anything, really.

  Experiencing the death of a god—her god—from within her very bones had felt as if her own soul were passing through to the light beyond the abyss. Only there had been no light on the other side, and she’d returned to a body left numb. She understood this on some level of her awareness, but had no defense against it, no means to combat it. And no one, not even her aunt, who’d been miraculously released from the prison of her own mind by the final act of Elos, could understand what she was going through. How could they when she didn’t even understand it herself?

  Tassariel looked down upon the broken, grieving soldier, understanding his need and trying to summon something for him: pity, maybe, or even the smallest measure of comfort.

  But for him—for anyone—she had nothing to give.

  “I’m sorry,” she said at last, knowing he likely didn’t hear her. Probably for the best. If he had, he wouldn’t have been able to ignore the lack of sincerity in her voice.

  She turned and strode down the hallway, through the dining room, and out the front door to the street. The temple of healing was perpetually full, and half the buildings in the domicile had been converted for one use or another during the conflict. Or, more accurately, the evacuation. She wasn’t even sure who owned the house she’d just left. Not that it mattered now; her shift was over. She told herself she could ask tomorrow, but knew she wouldn’t.

  Sighing, Tassariel tucked her ragged, lavender hair behind her ears and began her morning trek towards home.

  The sun’s red rays made the silverstone buildings around her gleam like so many misshapen garnets. Wind from the domicile’s passing fluttered her robe behind her, a thing once white but now stained by more types of fluid than she cared to name. The streets alternated, with little transition, between abandoned and frenetic. The newcomers hailed from warmer climes, and weren’t used to the cold at this altitude. They ran everywhere they went to keep their forays outside brief.

  How nice to be able to flee such mundane discomfort.

  No one spoke to her as the ground beneath her feet ch
anged from paved street to grass-lined path and back again, a small thing for which she was grateful. She’d been too eager to escape and no one she’d left behind would have still called her a friend. Her return hadn’t made matters any better. If anything, her isolation from her own people had deepened. They didn’t know how to deal with the girl who’d been inhabited by their god.

  The girl, some said, who was responsible for his death.

  She understood their frustration, even their hatred. If gods could die, after all, then the faith that shaped their lives was without meaning, and all acts that faith inspired had to be called into question.

  If gods could die, then faith itself was dead.

  Tassariel envied those who could throw themselves into new causes, replacing one kind of devotion for another. But she had been too close to Elos; close enough to burn. The wound stung deeper and sharper for her than it did for any other valynkar, far surpassing any reasonable tolerance for pain.

  Numbness is a gift. Though I don’t know what I did to earn it.

  Lifting her head, Tassariel found herself standing before the door to her residence. Her feet must have brought her there by instinct. She hesitated, swallowing hard, and tried to make something presentable out of the mess that was herself. But she knew there was nothing she could do to really fix what was broken.

  She ran a fingernail across the chimes. A moment later, the silverstone door panels ground, rasping, to the sides. A haggard-looking woman, human, stood in the entrance, balancing an infant on her hip.

  “Well, don’t just stand there, girl,” the woman said. “This is more your home than ours, after all.”

  Tassariel stepped inside without a word. Three other children ran around—doing what, she didn’t know—sparing her only the briefest of peripheral glances. The father and two oldest children were absent, likely off to their assigned tasks for the day. She no longer chafed at being called “girl” by a woman who’d seen sixty fewer turns of the world, nor at sharing a dwelling meant for one with eight other people. Few and lucky were those, since the invasion began, who hadn’t been forced to make considerable concessions.

  She snatched a loaf of bread from a cabinet, tearing off chunks and shoving them into her mouth as she trudged out to the balcony. Eying her hammock, she lifted a leg to climb into it.

  Gravity shifted, and she toppled forward, barely able to catch herself on the ledge.

  Tassariel cast out her gaze, long past the distant edge of the domicile. Scores of impossibly tall buildings lay beyond, with a cluster at the center taller still.

  Panisahldron. They’d reached her at last, already braking to come to a stop over the city. A simple maneuver, really. Just a single controller at the center of the domicile, pulling a few levers. Here, the great would gather and discuss how to stem the tide of blood, but she had no hope they’d find a solution as easy as that.

  The world, and her soul, raced further toward the abyss every day, and there was little she could do to slow either of them down.

  Jasside waited until both the skimmer from below and the golden-winged figure from above had landed upon the royal tower’s ledge before waving over her shoulder to Angla and stepping off the edge of her ship. Expending a tiny pulse of energy, she shadow-dashed across the thousand-pace gap through open air. Upon arrival, she realized that she’d misjudged the distance, coming in a pace too high. Though only a slight error, it was enough to cause her to smack down amidst the others with reverberating force.

  King Chase of Sceptre and Queen Arivana of Panisahldron both jumped back in surprise. Gilshamed shook his head and frowned.

  “Pleased with yourself, are you?” the valynkar asked.

  Jasside wiped away the smile she’d been wearing, meant to convey her apologies. Too much of her exhilaration must have shown through, causing him to have interpreted it differently. “No,” she said. “Why should I be?”

  “Vashodia always knew how to make an entrance. Should it be cause for concern to think there might be too much of your mistress in you?”

  “Only the harmless parts, I assure you. But if it becomes otherwise, I hope and expect you’ll let me know.”

  “Trust me, I shall.”

  She smiled at him again, hoping this one conveyed the gratitude that words alone could not. “Besides, Gilshamed, it’s a two-way exchange between her and I. Don’t the benefits, in our case, outweigh the risks?”

  Reluctantly, he nodded. “I see your point.”

  “If we’re going to jabber on, can we at least do it away from the edge?” Chase said, glancing down nervously at the drop. “These gusts of wind are a bit strong for my tastes.”

  “That’s right. You don’t have buildings this tall in your country,” Arivana said. “I suppose the height takes some getting used to.”

  “That,” Chase said, “is one way to put it.”

  Jasside watched as the king of Sceptre and the queen of Panisahldron pointedly avoided each other’s eyes. Not that she could blame them. It was a miracle that they were talking at all after years of bitter war between their peoples. There was bound to be a little mistrust, a little . . . awkwardness.

  Nothing like the threat of mutual extermination to help put the past to rest.

  Arivana cleared her throat, then turned to the attendant at her side. “Claris, lead us inside.”

  “Of course, Your Majesty,” the woman said, then lifted an arm. “This way please.”

  The four of them marched in the direction Claris indicated, Jasside in the rear. As she passed the raven-haired woman, Jasside felt the power within her: dormant, yet substantial. Not quite on the same level as herself, or even Gilshamed, but far more than those not of pure valynkar or mierothi blood.

  Just as strong as the former council members. The ones I . . . took care of.

  The thought made her perform an even deeper inspection of Claris. The woman may have worn the same shapeless grey accoutrements as the rest of the palace staff, but her eyes saw too much, and her movements were far too graceful for any mere servant.

  Gilshamed, she noticed, was also casting glances over his shoulder at the woman, but they seemed more confused than wary. Jasside waited until they’d passed through the hall into a round chamber filled with red velvet seats before leaning in close to the valynkar.

  “The attendant, Claris,” Jasside whispered. “Do you know her?”

  “Yes,” Gilshamed replied, “but only by reputation.”

  “What have you heard?”

  “She was the former head of House Baudone and Minister of Dance.”

  “Dance?”

  “A dual meaning, like most of their titles. She was—and probably still is—the foremost Panisian expert on combat.”

  “Interesting. And useful. But why the servant’s garb, then?”

  Gilshamed, now taking his seat, could only shrug.

  Jasside sat as well, intrigued, as always, by any sort of puzzle; another trait she’d picked up from Vashodia. As surreptitiously as possible, she studied Claris as the woman went to stand behind Arivana’s chair. Everything about her posture spoke of subservience, but there was a fierceness to her as well, a desperate loyalty laid bare every time she glanced toward the queen.

  She’s trying to prove herself.

  As soon as she thought it, Jasside saw it was true. Whatever Claris had done to fall from—then seek to climb back into—the queen’s good graces didn’t matter. She’d be both ally and asset to Arivana, and thus, to the greater cause.

  Jasside eyed the girl with renewed respect. No—not a girl, but a woman come into her own. Jasside had known since they’d first met that Arivana had a good heart, and she’d proven soon thereafter to have the loyalty of her people. That she’d display such wisdom and shrewd judgment for affairs of state was a welcome surprise.

  Perhaps this new alliance won’t fall apart after all.

  A single servant brought in a tray, which Jasside was intrigued to find held only water.

  “I
apologize for the lack of traditional Panisian hospitality,” Arivana said. She wore a maroon silk dress, crossed by dizzying patterns of gems, with feathers fanned out from her neck to frame her head. The ribbons tied into her elaborately styled hair looked made of pure gold. “I’ve sent all but the most crucial servants onto more important tasks, and as for refreshments . . . well . . . you all know how many extra mouths we have to feed.”

  “I’m not here to be entertained,” Chase said. His plain outfit stood in stark contrast to the queen’s: a mud-brown tunic and trousers, lined in grey like quarry stone. He wore a slender sword on one hip, its pommel smooth with use, and a metal scepter on the other, but bore no other ornamentation. “I take no offense at the gesture.”

  “Neither do I,” Gilshamed said, taking a cup from the servant and sipping gratefully. “I propose we begin. There is, after all, much to discuss.”

  “Indeed,” Jasside said. She turned to the queen. “Perhaps you’d like to start, Your Majesty?”

  “I’m afraid for my part there isn’t much to tell,” Arivana said. “I’ve put every resource at my disposal toward building more skyships, but the number of refugees increases a thousandfold for every seat we create.”

  “What do you need to increase production?”

  “Casters are the limiting factor, but to bring in more I’d have to pull them from the weapons factories.”

  “I’d not recommend that,” Chase said. “Those magically forged armaments are the only things keeping our ground troops from being outright slaughtered in every engagement. We’ve barely enough of them as it is. Take those away, and we’ll only be useful as human fodder.”

  “That won’t happen,” Jasside assured him, then turned to Gilshamed. “Any luck bringing in more valynkar?”